The Hidden Library Page 20

  The rabbit’s pink eyes shift to my shoulder. Grymsdyke crawls a bit forward, so that his front legs dangle in just a way he looks like he’s ready to leap. Its fangs are bared and a chilling hissing comes from, well, I’d say lips, but do spiders have lips?

  The rabbit juts a trembling paw toward the left.

  Left I go.

  The club isn’t as full as it was the last time I was here, not even by half. But the music is loud, the smell of sweet smoke is strong in the air, and the people writhing on the dance floor seem deliriously happy to be present.

  We weave past a pair of couples fully getting it on (albeit separately), right there in the middle of the dance floor. And suddenly I’m remembering the time not so long ago, when Alice and I danced and then made love in the middle of a ballroom floor.

  I will do anything, everything to make sure she can dance again.

  “Do spiders party?”

  “Of course.” Grymsdyke sounds offended. “We have grand parties before the hive mothers eat their concubines. It is a splendid celebration for all.”

  Lesson learned: stop making small talk with the spider.

  Luckily for me, though, I don’t have to hunt down the Hatter this time. He’s in plain view, sprawled across an ornate throne at the head of the room. Stark naked, his body striped in blue and mustard-colored paint, as he puffs away on a monstrously large hookah. A man wearing a donkey’s mask sits at his feet, jerking him off.

  Well, I guess this is better than crashing an orgy, right? I climb up the dais, my boots stomping against the delicate, webbed tiles. “We need to talk, Hatter.”

  He cracks open a glazed eye. “Aren’t you a pretty thing. Let us not talk, pretty thing. Let us fuck instead.”

  I mutter, “I seriously don’t have time for this.” The donkey man is shoved to the side; I’ve got the Hatter by his throat. Several people nearby gasp. “Let me say it one more time, more clear. We need to talk, Hatter.”

  He smiles languidly, as if I’m not this close to choking him out. “Ah! You want to play games!”

  “Let me bite him.” Grymsdyke taps my shoulder. “He reeks of too much smoke and juice.”

  The Hatter reaches forward, past my arm. “An adorable pet!” But the moment he touches the spider, he yelps, recoiling into his throne. “Bad pookie!”

  Grymsdyke springs off my shoulder and onto the Hatter’s bare chest. The man squeals but does as the spider says when it tells him to shut up.

  Not caring that half of the eyes in the room are trained on us, I shove the Hatter back into his seat. I’ve got my switchblade out, angling toward a part I’m positive he doesn’t want to lose. “Do you remember me?”

  The Hatter squints past Grymsdyke. “Now that you ask, good sir, you do look a bit familiar. Have we had some fun before?”

  The spider slashes out a leg, striking the Hatter on the face. “This is Sir Finn, and he is one who protects the Queen of Diamonds.”

  Clarity fights its way into the Hatter’s glazed eyes. “Yes, yes. You belong to Her Majesty! I remember now. Most assuredly.” He looks me up and down. “You are just as delicious as I remember.”

  And . . . he’s at full staff again. Fantastic. What is it going to take to focus this guy? “I need to know where the White King is.”

  “His Majesty?” The Hatter titters. “Fighting, of course. The war is going badly, all around. Wonderland is in dark times, Sir Finn. Very dark times. The light has abandoned us.”

  How Alice dealt with this knucklehead for as long as she did is beyond me. “Do you know where the King is right now?”

  “Is it teatime? If it is teatime, he is taking tea. He prefers my special blend, just as Her Majesty does. Or he could be on the battlefield. His Majesty is a most busy sire.”

  Grymsdyke slashes him across the face again, clearly just as frustrated as I. “How much juice have you had?”

  “All of it.” The Hatter leers. “Every last drop I could.”

  “What is this juice?” I ask the spider. “I get that he’s stoned, but—”

  “Oh no, Sir Finn. He has not had the beating punishment of rocks, although he most likely deserves it. He has consumed much juice, and it rots the insides out until all that’s left is juice. It is a most destructive drink. I have seen a person or two in my time disintegrate right before my very eyes. But I will admit it is tasty, and makes ones like this have little cares except those of pleasure and fornication.”

