Malice in Wonderland (16 page)

"You surprise me, Sweet," he said at last.

"Why is that?" I answered with a yawn, double checking my breasts to make sure the straps, which amounted to Band-Aids, basically, were still in place. They were. Phew.

"This is the first you've seen my house and yet you have not commented?"

I cocked my head to the side as I digested his comment. Yes, this was the first I'd seen of his home. I'd always understood that he'd lived in the building that housed No Regrets, but learning he'd bought a house wasn't exactly thrilling news. "It's a moot point anyway," I started, shrugging.

"And why is that?"

"Because whether or not you have a house doesn't concern or interest me. It's where this house is located that I might find even mildly interesting. The moot point is that I doubt you'll tell me our whereabouts?"

Bram laughed. "You do know me well and, no, I will not divulge such information."

"Then I'll save my comments for another day."

He eyed me as he tapped his manicured fingernails against the mahogany table. "It is for your own good, Sweet. Your leader chose to station you here for a reason, privacy and safety being her foremost concern."

"I understand," I said simply.

Bram eyed me for a few more seconds before he stopped drumming his fingernails against the table top. "In other news, I am working on a painting of you as we speak."

"What?" I barked. "What the hell are you talking about?
You
are painting a picture of me?!"

"No, I am not the artist," he said and shrugged. "Although I am commissioning the painting so I choose to refer to it as my own."

"Okay, all of that is beside the point. The better question is why you're commissioning a painting of me?"

"I choose to surround myself with objects of beauty, hence that incredible painting." Then he glanced up at the Bram-Dragon canvas again, as if worried it had melted into the wall. He turned to face me again and smiled widely.
"You, my dear Sweet, are the most beautiful woman I have the fortune of knowing, so naturally I should want to memorize your understated loveliness by way of oil."

"Did it ever occur to you to ask my permission first?" I asked, somewhat put out as I tried to imagine a portrait of me hanging in Bram's home. It definitely wasn't an idea that thrilled me by any stretch of the imagination.

"I do not care for permissions, Sweet," Bram said and then raised his eyebrows loftily. "I have hired the best oil artists from France to do your honors, my sweet, and I am told the masterpiece known as the 'Fairy Law' will be finished shortly. We shall have an unveiling party, if you would oblige me."

As long as it would take care of another of the outstanding dates I still owed him, sure, I was game for anything. And as to insisting Bram divorce himself from the undertaking of the "Fairy Law," that was another moot point because as far as I knew, there weren't any laws disabling people from painting other people. Damn it to Hades.

"So moving onto more important subjects," I started, but Bram interrupted me by shaking his head and ... pouting.

"Sweet, you wound me."

"Here we go again," I grumbled, mostly to myself. "What
did I do
now?"

Bram glanced behind his shoulder at the atrocity known as the dragon slayer. "Are you not even in the least bit curious
as to the story behind the
painting, my dear?"

I took a deep breath, feeling exhausted all the way down to my toes, but by the same token, I had to admit that somewhere inside me I was interested in the story that had born the hideous painting—at least a little bit. "Okay, shoot."

He shook his head. "No, if you are uninterested in the particulars, I do not care to brow beat you into listening."

I shook my head, tired of playing Bram's idiotic games. "Stop acting like a five-year-old taking your ball from the sandbox and tell me the story ... please," I added. "I would love to know, really, I would."

Then he beamed like a child on Christmas morning and turned his chair to the side so he could take turns gazing at me and then at the painting. "It was the latter part of the eighteenth century in England. And plaguing the countryside of the village in which I lived, was a band of murderers, thieves, and rapists," he started.

"This wa
s in London?" I asked
,
trying to seem actively involved even as I doubted London could be referred to as a "village" even in the eighteenth century.

"Just outside of London, Sweet.
At any rate, I disposed of this band of troublemakers a
nd
I am quite certain you can imagine how," then he winked at me like it was a big secret, but his fangs were fully lengthened as if to offer a very obvious hint. "Needless to say, I was considered to be quite the hero among my kinsfolk and to show their gratitude, the townspeople hired the most famed portraitist of the time to paint the masterpiece you see before you."

