Ensnared (21 page)

The word
camouflage
reminds me of the simulacrum. “Wouldn’t the best camouflage be invisibility?” I kneel next to the duffel bag opened on the floor.

“Jeb and I looked for the suits,” Dad answers. “They weren’t in there.”

I frown and dig through the other items. The metallic messenger pigeon turns up, but when I press the button on its throat, its beak no longer glows. I return to my search for the simulacrum.

“It doesn’t make sense,” I say to myself aloud after giving up. “Everything else is here.”

Jeb shrugs. “Maybe enchanted silk isn’t waterproof.”

Dad starts for the door. “I think I’ll go back and clean up the kitchen at the lighthouse. I need to practice moving around in feathers.”

He either feels as awkward seeing me half-dressed as I did him, or he’s giving me time alone with Jeb. Either way, I’m grateful.

“Thanks, Dad.”

He nods and shuts the door. He’s only been gone two minutes
when it reopens and Morpheus storms in, facing Jeb at the table, unaware I’m in the opposite corner.

He’s in new clothes today: a satiny silver jacket over a white T-shirt and sleek black pants. Without a hat to contain them, his glowing waves match perfectly with the silky blue tie hung loosely around his neck. Yet in spite of his change of wardrobe, his wings droop, a sure sign he’s miserable.

“You know, you’re being entirely unreasonable,” he growls to Jeb. When Jeb doesn’t respond, Morpheus slams a palm next to the paintbrushes, causing them to jump. “I’m merely asking for another walking stick—” His voice cuts off as Jeb looks over at me. Morpheus turns.

A flush creeps into my face. I tug the shirt plackets together to hide the miniature diary at my neck, and shuffle my feet to cover the tattoo on my left ankle before he can tease me about it. Then, remembering I’m naked from the thighs down, I step behind my screen again and peer out.

Morpheus scowls. “Alyssa, what is that under your robe?” He turns to Jeb. “This is our lady queen. And you’re dressing her in bandages?”

Jeb doesn’t even look up from his preparations. “What she wears under her clothes is of no concern to you.”

“Bah.” Morpheus snags a paintbrush. “She should be draped in starlight and clouds, lace and softness. Nothing less should touch her skin.” He points the bristles at Jeb. “I saw what you put Thomas in. You are not painting her into one of those goon suits. She is royalty.
Dress
her like royalty. Give her some glitter . . . some glitz. And a crown.”

“Go back to your room, Morpheus.” Jeb takes the paintbrush. “The grown-ups have work to do.”

Morpheus tilts his head to meet my gaze from behind the frame. “Aw, shy little blossom. You should’ve seen the atrocities he tried to put me in those first few days. He didn’t let me have a say until I walked around naked for a few hours. Should you decide to employ that strategy, I’ll be behind you one hundred percent. Or in front of you. Lady’s choice.” He winks.

An unexpected spark of amusement jolts through me. I wait for his suggestive teasing to send Jeb into a jealous rage. Instead, Jeb calmly organizes his paint.

“Jeb wouldn’t be here to see it even if I did,” I grumble to Morpheus. An unspoken
And he wouldn’t notice anyway
echoes in my head. “The bird costumes are for him and my dad’s expedition. I’m not invited and neither are you. We’re under house arrest.”

Morpheus takes in my dour expression and turns back to Jeb. “My word. You’re leaving her in
my
care? How very mature and trusting of you, pseudo elf.” He grips Jeb’s shoulder. “If you’d like to get an early start, you can forgo the new clothes. She won’t be wearing them once you’re gone, anyway. Consider it my contribution to the cause.”

Jeb slams Morpheus against the wall so fast I almost miss the move.

Triggered by the activity, the moths along the ceiling descend like bits of falling ash. They cling to the wall next to Morpheus’s wings, outlining him. Bright yellow sun gushes through the abandoned glass panels.

Jeb and Morpheus stare at one another—eye to eye. Purple light pulses between their bodies.

“What you have to ask yourself, Alyssa”—Morpheus addresses me, but keeps his focus on Jeb—“is who he’s most jealous of.” He drags his fingertips through Jeb’s wavy hair. “Me, or you.”

Jeb doesn’t even flinch. “Guess you’ll never know.” He studies Morpheus’s unchanging expression and his muscles start to relax. “And nice try. But no dice. You’re both staying behind.”

