The Lost Codex Page 25

  The Rabbit’s pink eyes nearly explode from their sockets when I follow suit. “Your—Your Majesties . . . I . . . I—”

  “I imagine,” I say coldly, “that you are remembering in vivid detail how your queen kidnapped and abused our valued and trusted Grand Advisors. How she mutilated the Cheshire-Cat. How she executed the Caterpillar and then used his skin to fashion a trophy.” I ready one of the two truth serum syringes I brought along for this particular mission. “I wonder how much of a part you were in such decisions.”

  “N-none at all, Your Majesty.” His whiskers twitch violently. “I would never—”

  “But you did.” Jace bends to check on the knots surrounding the Rabbit’s legs and feet.

  “You cannot kill me.” His ears are rigid at attention. “It is against the law!”

  I push aside his cravat and inject the serum into his neck, not particularly caring if my touch is gentle. He thrashes against his bonds, but Jace’s work is excellent. Rabid or docile, the White Rabbit will not escape these knots.

  I toss the needle aside. “That did not stop your mistress, did it?”

  His attention darts between Jace and me. “But—but—but you. . .”

  I wait, but he does not finish. I press record on a digital recorder and set it on a table next to him. “For now, we simply wish to talk to you.”

  His nose scrunches as he warily examines the technology. “T-talk?”

  “You will tell us what we wish to know,” Jace says, “and if we are satisfied, we will walk out that door without cutting off your tail or skinning you.”

  The Rabbit blinks several times before his head shakes rapidly. A slow, rabid grin filled with flat yet razor-sharp teeth emerges. “Is that so?”

  I ready yet another syringe. “Perhaps.”

  Jace snatches his long ears and yanks the Rabbit’s head to the side. The Grand Advisor gnashes his teeth as I inject yet another needle into the skin beyond the white fur of his neck.

  Jace tuts, “Temper, temper.”

  “She will kill you for this insult.”

  “Will she?” I ask mildly. “Or will she, perhaps, be more put out at you for allowing us to infiltrate Cor and capture you so easily?”

  Spittle flies as the Rabbit shouts, “I have only ever been loyal to Her Majesty!”

  My own smile is equally deranged as I spit his words back at him. “Is that so?”

  The chair bounces on the ground, so vehement is his last gasps at struggling.

  I lean closer, unafraid of his teeth, of his rage. “You see, once upon a time, you did something for me. Something that Her Majesty would be most displeased with.”

  As the sedative takes effect, alarm and confusion reddens his pink eyes.

  “You don’t remember it because the Caterpillar took your memories from you. Today, I will take more of them from you.”

  He unwillingly sags in the chair. “I will never betray my queen.”

  Jace looms over him, his sword in hand. “Where is the Queen of Hearts currently?”

  The Rabbit sneers, his fur-covered lip undulating. Defiance quickly gives way to bewildered, angry frustration, though. “The last I heard, she was in the mountain.”

  For a moment, I am no longer within Cor Castle, but inside Koppenberg’s dungeons.

  We destroyed that mountain. Those halls, those torture chambers, no longer stand.

  “Do you speak of Venae Cavae?” Jace presses.

  I repress a shudder and focus once more on the snarling Rabbit before me. His large teeth snap together. “Yes.”

  The Venae Cavae Mountains are legendary for mining of gold, silver, and a strand of reddish quartz long favored by the Hearts Court.

  “She is within the Venae Cavae?” Jace clarifies.

  When the Rabbit unwillingly answers in the affirmative, it is more hiss than anything else.

  The Piper and the thirteenth Wise Woman resided within a mountain in 1816/18GRI-GT. And now, the Queen of Hearts is said to be hiding within another . . . This is no mere happenstance. It cannot be.

  Instinct tells me that if I were to head into the Venae Cavae, I would not only find Hearts but the Piper. Did he trade one mountain for another?

  I grab the Rabbit’s labels. “Where specifically within the Venae Cavae is the Queen of Hearts?”

  He chokes, he froths in rage, he howls in frustration. The White Rabbit does all he can to rebuff my question. But Mary’s drug is too seductive, too robust to resist for too long. Salty, bitter tears soak his fur when his resolves breaks. He shudders, and red eyes fade to pink once more.

