Chapter 6
SIX
“You mean you can’t take less. It’s very easy to take more than nothing.”
—Hatter, Alice in Wonderland
My favorite words have always begun with M.
Mayhem.
Malicious.
Mischief.
But always, Malice topped them all.
My magnificent Malice.
I shouldn’t be here, but I’m known for making terrible decisions. Why stop now?
Four things to note: One, I kept the key I swiped from the Knightly’s key rack when I was a teenager.
Two, Luther or Katherine should have changed this lock years ago, but they never did.
Three, I’ve known the code to Tiger Lily’s security system since I was a kid.
Four, not that it matters, because this door doesn’t have an alarm.
Luther feared that Alice, as a child, would set it off since she was always running in and out of the cellar. After she grew too old to play down there, her parents never added a sensor to this door. Their oversight is my gain.
I also have the code to the front gate, but I didn’t drive up, not tonight.
Tonight, I scaled the wall and crept up like a dirty thief.
With a balaclava firmly in place over my head and as quiet as a grave, I fit the old iron skeleton key into the rusted lock of the child-sized door at the back of the house.
Am I dressed head to foot in black to blend with the shadows?
Absolutely. Did I have to creep the three blocks from Folly House to Tiger Lily Manor?
Sure did. And did I hop a six-foot spiked gate that surrounds the property?
Got the snagged pants to prove it. Well worth the damage to these sweatpants.
Even came down hard when I landed, nearly twisting an ankle and falling backward on my ass. Still worth it.
Wait.
Is it considered breaking and entering if I have a key?
Look at me, trying to be all reasonable as I give a gentle turn of my wrist. The mechanism of the antiquated metal grinds, and when I hear the satisfying click, I curl my lips in a mischievous grin.
Then I push open the tiny wooden door, its eroded hinges creaking.
But their protest dissipates on the night as I relish the thrill of being where I most certainly don’t belong.
Beads of sweat bleed into the fabric of the mask, with evil grinning skulls tattooed on the backs of my hands hidden beneath black leather gloves.
Anticipation makes me lightheaded and my heart race for all the wrong reasons, but hey, I’ve accepted the absence of a conscience the day I killed a man without a shred of remorse or regret or even gratification.
Slit his throat and walked away to go about my night.
I was seventeen years old—far too young to take a life, even younger to mourn the loss of whatever morality I might have had.
I don’t know why I’m like this, only that I was born…flawed, I guess. My brain was put together wrong, with a piece missing somewhere. Sure, I can pretend I’m ‘normal,’ but it’s bullshit. A facade to hide the monster that lives inside me.
Roman tested me that night when I murdered that man.
He didn’t believe I could do the evil deeds he won’t because God forbid McQueen dirties his precious hands.
That’s why he raised us, his ‘wards.’ To be his executors.
Joke was on him, though, because I rose to the occasion—in spades.
That night, I became his favorite mercenary.
Roman points.
I attack.
Simple.
I enjoy the novel sensation of exhilaration as I drop the skeleton key in the pocket of my sweatpants and size up the small doorway before taking a quick look down at myself.
Fuck it. I’ll make myself fit one way or the other.
But it’s like squeezing ten pounds of shit through a drinking straw as I maneuver my brawny body through the small hole.
This doorway wasn’t made for someone six-two and two hundred-twenty-ish pounds.
In fact, this door wasn’t built for an adult at all.
Luther added it when Alice was a toddler, turning the back half of the basement into a fantasy world.
A rush of memories rips through my mind when I use my phone’s flashlight to light the space.
Glimpses of Alice’s childhood playground remain in the faded and chipped, whimsical murals painted across the concrete walls.
Down here, she’d force me to endure fake tea parties while seated around that little pink table over in the corner.
It’s dusty now, the floral china cups donated to a children’s hospital years ago.
But those innocent days lost in our silly, youthful imaginations haunt this room.
Now, a few plastic storage bins litter the room, but otherwise, Katherine—miraculously—preserved the integrity of Luther’s artwork.