He releases Morpheus, who casts me a rueful glance. “Sorry, luv. Now that he has netherling acumen, he’s not so easily manipulated. I’ve decided to find it charming. No worries, though. You and I, we’ll think of some way to occupy ourselves.” He sweeps his wings high and the moths flutter around him in tiny tornadoes.

With a flick of his hand, Jeb beckons the insects over. They hover in front of him, forming a human shape as if mirroring his image.

“Escort Mothra back to his room,” Jeb charges them. “And keep him busy while I’m gone.”

Morpheus smirks and steps across the threshold as the faceless moth-guard shoves him on his way.

The door closes by itself.

I step from behind the screen and frown at Jeb. “Why did you do that?”

“Because we should get started, and if I leave it open we’ll just have more distractions.” Tucking his thumb inside the hole on the palette, he points me to the place where Dad stood for his fitting.

I don’t budge. “You know I’m not talking about the door. I can’t stand the way you’re treating him. Flaunting the fact that he’s powerless . . . that you hold all the magic.”

“Oh, right. Because he’s
never
done that to me.”

I look down at my bare feet. Clenching the paintbrush’s handle
between his teeth, Jeb cups my elbow and positions me atop a drop cloth.

He lifts my chin with a fingertip, then takes the brush from his mouth. “Look straight ahead.”

My body remains stationary, but my opinion leaps for a chance to be heard. “You know, I expect that kind of cruelty from Morpheus. His sense of right and wrong is skewed.” I study Jeb’s face. “But yours isn’t. Bullying? I thought those days ended with Boy Scouts in seventh grade. You’re a man now. And you’re not that kind of man. Not like your—” I stop short and bite my tongue, hard enough to draw blood.

Jeb’s expression hardens. “My
father
? Damn right I’m not like him. I’m stronger than he ever was.” His voice is low and controlled. “I’m beyond what he thought I could be. Beyond what he said I was capable of. You know how he felt about my art. Wonder what he’d say if he could see me now.”

He holds my gaze long enough to register my unspoken acknowledgement. Then, without touching me, he parts my shirt’s plackets. My skin reacts to his hands’ proximity—remembering what it’s like to be stroked by them. The shirt slides off my shoulders, free of my wrists, and puddles on the floor behind me, baring my bandaged breasts, waist, and naked stomach to the light. I’m exposed, on every level.

Jeb inhales a sharp breath. We stand there, blinking at each other in the brightness. The scent of paint and citrus soap lingers on his skin. Wet smudges glisten in patches on his arms and neck, spotlighting taut muscles.

On impulse, I trail my forefinger through a blue streak next to his collarbone.

He grimaces and jerks away. I drop my hand, defeated.

Intent on his palette, Jeb swishes the paintbrush through a black tincture. He smooths it across my left arm, from the shoulder to the top of my bicep. Defined lines form a cap sleeve. The bristles tickle and the paint is cold, but it’s Jeb’s ability to disconnect his emotions that gives me goose bumps. I don’t even know him anymore.

He steps back and reloads the brush, then moves to the right arm. Absently, he runs his tongue across the inside of his lower lip, nudging his labret. “Do you remember when I got this?”

The unexpected question unbalances me. I hold still in spite of the blossoming heat beneath my skin. “Two hours after your dad’s funeral,” I answer hoarsely.

“And you know how long I’d wanted to do it before that, but every time I’d bring it up . . .” He flips over his forearm.

The tattoo glows, yet it’s the cigarette burns that hold my attention. “Yeah.”

“Well, it was about more than proving his reign of terror was over.” Jeb’s voice is aloof, as if he’s reading from someone else’s life pages. “It was a reminder. That
I
was in control of my choices, of my body and my life. That I had a say in what happened to my sister and mom.” He circles around to my back, leaving my chest and stomach unpainted. After he finishes the backs of my sleeves, the bristles trail a line down my spine and stop a few inches above my waist, making a stripe from one side of my ribs to the other.

I suppress any reaction to the tickling sensations.

“Funny,” Jeb continues, “how I thought something so insignificant could put a dent in what that drunk bastard did.” He laughs. Not the heartwarming laugh he used to have. It’s deep, brittle, and mirthless. “Now . . . now I can paint a piercing anywhere on my
body, or a tattoo, and they become real. Alive. Powerful.” He sweeps the cool, creamy liquid across my back, creating a cropped T-shirt. “Anything I make will fight for me. My labret could be as deadly as a samurai sword. All I have to do is paint it and command it. If I’d had that in our world, I could’ve stopped him from hurting Mom and Jen. I could’ve made their lives better. I can do that here.” He pauses. “I have, you know. Those scenes play out as they should’ve. Every time, my old man is the one beaten to a pulp. And Jen and Mom are untouched and happy.”

