Title of Story: Alice in Nightmareland
Rating: M
Pairing: Alice/Jasper
Genre: Romance/Fantasy
Word Count: 11,206
Story Summary: On Halloween, Alice Brandon ends up falling down something like a rabbit hole – and right into her very own nightmare. Trapped in a place with crawling, terrifying creatures and where words are as good as magic, Alice must confront her destiny and her lust for the madman who becomes her companion. Or does she?
Standard Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. No copyright infringement is intended.
Alice in Nightmareland
Alice slams the door behind her as she storms out of the house, - but even after the sharp thwack of the screen door cutting through the night air, the sound of her mother and her aunt screaming at each other is clear as day. Her abrupt departure from an argument over the particulars of her father's will has done nothing to cease the petty squabbling. She scowls, pacing a tight circle, and laments that nobody is listening to her.
"We're all grieving," she'd said reasonably, desperate to hold the remains of her family together. But evidently, the assignation of her dead father's properties between wife and sister is more important than sharing in bereavement. Alice must be the only one who actually cares Daddy is gone.
She has had enough.
But as she paces on her front porch, she wonders what she should do - because she certainly is not going back inside-no way, no how, no two questions about it. There has to be something she can occupy herself with. Being a native to the college town of Oxford, Mississippi, Alice is very much aware that there is always something going on, especially at night on a weekend.
Oh, right, Alice realizes belatedly, counting the days since the funeral backward in her head twice to make sure she is right. She stops her pacing in favor of looking out to the street, where it is obvious that children are going door-to-door between porch-lit-and-decorated homes, plastic pumpkins full of candy swinging from sweaty, excited hands. Tonight is Halloween.
She feels a bit detached from the realization. -Halloween. It seems so trite in the wake of the tragedy that has struck her family. Who cares about Halloween when Daddy is six feet under and will not ever buss an indulgent kiss to Alice's forehead?
Daddy is gone, and it's like her own personal nightmare.
But still…better out here than to go back in there, she thinks with resignation. At least she's wearing enough black that it could pass as a costume. Preppy goth, with a cap-sleeved, knee-length, pin-tucked ebony dress, a crisp collar buttoned neatly at her throat, dark tights, Mary Jane pumps in patent black leather, and her short, inky hair held in place by a black silk headband-mourning clothes. She hasn't worn anything but black for two weeks. How convenient it is now, right at the moment wherein all she wants to do is not draw attention to herself.
I'll blend in just fine. Her thoughts turn a bit bitter as she concludes that blending in or not, it isn't as if anyone would actually hear her, even if she screams and throws the fit she's been bottling up ever since they got the news.
Alice clomps down the porch steps, and then down the driveway, pausing at the lip of the sidewalk. Left or right? Daddy is - was - left-handed. Left it is.
-o-o-o-
Alice treads on the narrow sidewalk in her shiny shoes, easily dodging giggling, sugar-rushing children as she goes forward, unwittingly circling closer in her aimless walking to the Ole Miss campus. Her pace is brisk, an inherent burden of being so short; she has to be quick if she and her short legs want to keep up with the rest of the world. Daddy always said Alice has a very specific walk and she's proud of it, in a way, especially in heels.
The University of Mississippi is in fine form this Halloween, the sprawling off-campus houses hosting the kind of parties that her mother would be appalled to hear about. Alice wanders around, looking up at the sublime architecture of all these old houses. The South has a controversial history, but her home is nothing if not a monument to the decadence of centuries past.
Daddy always loved these buildings, she thinks, studying the craftsmanship with a wistful eye. Alice is - was - very much her father's daughter. While he'd been an architect, his love of design had transferred to Alice through fashion. Her mother is not overly supportive of Alice's dream to run her own boutique, the kind of up-scale, customize-by-customer fashion house that celebrities clamor to wear, but Daddy had always been supportive. Among everything else that is lost along with her father's death, the absence of belief in Alice's abilities - outside of being a pretty-faced, God-fearing debutant - is crushing.
Alice dashes away the tears welling in her eyes. It wouldn't do to ruin her make-up, so carefully applied, all crisp ink-black lined around her eyes just for the specific purpose of making her golden-bright hazel eyes pop. If her passion is derived from her father, then much of Alice's wisdom begrudgingly hails from her mother. There is power in appearance. Image is everything.
"Who let the kiddies on campus?" she hears as she crosses the street near a group of guffawing, toga-clad fraternity brothers.
Alice rolls her eyes and takes another left. She's well aware she looks young for her age; on top of being short, she's gamine, over-slender and gracile enough that she often appears younger than her actual age. She ignores them, content in the knowledge that she's just been accepted to Ole Miss for the next fall semester. She'll be going to Daddy's alma mater; it's bittersweet, now.
Still, the obnoxious laughter has served some purpose in pulling Alice out of her head. Her eyes flit about, noting that she's come across a darkened street ending in a cul-de-sac that is oddly spare of people on such a rowdy night. A central house built in federal style seems to be the only one that isn't abandoned, its windows glowing with the pulse of orange-purple-green strobe lighting and the distant thump of electronic music spilling out to the street.
Must be some party, she thinks as she loiters at the street crossing. She is just about to turn away when someone brushes by her shoulder. Alice blinks at the back of the girl moving so quickly down the street - or more specifically, at the girl's backside, which boasts a single white cotton fluff right on the rear. It takes a moment for the svelte white silk lingerie, high heels, rabbit-ear headband, and the tail to click. A Playboy Bunny.
Alice wants to be horrified - there is a voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like her mother wailing at how scandalous such a costume is - but she finds herself curious, instead. Because as she follows the girl and gets a closer look, she can see tiny details in the lingerie, like fake blood spatter and careful rips on the lace that make her envy the creativity it must have taken to don the outfit. Not to mention the moxie.
Undead Playboy Bunny, she corrects herself. How interesting.
The Bunny must be running late to the party at the end of the street, because she looks at the face of her phone several times in the short period that Alice is trailing after her. The Bunny clicks her tongue and shakes her head. Alice wonders how important it really is to be on time for a party dressed like that as The Bunny darts up the porch steps, opens the door to let out a stream of ear-splitting sound, and disappears into the house.
Alice hesitates mid-way on the porch steps. What is she doing? She shouldn't be going to a college party; she should be going back home to play mediator with her family now that she's cleared her head. But in the end, it really isn't up to Alice, because three boys slump out of the house, laughing at each other and clearly a bit drunk, each of them dressed as a soldier from some point in history. She only gets a glimpse of their faces before the burliest boy shoves at the one in Civil War regalia. The blond stumbles, feet unsteady in too-large boots, and knocks right into Alice as they all trot down the steps and step onto the street. And Alice loses her balance, tottering on her heels, one of which has caught in a crack on the wooden step -
Alice tumbles onto her back after overcorrecting, her grip on the bannister slipping, her head smacking against the ground painfully. The world dims, sound and sight replaced by a bleak grayness.
