Ensnared (12 page)

“That’s our only question,” about thirty smaller rocks pipe in, powdery lips flapping. “If you’ll save our eggs.”

“Let us put this in perspective.” Morpheus lifts his wings over his craggy audience. “You were the ones who carelessly lost your eggs, leaving them unattended so you could take a swim in a temporary ocean. Now, I said I would
consider
helping you. Consideration, by definition, is evaluating facts and meditating on the outcome. That takes time. Even hardheaded scuttlers such as yourselves can understand that. I came here today for solitude, a rare commodity when
one’s own shadow is always at his back. At last I’ve found a sunless spot, the perfect place for meditation. So, off with you.”

The rocks stand their ground. Using the clawed tip of the cane, Morpheus nudges one that has rolled too close.

“Perhaps your brains have fossilized,” he grumbles. “Do you truly wish to cross the only one with magic enough to grind your eggs to dust?”

Purple light trembles at the ends of Morpheus’s fingers where they meet the cane. The static descends along the shaft and then leaps from the lions’ paws to the ground like violet lightning.

I slap a hand over my mouth, too late to muffle my gasp.

Morpheus’s muscles tense and he looks over his shoulder, but the rocks catch his attention again.

“Oh, no. We never w-w-want our eggs to be crushed,” the largest stony creature answers. “P-p-please.” Six lobsterlike legs and two beady eyes burst with a pop from its body. The other rocks follow suit, freeing their limbs and eyes, reminding me of the rock lobster in Carroll’s tale.

Whimpering, the rocks scuttle backward in a wave to avoid the magical, crackling glow creeping toward them from Morpheus’s hands and cane. Their front pincers snip at the ashes, throwing a white haze across the streaks of violet magic.

I squint. So Morpheus is the one flaunting his powers under the iron dome? That’s better than it being Red, but how is he using his magic without being warped by it? Is it the iron that’s made his magic purple instead of blue?

“Please!” the rock lobsters plead in unison.

“Well enough,” Morpheus says, reeling in the enchanted strands
along the walking stick’s shaft until they disappear into his fingertips. “Leave your king to his consideration. Once a decision has been made, I will call for you. Are we clear?”

“Yes, c-c-crystal.” The largest rock’s color drains away until he’s almost transparent, as if he’s made of crystal himself. His shell is like a pearl shimmering under the orange sky. The smaller pearlescent rocks follow him, scuttling up the hill and burying themselves in the ash piles until they’re as covert as me.

“Cursed realm,” Morpheus says. He stands the cane on its four paws and drags some gloves from his pocket to slide them on. “Everyone and everything wants a piece of the royal pie. Even the landscape has an agenda.”

I bite back a smile. He’s exactly the same as when he was taken—narcissistic, disarmingly snarky, and clever. I’m glad he’s found a way to rule the creatures here. Even if his powers have caused unrest among the prisoners and trouble for Dad’s relatives, at least they’ve kept him alive.

He turns to leave, stroking the feathers on his cane as he walks.

I fumble to peel the simulacrum from my face and hands, but it clings to my sweaty skin. I drop my palms to my sides, concentrating on my clothes. Maybe if I envision what I’m wearing underneath, it will reverse the magic that made me invisible.

“Morpheus, wait.” My voice is weak and comes out as a whisper. Still, it stops him in his tracks.

Silence . . . all but his sharp intake of breath. Ash sifts under his feet as he swivels on his heel. I hold out my palm to him, transparent with a vaguely discernible outline.

“Someone there?” Morpheus narrows his eyes.

A hand clenches my shoulder from behind. Felt, but not seen. “Allie.” Dad’s whisper grazes my ear. “Don’t show yourself.”

I grip his hand back, relieved he’s safe. Before I can respond, the ground shakes, coming apart like puzzle pieces. Dad’s arm tightens around me and we both teeter in place. In an instant, the terrain has shifted and cracked. Water burbles through the broken seams, filling the rivulets between us. Tiny geysers spurt up—the size of a drinking fountain’s stream.

The trees, the hill, Morpheus, me and Dad, we’re all afloat on our own miniature islands.

Hot, balmy air blows in gusts, the humidity rising.

“Blast it,” Morpheus mumbles, wings splayed low to stabilize the fragment of land under his feet. He lifts his face to the sky as it darkens to gray. “Really?” He yells to no one in particular. “
Geysers?
Is this your idea of a joke?”

