The Lost Codex Read online

  Victor snatches her finger—not harshly, not cruelly, but gently, as if it were caressing rather than poking him. And then he slowly slips off his sunglasses.

  Behind me, Marianne cries out. Jack swears.

  One of Victor’s eye sockets, the one that held a foreign, blue orb, is angry red, jagged yet hollow.

  He says, “I have more than just scars, Mary.”

  Mary Lennox is no mimsy, though. She does not recoil at such a gruesome visage, nor does she blanch. Instead, she critically surveys what he presents. “I’m glad it’s gone. It wasn’t yours. It didn’t belong there. You would be better off with a glass eye than anything from the bloody Chosen.”

  I cannot help but wonder if Victor truly knows this woman, as he gapes at such a response.

  “As for the limbs you’ve acquired. . .” Her dark eyes trail down the length of his stiffly protected body. “Well. I suppose we shall see just whom they belonged to. But as we can’t have you limping around, one-armed and single-legged, we will have to make do with what remains. You ought to give serious thought to how some of the Timelines have done smashing work with mechanical limbs and living tissues.”

  Victor slips the dark sunglasses back on. “You make it sound so easy.”

  “It is what you want it to be.” She motions to the exit behind him. “If you aren’t going to make an effort, then turn back around and either edit home or go—I don’t know where. Somewhere else. We don’t have the time or room to babysit you. People are dying, Victor. People’s lives are at risk. We’re planning an attack, and we need all the strength we can muster to make it successful. If you aren’t able to do that, then we have no need of you.”

  Through the entire rant, Victor hesitantly reaches toward her. Some of Mary’s fire must transfer via an electric current, though, for when this challenge is issued, he grabs hold: firmly, not gingerly.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “So damn sorry for what I did to you, Mary. I—I wish—”

  She cups his face. “Shut up and kiss me already, will you?”

  I turn away just in time for Jack to say, “Well, I, for one, am eager to see what kind of robo-eye she’s going to find him.”

  Marianne’s sigh is palpable.

  “You love me just the way I am, admit it.” Jack clucks her beneath the chin, eliciting a rather rosy stain to tint her cheeks.

  “I think,” the Librarian drawls, “that perhaps any further discussions can wait until sunrise at the earliest. At least, for the majority of the remaining company.” She pats Van Brunt’s arm. “You and I, old friend, still have plenty to discuss. I’ve got a prisoner who has told me lots of interesting things I think you’ll want to know.”

  The Society’s leader stifles a yawn. “Agreed.” He and the Librarian depart to find the White King; Jack and Marianne retire to their tents. As Mary has already whisked Victor away, I lead Finn to my room here in the main pavilion.

  Inside, the braziers are lit. A toasty fire emanates from a small metal fire bowl. The room is small, stark, the refuge of sudden arrival and necessity.

  Finn wiggles a bag sitting on a collapsible bench at the end of the bed. “They automatically brought my stuff in here.” A sly smile emerges. “Princedom has its perks.”

  I cannot help but chuckle. “I am certain your father and brother are also in possession of their belongings, despite their lack of Wonderlandian titles.”

  He presses a chilled finger against my lips. “Don’t ruin the dream.”

  I kiss the digit before he pulls away. As I help him out of his damp coat, I consider whether or not to pry about the events of the last few days. For anyone else, manners would assure my silence. But this is Finn, and we have willingly allowed ourselves to be vulnerable to one another.

  “If you desire to stay quiet, I will respect your wishes, but I would ask of you to tell me what happened in Antarctica.”

  Finn tosses his coat over the back of a nearby chair before leading me to the bed. We sit down, hands intertwined together. “Are you sure you want to know?”

  Unease scratches against my spine at the doubling of shadows within his eyes.

  “A queen must be an excellent actress in times of difficulty.”

  I glanced up from the scrolls I was studying. The Caterpillar lounged nearby, a bottle of the Hatter’s juice dangling from one of his feet, a goblet from another. I rather wished I was drinking a glassful rather than perusing texts dryer than the sands of the Sahara.

  “Pardon?”

