Ensnared (38 page)

The question is pointless, but his covertness amuses us, so We answer.
“We thought you admired our naked palms. The battle scars won for you in our lesser form.”

He flashes us a sullen glare, as if We have no right to speak of such things. As if they’re sacred somehow.

We savor his torment. Our heart beats in unified vindication. One pulse . . . one purpose. To give us our vengeance. To at last reap the rewards of the scheme that began so long ago with a curious little girl named Alice.

To the left of the stage, a troop of goons siphons in. Manti appears behind them with the captured human boy. The prisoner wears tuxedo pants and a vest. A black cloth bag covers his head. His hands are bound behind his back with chains wrapped around a large rock. Manti struggles with the rock’s weight, carrying it so the boy can walk.

The harlequin doppelganger brings up the rear, wearing a T-shirt and worn jeans. The line of red jewels sparkles on one side of its face. On the other, its heart-shaped eye patch is torn, and there’s movement in the black emptiness where the skin gapes. The back of an eyeball bobs to the surface, slimy with veins and optic nerve. It rolls around, then disappears into the hole.

The gruesome display tickles us and We laugh out loud, shrill and gleeful like a child with a new toy. Our cackle wakes the sleeping priest for all of two seconds before his bulbous eyes grow heavy and he’s snoring even louder.

Morpheus dips his head low and pulls us along by our hand. We drift beside him, proud, propelled by our vines.

The doppelganger climbs the stage and takes his place next to the queen. A breeze coaxes its hair away from an ear, revealing the
pointed tip. Manti shoves the mortal to his knees on the stage’s edge, closest to the pool of fears, and drops the rock beside him with a loud
thunk
.

We skim up the stairs and observe the human captive with remorse. Not for his life, but for all the delicious sport he could’ve given us. He’s alluring, for a lesser being. We would’ve enjoyed using him up, too.

We take our spot in front of the priest, our groom to the left between us and the chained mortal; Hart is on the right, holding her box. Manti and the doppelganger stand on her other side.

We’re moments from victory. Moments from Wonderland, our crown, and our throne.

Morpheus lifts the bag from the mortal boy’s head and steps back, cursing.

A strip of cloth cinches across the human’s eyes and another across his mouth. His olive complexion is flawless, aside from fine lines of blood drizzling down his cheeks, bridging the blindfold to the gag. Another line of red runs down his chin.

“Why is he bound like this . . . and
bleeding
?” Morpheus demands.

“My question precisely!” Hart grouses from her place between us and Manti. “I want to see the fear in his eyes and hear his screams as we retrieve his life-clock.”

“I had no choice, O Majestic One,” Manti answers his queen. “I confiscated his paints, but he improvised. He painted in his cell with mud made of dirt and saliva, hid everything he made in the shadows. Forgeries of the walls and prison bars came alive and turned against us as we tried to bring him here. We lost a dozen of your devoted guards to violent deaths at the hands of his creations. The only way to stop his magic was by gouging out his eyes so he could no longer
see to bring new things into being . . . and cutting out his tongue so he could no longer speak to command them.”

Morpheus pales, as if even he can’t stomach what’s become of the mortal.

Something twists in the core of our being, a pricking pain, rousing an unexpected and unwelcome voice . . .

Jebediah Holt
, it sobs.

Our heart skips a beat, then falls back into rhythm. We won’t be swayed by a name. We stand taller beside our groom, blotting out everything except the impending triumph flowing through our veins—a high unlike any other.

But there’s more . . .
The broken voice won’t relent.
There’s more to him than a name . . . more to them both.

No.
We refuse to listen.
They are stepping-stones. And soon,
all
of Wonderland will be pebbles beneath our feet. We will rule over both kingdoms and everyone will worship us.

“You fools!” Morpheus shouts, reminding us where We are, what’s at stake. “I could’ve convinced the mortal to release Alyssa of the vow. I could’ve—” His voice cracks.

“Ha.” Hart snorts. “Well, he can no longer do that, can he? He’s forever lost the ability to speak. Only one way to release it now.”

