Ensnared (13 page)

“That’s my girl,” Dad says.

The power I’m learning to wield scares me, but not enough to make me stop and think things through. And that scares me even more.

I turn to check on Morpheus. The griffon has returned and holds the remaining four birds pinned beneath his giant claws. Blood drizzles from his talons, leaving no question as to what became of the five birds he chased over the hill.

Morpheus stands over the captives. “All it would take is one word for my pet to slice you in twain like he did your accomplices.”

The duckbilled creature makes a sound between a sob and a quack as the others shiver beneath the sharp talons indenting their feathers.

Morpheus crouches beside the osprey. “You fellows owe the lady a debt of gratitude.” He plucks a feather from the bird’s ugly face. “Since I’m trying to impress her, I’m going to follow her example and be merciful. Take a message to Manti, though, won’t you? Tell him he doesn’t stand a chance to win any races if he can’t even fight his own battles.” Morpheus traces the osprey’s quivering beak with the feather’s tip. “Oh, and thank you for the new quill.”

Nodding at the griffon, Morpheus stands as the bird mutants are set free. I turn to my prisoners in the tree and release them, too. With defeated squawks and screeches, they scatter into the purplish
sky without their parasols, becoming more deformed with every flap of their wings.

Two of them begin to lose their feathers. Their bodies contort in midair until they can no longer stay afloat. They fall from the heights. Plumes of ash puff from the ground in the distance to mark their contact.

“Are they dead?” I ask.

“They are,” Morpheus answers nonchalantly. “The ultimate consequence for continuing to use their magic. Their spines curled, and their bodies withered to useless shells.”

I press my fingers over the diary beneath my tunic. Red’s memories are quiet and calm for now, but their presence brings questions to my mind. “What becomes of their spirits? Will they be looking for bodies to possess?”

Morpheus tucks the feather in his pocket. “That’s not how it works in AnyElsewhere. When you’re dead, you’re gone forever. It’s an effect of the iron. Every part of us that held magic turns to ash, from our bodies to our spirits. Our remains are caught within the wind, forming the twisters that funnel prisoners in and out.” His face grows somber. “So do not hesitate to kill if it’s the only way you can live, Alyssa. Not here.”

Dad and I trade uneasy glances.

The griffon rubs Morpheus’s leg like a giant cat, then transforms into the cane once more. Morpheus takes it in hand, wiping blood from the talons with his handkerchief.

“Now I see,” I say, watching him.

Morpheus’s dark lashes turn up, interest glittering in his eyes. “See what?”

“Why you needed a walking stick.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Good that your curiosity is quenched.”

“Except for what happened to your clothes.”

Looking down at his suit, he grumbles, “Dry-clean only, my arse.” He brushes off his jacket, frowning at the holes where his skin shows through.

“Morpheus.”

He looks up at me again.

“How are you using your magic unaffected, in spite of the all-powerful dome?”

“I believe I’ll keep that one to myself, luv. If I told you all my secrets, there would be no more mystery in our relationship.”

“I’m not a big fan of mysteries.”

That roguish smile I once hated curls his lips and curls my insides. “Rubbish. You adore them.” He steps to the edge of his miniature island and uses the cane’s clawed end to drag our floating island close—avoiding the water. “You thrive on the challenge of solving them.”

He steps onto our mat and his wings rise, their black, smooth sheen the polar opposite of the opaque bejeweled ones tucked inside my own skin. I catch a whiff of his tobacco scent. It’s different than it used to be—less licorice and more earthy-fruity—like charcoal and plums.

“Stop right there,” my dad growls when the toes of Morpheus’s shoes come to a halt about a foot from my boots.

“Dad, he’s my friend and I haven’t seen him for a month.” I won’t admit how much I’ve missed him. I know better than to give Morpheus the upper hand. “Could you please give us a second?”

Dad runs a scathing glare from Morpheus’s head to his wings. “No funny business,” he says.