  He slurped the brightly colored drink noisily. “Emotions are liabilities, but especially when visible.”

  The Caterpillar himself rarely showed any emotion other than irritation. “You cannot expect me to be emotionless forevermore.”

  He lurched forward, liquid sloshing from both cup and bottle. “Are your ears filled with feathers?” A sneer curled his equivalent of lips. “Obstinate girl, always yet ineffectively attempting to turn my words around.”

  Correction: irritation and disdain.

  I knew that monarchs must rule with their brains, not hearts. It was a rocky lesson to learn, but necessary. “My apologies. You were saying,”—lecturing—“visible emotions are frowned upon?”

  “Your people look to you for strength.”

  I waited.

  He drained his cup and promptly poured a fresh one. “Cower in fear, and they will follow.”

  I glanced down at the papers strewn about my desk. They detailed nothing that would inspire fear, let alone anything other than boredom.

  Interestingly enough, the very next day, the White Rabbit appeared in my Court, bearing a large hatbox. “A gift from the majestic, generous Queen of Hearts to the Queen of Diamonds.” Inside was the head of a kitchen maid, one who once hailed from Hearts’ lands but sought asylum in mine.

  And now, she wishes to hold sway over Finn.

  I damn well do want to know every last detail. She and I will battle face to face before she is allowed to even breathe the same air as him again. But rather than rage about, I follow the Caterpillar’s years-old piece of advice, masking my worry and frustration. I lean in, savoring his familiar, warm scent, and brush my lips across his. “Partners do not hide such things from one another unless it is necessary.”

  A hand curls around the back of my neck, tangling within my hair. For many hushed seconds, his forehead merely remains pressed against mine, our lips perilously close to one another. My pulse skitters, as if this were our first kiss rather than the hundredth. And when our mouths do touch, and our tongues, too, I wonder if it will always feel this way.

  I pray that it does.

  Cool air fills the space between us when he pulls away. His fingers tighten around mine. He stares straight ahead, at the fluttering walls of the storm-shaken tent. “To make a long story short, the scientists, or doctors, I guess, created a,” he flashes air quotes, “wall around whatever the thirteenth Wise Woman did to me.”

  I swallow back the rancorous fear climbing up my throat. “Is it known what she specifically did?”

  He chews on his lower lip as he considers my question. “Whatever spell she cast was done in a language that none of the scientists understood, and there wasn’t enough time to find a proper translator to figure out the specifics.”

  “Were you hypnotized?” How else were they to know such a thing?

  He rubs a knuckle against the same lip recently abused. “Not so much. At least, I don’t think. . .” A sigh finishes the sentence. “I don’t even know how to explain it, Alice. Some of it was science. Some of it had to be magic.”

  Magic.

  We learned from the twelfth Wise Woman that such spells cast, at least by her kind, cannot be erased. The intentions within, however, can be altered with opposing magic. “I thought these were doctors, not witches.”

  “I honestly don’t know what the hell they were.” His focus falls away, back toward the fluttering wall before us. Voice low yet steady, he proceeds to detail what happened, from the m
ultiple injections to his hair being shaved off. I slowly peel away the damp knit cap as he explains the rods injected into his skull, and when I find soft fuzz instead of soft strands, I wish to both cry and rage. Twin fresh scabs rest upon his crown, ugly, large ones that cannot be comfortable. I gently trace his neck, down to another injection site.

  The pain he must have felt. Still feels. I will have to get the healing spray.

  “Everything became too much.” Finn stays still as I examine the tender flesh around the bruised wounds. “I couldn’t even scream. I was paralyzed. They propped my eyes open and I was forced to watch videos and pictures for hours. I listened to audio. I genuinely wondered if at one point, they’d cut open my skull. I thought I might be dead.”

  A queen must be an excellent actress in times of difficulty.

  I can’t, though. Not with him.

