Kings of underland a bri.., p.9
Kings of Underland: A Bride for Beasts, page 9
“We should have some brought over,” I mumble around a mouthful of jubjub egg. “I’ll add it to the list for the next delivery.”
While it’s possible—and not all that difficult—for me to cross back into the world where I grew up, I’m not sure that I ever will. Because if I were to cross over there, and the Looking-Glass were to break … I’d be trapped.
I’d much rather be trapped down here than up there. And not just because of … the things that happened involving my mom and my dead older brother, Fred, and— Just because. I’m a married woman now. I’m a queen. Back home? I was a C-average student with a reading obsession and terrible taste in guys.
Here … I think of the King last night, and my cheeks heat up, and I stab my eggs like they owe me money. Mom notices but says nothing. Good thing since I have no intention of telling her about Red and the way he fucks—
“Allison.”
I look up at the soft sound of my name being called, and all of my dignity—what little I possessed—flies right out the window in the face of seeing my father.
Henry George Liddell is waiting for me in the entrance to the dining room, pushing his glasses up his nose, and looking like he’s so beyond tired he could collapse. Not that I blame him: when Mom and I left home for Underland permanently, we left a mess for him to clean up behind us.
I throw my arms around him, and he pulls me close, smelling like old dusty books and forgotten places. He’s a professor: he’s practically obligated to smell this way.
“I’m glad that I caught you,” he says as I draw back with a grin. He holds me at arm’s-length and looks me over, taking in my harlequin-patterned tights, red dress, and black under-bust corset with a curious expression. “This isn’t much different than how you dressed at home, is it?” he asks, as politely as he can manage, and I laugh.
He’s not wrong: I’ve always been a bit different.
“Did you think I’d have a uniform?” I ask, quirking a brow. Despite the assassination attempt, despite the Rabbit-Hole, I’m in a chipper mood. To be frank, this is the best mood I’ve been in since my brother was murdered.
“Well, no,” Dad hedges, following me around the table and then going completely still when he sees my mother.
I scoot to the side as she stands up, dressed in a pale blue satin gown with a sweetheart neckline and a long slit that goes from the floor to her hip. She looks casual, relaxed, beautiful. Her blond hair is pin-straight in the front, swept into a half-do in the back, and trussed with flowers and ribbons.
Considering that the only outfit my father’s seen her in for the past year has been an orange jumpsuit, I can only imagine the way he’s feeling right now. Besides, my parents have always been disturbingly, grotesquely in love with one another.
I politely excuse myself, slipping out of the room to head into the foyer. Just outside the castle’s front doors, there are numerous carriages waiting in a neat row. The frontmost one is in the shape of a giant teapot with adorable cottage windows complete with flower boxes. The carriages behind it are shaped like teacups, creamers, sugar bowls, and lastly, a plate piled high with our carefully packed trunks.
Each carriage is pulled by a pair of toves—bat-winged warhorses with bony growths on their legs, backs, and faces that appear at first glance to be armor. They paw at the earth with sharp hooves, their manes and tails like dark fire, sputtering and flickering as they dance around. On the tops of their heads, there are heavy racks of antlers that can do substantial damage to an enemy.
How do I know, you might ask? I’ve seen it: I’m married to a man who can shift into a tove.
“I don’t suppose you heard the noise from last night?” March asks, surprising me so much that I actually reach for the gun on my belt. He grins at me and offers up a sly wink, holding a bright green apple in one hand and using the other to finger the glowing vials of poison around his neck.
That’s his specialty: poisons, toxins, thievery, and being cheeky.
Oh, and he’s the tove. Sometimes. Other times, he’s a bandersnatch. On rare occasion, he can shift into the Mad Hatter.
“What noise?” I ask, cheeks coloring at the ribald memory of the King, and his horribly handsome face as he held me down and fucked me into the mattress while Dee slept beside us. I’m sure by now everyone knows what happened between us. I’m still getting used to the idea of that, how they might know and not care, how they’re all married to me.