  I rub at my forehead. Fatigue beats at every muscle within me. It’s been—I don’t even know how long it’s been since I last slept. And I’m now supposed to somehow find the White King all by myself, in the middle of a war, because this fool is so drugged out he’s going to someday literally liquidate?

  “I can take you to His Majesty.”

  My eyes fly back to the Hatter.

  He stands up slowly, careful (as one can be, I guess, all juiced up) to not jostle Grymsdyke. “I will take you to him.

  And then he salutes me with more than just his hand.

  A quarter of an hour later, we’re on horseback and headed out of Nobbytown. The Hatter is clothed, thank goodness, with hair already frosty in this frigid air from the ice water dunkings he suffered through to help sober up.

  The ride is unbearable. The Hatter never stops talking. He tells us about, well, everything. His latest orgy. How the March Hare tried to dupe him with inferior thistlepoppy for his hookah, and that it left him more flaccid than rowdy (his words, not mine). How the Dormouse continues to be a bore. How he’s on edge, because he hasn’t had tea in the last hour. How he met a sweet treat whose mouth was (and here he laughed himself stupid) a wonderland.

  “Please let me bite him,” Grymsdyke quietly begs me.

  We’re attacked in the middle of the night. What appear to be four card soldiers, their uniforms ragged, bear down on us with pikes and swords. They are no pikemen, though, and their use of the devastating weapon is shoddy. I’m off my horse, my gun out, and I’m able to take two down in short time. Grymsdyke leaps off my shoulder and bites another; the soldier screams as large blisters form all over his body (which has now turned what appears to be purple). The fourth soldier manages to knock me off my feet. My gun skids just out of reach. We fight in the mud and grass, and soon, I’m able to reach his fallen sword.

  His last breath, at the hands of both steel and a spider’s fangs, is a gasp.

  The Hatter peeks out of nearby bushes. “Is it done?”

  Grymsdyke scuttles off of the still-dying soldier. “That one is a coward.”

  If I could high five a spider, I think I would right now. As I can’t, I instead watch in fascinated horror as the blisters on his barely living first victim pop open. Each wet burst brings about a gurgle of a scream.

  I bend down and put my arm out so Grymsdyke can climb up more easily. “Is this what you all can do?” I think of the spiders in Mary’s lab. She somehow persuaded a pair to come back with her to the Institute after our last Wonderland visit, but I’ve never checked to see what she’s discovered about their venom.

  It resumes its perch on my shoulder. “This is what I can do.” And then, upon reflection, “I am an assassin, and am good at my job.”

  No shit.

  I’m reclaiming my gun and wiping it off on one of the dead soldier’s tunics when the Hatter makes his way over to us. “War is bad,” he whispers. All of his frivolity from earlier in the evening is gone. “It makes people do bad, bad things.”

  It’s close to daybreak when white tents appear the distance. I kid you not, the Hatter is still talking. About an hour after the attack, he regained the wind in his sails. I don’t think he’s let a single minute go by without saying something ridiculous. I’ve tuned him out the best I can for my own sanity, though, and instead focused on trying to decipher all the shit that’s gone down in the last day at the Institute: Todd, Pfeifer’s hidden library, Wendy, Pan, Brom and the Librarian’s secrets. My head hurts from it all. I refuse to waste time on anyt
hing to do with Sawyer, though. Grymsdyke, the coward, has burrowed himself inside my coat so he didn’t have to listen any longer and is now snoring something fierce. I’m a bit jealous, actually.

  When we are about two hundred yards away, the Hatter perks up. “Hally-ho!” His breath steams around him like smoke as he waves his hands in the air. “Gangan!”

  Several card soldiers and knights pull away from the encampment and ride out to meet us. I recognize one of them right away. It’s the Five of Diamonds, and thankfully, he recognizes me, too.

  “Sir Finn.” His pike tilts toward me.

  Again with the Sir? “I need to see the White King immediately. Is he at camp?”

  “His Majesty has just returned from a campaign to suss out the Red King’s hunting parties. Allow me take you to him.”