I shiver, terrified at how detached he’s become from reality. “Jeb, that’s not your sister and mom. These are all just paintings. You know that, right?”

His brush resumes its journey across my back, but he says nothing.

“You have to let go of the guilt,” I say. “You were only a kid. If you let it fester, it will kill everything good inside you. You’re not like him. Even when he hurt you, you weren’t violent. That’s what made you a better person. Not the power to hurt him back, but the power to rise above and help your sister and mom have a good life in spite of it. You found a way to do that peacefully, through your art.”

“I’ve found an even better way now.” The danger edging his voice makes the hair along my neck stand up.

Tears singe my eyes. A few slip free and run down my face. They hang at my jawline before dripping down and spattering on my chest.

Jeb finishes the back of my shirt—leaving slits at my shoulder blades for wings—and moves to my front. He studies my face. “You’re going to have to stop crying. You’ll smear the paint.”

“Jeb, please.”

“It’s not worth the tears,” he assures me, though a tremor shakes his voice as he notices the wetness on my chest. He drags a horizontal strip of paint along the bottom of my rib cage and above my navel to form the shirt’s front hem. “You’re looking at this all wrong. To be able to create your own scenes and landscapes. That means you get to reign over them. Hell, I’ve given myself wings with my shadow. I can fly with you. Together, we could rule this world and build our own happy endings. I have everything to offer you that Morpheus has.” He juts out his chin in thought. “
Had
,” he corrects with a smug smile.

My lungs ache, as if he’s knocked the breath from me. “I don’t want those things from you. I love your faults and imperfections. Your kind heart. The scars that match mine, and the struggles to find ourselves. I want your humanness. Nothing else.”

He frowns. What I wouldn’t give to witness his lips break into a genuine smile. The one with those dimples I love. My throat hurts, clogged with emotions I’m afraid to unleash.

“I would’ve followed you anywhere,” he mumbles, his voice raw with agony. “All I ever wanted was to spend forever with my best friend. With the girl who gave life to my paintings. But I’m not the one who inspired your mosaics, am I? It was always Wonderland. That’s why you chose him.”

“
Chose
him? It was a kiss, that’s all—”

“It’s not the kiss. Sometimes words are louder than actions.”

“Words . . . ? What words?”

“The promise you gave him that you couldn’t give me.”

I growl to keep from crying again. “You’re not making sense. Please, tell me what you mean.” Maybe Morpheus told him about my vow. If he’s been taunting Jeb this whole time about our day
together, that would explain some of this animosity. But not all of it.

“No more talking. I need to concentrate.” Jeb fills in the lower half of my shirt. He layers paint along the skin beneath my bust line, avoiding where my necklaces hang. I should take them off . . . get them out of his way, but I can’t move because the brush is riding the curve of my right breast, coating it so no bandage peeks through.

Jeb’s breath catches at the same time as mine. I know his body language, how the muscles work in his jaw when he’s struggling to stay in control.

The brush becomes an extension of his hand. It doesn’t matter that bristles and a handle stand between us. Even through the bandages, I can feel our connection. There’s no heat, or warmth, or pressure. It’s a deeper bond, born of friendship and hard-won trust: a summoning beneath the skin, as if my spirit calls to him.

I sip slivers of air with each movement of his brush . . . afraid to breathe too loud, afraid to move. Afraid if I disturb the atmosphere in any way, I’ll break the spell he’s under. Maybe I
can
bring him back, help him remember the good parts of his human life. Maybe, if I can get him to reach out and hold me, it will remind him of everything we meant to each other.

His hand starts to shake the moment he finishes painting my left breast.

“Jeb.” I venture a whispered plea. “All those weeks I was in the asylum, I gave in to my madness, faced those fears. But I never forgot you. Or us. Please, show me you remember, too.”

His gaze intensifies on mine. My body aches with longing, familiar with that look from the past.

The palette and brush clatter at my feet as he grabs my face, careful not to smear the paint on my chest. His thumb traces the
trails my tears made on my cheek and then nudges the dimple in my chin. His breath cloaks my face, warm and sweetened by the honeycomb-flower he ate earlier.