-o-o-o-
Alice groans, a very unladylike sound, and leans up on her elbow, one palm pressed to the side of her head with a wince. Very ouch. No blood comes away on her hand, however, and the lump left behind isn't so bad. She's had worse from spills at ballet practice.
Sitting up fully, she peers around for the boys who caused her fall, but finds the street empty. They must have fled the scene of the crime. So rude. But then, what had Alice expected? Gallantry died a long time ago.
Alice stands, brushing off the back of her dress to free herself of dead grass clinging to the fabric. Wearing black can be such a pain. She sighs, glancing up at the house after fixing her collar. Based on sound alone, the party is still going on, but she waffles between staying and going. Again, she has the notion that she doesn't belong here, that she should go home. But then, Alice is always playing it safe, tending to the better angels of her nature and -
"Well, are you going in or not?"
Alice startles. "Who's there?" she asks, because as far as she can tell, she's still alone outside.
"Who else? It's me, down here."
Alice looks down, right at the three-pronged smile of the carved pumpkin sitting on the top porch step, lit up with a candle from the inside. As she stares, the triangular eyes tilt at the outer edges, giving the impression that there is an expectant expression…on a pumpkin. A talking pumpkin, with a mouth that actually moves.
Impossible.
"It's rude to stare," the pumpkin says.
"I must have hit my head harder than I thought," she mutters, reaching up to prod at the lump beneath her inky hair.
The pumpkin's mouth turns downward into a frown. "If you don't go now, you'll be late, and you wouldn't want to be late."
Alice is about to ask what she'll be late for, but then remembers that she's holding a conversation with a talking pumpkin, and promptly snaps her mouth shut. Does schizophrenia run in her family? Great Aunt Mary is admittedly a peddler of the kind of conspiracy theories that earn funny looks, but Alice just thought that is because Great Aunt Mary is old. But maybe crazy is hereditary and now it's Alice's turn.
"Hurry, hurry! Go now before it's too late!"
Alice shakes her head, but proceeds up to the door, anyway. She opens the door, immediately bombarded with a dense smoke and the full decibel of the horrid party mix filtering from the back of the house. One of the strobe lights flashes right in her eyes and she looks away, letting the door fall shut behind her. She blinks rapidly, her eyes growing accustomed to the oddly shifting lights, and then shivers.
The house is completely empty. Like, empty empty. No furniture, no people, nothing to explain where the lights and music and smog is coming from. Just dead empty.
A chill races up her spine. Something is very wrong here.
Alice immediately turns around, grasping for the door handle and tugging - but the door doesn't open.
"Let me out!" she yells, pulling harder on the door. "Please! Unlock the door! Someone, please help me!"
Several minutes go by like this, with Alice yelling over the pounding music and futility trying to make the door open, but nobody comes to let her out and the door remains stubbornly closed. A panic begins to build between her lungs, a cold sweat on her brow. Her mind spins. There has to be some way to get out of this house.
She tries the windows and the back door, none of which give an inch. She tries the front door again, which doesn't budge, and then leans tiredly against the wood. Alice has a cousin who enjoys these kind of rotten pranks, but this is just awful.
Upstairs, she thinks. A little less useful, being that if any of the windows opened up there, Alice might have to jump at least a full floor, but still worth a shot. Only, not so much, because all of those windows are sealed shut, too. Alice is well and truly trapped.
Impossible.
She moves on to trying all the doors, looking for anything or anyone, growing more desperate by the second, breath coming quicker behind her breast. "Please, please," she murmurs tearfully, trying what is probably a hallway closet.
This door opens and her breath catches. It's dark behind the door, a great expanse of opaque blackness, but still she calls out. "Hello?" There is no answer, but Alice is not discouraged. This is the only door that has opened. There must be an explanation. She steps forward and the floor drops out beneath her feet.
Alice falls down, down, down.
-o-o-o-
The shaft of fast-rushing darkness ends when she abruptly lands on her back, the wind knocked clean out of her. The room she has found herself in is odd, to say the least. Everything appears to be turned on its side, with a table and chair sticking out of the tiled wall and a very small armoire tilted horizontally. Alice shifts, preparing to stand -
Only she slips onto her hip, sliding down again on her stomach until her feet touch what she now realizes isn't a tiled wall - it's a tiled floor. Meaning she was previously on the wall. Her head is spinning as she rights herself. Then she frowns, because now she is in a room that has no doors at all. Not even the door she came in through.
There is, however, a key and a cupcake. She picks up the key curiously, marveling at the detail of such a tiny thing; gold and old-fashioned and the size of her pinky nail, almost like a key for a lock on a diary. The cupcake is of average size, though, and her mouth waters. Red velvet, no doubt about it. Alice is getting rather hungry. And look, it even says EAT ME, the words neatly arranged in dark red sprinkles right over the cream cheese frosting.
Alice eats the cupcake.
Alice should not have eaten the cupcake.
Almost instantly, her stomach cramps up, a vicious sting that swells and travels through her body, vibrating through her limbs. The gold-and-white tiles swirl under her feet and there is a terrible itching over her skin and her knees are weak and the room seems to be getting bigger - no. Alice is shrinking. The tiny key, not so small now in relation to her body, falls to the floor with a metallic clatter.
Impossible.
Alice does not have very much time to process her shrinkage, though, because her attention is quickly drawn to a mouse-hole set into the baseboard of the room that she had not noticed before. The round arch is dark in the shadow of the creature creeping out of it - a thing that is most certainly not a mouse. Alice stares at the sharp-toothed, beady-eyed, skin-tailed rat and it stares back at her, its claws curled menacingly and its muscles bunching beneath grungy gray fur. She can't tell if the rat is absurdly large in the first place or if she only feels it is so big because of how small she is now. It leaps at her and Alice shrieks, scrambling backward -
The rat's teeth close on air just moments after Alice has ducked away.
She runs in her patent leather heels, fear surging adrenalin right through her bloodstream. There is no way out of this room and she is freaking tiny and -
As she keeps the pace up, barely out-running the rat, Alice's eyes fall to the small armoire, which is just her size. She darts to the fine oak double doors, tugging on the latches breathlessly. It won't open. Why? She spots the keyhole and frantically pats her sides, but it is wasted effort. The key is on the floor where she dropped it and the rat is still coming for her.
With no other choice, Alice starts running again, her shins aching and heart racing as she circles the room once, then twice, trying to confuse the rat. It isn't working very well; there are a few close calls when she can feel the putrid stink of its breath on the back of her neck, but Alice is agile. And Alice gets the key, holding it in both hands, and booking it back to the armoire. She misses the keyhole twice before she manages to jam the key into the lock, twisting it and slipping between the door in the knick of time. Right after she shuts the door, the rat slams against it, shaking it with the full force of its body.