  He stares at me as he waits for my response, and I can’t help but stare back for a moment. The thing about Wonderlandians is that all their eyes are strange. Like this guy’s. There’s a sheen to them, a darkness that has nothing to do with pigment. Staring into them too long leaves me feeling as if I ought to keep one hand on my gun the whole time. Instead, I fall into step next to him. “How is the war going?”

  Never much for talk anyway, all the Five of Diamonds will tell me is that war is good for the dead.

  The camp is bleaker than the last time I was here—and then, it was pretty damn bleak. Soldiers are clearly weary and many frighteningly thin, showcasing multiple scars and/or wrappings. The smell of meat wafts off campfires, and men, women, and animals huddle around, clutching cups of warm tea. They watch us silently as we ride in, the slightest bit distrustful and overly curious all at once.

  The Hatter falls asleep on his horse just moments before we reach the massive pavilion in the middle of the encampment. He twitches and smiles as he dreams—no doubt of happy orgies and better hookahs. I leave him behind with the card soldiers and follow the Five of Diamonds inside.

  “His Majesty is in the strategy room,” the pikeman says. “I will announce you.”

  The Five of Diamonds slips between the tent flaps, and I linger outside, wondering if I’ve done the right thing. I’ve taken a chance right now, a selfish one. The White King is in the middle of a war, and he’s not only overseeing his own people’s welfares, but those of Alice’s, too.

  I’ll beg him if I have to.

  The flap opens. Ferz Eponi, one of the King’s advisors that resembles a less egg-like Humpty Dumpty, stands before me. “We did not think we would see you in our borders again, Sir Finn. Please, come in.”

  I’m getting the Sir bit even from him? “Thanks. I know this is probably a bad time—”

  “All times are bad in war, lad. This time is just less bad than others.”

  Inside, I find a small gathering around a large table filled with miniature figurines. Ferz Eponi’s twin, Ferz Epona is there, alongside the Nightrider, a stately unicorn that serves as the King’s second-in-command. At the head of the table is the White King of Wonderland, looking even more tired than me, if that’s even possible.

  I go to bow, but he holds up a hand. “I would say it is good to see you, Sir Finn, but this is a surprise. Is the Queen of Diamonds with you?”

  He’s good. If I didn’t know the depth of his emotions for Alice, I’d never have guessed them now. “No. But she’s why I’m here. I need your help. She needs your help.”

  A large brown-and-black-striped cat slowly materializes on a chair nearby. Its yellow, unblinking eyes bore into me as it sniffs the air, tail twitching.

  To the card soldiers at the tent flaps, the King says quietly, “Leave us.” Once they’re gone, his nearly colorless eyes flash. “Is Her Majesty in trouble?”

  I lay it all out there for him to hear, from the attack to her paralysis, and then to the confession Todd gave about both a drug and a beastie. And then I describe the woman Todd marked as his supplier, and the already cold air in the tent drops another ten degrees.

  The King shakes with rage. “She dares to attack the Queen of Diamonds?”

  The cat’s wide eyes narrow. “You are foolish if you ever thought she would not.”

  Alice’s former lover throws an arm out, scattering the pieces on the table. And then the table is broken clean in half. None of his people move, though. The cat doesn’t even twitch its tail. Which, come to think of it, is a bit stubby.

  Of course. My exhaustion is leaving me dumb, isn’t it? This has to be the infamous Cheshire-Cat.

  I get the King’s rage, though. Shit, I’m filled with it, too. But I need us to focus here. “Alice wasn’t exactly able to tell me who we’re talking about, so maybe you all can. Exactly who ordered this hit on her?”

  They all turn to me, brows furrowed. The Cat’s ears flatten as its stubby tail whips back and forth. “You said the Queen was paralyzed, not struck. Was she also beaten?”

  “I will kill her,” the White King snarls, and for the first time in our acquaintance, I can finally see the crazy in him, because he looks like he’s about to go ballistic right here and now. His eyes have even changed color—no longer nearly colorless, they’ve now got a red sheen to them.

  It’s creepy as fuck, to be honest.

  “No—not beaten. Look. I don’t have a lot of time. First, if you know who did this, can you share with the class?”

  Confusion reflects back at me. Who knew Wonderlandians were so fucking literal? It’s my turn to break something. I smash my fist down against one of the larger intact pieces of the table. “TELL ME WHO DID THIS TO ALICE.”