  “Her private residence.”

  Neither Jace nor I have ever heard of the Queen of Hearts having any other residence than Cor. Our personal house in the tulgey woods was an anomaly amongst Wonderlandian rulers, crafted out of necessity to blur the lines between Courts rather than anything else. None of the other monarchs had separate residences; indeed, once word of its existence spread, the Red Queen publicly mocked the White King and me for livings like peasants in the woods rather than rulers in palaces.

  But Hearts constructing a secret lair within the Venae Cavae Mountains? Is that a recent necessity—or one long standing? Is the King of Hearts aware of its presence?

  “Why does the Queen of Hearts have a private residence in the mountains?” Jace asks.

  “I—I do not know, Your Majesty. She only shared its location recently.” His chin meets his chest. “She will kill me for betraying her trust. I am sworn to secrecy. Oh, I am a terrible, terrible Rabbit. I do not deserve to wear the Grand Advisor mantle.”

  For the next several minutes, Jace extracts specific directions to the hidden dwelling within the Venae Cavae, accessible from the dungeons of Cor Castle, all the while the Rabbit openly weeping and begging us to grant him sanctuary. The hysterics swiftly halt once his alter ego re-emerges, and any requests for clemency transition to threats.

  “You will never gain entrance anyway.” Leather-clad feet thump upon the floor in a steady beat.

  The muffled call of a trumpet fills the chilly air, signaling the changing of the guard. We must be leaving soon. “And why is that?”

  His mouth curls into a wicked swirl, showcasing a set of perfect tombstone teeth. “You are not chosen.”

  Chosen.

  Goose pimples frost my skin. I jab a dagger beneath his chin. “Is the Queen of Hearts Chosen?”

  The Rabbit’s wrists are confined; his legs, too. His head, though, is not, and I realize the error of my ways the moment he jerks forward and impales himself on my dagger. Iron slices through white fur and the soft skin of his throat.

  Red rivulets stain his pelt as he gags and chokes and chortles.

  Jace snarls, “Son of a Jabberwocky!” as I yank out the blade. I press against the wound, desperate to stem the tide, but the Rabbit’s life hemorrhages too quickly from him.

  The White King kicks the chair—and the Rabbit’s limp body—sprawling across the room. “Coward!”

  I gawk at the gory blade at my feet. The White Rabbit chose death rather than risk Hearts’ wrath.

  “If we leave now,” Jace says tightly, “we can get down to the dungeons undetected.”

  “No.”

  He whirls about, thunderstorms brewing above his head.

  “The Rabbit indicated that, in order to access Hearts’ lair, they must be Chosen.” I pick up the blade and wipe the Rabbit’s blood upon a tablecloth. “I have no proof, but I would bet all that I own that the Piper and his minions are within her lair in the Venae Cavae. The two of us alone stand no chance against such an army.”

  Jace’s anger sizzles and crackles, sharp as lightning. “You have so little faith in yourself? In me?”

  I shove the blade back into its sheath. Two years ago, I might very well have stormed the Venae Cavae with him without a second thought. Now, though . . . “I have experience and the wisdom to know better than repeating past mistakes. If we two go in alone, and my instincts are correct, our chances of e
xiting the mountain will be slim to none.”

  “These villains attacked our people, our lands.” The White King quakes as his thunder rebuilds. “You cannot expect me to sit back and ignore their crimes!”

  “Do you think I do not crave the same vengeance?” I match him, toe to toe. “Do you forget why I search for the Piper in the first place? He and the Chosen must pay for more than Wonderland. And Hearts. . .” I grapple with the madness desperately clamoring for release. “They will pay, Jace. By God and Wonderland, they will. But I refuse to fail all of those crying out for justice simply because of the allure of rashness.”

  He pinches his lips together as he stares at me, his breaths hard and resentful.

  I am no longer his partner. We are no longer on the same page at all times. The realization is both a relief and heartbreaking all at once.