The door holds steady as her heart thunders. And on the floor is a glass vial the size of her arm filled with a pearly-green liquid. It reads DRINK ME and Alice, remembering the cupcake, hesitates for a moment. The drink is a gamble that she takes, though, and soon a familiar itch spreads over her skin, followed by a joint-popping stretch as she grows rapidly to her own size.
Alice gasps for breath, pressing her hands to her ribs, and turns around.
The armoire is not an armoire.
It is a doorway to another place. Another world. A dark, nightmarish world.
-o-o-o-
When Alice was a very young girl, she was afraid of the swallowing darkness that came with thunderstorms in the dead of night. Nothing terrified her more than the scrape of tree branches against the window, or the eerie light of the moon casting devious shadows on the walls of her bedroom. She'd been so certain that something would reach for her foot if she let it dangle over the edge of the bed, and so she hid beneath the covers, safely curled up to herself as thunder crashed and wind howled outside.
This world is all those terrifying nights rolled up into one, with craggy, thorny trees bare of leaves and a starless sky holding two red-orange moons and mud-slicked - it might not be mud, because it is tinted red and black and she is decidedly not thinking about it - ground beneath her feet. There is a stark absence of sound, though, the kind of silence that comes before natural disasters when the animals all clear out because they sense a shift in the earth. There is a lake that she is forced to swim through and its waters are violent, like the churning of the sea in a hurricane, and it tastes so strongly of salt that she gags. On the other side of the shore and tired-limbed, Alice begins to cry, fat tears dropping into the water below. Adding her own tears to the lake.
She wants to go home.
"There, there, child," says a lazy voice. "All will be well. Home is not as far as you think."
Alice looks up, promptly screaming at the sight of the twisting, ichor-covered centipede crawling toward her. Smoke billows from its mouth when it sighs, a heady scent that makes her dizzy when it blows on her face. Tears continue to roll down Alice's ashen cheeks as she stares at the massive form, the hundred twitching legs and the glassy eyes set in a face that is almost grotesquely human, two large pinchers protruding from its mouth, dripping in something icky and corrosive.
"I am so weary of mortals and their petty fears." The centipede watches Alice cry for a long moment, leering at her thoughtfully. "Have you grown so tired of being small, Alice?"
"I am not small anymore," she points out tearfully, wiping at her cheeks.
The centipede smiles around a smoke-filled mouth. It is nothing short of sinister. "Aren't you, though?" And then the centipede rears up, as if about to lunge, and Alice shrieks in fright -
A body pushes in front of hers, a broad shoulder blocking most of her view as a masculine voice shouts, "Be gone, beast!"
The centipede scoffs, unimpressed. "And who are you to tell me to leave, vapid creature?"
Her savior stands straighter, barely glancing at Alice over his shoulder as his cultured voice rings out clearly, addressing first the centipede monster and then Alice with a hefty air of expectation. "If you do not believe me, ask the mortal of what she thinks. What say you, mortal? Will you banish this beast? You need only say the words."
Alice's eyes widen. She doesn't understand why the centipede would be any more inclined to listen to her, but she finds herself speaking as the centipede sways forward threateningly. "B-be gone. Please."
The centipede freezes and then very reluctantly slithers backward, orange eyes pinning Alice as they disappear into the inky darkness. Alice swallows, slumping in relief, look at her savior, who has turned around in the wake of victory. Her words die in her throat. He is lanky and pale with a shock of bronze hair on his head - and two curving fangs in his mouth, eyes as red as blood.
"You're a vampire," she says, trembling. Because Alice very much doubts that a vampire would save her out of the goodness of his cold, dead heart and it feels like she's just traded one evil for another.
The vampire smirks. "Spot on. And everyone says that mortals are hopelessly stupid."
Alice whimpers when the vampire's fangs grow, pushing past his pale bottom lip.
"How will you thank me for saving your life?" the vampire wonders, blurring in front of Alice to close his hands over her shoulders, holding her in place when she leans away from him. He doesn't seem to feel that she is pushing against his chest, beating at his arms with her small fists. He grins crookedly. "I know the perfect payment. Just a little taste, that's all. You smell so nice. So fresh."
"No!" Alice yells desperately. "Don't hurt me!"
The vampire becomes immobile, an angry hiss seeping from his mouth, his head still bent toward her neck - but not moving any further. He glares at her meanly and Alice is dumbfounded. He actually stopped. She doesn't understand -
And then before her very eyes, the vampire begins to crumble, cold granite skin turning to dust. Alice glances around for an explanation and finds a wooden stake protruding right through the vampire's heart from behind. The vampire's ashes fall around her feet in a glittering-red cloud, the wooden stake on top of the remains.
Impossible.
Where did it come from?
The dead-branch bushes rustle and out comes a tall man of curly blond hair tamed only by a feathered black fedora, bottle-green eyes smudged with deep brown shadow, and a black leather duster coat. In one hand is a crossbow, already loaded up with a familiar wooden stake. "You shouldn't be here, mortal," he says grumpily. He takes in her sodden appearance with flashing eyes and a frowning, generous mouth. "But since you are, you look like you could use a drink. Follow me."
When Alice doesn't immediately fall in line, the man drops his head back, crossbow propped on his shoulder. "What? You think I'm going to hurt you, too?" he asks, then snorts. "No offense, little darlin', but even if I wanted to, you'd have to be a bit more tempting than you are now. Rest assured that you're safe from me as long as you smell like that much fear. Can't say the same for any others in the land, but it's up to you whether you find hospitable refuge or not."
He eyes her expectantly beneath the brim of his hat, then swaggers off into the night.
And Alice, for lack of any other options and any other hope of getting out of the strange, scary world, follows him.
-o-o-o-
He calls himself the Mad Hunter. It sounds more like a title to her, but that's how he curtly introduces himself and she's too intimidated by his fully-loaded crossbow to ask for his real name. And, in a way, it does seem like the title is fitting; the Mad Hunter seems, well, mad. Not crazy, or anything, but angry.
Like, perpetually angry. And dangerous. Lethal might be a good adjective for him.
He makes her heart flutter.
He is, she thinks, easily the most attractive man she's seen in her life, with the kind of enviable ease to his appearance that is baffling - because the kohl around his eyes is artless and his skin tone is pallid and the line of his jaw is perhaps a touch too sharp and he shouldn't look so good, but he does. He can't be too much older than she is, maybe a year or two her elder. She walks behind him, dripping water from the hem of her dress, and admires the breadth of his shoulders, the strong flex of muscle visible beneath fabric.