“Assassins are dead, and the bunny monster’s not from this world.” He throws these things out the way one might mention a change in the weather. “And have you paid a visit to your friend, the White Knight?”
I blink at him as I turn his way, my heart thundering.
“Lar asked for some time alone with her—well, him and the Knave.” I do my best not to grit my teeth at the mention of the woman’s title. As much as I dislike her, I can never forget that she saved my life once. Besides, she’s as loyal to this kingdom as anyone else—more so probably.
“They sent me to fetch you.” March stands up straight, his purple trench coat billowing in the breeze, his matching hat decorated with a small crown around the rim. He steps close to me, raising one hand and drawing his thumb along my bottom lip. When I follow the motion with my tongue, I taste the sharp sour of his apple. “But there’s no rush, is there, Doll?”
He tosses the apple aside, right near one of the toves, and the creature bends down to nibble it off the ground. March takes hold of my shoulders and draws me in, bending low to tease his lips above mine. The world is sparkly and dewy around us, dripping from last night’s storm. It’s not enough free magic to hurt anyone, but I see some oddities spread across the castle grounds: flowers that look like miniature dollhouses on the ends of their stems, a bread-and-butterfly that looks more like a croissant, and clouds shaped like hot-air balloons.
“I know we’re only just barely acquainted,” he remarks, his mouth brushing mine as he speaks, “but we’ve got a long time to get to know one another.” March pauses and looks up toward the sky, as if he’s really having to think hard about that one. “Assuming, of course, that we don’t bloody die before we get started.”
“Can you stop?” I murmur back, wishing he’d just fucking kiss me so that I could start to memorize his taste. He’s right: we don’t know one another nearly well enough, even less so than some of the other men. But he was there for me when I needed him, and he saved my life more than once.
Not only that, but … when his lips finally press to mine, there’s a spark between us, one that the land clearly recognizes. Voodoo lilies sprout from the damp ground as he cups my face between two huge hands and works my mouth like he knows what he’s doing, like he’s been here before.
I strain up on my tiptoes, my hands curled into the fabric of his jacket, and I welcome his tongue, greeting it with flicks of my own.
“Mm-hmm.” A sharp throat clearing snaps me out of my trance, and I look back to see my parents standing just outside the castle doors.
“Really, Henry, she’s married now,” Mom murmurs, but my dad is frowning anyway.
“Why don’t you two catch up over breakfast? I’ll be right back.” I take March’s hand in my own, and he seems oddly surprised by the maneuver, offering up a sharp whistle and a shake of his head as he flattens his velvety brown rabbit ears against his head.
“I’ll have to get used to this, eh? Having a wife. Having a woman around at all, really.” He chuckles, but it’s not much of a surprise that he hasn’t spent much time around women: there aren’t a lot of them here in Underland.
“Do you want to tell me your life story yet?” I ask, quirking a brow, but March ignores the question. Instead, he adjusts our clasped hands until his is on top, and pulls me around the side of the castle, past the gardens, past the croquet lawns, and over to where Lar is kneeling on a blanket in the grass.
The Knave is standing beside it, looking down at … a sword.
I stop short, and so does March, releasing my hand so he can tuck his in the pockets of his trench coat. He follows along as I slowly approach the blanket and kneel down in front of Lar.
“Is it—” I start, but I’m not even given the chance to finish my question because the sword? It talks.
“Your Majesty,” it murmurs, its voice—no, no, her voice—clearly distinguishable as that of the White Knight. A single lavender eye on the hilt turns to look at me, and I stifle a small scream. Yes, I’m familiar with Underland’s eccentricities, but this is a new one for me.
The eye blinks as I stare down at the long, silver blade.
The grip and pommel are crafted of what appears to be bone, and the guard is wrapped in a silk-like material that reminds me of hair. I’m almost afraid to touch it.