While I’d love to linger down here and replay some of the best moments of my life, I don’t because, like a nasty little stalker, I creep from the room, stroll through the cavernous basement, and climb the stairs to the central part of the house.
In the giant kitchen, everything is pristine and white, with a wall of windows with a spectacular view of Jabberwocky Bay.
The dim light of the range over the stove is on, casting a low glow.
I turn off the flashlight and tuck my phone away as I skulk across the polished espresso-wood floorboards, miffed at how long they all took to retire for the night.
Alice especially. She kept me waiting forever, my agitation steadily growing while I stood below her window and continuously checked my timepiece.
Then it was another game of hurry up and wait to ensure enough time passed for her to be dead asleep.
I can be a patient man when the occasion calls for it, and my stalking game is tight tonight as I inch across the ground level toward the stairs.
Katherine home is stunningly neutral, almost sterile, with bland colors accented with splashes of gold.
Alice hated growing up here, but like I told her, it’s better here than Horizons.
We weren’t beaten, starved, or otherwise abused.
But Roman had particular…demands. We had to be strong and shrewd, forced to live up to his almost impossible expectations.
During our years at the orphanage, March and I saw two boys disappear for failing to meet Roman’s standards.
I used to wonder what happened to those kids. I don’t anymore because I know exactly what happened to them.
Roman had them killed.
Tiger Lily Manor is super luxurious but extremely inhospitable. Artwork and antiques are scattered throughout gallery-like rooms that give off about as much warmth as a blast of Arctic air. It’s everything Folly House isn’t.
Folly House is shadowy and atmospheric, heavy with the history of those who came before us. March and I pay a small army of sorority girls to keep the place tidy, and they do a decent job, hoping to stay in our good graces because they’re fucking sheep.
I fucking hate sheep.
Sheep are vapid. Uninteresting. None of them possesses a functioning brain in their pretty—but empty—heads. With one word, hell, one look, I can get any of them to debase themselves in a million different ways.
How fucking dull. Boring to the point of nauseating.
But Alice…
Alice, with her glittering blue eyes and razor-sharp tongue.
She never cowered, not even when we were younger.
No, not my marvelous Malice. Beneath her exquisite exterior lies a quiet dignity that is, to put it plainly, astounding.
She’s thoughtful, intelligent, and so fucking strong that I often felt weak when standing in her shadow.
Three years ago, I got burned by her fire, and oh God, I’ve been craving the sweet scorch ever since.
With the memory of her taste lingering on my tongue, I’m stealthy as fuck as I glance up the stairs, at the darkened landing above, and lick my lips, giddy as a kid about to be reunited with a long-lost toy.
Invading her space gives me a rush, one that gets me hard as hell because I’m a demented bastard with a seriously skewed moral compass.
The barbell of my glans ampallang piercing heightens the exquisite throb, and I give my dick a gentle squeeze to help ease the building pressure working up my stiff shaft.
Nope, it doesn’t work. The only solution to my current dilemma is burying myself so deeply inside Alice that I won’t know where I end and she begins.
I do my level best to blend in with the shadows, sliding my palm along the smooth wooden banister as I pad up the stairs.
Once at the top, I practically glide down the hallway, adrenaline pumping hard, and my blood a loud rush in my ears.
Most of the rooms are guest bedrooms that are rarely used because Katherine dislikes chaos in her home.
This is why Alice was always so quiet and developed a knack for making herself small, invisible.
The others I pass are a bathroom, linen closets, and the laundry room.
The primary en suite bedroom is one floor up, with Alice’s room the last one on this level—all the way at the far end of the wide corridor.
Katherine put her daughter as far away from her as the manor allows.
I don’t dare breathe lest I disturb the absolute stillness around me.
Lest I cut the quiet as I turn the handle and crack open the door.
My lungs finally remind me to exhale; then I softly drag in Alice’s comforting scent of citrus.
The aroma always reminds me of the long-lost lazy summer days and nostalgic nights we spent running wild around Wonderland and sitting for hours in the maze.