So not the time, she scolds herself. Part of her is still trying to wrap her mind around all of the impossible things that have happened since she hit her head, and another part has given up on trying to make any sort of sense out of her situation. She's plum stumped by it all.
The Mad Hunter walks with a soldier's gait, all economic movement and a fine string of tension. He seems to hear everything as he leads her through a looping, dark wood, shrouded more in fog and giant spider webs than leaves on tree branches. The whole world is dark, like color has been leeched out of everything. It's terribly dreary.
"Where are we?" she asks.
The Mad Hunter frowns at her over his shoulder. He doesn't pause in his light-footed bootfalls, though, and ducks through the break of two thorny bushes. "Figures you wouldn't know. How did you fall into Nightmareland, mortal?"
"I have a name, you know, and it isn't mortal. It's Alice Brandon," she retorts. Alice hesitates, and even before she speaks, she feels downright silly. "I followed a Playboy Bunny into a house."
He glances at her again, this time flabbergasted. "Pardon me, but did you say that you followed a playing bunny into Nightmareland?"
Alice shakes her head and this time she is the one frowning at him. "No, not a playing bunny, a Playboy Bunny. Surely you've heard of Playboy. You're a red-blooded male-"
"And that's where you would be wrong, tiny mortal."
That wasn't the Mad Hunter's voice. In fact, the Mad Hunter has stopped and sighed in a long-suffering kind of way, rolling his eyes as he turns to look at something over Alice's shoulder. She turns, too, and she isn't sure what she was expecting to find, but it certainly wasn't a floating, disembodied cat head sporting two golden eyes and a shark-tooth sharp smile.
Alice screams, like any reasonable person would, and the cat's smile spreads wider, if possible, into a faintly maniacal grin. Alice feels faint.
Impossible.
The floating head swoops closer, spinning upside down lazily as golden eyes flick to the Mad Hunter. "Mortals are so very entertaining, are they not?"
"You're scaring her."
"Mortals scare easily," the cat's head says dismissively.
The Mad Hunter rolls his eyes. "The least you could do is unshadow the rest of your body, Chess."
A sigh, and then shadows melt away around the cat's head, revealing a rotund deep purple-striped body very much still attached to its head. The revelation that the cat is a whole cat and not just the head of a cat is not as comforting as it would initially seem, because the cat regards her with an overly-interested hunger. Chills race down her spine; she feels examined in the same way that animals brought to slaughter must surely feel.
"I am the Cheshire Cat and you must be Alice. Funny," remarks the cat. "I never did think our Alice would be mortal. Hunter?"
"She's mortal, all right. Sticks out like a sore thumb these days," the Mad Hunter says evenly.
Alice manages to stop gaping like a fool. "I'm sorry, but you keep saying mortal…as if you aren't."
The Cheshire Cat titters. "That's because we're not."
The Mad Hunter looks at the woods around them grimly. "This isn't the place to be having this conversation."
The Cat doesn't seem to hear him, for he floats closer to Alice and almost gloatingly says, "In fact, our resident hunter isn't even entirely human."
"Chess," the Mad Hunter says warningly.
The Cat's smile turns sharper. "He's part vampire, you know. Bitten, but never fully turned."
Alice stumbles a step back. She'd just been attacked by a vampire, after all, and can't quite chase away the fear that comes from the revelation that her savior is also one of those fanged, evil creatures. "You're one too?" she whispers.
"I saved your life," he reminds her. "And it isn't safe out here. We need to get to shelter before night falls completely and I, for one, need a goddamn drink."
Again, the Mad Hunter marches off without waiting to see if Alice will follow - and for a good, long moment, she seriously considers not going with him. Surely it couldn't be good for her continued health to place her trust in a vampire, right? But he had saved her and so far, the Mad Hunter is the only one in this entire waking nightmare that hasn't tried to kill her or, in the case of the Cheshire Cat, scare her for the sake of scaring her.
Alice puts one foot in front of the other and follows after the Mad Hunter, the Cheshire Cat and his curious Cheshire smile hovering over her shoulder as she does.
-o-o-o-
The place the Mad Hunter takes her to might have been a house at one point, but is now a burnt-out husk, a skeleton of blackened wood slanted so violently to the side that a strong breeze could knock it over. Held together by soot and tattered window draping, the Mad Hunter's house is about as inviting as a tomb. The charred insides have at least been swept out and it has running water, but the furniture is all burnt and the scent of fire clogs up her nose the moment she steps over the brittle threshold.
She can't complain, though, because there is a roof over her head - albeit the shingles are scorched and several are missing altogether - and because she has discovered that the Mad Hunter is something of a gentleman.
"You'll catch your death in that wet dress, little darlin'," he tells her, guiding her by the elbow away from the crackling wood-burning stove in the kitchen and toward the back of the ramshackle house. There is a bathroom with a claw-foot copper tub and towels that are perhaps the only bits of fabric in the entire place that haven't been stained by fire. The Mad Hunter shows her how to work the taps, then insists she get cleaned up; the Cheshire Cat swoops into the bathroom, dropping a wad of fabric on her head, and then Alice is alone.
The mirror is cracked to high heaven, a deep impact in the center like someone had punched it and the glass has spiderwebbed into fine fractures. She wonders if that's the Mad Hunter's doing, wonders if this is his house, and if it is, what happened here? And why does he feel the need to live in a burnt-out husk?
She shakes her head at her pale reflection and the dark smudges of her makeup, carefully unbuttoning her dress and draping it across the sink, along with her undergarments, while hot water fills the tub behind her. Her skin is so thoroughly chilled that it almost hurts to sink beneath the water and she hisses in a breath, wincing as her skin flushes a hot red in response. The heat is delicious, though. She's always liked her baths unbearably hot; she also likes them with bubbles, but as far as she can tell, there isn't actually soap of any kind in the bathroom. She scrubs at her skin anyway, trying to wash off the remains of the dust and murk water clinging to her, and she tries not to think about anything else other than getting clean.
It's a method that works well enough until she finds herself slipping into a man's button-front shirt, the ivory unblemished and so long that the hem reaches her knees. She fusses with the fastenings for a while, feeling terribly awkward knowing that her bra and panties are too wet from the water to possibly put back on at the moment and knowing that at least one of the house's occupants has probably realized the same thing.
Hopefully not the cat, she prays. She just knows that the smirking creature would be a complete pervert about it and the only one she really wants commenting on her underwear or lack thereof is -
She stops the thought right in its tracks. "You don't even know this man," she scolds herself sternly. The reasoning doesn't seem to persuade her body, as her nipples tighten anyway and it certainly isn't because she's cold.
Alice eases out of the bathroom with her dress held away from her body, shoes hooked over two fingers. The house doesn't have a complex layout, so she is soon standing in the kitchen, watching The Man Hunter go about making a pot of tea. His strong fingers are deceptively gentle as he handles the gleaming china wares and he finishes what he's doing with two cups before he turns to her. Alice doesn't see the Cheshire Cat anywhere and is honestly more than a little relieved.
