Lost in Wonderland
The Twisted and the Brave #1
Nicky Peacock
Evernight Teen Publishing, 31k words
Suspense, Paranormal, Urban Fantasy, Horror
Monsters,
serial killers, and imaginary friends—
being a Wonderlander can be murder...
being a Wonderlander can be murder...
Once upon a time,
Kayla was lost. Then she found Wonderland, but not the one you know. Run by ex-government
agents and funded by an eccentric Silicon Valley billionaire, this Wonderland
is the name of a collective of highly trained vigilantes who hunt serial
killers. Now Kayla, aka Mouse, works tirelessly alongside her fellow
Wonderlanders, Rabbit and Cheshire, baiting dangerous murderers. But even
her extensive training hasn’t prepared her for the return of her older brother…
Shilo has spent most of his life in an insane
asylum, convinced his mother was abducted by a sinister Alaskan monster who lures
the lost away to feast upon their flesh. And now he’s certain that his sister
is in the same monster’s crosshairs. But if Shilo is going to save what’s left
of his family, he’ll have to convince his sister that maybe, just maybe, we’re
all a little mad.
Buy Links:
Evernight
Teen Amazon B&N
14+ due to violence and adult situations
Excerpt:
Before I can scream, he stuffs me in
his trunk. It is dark, smelly, and contains an empty plain black plastic bag
and a dirty shovel; these are not good signs. I put my hands to the top of the
trunk and push. It is locked. I wasn’t getting out till he wanted me to. I
resign myself to curl into a ball, the acidic-smelling sweat of his palms still
imprinted on my bare, narrow shoulders. I should be listening out for the car
engine, hearing when it slows for corners or revs on open roads. I should be
testing the resilience of all the sides of the black space around me. I should
be doing all the things they tell you to do, but I don’t. I simply stay in my
little ball, quiet and patient.
The car bounces up and down and I
realize we’re not on the main road anymore. He’s taking me somewhere remote…
We come to a soft stop. The slam of a
car door shivers through the metal of the vehicle. I know what is going to
happen. It’s so inevitable that it’s almost laughable. Death comes to everyone
at some point; what is that saying, “No one can avoid death and taxes.” Funny
the things you remember when you’re in danger. I suppose your brain tries to
distract you with all sorts of useless crap, anything to keep you from shutting
down and freaking the hell out. I grab at my forearm, an almost robotic
reaction, feeling down it to check that my tracking chip is still there. The
hard edges beneath my skin make me smile. My small, metallic friend never lets
me down, never abandons me.
The lid to my dark place is pulled up
and I see him. His face is blank. There’s no hint of emotion or even intent
other than what can be derived through his actions. His hands are sturdy as he
pulls me from the trunk and stands me up before him. Being barely five feet
tall, I only stand to his chest. I look down to the ground between us and see
the cheapest sneakers in the world, ones probably made by enslaved third-world
children. Man this guy is pure evil.
“Don’t worry, girl.” He puts a hand
on my cheek and graces me with a twitchy smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. The
hand lingers longer than usual polite social circles would allow. My eyes
widen. I know that I am one of many girls he has brought here—one of the many
that he planned to rape and strangle, then leave used and vacant by the side of
the road, a hollow tangle of floppy limbs. How do I know this? Because I know
him. I was looking for him. I’m not who, and what, he thinks I am. I’m not a
fourteen-year-old girl, scared by the death sentence before her. No, I am
something else entirely.
I smack his palm from my cheek and
use the momentum to reach over with my other hand to grab his wrist. I position
myself in front of him and use his own body weight to pull him down and over my
now bent back. He hits the ground so hard he cries out. I keep hold of his arm
and twist it around and under. He moves his body, angling it in the same
direction in an attempt to ease the tension I’m creating.
“Stop!” he yells, those crappy
sneakers frantically pumping to find enough purchase to get him to his feet.
I push harder till I hear the bone
snap. He screams, but thanks to the remote location he has taken us to, no one
hears him. I let go of his wrist and turn to retrieve the shovel from the
trunk. I take a minute to loom over him. He is trying to get up, but the weight
and pain of his broken arm is putting him off-balance. Funny how fragile the
human body actually is, even one that belongs to a sick serial killer.
I raise the shovel and smack it over
his knees. He howls and tries to shield himself with his good arm. An arm that
is not intact for long, as I turn the shovel and this time use the edge to dig
into his flesh. Blood pools on the ground and he begins to crawl. I’m not sure
where he’s trying to go. I think his goal is just to get away from me. I walk
the few steps to where he’s managed to drag himself to then bring my weapon
down hard onto his skull. The splintering sound of bone meeting metal is my cue
to get on with the operation. I pull my cell phone from my pink sparkle-covered
jeans and dial the only number on it. An automated message greets me. “Off with
their heads.” I take a breath and look over at the mangled mess of the serial
killer they knew as the Doll Maker. “Here, here,” I say. The call rings off and
I know that I have to make my exit now. They will come and clean up the mess.
No one will ever know that the Doll Maker was an accountant with really bad
shoes, and I mean really bad. It’s not till they’d stopped moving that I see
peeling luminous go-faster stripes adorning their sides. Yeesh. The blood
splatter does little to hide their ugliness.
I stoop and check for a pulse,
finding none. His skin is already clammy and I could swear slightly rubbery,
but in truth it is probably just my imagination.
I throw down the shovel and begin the
trek back to civilization. The night air is bitter and cruel, so I pull up my
lilac hood against it. An unmarked black car zooms past me. They were quick
tonight. I rub my hand up my forearm and feel the comfort of my chip. My chip
is a constant friend, albeit a chatty one; they will always be able to find me,
know where I am, where I’ve been. Not that I’m complaining. I was lost once,
when I was very little. And although that fear bubbles in my mind every day, I
beat it back with my chip. I’ll never be lost again; or at least that is what
my adoptive parents tell me. Wonderland doesn’t lose its operatives.
About
the Author:
Nicky is a published author of both YA and
adult urban fantasy, paranormal romance and horror fiction. She lives in the
heart of the UK, where she has run a writers' group for over 4 years to help
new writers find their feet on the path to publication. A member of both the
Society of Authors and the British Fantasy Society, Nicky has had over 30
stories published in various anthologies. She loves to talk to readers, so
please feel free to either get in touch with her through her blog, or on any of
the social media below.
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