  “In two days, we meet with the rest of the kings and queens. We will lay out Hearts’ villainy. If they choose to fight alongside us, our odds of beating such powerful, foreign magic are greatly increased. If they don’t, we will have the Diamonds and White armies, alongside the Society, when we make our way back to the Venae Cavae.” I grip his shoulders, tethering him to the ground. “We cannot go in blind. We must be smart about this. There is more at stake than either of our prides.”

  His nod is curt.

  He does not hide his disappointment.

  MARIANNE REQUESTS EVERY MAP of the Venae Cavae Mountain region Jace’s men and women can get their hands on. As she, the White King, Jack, Mary, and a number of advisors begin plotting ways in and out of the Queen of Hearts’ secret lair, the Librarian pulls me aside to a secondary staging table set up.

  “Tell me what you know about the Sage.”

  Despite stealing a few hours to sleep after the White King and I crossed Hearts land into White territory, exhaustion still beckons me at every turn. I motion for a page to bring a tea serving—a strong one that will fortify me for the coming hours. We journeyed all day, through rain and sleet, to reach the White encampment, and while many welcomed slumber hours ago, I still have much time to go before head may meet pillow.

  “Her name is the very definition of her life.” I rub the bridge of my nose. “She is one of the ancient pillars of Wonderlandian wisdom.”

  “Is she a witch?”

  Interestingly enough, I do not know the answer to this question. There has never been any associating of that particular word with the Sage, nor has anyone ever referred to her as anything other than what she is called.

  The Librarian is thoughtful for several long moments during which I repress the urge to screech for the tea, fearful of collapsing in a frazzled, wearied heap upon the floor. “Send someone for her.”

  A burst of laughter shoots out of me. “The Sage does not come like a dog. She does not leave her cave. Those who desire her wisdom go to her.”

  The glare the Librarian levels is insulting at the very least, as if I am a schoolgirl and she an annoyed teacher after a repeated explanation. “Summon her.”

  The tent flap opens; a card soldier steps through. She offers a sharp bow. “Pardon my interruption, Your Majesties, but the Prince of Adámas and his entourage request an audience.”

  I stand upright so quickly that my hip rattles the table, toppling strategy pieces to their sides.

  Finn. He’s here.

  But more importantly: he’s alive.

  “Entourage? What entourage?” Mary mutters at the same time the White King says far more calmly than I feel, “Show them in at once.”

  The card soldier snaps another bow and exits.

  Only four days have passed since we last were in one another’s presence, yet it feels as if it has been years. Knots tighten throughout my lungs as I step around the table.

  “It’s about time, isn’t it?”

  Jack’s sentiment is sorely shared. I look to the Librarian, waiting for her own well-placed comment concerning tardiness or the lack of. Instead, I find concern marring her forehead and blue eyes fastened upon the tent flap.

  Mary steps beside me, her arm slipping through mine, binding us together. I know not whether she thinks to reassure herself or me—both, most likely.

  Marianne abandons her computers. “Surely, by entourage, the soldier referred to the whole of the Van Brunt family.”

  Mary stiffens, and all of the unspoken yet shared anxiety and fear we two share rear their ugly heads.

  If Finn is here, then he must be fine. They must be fine.

  “What is taking so long?” Mary whispers, strangled by the ghosts of What-ifs haunting us.

  The flap shifts, signaling the card soldier’s return. My pulse gallops, thundering in my ears, a wild stampede not even remotely close to being under control, as I peer into the darkness behind her. “Your Majesties, I present the Prince of Adámas, Mr. Van Brunt, and Dr. Van Brunt.”

  The soldier steps to the side just as thunder explodes beyond the canvas walls. And then Finn steps through, and I am a river rushing to his sea.

  He is pale—too pale. Purple smudges bruise his shadowed eyes. A knit hat tugs low over his brow and ears; no hair pokes out. He dons a damp, modern puffy coat, jeans, and boots, appearing both utterly out of place in Wonderland and delightfully welcome all at the same time. Van Brunt emerges behind him, similarly dressed. A third figure comes into the light, tall and yet curled into himself, with dark sunglasses hiding his eyes. A knit hat similar to his brother’s covers Victor’s head. He is unrestrained, and yet the way he carries himself shouts how wary he is of such a fact.

  Concern and questions bombard the room, but my focus, my hands, my heart are tethered to Finn’s. “You came.”