I scoot my foot next to Dad’s, balancing on our own floating island, trying to make sense of Morpheus’s tirade. A mechanical whir stirs overhead as a flock of giant birds comes into view. Instead of using their wings, they hold on to lacy parasols in bright floral prints that spin to give the birds lift. Each one looks like a monstrous Mary Poppins soaring across the sky. On their descent, the parasols invert, and the bird creatures crash into the water. The spray sinks through the simulacrum and my clothes, hot on my skin.

Most of the birds abandon their umbrella contraptions, using their beaks for leverage to drag their steaming, feathery bodies ashore. A few carry their parasols with them.

Though some resemble ducks, others eaglets and ospreys, they’re all hideously deformed: the size of gorillas, with four furry arms and
hands connected to two sets of wings. Their backs are gnarled and twisted, causing them to gimp when they walk.

Dad draws me closer. Our floating island seesaws as three birds hobble by on ostrichlike legs. The stench of scalded, wet feathers makes me gag. Something tells me they wouldn’t notice us even if we were visible, because their sights are set on Morpheus.

He stands his ground as seven of them flap across the moats and surround him, clicking their razor-sharp beaks. Five more climb the hill where the rock lobsters are hiding.

“My, my.” Morpheus smiles pleasantly. “If it isn’t the doltish dozen. That was quite an entrance. I see you’re doing your best to control your mutations. But I’m afraid the real damage is done. I do hope you haven’t come for fashion advice. There’s no amount of style or suave that can conceal that much ugly.”

“Shut up,” caws a bird that looks like a kingfisher. “You won’t be so cocky once you hear that Manti’s found your weakness.”

“Yeah, weakness.” An eaglet creature snaps his beak close to Morpheus’s ear, leaving behind a bloody scratch on his lobe. Morpheus winces but doesn’t budge. He performed magic earlier. Why doesn’t he take flight and escape? I try to break loose from Dad’s grip, but he tightens it.

“This isn’t your fight,” he whispers, barely audible over the rustling wet feathers and bubbling geysers.

I stifle a growl.

“The jig is up, pretty boy,” an osprey says, jerking Morpheus’s lapel with one wet, apish hand. The walking stick slips from Morpheus’s grasp. “Manti’s been spying on you. He knows you disappear after magical stints to recharge. What he wants to know is
how
you recharge, and how you use your magic without it affecting you.” The
osprey looks at Morpheus’s jacket where the fabric he was clenching has disintegrated, leaving a jagged hole. “How did that happen?”

Morpheus snorts. “It would appear my clothes have an aversion to your grimy touch and choose to avoid it at all costs.”

My body shakes with an involuntary giggle. Dad squeezes my shoulder again—a warning.

The osprey leans closer to Morpheus’s face. “Best to get all that drollery out of your system. Manti doesn’t have the sense of humor we do.”

Morpheus clucks his tongue. “Well then, perhaps we should try for another afternoon. I’m feeling particularly facetious today. Now, if you’ll step aside, I’ll just get my walking stick . . .”

“Not happening.” The kingfisher mutant closes in. “We sent the rock lobsters to drain you of your magic in exchange for their eggs. You’re used up. So you have no choice but to come with us and answer Manti’s questions.”

Morpheus glances toward the hilltop, where the other five bird creatures are paying the rocks with what appear to be strands of pearls as big as baseballs. His gloved fingers tap his thigh. “Traitorous little crustaceans. Should’ve known they were up to no good.” He turns back to his captors. “So, your boss would like to toss his hat into the ring, aye?”

“You’re the one who insisted on rocking the boat and forming a royal dictatorship. We all know the crown belongs to Manti. He’s been the queen’s knave since before they were even exiled here. Centuries ago. Did you really think you could become king without another candidate stepping up to challenge you?” The osprey kicks Morpheus’s walking cane, causing the feathers to flutter. “Nay. The Queen of Hearts has called for a Hallowed Festival day after
next, and there’s to be a caucus race to elect an
official
king. The one who wins the race will rule by the queen’s side. And those who are defeated will lose their beating hearts.”

“Them’s the rules,” a duckbilled bird scoffs, shaking his parasol in Morpheus’s face. “Made by the queen herself.”

“
Them’s
the rules?” Morpheus chuckles, deep and soft. “You need to work on your scare tactics, Ducky. Incorrect grammar wielded by a goon bird who carries a frilly sunshade. Doesn’t have quite the effect you’re hoping for.”