Morpheus’s jewels sparkle a mischievous reddish-purple, a precursor to some snarky retort waiting to leap off his tongue. I toss him a pleading glance, and he rolls his eyes in silent resignation.

Satisfied, Dad steps aside and crouches to tuck the simulacrum suits and weapons into the duffel bag.

“Is Jeb alive?” I ask Morpheus.

White bleeds into his jeweled markings—the color of indifference. “I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“You know it’s not. Could you for once just give me a straight answer?”

He gazes up at the smoky gray sky. “Your mortal is alive and well. In fact, you will no doubt be seeing him very soon.”

Relieved tears spring into my eyes. “So, that means you know where he is?” Is it possible Morpheus took Jeb under his wings after all?

Dad stops stuffing the fabric in the bag, as if waiting to hear the answer.

Appraising his cane, Morpheus growls. “I
do
know where he is.” Before I can respond, he lifts his eyes to mine, jewels now bordering on emerald green. “I suppose I should be grateful his name wasn’t the first thing that came out of your mouth.”

The jealousy and hurt looking back at me aren’t unexpected, but the effect they have on my heart is. It provokes that same ripping, twisty sensation that’s becoming all too familiar. I take a measured breath to soothe it. “I’ve been terrified for
both
of you. Now that I know you’re all right, of course I need to know about him.”

“You could’ve at least asked me how my ear is feeling first.”

The request is almost comical. Morpheus—Wonderland’s most confident and independent netherling—is pouting, and it makes
him look like a child . . . like my playmate from all those years ago. More than that, he looks like the son we share in Ivory’s vision, which opens a flood of emotions I’m afraid to put a name to.

Dad’s footsteps fade as he picks up water bottles and protein packets to give us the privacy I asked for.

I reach up and trace the dried blood on Morpheus’s ear.

“Does it hurt?” I whisper.

He leans into my touch. “Stings a bit,” he says softly, and studies my mouth so intently, my lips feel weighted. His entire body tenses with restraint. If we were alone, there’d be no holding him back. “You could amend that, you know.”

His words knock me off balance. “Amend . . . what?”

He crinkles his forehead beneath his hat’s brim. “The pain.”

My face warms at the thought of healing him, then blazes when I realize his ear is not the pain he’s referring to.

A fluctuation beneath the skin at his collarbone tells me his pulse is flitting just as fast as mine. I start to drop my hand but he catches it, holding my palm to his smooth cheek. The action both surprises and comforts me.

“I thought you’d be furious,” I say. “That I sent you here. That I destroyed the rabbit hole and neglected Wonderland. I messed everything up.” The confession winds my gut in knots.

He shakes his head. “You made a queen’s decision to send for the wraiths. And it was the right one. Even when you do the right thing, sometimes there are dire consequences. Second-guessing every step prevents any forward momentum. Trust yourself, forgive yourself, and move on.”

I curl my fingers around his jawline. I’ve needed to hear those words for so long. “Thank you.”

“What’s important is you’ve come to fix things,” he says. It’s an observation, not a question.

I nod.

Holding my wrist, he tilts his head so his mouth grazes my palm. “I always knew you would,” he whispers against my scars, his jewels glistening gold and bright—just as they did over a year ago in Wonderland, the first time he spoke those words to me, right before he dragged me through a crazy game of mayhem and politics that nearly got me killed.

Yet despite how he’s drawn to danger, how it thrives within him, or maybe
because
of it, the dark and wicked side of me softens at the feel of his lips on my skin.

Dad’s dagger finds its way between us, the tip pressed against Morpheus’s jugular. “Time’s up.”

Morpheus releases my hand.

I squeeze my fingers at my side to stop the tingling along my scars. “Dad, come on. The knife isn’t necessary.”

Chin hardened to granite, he elbows me behind him. He stands a few inches shorter than Morpheus, but the righteous indignation emanating off him makes up for the size difference.

Morpheus’s skin tinges green, an effect of the iron’s contact. So why doesn’t the dome limit his magic? He definitely has a secret. And I’m going to figure it out.