  Nobody blinks at my vehemence. The Nightrider says, “Lad, from your description, the Queen’s assailant could be no one other than the Queen of Hearts herself.”

  The Queen of Hearts . . . with Sweeney Todd? And there’s Peter Pan floating around, stealing secrets . . . ? What the hell is going on? What—

  Something touches my elbow. It’s the King, and suddenly, there’s a chair behind me, and I’m in it.

  “When was the last time you slept?” His eyes are back to normal, thank God.

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  Bitter laughter curls out of him. “There is sleep when death comes to claim us. For now, let us fight through it together. What is it you need from me? How can I help the Queen in your New York City, while I am here in Wonderland? I will do anything. All you need is to ask.”

  “I think maybe the first drug Todd gave her was SleepMist, although he said he injected it in her. Is that a thing now?”

  A brief discussion leads nowhere. According to their spies and experiences, SleepMist is still used with sprayers. It is rare, I’m told, for any drug to be injected in Wonderland. Drugs are consumed via food, drink, or smoke, which is why SleepMist is such a big deal. But then, it is argued, as it was the Queen of Hearts to develop such a weapon, who is to say she hasn’t modified it into a concentrated liquid that could be injected?

  Okay, fine. It may or may not be SleepMist. It’s the beastie that has me really worried. “One of our doctors who specializes in extraterrestrial microorganisms—”

  The Cat bounds off the chair and comes closer. “Extraterrestrial?”

  “Alien,” I correct, but he asks for clarification on that one, too.

  “From space.” I point upward. “People who live in space are extraterrestrials.”

  Everyone in the tent actually seems confused and potentially terrified of this possibility. Of all the crazy things in Wonderland, this is what freaks them out? Aliens?

  I’m tired. I’m stressed. I’m going fucking crazy, because I lose it again. “Can we all just focus? What the hell is this beastie that our doctor thinks is a parasite? Todd admits to cutting open her lower back and sticking something in. Claimed it was pretty. Whatever it is, it’s making it impossible for Alice to move and I want to know what the fuck it is so I can get it out of her!”

  The Cat looks up at the White King, dawning filling its bright eyes. “If she is . . .” Its growl fills the tent. “Does sh
e dare?”

  The King runs his hands through his hair. He’s pacing, muttering things I can’t understand. Finally, “It has not been done for ages. The accords forbid it.” And then, “If it is so—”

  “We have not much time.” Although the Cat stretches, it is clearly on edge. “Sir Finn, when did you say the Queen was attacked?”

  “I don’t know the exact time, but I’m going to say close to forty-eight hours now.”

  The King pushes his way out of the flaps, bellowing for the camp physicians. The look on his face scares the shit out of me, because he looks like it’s been scared straight out of him.

  He knows something I don’t.

  “What’s in Alice?”

  The Cat tilts its head. “A boojum.”

  All of the soldiers and advisors in the tent shudder and kiss their fingers.

  “What is a boojum?”

  “It is a type of snark. The nastiest.”

  My fists ball up. “What is a snark?”

  “A beastie, of course.”

  I just cannot anymore. I’m close to violence. “Look! Do any of you know how to fix this? Because I’m wondering if this was a colossal waste of time!”

  The Cat shakes itself until its hair puffs around it. “The Queen of Diamonds does not have much time. If we do not remove the boojum before it molts, she will surely die. Come, lad. Let us find the King. He is collecting what we require to purge the beastie from Her Majesty’s body. It appears we will be visiting your New York City after all. What a turn of events this is.” He faces the rest of the advisors. “You will hold our lines and our positions until His Majesty returns. Speak not a word of this to anyone.”

  They all bow to the Cat. As for me, I’m not sure I even have legs anymore. All I can think is that I have to get back to Alice and get that—that—whatever the hell it is out of her body before it’s too late. “You can do it, though? Get this boojam—”

  “Boojum,” the Cat corrects.

  “Fine. Boojum. But can you get it out?”

  “I cannot,” it says. “But you and His Majesty might be able to, Sir Finn.”

  “Everyone keeps calling me that. You know I’m not a knight, right?”