Lost in Wonderland

By Nicky Peacock

Monsters, serial killers, and imaginary friends—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.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight Teen
• Release date: Apr 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781772338119

Book preview

Prologue

He knew she’d be fighting, desperate to get back to them, gripping on to every dangling branch in the forest, wriggling from the monster’s grip. His mother would battle to find her way back home.

Shilo’s hand was cold around his little sister’s fingers. He could barely feel her slim digits enclosed in his. They were running, their small legs pumping against the frozen ground. Kayla was breathing heavily, sobs lacing each strangled exhale. She cried out to him, but he didn’t stop their momentum. He couldn’t. Their mom was in trouble, and although he had no concrete plan as to how they could save her from the deadly Kushtaka, all he could concentrate on was catching up with them; the plan would have to come when he was face-to-face with the six-foot beast covered in dirty fur and sporting sharp talons.

Shilo! shouted Kayla. She was weighing him down, slowing him down. Not for the first time in his life, he hated her existence.

Please! she yelled.

He didn’t turn around. He kept moving. It was only after another thirty minutes of frantic running that he realized his sister was no longer holding his hand.

Chapter One

Mouse

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.

Chapter Two

Shilo

He wants to be a good boy, so he quickly swallows his pills and sticks out his tongue at the nurse. She smiles like a puppet before turning back to her cart, their brief interaction done for the day. He watches her go, then drinks down all the water from his cup. The tablets are chalky and leave a sour taste in his mouth, but if he doesn’t take them, he won’t get better. Or at least that is what they tell him.

Shilo?

He turns to his friend, Mr. Custard. Did you see? Shilo asks. I took all four pills in one gulp.

You’re a big boy now, almost twenty-one. I’d expect nothing less. Mr. Custard puts an excited two thumbs up.

Is our program on yet?

In a moment. I believe that we must sit through more of that man and his incessant waffle first. He points at the hospital’s television, which sits neatly behind a wire cage. No one is free in a hospital like this, not even the people on the TV.

The man on the screen has a chat show and is interviewing a personality-impaired actress. She has impossibly large breasts that stay motionless as she moves to expose more leg to the camera.

For a moment, Shilo is transfixed by the two solid pieces of flesh. How they seem to wear her, not the other way around, the way he knows that they should.

Why do women do that to themselves? Mr. Custard muses.

Maybe she wanted friends. Maybe she was lonely?

Yes, maybe she was lonely. Mr. Custard smiles at Shilo.

Although, perhaps she should have bought a dog. Shilo laughs hard and a piece of