The thought of the challenge tantalizes me, just like Morpheus said it would. It’s more than a little unsettling, how well he knows what lights my fire.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done to my family?” Dad seethes, shaking me out of my musings.

Morpheus guides the dagger’s tip toward his shoulder in lieu of
his bare neck. “I believe I made it possible for you to have a family to begin with, Thomas. A thank-you would suffice.”

Dad slides the dagger back to Morpheus’s neck. “Here’s how this is going to play out. You’re going to take us to Jeb then lead us safely across this godforsaken realm to the Wonderland gate, so we can get back to Alison.” The metal tip puckers Morpheus’s skin. “And then—and only then—will I decide whether I should thank you or ‘
slice you in twain
,’ and leave you in a pile of ash at my feet.”

Morpheus and I exchange glances while Dad digs through the duffel. When he opens the map, orange sparkles sift out, snowing into the bag’s mouth. A tiny sneeze erupts from inside. Dad jumps back and Morpheus steps forward, wearing an amused half grin.

He scoops his hand inside the bag and lifts out a hummingbird-size ball of orange and gray striped fur. Chessie’s teasing smile appears as he unfurls his body and dangles his front feet over the edge of Morpheus’s gloved palm. His fluffy tail twitches, a sure indication he’s proud of himself.

“Well, look who dragged the cat in,” Morpheus says. “Good to
see you, old friend.” He rubs the feline netherling’s tiny head with his thumb.

Chessie arches his back, then turns his impish eyes my way.

“Sneakie-deakie.” I can’t stop smiling, remembering that moment when Uncle Bernie closed the Gravitron’s door and orange sparkles filtered into the chamber. Chessie was planning to hitch a ride all along.

The little netherling attempts to fly, but I stop him, closing my fingers over Morpheus’s palm. “Wait. There are rules here. If you use your magic, you’ll hurt yourself. It will mutate you . . . kill you even.”

“True for most,” Morpheus corrects, and lifts my hand away. “But remember, our Chessie is a rare strain. Both spirit and flesh all at once. He can use his magic. He’s the one full-blood netherling who can.”

“Other than you, you mean?” I goad.

Morpheus intentionally avoids my stare and concentrates on Chessie. “You should refrain from snapping your head off whilst here. With the way the landscape changes, you might risk it getting lost. Now, do you wish to fly, or would you like to hitch a ride?”

Chessie flutters up to Morpheus’s one remaining pocket and deposits himself inside, leaving only his head sticking out.

Before Morpheus can move away, I place a hand on his lapel.

Stretching to the tips of my toes, I nuzzle Chessie’s fuzzy nose with mine. “Thanks for healing me earlier,” I tell him, “and for keeping my necklace safe.” Just as I’m about to kiss his head, he ducks into the pocket.

My lips land in the middle of one of the gaps in Morpheus’s shirt, smacking his warm, soft skin.

“Sorry.” Blushing, I jerk back and lose balance as the ground beneath me totters.

Morpheus catches me around the waist, affection tinting his jewels a pinkish hue. “No apology necessary.”

Dad clears his throat. I swallow, stepping away.

“We need to get a move on.” Dad gathers the duffel bag and shoves the map at Morpheus. “Where’s Jeb, according to this?”

Still intent on me, Morpheus shoves the parchment away without even looking at it. “That scrap won’t get you anywhere. The landscape is unpredictable, if you didn’t notice. Whoever provided that map should’ve told you that. Perhaps, having limited human intellect, they can’t comprehend the magnitude of said alterations.”

My dad frowns. “We were told that the gates’ positions never change. I can see their glow, there and there.” He motions to the radioactive green waves on the distant horizon to our right and left.

Sighing, Morpheus turns his attention to Dad. “All right. Riddle me this. Which is north and which is south? Do you know from whence direction you arrived? It is impossible to keep from getting turned around in this world without a compass.”

“And you have such a compass?” Dad asks.

“I have my walking stick,” Morpheus answers cryptically.