She doesn't miss the dark glimmer in his gaze, though he remains respectful, even as his eyes continue to dart to her exposed legs. Silently, Alice is grateful that she is so short for once, because otherwise she would certainly be showing even more skin - and she can't decide if that would be a welcome occurrence, or not. Flushing, she follows the Mad Hunter's direction to lay her clothes over the chair near the stove, and then she sits primly in the seat offered to her, ankles crossed. There is some measure of safety with a table placed between them, but Alice is so aware of the man - not a man, a half-vampire - in front of her that for the sake of modesty she keeps one arm crossed over her breasts.
The silence stretches as she sips at her tea, a strong black blend pinched with vanilla. She watches as the Mad Hunter drizzles in a thick red substance into his own cup and hears herself asking, "Is that a raspberry honey?"
A brow quirks up over bottle-green eyes. "No," he answers dryly.
"Oh," she says feebly once the realization comes. Not raspberries, but blood. For flavoring purposes, she assumes. For whatever reason, the thought isn't nearly as revolting as it should be. "How does that work? Being bitten but not turned?"
The Mad Hunter takes off his hat, shaking loose golden curls before he answers. "Things are quite different in Nightmareland. Magic has touched every inch and every person in the realm, but not all magic is created equal. The magic in a vampire's bite, for example, is nothing compared to the magic of intent. Mortal beings are far more powerful than the creatures, as you might have realized with your own experience."
Her face twists into a moue of confusion. "Are you talking about that v-vampire that tried to kill me? Because you might recall that your crossbow dusted him, not me."
"True," he concedes. "But he listened to your command first, little darlin', otherwise I wouldn't have been able to make my shot. Mortal commands and intention are the most powerful magic in Nightmareland."
Had she commanded the vampire? No, no, Alice remembers pleading for him not to hurt her and then -
And then the vampire didn't hurt her. Because she'd told it not to - because she'd commanded it not to.
Impossible.
"My God," she breathes.
The Mad Hunter smiles wryly. "Now you see."
"But what does that have to do with your being…?"
A frown slants across his face, a shadow darkening his green eyes. "When I was a boy," he begins clinically. "My parents gave holy hell to the usurper, The Red Queen, and became a target of the abominations she created, vampires and demonized animals like the ones that have attacked you. Nightmareland wasn't always as dark, Alice, and it wasn't always a nightmare, either. But in The Red Queen's quest for power, she used magic to birth aberrations and sent the foul beasts to do her bidding. Vampires attacked my family here, slaughtered my parents and siblings one by one and set fire to our home. I was spared, bitten and sent to the White Queen as a message - as a warning of what would happen to other resisters."
"That's horrible," Alice murmurs. "I'm so sorry."
The Mad Hunter shrugs. "It was a long time ago," he says shortly.
That explains why he's so mad, she realizes with a sympathetic pang.
"Still…"
"You asked why I'm just half a vampire," he reminds her. "It's because I was mortal and because between the White Queen's magic and the magic of my own will power, I was able to retain some of my humanity. I can walk in the rare daylight that graces the realm, I can survive on food and blood, and I don't feel the mind-numbing bloodlust…But I am neither man nor beast. I am just a hunter."
"Surely you have a name," she says softly. "Nobody is just their occupation -"
He stands abruptly, tea cups rattling on the table from the force of his movement and turns away from Alice. "I am a hunter and nothing more," he repeats stubbornly. And then without looking back at her, he jerks his chin in the direction of what might have once been a living room where there is a sagging couch and a moth-eaten blanket. "You can sleep in there for the night. We'll figure out what to do with you in the morning. Goodnight."
The Mad Hunter disappears to the back of the house.
And Alice swallows around the sudden tightness in her throat.
-o-o-o-
Alice wakes to hushed voices in the other room. The couch is not comfortable and the climate in Nightmareland resembles that of a tundra at night, so her sleep had been very light and disturbed. She strains her hearing to catch what the Mad Hunter and the Cheshire Cat are talking about in the kitchen and realizes with a start that they are talking about her.
"So, our Alice stopped a vampire, did she?"
"Yes," the Mad Hunter replies stiffly.
"How quickly would you say?"
A slightly aggrieved sigh. "I've never seen anything like it."
"That fast, hmm? Curiouser and curiouser," the Cheshire Cat muses. "I wonder…"
"I don't care what you're wondering, Chess. She doesn't belong here. No mortal does, anymore."
"What's this? Could it be that the unbreakable will of The Mad Hunter has begun to bend?" The Cheshire Cat's voice becomes taunting. "You want her blood, don't you? Sink your fangs into that pretty pale neck, have her life gush over your tongue -"
"Stop it. Just - stop," he says harshly. Something cracks in the kitchen, a sharp snap of wood breaking. "You know it isn't possible."
"Because not even our little Alice could stop you, could she? Even with her allegedly impressive mortal commands, you would still be the exception to the rule. Why, I bet you would simply lose control the moment our Alice spoke your name, your real name -"
The Mad Hunter slams his hands onto the counter top, something shattering under the force of the blow. The Cheshire Cat quiets for a long moment and Alice lies still, unsure of the conversation she's just overheard.
Then, the Cheshire Cat speaks again and this time his tone is oddly conciliatory. "You'll have to take her to the White Queen, you know, if you really want her to return to wherever she came from safely."
"I know," the Mad Hunter says.
He sounds - sad.
Her heart breaks for him, just a little. Alice knows a thing or two about being sad.
-o-o-o-
Alice's dress has dried stiffly overnight and a tiny part of her dies inside. Dry Clean Only is very much not just a mere suggestion. She suppresses a sigh as she pulls it on, grimacing at the squelch of her still-damp insoles and the disarray of her unstyled hair. She must look a fright, honestly, and to think she is about to meet a Queen. Her mother would be delirious with displeasure if she could see Alice now - and thank God she can't. Alice can only imagine what she'd say if she cottoned on to Alice's blooming interest in a taciturn half-vampire hunter.
Although, Alice is a bit miffed at herself. How frivolous can she possibly be? Frankly, there are more important things to concern herself with, like the conversation she overheard or how to survive in this horrid place. Lust should be at the very, very bottom of her list of priorities.
And yet.
Alice swiftly learns to stick very close to the Mad Hunter as they travel the dusky countryside that morning and that to touch anything is at her own peril. There are a myriad of creepy creatures crawling over the Nightmareland countryside and with the sky in a seemingly everlasting dusk-dark haze, the sun hiding far beyond heavy clouds, Alice quickly becomes disoriented. The Mad Hunter's pace leaves something to be desired; she can hardly keep up with his long strides, much to the entertainment of that damn cat hovering constantly over her shoulder. Alice wouldn't trade anything for it in the world, however; she doesn't think she's ever felt quite so safe in another person's presence.