The seven birds tackle him, slamming him to the ground.

I struggle against Dad, but he refuses to relent.

“No eating him!” the duckbilled creature shouts. “The boss man said!”

“He’s right,” the osprey growls to his companions. “Manti ordered us to bring him in alive. But he didn’t give specifics.
Barely
alive work for you gents?”

They all squawk in agreement, attacking Morpheus’s prone form. Some pound him with their parasols; others use their multiple fists.

Unable to break free of Dad, I yell until my throat comes fully awake. Hearing me, the birds look over their winged shoulders. I strip off my simulacrum suit just as Morpheus’s hand shoves out from the distracted pile of feathers. He snaps a gloved finger and thumb, and the wings along his walking stick open.

The cane transforms into a living griffon—the head and wings of an eagle, with the golden-furred body and paws of a large lion. The beast flies toward the huddle with a roar, dive-bombing the birds.

Morpheus rolls out of the chaos and stands. More gaps mar his jacket now, along with a few in his shirt where his smooth chest peeks through. Even his pant legs have some holes, as if the suit was
hung in a moth-infested closet. He picks up his hat and brushes it off. His eyes lock on mine. Heat rushes through my cheeks as he wipes his smudged face with a handkerchief.

The seven birds don’t budge under the griffon. Snarling a warning, the mythological creature takes to the sky, chasing the other five birds and the rock lobsters until they disappear over the hill.

As Dad struggles out of his simulacrum suit, Morpheus holds our stare. He tucks away his handkerchief, his expression somewhere between fascination and pride. It’s hard to pinpoint, because the jewels under his eyes are flashing through uncountable emotions.

“My Queen,” he finally speaks, and his usually strong voice holds the slightest tremor.

“My Footman.” I don’t even blink, playing along with his nonchalance. “You don’t seem surprised that I’m here.”

“Oh, I knew you would find your way. It was just a matter of when. You actually made it sooner than I expected.” He gestures around him. “Thus, the deplorable state of my house.”

“Good help is so hard to find,” I tease.

His dark, inky irises sparkle like onyx, and a grin plays at his lips. I can’t fight it another second and smile back. The moment shatters as the seven bird mutants rise behind him.

“Look out!” I shout.

Four attack him. The other three fly toward me and Dad.

“Allie, get down!” Dad opens the duffel bag.

One of the birds swoops at Dad’s head. The other two collide in midair and flop to the ground. Dad parries, an iron dagger in one hand and a chain mace in the other. Shifting his feet gracefully, he swings the iron-studded ball, taking a chunk out of his attacker’s beak.

The two birds on the ground roll into Dad, sending him to his knees. He groans, sprawled next to scattered water bottles and protein packets. Mom’s capture flashes through my thoughts in vivid, techno-colored pain.

The madness beneath the surface of my skin awakens. I concentrate on the miniature geysers closest to us, envisioning them as tongues unfurling from water serpents’ mouths. The cascades grow until they’re big enough to lash in midair and snatch up Dad’s attackers, capturing the bird with the wounded beak on the way back. The liquid tongues jerk the giant birds into the moats to immerse them.

Dad teeters at the water’s edge with dagger ready. Bubbles rise from the depths, becoming fewer and farther between.

“Alyssa,” he prompts.

I don’t acknowledge the fact that he used my full name, or the concern in his voice.

Instead, I let the coils of madness creep around my human compassion—caging it so it’s oblivious to my actions. Then I stare at the bubbles, willing the air to dissipate, waiting for the birds’ lungs to cave in. Craving their deaths.

“You’ve never murdered anyone, Allie. Be sure it’s the only way. Otherwise, it will haunt you . . .” Dad’s logic breaks through.

A sick pang roils through my stomach.

He’s wrong. I have killed. There were so many bugs in my lifetime, I could fill up a grain elevator with their corpses if I hadn’t used them for mosaics. I also contributed to the deaths of countless card guards and juju birds in Wonderland, not to mention an octowalrus.

That’s enough.
For now.

With a silent command, I resurrect the geysers. They rise, carrying
the mutant birds atop them. A hot spray spatters across me as I guide the cascading water to the closest tree, imagining the bare branches opening like flower petals. The water plops its passengers inside, and the branches curl closed around them, leaving my dripping, gasping prisoners to glare down at me. The geysers sink back into the moats.