Down the Rabbit Hole
J. D. Robb, Mary Blayney, Mary Kay McComas, Elaine Fox, R. C. Ryan
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Some of your favorite New York Times bestselling authors present five all-new stories told through the looking glass—including a new Eve Dallas novella!
You’re late for a very important date...
Enter a wonderland of mesmerizing tales. It’s a place that’s neither here nor there, where things are never quite as they seem. Inspired by Lewis Carroll’s whimsical masterpiece, ranging from the impossible to the mad to the curiouser, these stories will have you absolutely off your head.
Don’t be afraid to follow them…
DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE
as a white rabbit or mad hatter?” “If you say so. I’ll drive,” she said when they reached the garage. “You don’t know the story?” he asked her. Her childhood hadn’t been prone to bedtime stories. Then again, she thought, neither had Roarke’s. “Some kid falls down a rabbit hole, which makes no sense because rabbits are a lot smaller than kids. Weird stuff happens.” “It’s considerably more entertaining than that. Though it was written as a children’s story, it has fascinating symbolism,
where I was born and raised, and I have been responsible for it ever since. I have not always been in control of it, but I have always been responsible for it. But that is another story entirely.” Weston rolled his eyes. If he was not mad, then this man must be. “Listen, please, my lord.” He turned and bowed to Alice. “And you too, miss.” “How do you do, Mr. Arbuckle. I am Miss Kemp. It appears I have been kidnapped and have no choice but to listen to your fantastical story. Luckily, I have
see the proof. “I cannot go out in public wearing this!” Alice had not moved from the spot. Both men paused. Mr. Arbuckle did not open the door. “Miss, I assure you that no one will be at all shocked. The jeans you are wearing are typical for all English women.” “Jeans?” She looked down at the offending garment. “Do they now name their items of clothing?” Her tone indicated that her question was more sarcasm, the kind she had deplored in him. “Alice. We have traveled two hundred years into
plates and the honking of horns, the slamming of car doors and the passing of pedestrians, the exodus of Macy . . . that he thought he must have passed out and be dreaming. Except it didn’t feel like a dream. For a moment the floor seemed to dip beneath his feet. Then he remembered to breathe, and shoved aside the ache in the center of his chest brought on by the thought of Macy. His hand reached for the phone holster at his belt and found it empty. What had happened? Had he died? He turned
thing. As she turned up her street, eyes on her apartment building, she remembered countless other times she’d tried to talk to him, only to end up addressing the top of his head as he scrolled through his phone’s many offerings. And she knew that more and more lately she’d found herself talking more quickly, so as to hold his interest long enough to finish her story before he reached for the holster at his belt. And then there was the fact that she’d started making it a point not to ask any