Some hours of hiking later, Alice stumbles away from the serrated teeth of an ostentatiously innocent flower with a small squeak of surprise. Not even a breath later, the Mad Hunter is at her side, catching her elbow to steady her while simultaneously cutting the flower down in one brutally efficient flick of a blade. Heart racing, Alice finds herself pressed to the Mad Hunter's side, her hand slipping over his taut stomach. He stares down at her, heat building in his eyes when she licks her lips nervously, shivering beneath the cool weight of his hand pressed low on the dip of her back. She can almost imagine how his lips would feel on hers.
Above them, the Cheshire Cat chuckles darkly, and the spell is broken.
Heat rushes to Alice's cheek when the Mad Hunter clears his throat, drawing back on himself contritely. "We're almost to the White Queen's castle. She'll certainly be able to get you home."
"Oh," Alice whispers as she deflates. "Alright."
"Cheer up, little mortal," the Cheshire Cat jeers. "You don't want to bite off more than you can chew, do you? Unless you'd like him to chew on you, that is."
Both Alice and the Mad Hunter glare at him, neither of them particularly amused. It's probably for the best, though. Alice shouldn't be getting distracted, not in this dangerous place.
-o-o-o-
Alice isn't sure what she'd been expecting of the White Queen, but she certainly hadn't thought she would meet the queen when Her Highness was in the middle of snacking on what appear to be candied eyeballs. The White Queen titters in embarrassment, hand pressed delicately over a rosebud mouth, and hurries to stand, drawing Alice into a warm embrace.
The White Queen is stunning, as pristinely flawless as freshly fallen snow with long, pin-straight white hair, powder-white skin, an eyes such a pale blue they might as well be chips of ice. "It is such a deep pleasure to make your acquaintance, sweet Alice," says the queen. "Cheshire has said oh-so-many lovely things about you."
"He has?" Alice wonders.
Standing off to the side after making introductions, the Mad Hunter shoots a speculative look to the cat spinning idle circles in the air. "Never mind what Chess has gossiped," he says brusquely. "We've come to ask you a favor, my queen."
The White Queen sits back onto her opulent ivory throne, adjusting the satin of her skirts. "Name it and it shall be yours, my dear hunter."
The Mad Hunter dips his head in deference. "Alice must return to her home, if you would be so kind as to craft a portal."
The queen's lips pull down, a faint crinkle on her brow. "Oh, my," she susurrates, appearing mildly troubled. "Well, that I cannot do."
The Mad Hunter's head snaps up incredulously and Alice mirrors his surprise with a prompt exclamation of "What?"
"My queen, I have asked you for nothing in all of my years of service," the hunter says beseechingly. "Please, this realm is unsafe for an untried mortal. She must leave immediately."
The White Queen hums in regret. "Alas, it is a truth that necessity compels."
"What necessity could possibly compel you to keep a naïve mortal in this nightmarish realm?" the Mad Hunter demands, dropping all pretense of niceties.
The queen looks to the Cheshire Cat, wringing her hands together. "Your Alice is what we've been waiting for…I'm afraid I cannot allow her departure until she has fulfilled her destiny."
Impossible.
Alice gapes. "Destiny? What destiny could I possibly have in this place?"
"Why, isn't it obvious, Alice?" The Cheshire Cat floats closer, the maniacal grin stretched wide. "You're our secret weapon to finally defeating The Red Queen. Seems to me a fair exchange to help us in return for a way to your homeland, no?"
Alice sways on her feet, mouth working silently in disbelief for a beat before she finally cries, "Are you crazy?"
The Cheshire Cat's languid chuckle is ghostly. "Haven't you noticed, yet? We're all mad here."
-o-o-o-
To Alice's great dismay, the White Queen happens to own a rather large gryphon, which is a creature she had rescued from the Red Queen and tamed for her own purposes. As much as a beast of a lion's head and eagle's body and talons larger than Alice's head might be tamed, that is. She very much does not want to ride the creature and balks at the White Queen's cheerful suggestion. In the end, however, there is little choice if Alice ever wants to get home; by riding the gryphon, she can more quickly confront the Red Queen and secure a portal back home, where creatures of myth certainly do not exist.
"Just remember to be firm in your commands, Alice," says the queen with simple confidence. "Firmness is always key."
The Cheshire Cat grins in agreement. "Especially when dealing with that harpy," he says, then pauses. "I do mean that literally. The Red Queen is a harpy. You'll understand when you hear how dreadfully shrill her voice is."
Alice nods mutely, quietly tramping down the panic building inside her chest. What is she thinking, agreeing to this - this political coup? Honestly! Alice isn't a weapon to be used in a war that isn't even hers. She's going to be a fashion major, for goodness sake!
Still, she glances nervously between the gryphon and the White Queen. "You promise you'll get me home if I do this?"
The White Queen bows her head solemnly. "On my honor, darling Alice. And…do mind your head."
Alice mounts the gryphon gingerly, slipping too far forward in the leather saddle strapped to the beast's back. Its slit amber eyes blink at her in a feline manner before it stretches, flexing massive wings and whipping a tufted tail.
It is something of a balm that the Mad Hunter has volunteered himself to aid Alice in her task. Or insisted, more like it. He sits behind her, chest snug to her back as he takes the reins attached to the bit in the gryphon's mouth. She desperately hopes that he does not notice the way she trembles in the safe haven of his arms, or at least hopes that he assumes she has a fear of heights.
"I'll make sure we return in one piece," the Mad Hunter says reassuringly.
Well, Alice certainly expects he can put his money where his mouth is!
They set off to the Red Queen's castle astride the gryphon, taking to the chilly air and gliding over the craggy landscape of Nightmareland. The view from above is shocking. She imagines that the barren, withering lands are somewhat similar to what the earth would look like post nuclear bomb, and as she understands it, all of this devastation was caused by a single power-hungry politician. By the time the Red Queen's massive castle looms on the horizon and the gryphon lands deep in a rotting forest, Alice's stomach is churning in unease.
She isn't sure she can do what's expected of her - she doesn't even really understand why everyone else seems so convinced that Alice is in possession of some truly magic words.
It is stunningly void of light in the forest, a darkness that siphons away all light. The Mad Hunter seems able to see well enough and keeps Alice's fingers tangled with his, guiding them both over the decimated ground beneath the heavy canopy after they leave the gryphon behind. She trusts that he knows what he's doing, because she's half-blind and more than a little scared.
"We'll have to finish our travel in the morning," he announces after some time. He stops beside a wide trunk of a toppled tree, easing Alice down beside him as he sits. "Careful," he warns. "Stay close. This forest is twice as bad as mine."