“There doesn’t appear to be any reason you shouldn’t pick this up,” Lar offers gently, as if he anticipated what I was about to ask. I look up at him, his wings fanning behind him, his jacket tossed aside so that he’s bare-chested and beaded with sweat. I imagine he’s put a lot of work into assessing the magical properties of the … of the White Knight.
Free magic can do all sorts of things—not all of them are good.
“May I—” I don’t even know how to finish that sentence. All of a sudden, I’m struck by the idea that maybe this was too cruel a fate. What if Lar’s spell doesn’t work correctly, and the White Knight is stuck like this forever? What if she feels pain when I swing her at an enemy?
“Never hesitate, and never second-guess yourself—these are the first Rules of Battle.” There’s a pause from the sentient sword (with no discernible mouth and only one discernible eye) as she peers up at me. “You will observe the Rules of Battle, of course?”
“Of course,” I choke out, hesitating with my hand above the hilt. The eye itself is located near the cross-guard, but it appears to have some sort of … glassy membrane over the top. It should be okay if I touch it. I think. I wrap my fingers around the hilt, only to find out that it’s warm. My throat closes up, but I’m the one who asked for this.
I lift the weapon in two hands and hold it steady. I’ve had some training over the last month—not nearly enough, but I did drive a sword through a vampire’s throat so that should account for something—but as soon as I take hold of the White Knight, it’s as if she’s standing right behind me, guiding my movements.
I don’t know how else to explain it other than that it feels as if there’s a ghost shadowing me. When I turn my head to the left, I can see the barest wisp of the woman. My legs straighten out unbidden, and I find myself swinging the sword in an impressive arc, spinning it in a circle, and coming to rest with it in a defensive position I’d have never known to take on my own.
Holy shit.
My muscles scream with the effort of wielding such a heavy weapon and, as soon as I relax my fingers and drop it to the ground, the sensation of being overshadowed by Chevalier fades.
“The next Rule of Battle is: always respect one’s weapon. A sword should never be put into the sheath with blood marring its surface, and it should never be dropped into the grass like a common thing.” There’s a pause as the eye turns to look at me again. “These are rules of my own making, I must admit. But I’m a talented knight.”
“Though not a loyal one,” remarks the Knave before she turns and heads back in the direction of the castle.
North asked if I felt this would be an appropriate replacement for the Vorpal Blade. Seeing as vorpal weapons are made from Looking-Glasses, and Looking-Glasses are in short supply, it didn’t seem like an option to wait around for him to make a new one.
But this?
This is better.
If a little creepy.
And mark my words: it’s almost prohibitively creepy.
“I won’t make that mistake again,” I agree, squatting down to retrieve … the White Knight. “Is there something I could call you that would make this easier?” I ask, and there’s another long, thoughtful pause from the weapon.
“If anyone inquires,” she begins, and even though she doesn’t have much of a face, I can feel her beaming with pride, “and they will, because I’m a very fine weapon, you can simply tell them that the name of your blade is Chevalier.”
“Chevalier, it is,” I agree, because how could I possibly argue otherwise?
“Remind me how long you’ll be gone again?” Hannah repeats for what must be the literal tenth time. My father stands beside her, looking like he’s about to have a heart attack. It could be that his baby girl is heading off to places far in a foreign land—a foreign world—that she’s riding in a giant teapot pulled by creatures whose name he doesn’t even know.
Or … more than likely, it could be that there are nine very inhuman men standing behind me.
The King comes closest, as far as outward appearances go, but I’m not sure if—ironically enough—he even has a heart, so he might very well be the biggest beast of them all.
“Two … months.” I swallow hard because that’s a long fucking time to be away from my family, especially considering that I never thought I’d see my mom outside the prison’s walls. She sacrificed a lot to bring justice to our family, to my brother … I put my hand on the new sheath at my side, the one that contains the White Knight’s spirit in the form of a sword.
I have not shown my parents my new weapon with the eyeball in it.
I am not going to show my parents my new weapon with the eyeball in it.