I didn't say anything for a few seconds because I wasn't sure if that was the end of Bram's story or not. Once the discovery that it was the end of the story dawned on me, I couldn't help frowning. "That's it?" I blurted out. "That is the worst story ever! You completely forgot the part about why you're wearing armor and, hello, what about the dragon?"

Bram shook his head and sighed as if he were agitated. "The dragon and the armor were merely symbolism, my sweet. Both were symbolic of the fact that I possessed the fierce determination and courage of a dragon slayer, that I
rid
my village of a threat no less than a dragon, himself."

I didn't say anything else because I really didn't know what to say. I mean, not only was the painting ridiculous in every aspect of the word but, more so, it was a complete sham. I'd thought I'd at least get a hilarious dragon story out of it, but nope. "That's great," I said simply.

Bram didn't say anything else but clapped his hands together and the goblin reappeared within seconds. I figured he'd been waiting just behind the double doors. The man was short—maybe five foot six and solidly built. He wasn't handsome but nor was he unattractive—just had a bland sort of nothingness about his face. He was someone you wouldn't remember.

"What do you care to dine on this evening, my sweet?" Bram asked and offered me a sugar-coated grin that revealed the very tips of his fangs. 

"What's on the menu?"

Bram shook his head. "There is no menu. Whatever you desire is at your disposal."

Talk about being put on the spot. I wracked my overwhelmed brain but nothing seemed to come forward. Finally I just settled for a filet of salmon and a Caesar salad. Not exactly a culinary delight, but I was too tired to come up with anything fancier.

"Very well," Bram said and then eyed the goblin who very quickly retired through the double doors again. "So you find yourself under my roof, my sweet," Bram said and eyed me speculatively.

"Don't get any ideas," I reminded him again to which he just laughed heartily.

"I have been getting ideas, as you call them, about you from the moment I first laid eyes on you in your tight, little ANC uniform." He grew quiet then as if he were stuck in his memories. "How long ago was that, my sweet?"

"Too long," I answered and took a big gulp of water once the goblin returned with a large jug of ice water with lemons
and poured me a glass
.

"At any rate, you and I have been friends many years, my dear."

"Are we friends, Bram?" I asked, suddenly wondering where this conversation was headed. And, really, that was the ultimate question.
Were we friends?
I'd always considered Bram an acquaintance, definitely, but our relationship had never firmly traveled to the land of friendship mainly because Bram also maintained ties with the less savory members of Splendor society.

"I have always given you the unpleasant details of those who live and work in the
Underground
, have I not?"

I nodded. "Yes, you have, but sometimes I wonder if it's because you prescribe to the idea of keeping your enemies closer than your friends."

Bram eyed me suspiciously almost.
"Very advantageous words to live by."

I smiled, suddenly feeling fuel behind my fire. One thing I could say for Bram was that I could always speak my mind with him. "Why do you insist on playing the middle ground, Bram?"

"Middle ground?" he repeated, feigning ignorance, but I was more than aware that he was simply buying time. Bram didn't care for conversations such as these because he didn't like demonstrations of the errors of his ways, as most narcissists don't.

"Yes, you walk a tight line between doing
good
and doing not so good." I took a breath. "I always find myself wondering if and when you will ever cross over and if you
do,
which way you'll cross."

Bram laughed and started drumming his fingers against the table again as I wondered if maybe he was nervous. "I am a businessman, first and foremost, Sweet. And as all good businessmen do, I hold my cards very close to my chest."

I nodded but I wasn't placated. "There will come a day, Bram, and that day is coming closer and closer, where you'll have to take a side."

"Against your father?"

I nodded. "The margins are slimming. You're either with us or against us."

Bram smiled more widely. "Is not your sitting at my table an example of where my sympathies lie?"

I smiled just as broadly. "It wouldn't surprise me to know you harbored Loyalists in the very next room. That's the thing about you, Bram, you're unpredictable."

"That I am, my dear," he said, eyeing me pointedly. "But is unpredictability not the very measure of mystery and is mystery not the very measure of intrigue?"

I leaned forward. "I don't want to mince words here, Bram, but your tightrope walking days are going to come to an end ... very soon."

He just watched me, appearing amused. "Then I daresay it will be an interesting moment when you learn which side I shall choose, will it not?"

I leaned back into my chair and nodded.
"As long as you choose correctly, Bram."