"I will," she whispers, leaning her shoulder against his arm. Her stomach growls then, quite loudly in fact.
There is a rustling sound as he rifles through the pockets of his long coat, eventually pulling out rations of a baked pumpkin seed bread, which he passes to her wordlessly. She thanks him, aware that he doesn't eat any for himself, so he must have taken these with her in mind. A warm rush of pleasure follows that thought and she hides her pleased smile with another bite of the bread.
"You shouldn't feel obligated to do this," he says abruptly.
Alice blinks at the vague outline of his body. "How else will I get home?"
"We could find another way. There are less risky options."
"I don't know…"
And she doesn't have a chance to think it over, either, because the next moment, the forest is flooded with firelight over their heads, wielded by a bear of a vampire with tacky blood staining the corners of his mouth. "Well, well, well," growls the vampire. "What is this? A mortal and a half-breed irritant?"
The Mad Hunter reacts instantaneously, darting up with shocking speed and ramming his shoulder into the stomach of the burly vampire. Alice is frozen, scared stiff as she watches them grapple with each other, vicious blows traded back and forth. The Mad Hunter holds his own very well, despite being more lithe than his opponent, fighting with much more finesse, all deadly grace to the other vampire's lumbering, ham-fisted force. It's only when the Mad Hunter is thrown through the air, twisting and colliding with a tree with a sickening crack, that Alice finds her voice.
"Hey! Stop-"
Alice chokes on air, hands flying to her throat where suddenly there is pressure enough that she can scarcely breathe. Her eyes bulge, flying wildly about because it feels like a hand is squeezing over her windpipe - but there is no hand to be found. And the Mad Hunter isn't moving. She prays he's just knocked out cold and not dead, but there isn't any way to checking.
"Oh, what a shame," says a silky feminine voice. From the shadows, a blonde woman slinks toward the burly vampire, pouting theatrically as the vampire cracks his knuckles, her head on his shoulder. "Look, baby. The witch has the little bitch's tongue."
The vampire chuckles sinisterly.
The witch looks at Alice down her nose. "Can't have that pesky mortal tongue causing problems, can we?" she wonders facetiously. "Not until you meet our Queen, at least."
And then the witch snaps her fingers and Alice knows no more.
-o-o-o-
She wakes up in a dungeon, horrendously sore from her hair all the way down to her toes, head aching something fierce and mouth dry as a bone. There is a copper taste at the back of her throat that makes her gag, stomach turning somersaults of nausea.
"Sit up slow," instructs a familiar voice. "Easy now, little darlin'. Black magic like that'll make you ill."
Relief rocks through her. "You're alive," she breathes, sitting up on her hip and looking at the Mad Hunter, who is sprawled lazily next to her. Their shared cell is rather cramped for two people, especially when one is so tall, so as Alice adjusts into a comfortable position, she ends up sitting next to him pressed together from shoulder to thigh.
"'Course I am," he says. "I'm harder to kill than anyone would like to think, myself included. And I wouldn't just leave you to face this alone, Alice."
The Mad Hunter looks only slightly banged up by his tussle with the other vampire. Definitely not permanently injured by any stretch of the imagination, thank heaven. His hat is missing, though, and so is his long coat - and probably all the weapons he had on his person, too. The situation seems pretty bleak.
"Earlier…I should have done something." Alice flushes in mortification. "All of you must have made some mistake. I'm not the one you're looking for. I'm not enough for this. Nobody has ever listened to me."
The Mad Hunter's hand folds over hers and she glances up, taking in the sincerity of his expression. "For what it's worth, darlin', I believe in you."
Maybe it's because it seems like her awful final moments are coming to a close, but Alice is inclined to follow her impulses - just this once.
"What is you real name?" she asks. "Who were you before you became the Mad Hunter?"
His green eyes are grave, his voice velvet soft, when he answers. "Jasper."
"Jasper," she murmurs, testing the weight of his name on her tongue. She likes the way it forms on her lips and she thinks he likes it, too, because he's staring at her with blazing intensity, breathing deeply, as if holding himself back by a fine tether. He might even like the sound of his name too much, judging by the way his pupils expand in the dim light, telegraphing his excitement. Alice licks her lips, heat crawling along her spine as she continues. "Jasper…What did Cheshire mean when he said you were the exception to the rule?"
His mouth presses into a displeased line. "You heard that." He sighs heavily. "It's a quirk of being half-vampire. I'm just mortal enough that mortal commands don't work on the monster in me. Nobody can tell me to do anything I don't want to do."
"So if you bit me, I wouldn't be able to stop you," she clarifies.
He shakes his head. "Little darlin', don't talk about it. Even talkin' about it is too much of a temptation."
"Maybe I want to tempt you," she says.
Because if Alice is going to die in Nightmareland, she doesn't want to die without kissing him.
And that is exactly what she does, reaching a hand around the nape of his neck and pulling him close. He tastes of honey and cinnamon, his musky male scent filling her head as their lips slide together. She gasps when one of his fangs scrapes against her bottom lip and he groans as he is granted entrance to her mouth, his large, cool hands closing around her hips and dragging her to straddle his lap. Alice's fingers slide into his curly hair, grasping him closer and mewling when his palms slip down her back to learn the curve of her backside. Their kiss is a greedy one, full of promise and passion and so much electricity that she is dizzy with it.
Breathless, she draws back, humming in content when his mouth latches onto the skin beneath the hinge of her jaw. Every touch from his is proprietary, as if he has every right to her body - and she grants him this, feeling the molten heat swirling at the base of her spine and lower. He sucks and nips at her skin, drawing blood to the surface with a growl; and while one hand remains on her bottom, guiding her mindless writhing against his covered cock into a smoothly gliding rhythm, the other skims up her back, around her ribs, and to her breast.
"So many damn buttons," he mutters, and she laughs airily before he claims her lips again, pinching at her nipple through the cloth of her dress.
Alice undulates on his lap, a sticky wetness pooling in her panties. It isn't enough - she needs more of him, more skin, more access. Almost without thought, she starts pulling at his shirt, jerking it away from his chest gracelessly. It's enough of a hint, enough of a consent, that he pulls back and settles her on her back, staring at her hungrily, and pupils blown black. He divests himself of his shirt, then reaches beneath her dress to hook his fingers around her panties, ripping them clean off in one deft movement. The heel of his palm is rocking against her clit even as he lowers himself to hover over her, sucking at her breasts through fabric, rutting his hard cock against her hip.
"You smells so good, darlin'," he growls, pressing his nose to the crook of her neck. She should feel scared that there are fangs scraping against her skin, but the sensation is erotic and dangerous. Alice is lost to the lust when he sinks his two fingers into her soaked core, swiftly followed by his fangs in her neck.
