The thimble that had stilled on my breasts retreated, but his masterly hand patted my head. I opened my eyes to see black eyes watching me, only a sliver of gray coating their edges. “Good Dolly.”
I smiled. I had pleased my Rabbit.
I caught my breath as Rabbit pulled the car back onto the road. It wasn’t long before we made a right turn to travel down a dirt road. Rabbit stopped at an old wooden house and tucked the car out of sight. Bushes hid us, just like with the Caterpillar. I turned to Rabbit, about to speak, but he held his hand in the air. I slammed my mouth shut and looked through the gap in the bushes. A man came out of the wooden home.
My eyes narrowed—the Cheshire Cat.
Rabbit’s gaze followed him as he walked to a barn at the back of his property. Rabbit reached for his cane and flicked the trigger of his rabbit’s head over and over. The Cheshire Cat disappeared into the barn.
The air thickened around us. “Rabbit?”
“He’s mine,” he hissed, glaring me into submission.
I nodded dutifully. “Yes, Rabbit.”
So vicious a veil of darkness descended over Rabbit’s face that I waited a long second before exiting the car. Rabbit never took his eyes from that barn.
Then we were moving.
I followed Rabbit, Alice in hand, gun tucked into my waist belt, blade in my right hand. As Rabbit picked up speed, so did I.
Then we were at the doors of the barn.
Rabbit stopped. I watched his back as it froze, solid and tense. He rolled his neck from side to side. It cracked, the crunching sound ricocheting off the walls of the wooden barn.
Rabbit split his cane in two, one weapon in each hand. I stayed behind, waiting for him to lead the way. My heart swelled with anticipation.
Rabbit lunged forward and slid the barn doors open. He charged in. I followed behind. But all that greeted us was . . . an empty barn.
Rabbit’s head whipped from side to side. I felt the rage pulsing off him in waves. I scoured the barn, but there was nothing. Rabbit took off, searching the walls. I did too. Then he stopped. I ran to where he crouched and looked down at a door in the floor.
“Another rabbit hole?” I whispered.
Rabbit glanced up at me through his fallen hair. “Not a good one,” he said, and then paused. “Or maybe it is . . .” He smiled a dangerous smile. “It depends. If ripping someone apart can be classed as good . . .”
I smiled, turning my lipstick-painted frown upside down.
“It’s good,” I replied. “Really, very, very good.” I bent down. “Maybe even as good as a strawberry tart.”
Rabbit glanced down, and the smile fell from his lips. He quietly lifted the heavy wood and climbed down the ladder underneath. I followed, my palms twitching as the call for blood lured us further down.
When we reached the bottom, a sliver of light shone from the end of a narrow hallway. Rabbit placed his finger over his lips. “Shh,” he whispered. I nodded obediently. My pulse was aflame as I followed Rabbit further down the hole.
Suddenly Rabbit stopped. An ice-cold feeling shot down my spine when I heard a familiar sound seeping from the room at the end of the hallway. My eyes slammed shut.
Echoes of Ellis’s tales of the bad men came back to taunt me . . .
He would take me by my hand and lead me to his room. I would be forced to stand before a bed, Dolly. He would turn me around and touch me between my legs. He would play with me, Dolly . . . and then he would put himself inside me. And I would scream . . . I would scream and scream and scream . . . and I’d want Heathan. I would cry and scream for Heathan . . . over and over and over again . . . but he never stopped . . .
I shook my head, body shivering, as I blinked myself back into the hallway. I was sweating, Ellis’s story making me feel sick . . . making me feel rage . . . making me feel . . . There! That sound. The sound coming from the room . . . it was the same. It sounded the same as Ellis had described, it was—
Rabbit roared and ran forward. He burst into the room. With a shrill cry, I followed. A bare lightbulb hanging above bathed us in brightness as we took in the scene.
The Cheshire Cat . . . the Cheshire Cat over . . . a boy. My body vibrated with rage as I saw a boy, no more than ten, bending over a dirty old cot at the side of the room. His dark, sunken eyes snapped around and fixed on mine.