“Two months.” Dad nearly chokes, putting his hand over his mouth. He’s always been the softer of the two, the more emotional one. I give him a hug first, and he squeezes me so tightly that I can’t breathe. “Stay safe and make good choices.”
“I will.” I turn to my mom next, but she’s smiling rather than holding back tears.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she whispers, sweeping my hair back and offering me a quick kiss on the forehead.
My parents escort us out, watching as I climb into the giant teapot and take a seat on a velvet bench littered with decorative pillows. At least none of these pillows are warning me about hot pokers or bleeding fingers or whatnot. I force my mind away from that mess, focusing on the present instead.
The men have filled me in on everything, so at least I’m up to speed.
But wondering if I really did travel to yet another world is mind-blowing.
Until four weeks ago (give or take) I wasn’t even aware of Underland.
March takes the seat beside me while Raiden and Rab get settled on the opposite side, facing back toward us. The other men will be spread out between the remaining carriages—and not just because there isn’t enough room for all of us, but for safety reasons. I equate it to a motorcade where the president rides in one black car amongst many, just to throw off any would-be assassins.
I fold my hands into my skirts as the carriage lurches forward and the Mad Hatter promptly sets the small round table between us for tea. He lifts up the black top hat on his head and extracts all the necessary accoutrement.
I’m under no delusion that I understand how any of that works.
“What are the accommodations like on this ship?” I inquire as politely as I’m able to. Not a man in that carriage is fooled. March snickers, and Raiden raises a brow, but it’s Rab that leans forward with a twinkle in his red eye.
“Oh, they’re horrid,” he explains, but almost like he’s gleeful about the idea. “It reeks of fish, and there’s a fine crusting of salt on every surface.” He sits back up, his short-sleeved red button-down showing off his myriad tattoos, including the ones that just so happen to be tick-ticking away. Each one is a countdown for something, but I can’t remember which and that’s a problem.
If I’m going to be married to the man, I oughta know what each of his tattoos stands for.
I look down at my own leg, as if I can see my one and only tattoo (thus far) beneath the fabric of my tights. It supposedly counts down to pivotal moments in my life. The wedding was one of them: after I had the crown placed on my head, the hands stopped. But they may very well start up again. After all, it’s happened once before.
“I feel like you’re bullshitting me, White Rabbit,” I accuse, crossing my arms. March leans in toward me, resting his elbow on his knee and planting his guileful face in his hand. His mouth is obscene; I can’t even look at it without conjuring up limitless possibilities.
“He might be, but I’m not. Why trust a White Rabbit when you could put money on a March Hare?” He licks his lips in an entirely inappropriate way, and I notice that Raiden is watching us almost too closely, like he’s intrigued by our courtship.
I offer March up a saucy look.
“Fine. Why don’t you tell me about our quarters on the ship?” I lift my chin and cross my legs, skirts rustling with the motion. I even fold my hands daintily on my knees and fantasize about how much better my fingers would look dipped in ink. “Then I’ll make a decision on who to believe. If I’m right, I want something good from the man I don’t pick. If I’m wrong …” I trail off and look over at March, meeting the shrewd brown of his eyes before turning my attention to Rab. “Whoever I picked gets something good.”
“And by something good, you mean … sex?” One of Rab’s ears flops in half and he offers me up the most maniacal of grins, rubbing at his inked throat with a pretty hand. “Okay then. Our quarters will be musty and cramped, unbearably damp, and with little to no privacy—cracks between the wood, rotted boards, and the like. You’ll despise it.”
I frown and look back to March, cocking one brow. Raiden smirks, but says nothing, pouring four cups of tea and setting out a plate of macarons from beneath his top hat. I take a bite of a bright yellow one expecting lemon, but instead it tastes like buttered popcorn. The sort that only comes from movie theaters, coated in salt and dripping with fat. And even then, that’s not the whole of the taste. It’s the paper bucket, it’s the dark theater, it’s previews and shared armrests on first dates—all of that. It literally tastes like nostalgia.