  “When the paralysis took over, my lungs, the movies, the audio, it all stopped.” I marvel wildly at how calm he remains when all I wish to do is make my way to Antarctica with a blade. “Then I was put into a sensory deprivation tank. That was. . .” A distance grows between us, wide and deep as an ocean. “At one point, I woke up a room that had some kid in it. A kid who looked like—” His puff of laughter is filled with an undeserved shame I wish to wash away. “I kid you not, Alice, but it looked exactly like I did when I was six or seven. I can’t explain it. He just stared at me. Didn’t blink, just stared. Neither of us slept or talked. He just stared at me, and I couldn’t look away. Then a door opened, breaking our connection. I was back in the sensory deprivation tank. Had I even left? I have no idea. Was it a hallucination?” He shakes his head again. “I haven’t slept since.”

  He rubs a tentative hand across the golden down covering his scalp. He eyes the knit cap in my lap, an unasked question that must rub his ego raw yet serves to break my heart.

  I toss the cap aside and climb onto my knees. I lean in. I kiss the space above his ear; the velvety, shorn strands tickle my sensitive skin. Gently, I brush feather-light kisses across the scabs on his skull. I linger as my mouth presses against his forehead, savoring each inhalation of Finn. I curl a hand around the base of his head, conscious to not jostle the bruises just below. I lavish more gossamer kisses over each of them. “Are you still in pain?”

  His answer is as light as my caresses. “Right now? No.”

  “This wall.” I kiss his cheek, and then the corner of his mouth. “What purpose does it serve?”

  Beneath the palm of one of my hands, his heart’s march increases. “To slow down or even contain whatever the spell’s intentions are.”

  My kisses trail down to his jawline. “Were these doctors witches?”

  He grips my waist. His breath against my skin is deliciously unsteady. “Probably.”

  We’ve spoken enough. Finn is alive. He is safe. My partner and my lover is once more by my side. The next day is filled with many terrifying unknowns, but for now, there is nothing to be done about it but embrace the moments we now share together. I smile against his mouth whilst pilfering a line from Mary. “Shut up and kiss me already.”

  He does, and callooh callay, he takes his sweet time doing so. Beyond the canvas walls a tempest howls and rages, bellowing like a horde of uffish jabberwockies gallumphing about, but the nearby fire bowl is toasty, and the hands curling around me even more so. Finn loses his boots; mine are gone within seconds, too. I remove his flannel shirt; he does the same for my dress. His pants meet the ground, as do my leggings. In the golden firelight, he is beautiful, my own Adonis reanimated by the best kind of magic. Greed and need have me devouring him with all my senses. I cannot get enough of his beauty: of his taste; of the sound of his sighs and moans; of the feel of his skin beneath my own; of the weight of his body against mine. Although I have long committed to memory each freckle, each scar, each dip and curve and muscle that together comprise Huckleberry Finn Van Brunt, I take my time retracing them with both mouth and hands, desiring to stretch this time out until I am blind and insensible with sensation and urgency. And I am not alone in such needs, as Finn paints his own pictures across my skin’s canvas, each touch, each kiss and caress more than the sum total of its parts.

  He and I, we are more than just partners. More than mere lovers. We are mirror images of one another. We both began life as something different and then willingly chose to change our stories, voluntarily embracing the scope of larger destinies whilst constantly taking into consideration the lives of people we would never meet. We freely place others’ needs before our own without thought toward glory or acknowledgement. We risk much. We feel deeply. Our pasts are deep and vast, and, at times, difficult to tread within. We attempt to make our way to the other side anyway. There is sexual chemistry, oh so much of it, but that alone cannot carry us through all that we face. There is shared camaraderie. There is belonging, acceptance.

  There is true love.

  When Finn pushes into me, and bliss beckons like a sultry siren on nearby rocks, I fight to keep my eyes from closing. I watch my north star as we dance together, marveling at how deeply he resonates within me—not just in my body, but in my soul. I am entirely overwhelmed, and grateful to be so. He moves to kiss away my tears, but I stay him, maintaining the strength of our gaze upon each other.

  Euphoria crashes over me first before pulling Finn in its undertow. Afterward, I refuse to let him roll off me, instead savoring the sweet pressure of his weight, the musky scent of our lovemaking, the cooling sweat covering both of us, the gradual slowing of his heartbeat and breath. We compensate by shifting to our sides, still connected, still together, still one.