Alice's thighs clamp together, holding his hand in place as her back arches in a bone-melting orgasm, made all the more intense by the way he mouths at her neck, lapping at spilled blood with a satisfied snarl.
Then Jasper is rising over her with her blood staining his lips, spreading her knees around his hips, flipping the hem of her dress up so he can admire the flushed swell of her slick core - and the way her body so readily accepts the delicious length of him. For the second time that day, Alice can't breathe; it's like his cock is pushing out every bit of oxygen, every thought in her head. She flutters around him, euphoric at the way he grinds the last bit of himself in, stuttering his hips to create the barest of strokes. It's a relentless sort of love making, with Alice helpless to do anything but try to keep up with the way he plays her body so expertly.
He bites her again when he finds his release.
Alice strokes her hand down his sweat-slicked back, closing her eyes as he presses a kiss over her heart. "I'm going to get us out of this," he promises. "And then I'll get you home."
She bites her lip. Alice isn't sure she wants to go home at all.
Not if she has to leave Jasper behind.
-o-o-o-
The burly vampire from before is the one who retrieves them from the dungeon and he leers at the lingering, thick scent of sex in the air. Jasper growls warningly, keeping Alice behind him, and much to her relief, the other vampire merely ushers them through the stone hallways. He takes them to a wide room filled to the brim of milling courtiers, all of them twisted with grotesque inhuman features and dressed in various shades of blood red.
The Red Queen is sitting on her throne, a tumble of wild flame-hued curls draped artlessly over her shoulders. She is sharp-featured with more than a hint of menace in her coal-black eyes. Her golden crown sits crookedly on her head, probably just as tarnished as her mind. She smiles sweetly when the burly vampire shoves Alice and Jasper forward. "I see the false queen has sent me a present," she observes saccharinely, stroking a trembling hedgehog perched on her knee. "Tell me, why would she bother sending such useless assassins? I've been told one of you can't even speak. Is it you, girl?"
"I am perfectly capable of talking." Alice forces the words out with every muster of courage packed into her tiny frame.
The Red Queen crows in shrill delight. "Oh-ho! So you do have a spine!" Then the delight melts right off her face, a sneer curling at her lip. "Too bad I have no use for rebellious things. Kill them both."
"No!" Alice cries.
The Red Queen pauses for only a moment, narrowing her eyes dangerously. "The halfbreed first," she decides maliciously and the burly vampire lunges at Jasper, drawing him into a chokehold while Jasper twists and scratches futilely. The Red Queen bares her teeth savagely as she demands, "Off with his head!"
"No!" Alice screams, voice cracking painfully at her screeching protest. She barely even notices that the entire room has stopped, frozen in place, or that Jasper has taken the opportunity to successfully slip out of the other's vampire's deadly embrace. Alice only has eyes for the Red Queen as she imperiously and loudly unveils her command, a protective surge clenching her heart in a tight fist.
"Off with your head!" she yells to the Red Queen -
And in one appallingly graphic moment, the queen's head rolls right off her neck as if skull and spinal cord are separated by an invisible guillotine, spattering anyone close enough with the black ichor that made the evil tyrant's blood. The head bounces down the single step separating the dais from the lower floor, the still-gaping mouth spread in a silent command, the black eyes bulging and frozen in rage. Red hair brushes against Alice's shoe and she gags, dancing back a step with a quiet eep of distress.
Her stomach rolls and she turns away from the macabre sight, only to lay eyes on an even stranger vision. Alice stares as the courtiers make an odd shuffling noise and then collapse against each other, skin leafing into playing cards, each of them revealing a mark of red hearts as they flutter to the floor –
She looks at Jasper in panic, profoundly relieved that her mad hunter is unharmed by whatever magic is at play here. A wave of dizziness washes over her. She lists to the side, feeling incredibly lightheaded. Jasper reaches for her, lunging forward in a bid to catch her before she can crash down onto the card-covered floors -
And then -
-o-o-o-
And then Alice flutters her eyes open, wincing at the awful pain lancing across her skull. "Very ouch," she whimpers when something cold presses against her head. The very first thing she sees is the carved pumpkin on the porch, three-pronged smile happily in place, and she blinks in confusion.
What happened? Hadn't she been…? No, surely not. That would be impossible. Even if Daddy is – was – always encouraging Alice to believe in impossible things, there are definitely limits to what she is expected to believe. Right?
She must have hit her head very, very hard to have such a vivid hallucination.
Alice expels a pained breath and shifts, feeling the very beginnings of bruises on her body – but she is halted by a steadying hand on her shoulder. A wide, warm palm that guides her into a seated position all while gently holding ice against the lump on her skull.
"Careful, darlin'," a familiar voice warns. "You took a nasty spill there. Might've been my fault, actually. You feelin' okay?"
Alice gasps. No way.
She focuses her attention in the unsteady light filtering from the strobe lights in the house onto the front lawn and nearly recoils in shock. Alice stares up at bottle-green eyes dumbly, her mouth dropping open in shock at seeing him dressed as a Confederate soldier. Her cheeks burn in embarrassment.
He looks incredibly apologetic and more than a little guilty.
Alice doesn't care a whit. She speaks without thinking, breathing out a surprised question. "Jasper?"
"Yeah," he says, mouth twisting with bemusement. "How did you know?"
Alice studies the way his curling hair falls just so, re-familiarizing herself with the sharp angle of his jaw, his once-broken nose, the bow curve of his generous mouth, and feels a bubble of foreign delight in her chest. She smiles, for perhaps the first time since Daddy's funeral.
"This is impossible," she whispers, sitting up enough that the ice falls away from her head.
Jasper doesn't lean back when she presses forward into his personal space, but he does frown worriedly at her. She understands; she's acting very strangely, like someone with a head injury, which isn't at all surprising considering she probably does have a concussion. Alice thinks it's sweet of him to be so concerned for a stranger.
Sweet, but unnecessary.
"Really, darlin', maybe we should get you to a hospital -"
"Oh, Jasper."
His expression turns quizzical.
Alice kisses him soundly, memorizing the feel of his wonderfully warm lips sliding against her own, the slightly rough stubble scratching against her skin. Alice pulls back long after his friends begin hooting in the background, jeering a bit drunkenly at what Alice will later lament is quite a wanton display. Maybe even something her mother would term as tawdry.
As if Alice cares what her mother thinks. Or her aunt. Why, if they weren't going to listen to her, then she would just have to take matters into her own hands – that much she'd learned from the foray into her lucid little nightmare.
She smiles at his dazed expression. "I must be mad, bonkers, completely off my head," she tells him. "Really, I should have at least told you my name before I kissed you."
"I don't mind. Feel free to kiss me again," Jasper laughs, ducking his head down with reddened ears. "And if it helps, I'll tell you a secret: all the best people are."
END