  His smile is wan, and the sight of it rumbles within me alongside the storm beyond the canvas walls of the pavilion. “Nothing could have stopped me.”

  “Are you all right?”

  His lower lip tugs between his teeth. His answer takes far too long. “I won’t know until,” he rubs at the knit hat, “I see her again.”

  Nearby, Van Brunt is saying to the White King, “I thank you for the assistance you’ve been providing the Society, as well as the lodging you’ve provided our agents.”

  “It is, as always,” Jace says, “my honor to assist the Queen of Diamonds and those she works with.” He turns to Ferz Eponi. “Ready another tent. Have hot water available, and warm food.”

  The Ferz bows, and departs. Van Brunt coughs into a fist. “That, too, is greatly appreciated.”

  Of the three Van Brunts, the elder appears the least altered. While it is obvious he is exhausted, he does not share the stark changes the other two exhibit, nor the careful way they move. Finn’s own gestures are slower than normal, almost as if daily acts taken for granted, such as walking, are painful. As for Victor, he remains stationed by the entrance, his arms crossed tightly across his chest, chin tucked into his neck, the dark glasses firmly in place.

  “You were sorely missed, old friend,” the Librarian tells Van Brunt. “There is much to discuss, but first. . .” Her shrewd eyes narrow upon Victor.

  The rest of the room’s attention follows. The doctor tilts his head, as though he challenges anyone within to accuse him of resuming recent actions and attitude.

  The Society’s leader scrubs tiredly at his unkempt beard as he, too, gazes at his eldest son. Rain pounds against canvas as a flash of bright light flares momentarily through the cracks of the entrance.

  Victor straightens. His arms slacken by his side, but, just as quickly, he immediately shoves his fists beneath his armpits. “If you’re all worried I will go bonkers again. . .” A sneer curls his normally affable mouth. “Good. Stay on your guard.”

  A pained expression flashes across his father’s face. “Victor, please.”

  “You shouldn’t have brought me. You should have left me there, locked away in one of those tanks where I couldn’t hurt anyone again.” Victor briefly cocks his head in Mary’s direction.

  “This pity party isn’t going to he
lp anyone, least of all you.”

  I turn, startled, to face Finn. Shadows darken his eyes, his cheeks, as he regards his brother.

  Victor counters, “You don’t—”

  “Don’t even finish that,” Finn warns. “Because you know I do.”

  Victor yanks a thumb to his mouth, gnawing on a nail. Whatever fight was in him dissipates. His shoulders sag as he once more curls into himself. “I’m sorry. I just. . .”

  Finn tugs the knit hat lower as he approaches his brother. “You have to at least give it a chance.”

  Victor reaches out an unsteady hand before withdrawing it. Finn grabs hold of it anyway. “I’m not scared of you.”

  “You should be. I’m a monster, after all.” More quietly, “Nothing could change that.”

  Nearby, a tiny, strangled gasp tears from Mary, and for the span of a breath, I wonder if this normally strong woman will finally shatter amongst company. But it is not to be, for she throws her shoulders back, regal as any queen I have ever known, and brings with her storms as she descends upon the doctor. “You are only a monster if you let yourself be, you ridiculous prat.”

  Her razor-sharp barb slices through the tent. Finn wisely backs away, no doubt concerned about the possibility of collateral damage. “You are a man of three decades’ worth of life, and you are behaving as if you are a toddler.” Ire—or concern—leaves Mary vibrating before Victor. “Maybe those questionable doctors must have done something right, because you’re once more throwing a tantrum over how life is not fair. Life isn’t fair, love.”

  She jabs a finger against the meat beneath his collarbone. “Life hands us some truly shoddy plates, and you just have to take it.” Rosy cheeks blossom into scarlet. “But you are here, petulant instead of crazed or violent. Isn’t that a win?” Several more pokes leave Victor wincing. He opens his mouth, but she deftly silences him whilst snapping, “Furthermore, who gives a flying shite about whether or not you look like a monster? Scars mean nothing. Neither do looks, not really, not when people truly know you. You’re only a monster if you act like one.”

  It does not pass notice that the Wonderlanders, including the White King, quietly, and quickly, slip away.