  As I doodle light pictures upon his back, I struggle to coherently piece together the contents of my heart. I fail miserably. I whisper, “I cannot find the proper words in any language or any Timeline to convey the strength of what I feel for you.”

  I shiver as his large hands languidly trace the length of my body. “You already told me, here in this bed. I heard you loud and clear. I hope you heard me, too.”

  I did, thank goodness.

  I did.

  “I CANNOT BE THE only one who thinks this is a terrible idea.”

  I glance across the table at Mary. She’s not, of course. I think all of us from the Institute are equally concerned. Today, Alice is set to travel to a so-called neutral location and convene with the rest of the Wonderlandian monarchs. Outside of the White King, none of the other royals are true allies. Alice once said that the White Queen would have no qualms turning her into a doll, and that the Red Queen would gladly crucify her. There was no mention of what the Red King would do, but I can’t imagine it would be pleasant, considering the ruling that banished her from Wonderland. And then there’s the King of Hearts, who must be a piece of work himself considering he actually married his crazy psychotic bitch of a co-regent. Who knows what lengths he’ll go to get his hands on Alice?

  “After what happened in Koppenberg Mountain,” Alice is saying coolly, “we need all the help we can get to battle the Chosen. As the interrogation with the piper we captured on the first day has proven, Hearts is officially aligned with the Chosen, this is now a Wonderlandian problem. And as she is here, on her home turf, we cannot hunt her without informing the others of her crimes.”

  “You will be a lamb to the slaughter!”

  Mary never has been one to know when to shut her mouth.

  “The Queen of Diamonds is an excellent swordswoman, nearly unparalleled in skill.” The Nightrider’s displeasure crackles throughout the dining tent. “The same can be said for the White King. If you are insinuating that Their Majesties cannot maintain the Queen of Diamonds’ safety during the summit—”

  The A.D. holds up a hand, shocking the unicorn into silence. “Mary is not insulting anyone, let alone your king. She’s just worried about our friend facing a pack of loonies.”

  The Nightrider sputters over his of cup of tea.

  “Although inelegant, Ms. Lennox makes a valid point,” Brom say
s. “Will guards be allowed?”

  One of the squat, egg-shaped White advisers clears her throat. I think her name is Ferz Epona, but I get her and her twin’s names confused at times. “Summits such as these are rare, but certain protocols and comforts are expected. Each monarch may bring their Grand Advisor, their Ferzes, a taste tester, and a member or two of their household. Pikemen and card soldiers may wait a thousand yards away.”

  I damn well will ensure that I will be the official household representative of the Diamonds Court. While I trust Alice, and have faith in her abilities, she doesn’t have to face this firing squad alone. I’m here. I’ll stand by her side, just like she’s stood by mine.

  We’ll face this Wonderlandian pit of vipers together.

  Brom considers what the Ferz has described. “Are weapons allowed?”

  The Ferz’s twin swallows a lemon. “Monarchs are never without weapons.”

  Several of the advisors seated at the table snort in derision, as if what my father asked was the stupidest question ever.

  “So Grymsdyke can go?” the A.D. asks.

  Hanging from a web in a corner, the Spider rouses from its morning meal of a large mouse. “I am an assassin, not a weapon, thief.”

  The A.D. pokes at his rehydrated eggs. “What’s the difference?”

  “As the Diamonds Court is lately overseen by the White Court, who will stand with the Queen of Diamonds?” Marianne asks.

  The Cheshire-Cat materializes on a stool next to the White King, in front of a bowl of cream. This morning, he is the size of a toddler. “I will, of—” but the Librarian deftly cuts him off.

  “I will fill in as her current Grand Advisor.” The look she levels the Cat dares him to contract her.

  I try not to crack a smile at chimera of irritated shock, suspicion, and pleasure that flashes across Alice’s face.

  “You will be busy with the White King,” the Librarian continues. “The Queen of Diamonds does not deserve the diminished attention of any advisor.”