In an explosive flurry of wings and rage, Morpheus lunges at Manti, catching the manticorn by his horn and dragging him to his knees. He holds a knife at the base of Manti’s horn. “Stay back,” he yells to the guards.

Hart yelps and the audience leaps up and cheers, some climbing into their seats for a better view, the anticipation of bloodshed working them to a frenzy.

Since Morpheus has the upper hand on stage, the guards and goons descend the stairs in an effort to contain the crowd.

Through it all, the priest sleeps beneath the humming lightning-bug cloud.

“You betrayed me,” Morpheus seethes next to Manti’s humanoid ear. “I gave you his whereabouts with the condition he would not be harmed.”

Manti struggles, but his horn is his Achilles’ heel, the source of both his strength and weakness. He’s at Morpheus’s mercy. “I had to prove my loyalty to my queen. To make up for the human knights who escaped the dungeon under my watch.”

“Savage!” Morpheus growls and forces the manticorn to stand. The doppelganger rushes forward, breaking them up.

Morpheus loses the knife and Hart grabs it as Manti moves back into place between her and the doppelganger.

“Enough delays,” Hart threatens, giving Manti the knife. “The wedding goes on as planned, Morpheus. Try anything else like that, and you’ll be swimming with the eels before the day is out.”

We wrap our vines around Morpheus’s arm and pull him toward us as Manti and Hart turn to the audience, calling out commands to silence them.

Morpheus studies the mutilated mortal. Profound misery darkens his features. He peels our tendrils away, curses under his breath, and throws down his hat.

The little sprite and Chessie flitter out, carrying a miniature hookah. We watch them, suspicious.

As if spurred by the activity, the human prisoner contracts his muscles in a futile effort to break free of his chains. He makes a guttural choking sound—animalistic and gut-wrenching without his tongue.

His agony fascinates us, demands our attention. That sense of knowing twists inside, sharper this time, like a knife. The unwelcome voice revisits:

This isn’t the first time he’s bled for you
, it prods.
And he has painted with more than mud. How could you forget the room of starlight and snow, ribbons, wishes, and dreams? How could you forget all he’s sacrificed for you?

Chessie appears in front of our face. He sucks on the hookah pipe and blows a puff of smoke. The scented cloud permeates the air and coats our tongue, triggering images: licorice tobacco and a seductive fae with an agenda, ocean salt and a mortal boy’s sweat, maple syrup and a father’s love, a mother’s sacrifice and a lunar garden rich with lilies and honeysuckle.

The human within us dances for an instant, awakened by her senses. Her emotions are overwhelming . . . frightening.

We writhe in place, our vines whipping out to chase Chessie away. But it’s too late. The knife of knowing saws back and forth across the tethers We’ve secured around our heart.

We won’t allow it. It will hurt if the seams are broken.

Concentrate. Concentrate only on the man who will be our king.

Our attention shifts to Morpheus, then to Hart as she and Manti face the priest once more, having placated the bloodthirsty guests.
The guards and goons barricade the stairs, forming a line between the wedding party and the audience.

“Wake up, you buffoon,” Hart says to the priest, and the lightning bugs strike him with electrical charges until he giggles so hard his bulging eyes open. “Begin the ceremony.”

The priest smacks his fat, slimy lips. “Do you come into this union free of all binds?” The croaking question bulges from his greenish throat.

Morpheus’s head hangs so low his hair cascades across the left side of his face. His bejeweled profile fades to the color of tears through spaces in the blue curtain. “A life-magic vow stands between us.”

“Then it must be broken, or forfeit the union,” the frogman says, and yawns loudly.

Silence wreathes the courtyard. We look at the flames in the sphere overhead. The brightness burns an imprint on our mind, cauterizing the human emotions trying to weaken us.

“It is time, Morpheus,” Hart presses. “Prove your loyalty to your brides and your world, and you will be rewarded with the key to the gate. Bring me the boy’s heart.”

Morpheus snarls. “First, you show me the medallion. I want to see it.”

Hart offers the shadow box to Manti. She opens the lid to reveal five pulsing life-clocks. With a squishing sound, Hart plunges her fingers into the fattest one, then drags out the medallion. She lays it across her palm, dripping with blood. “Proof enough? Now kill him.”

Morpheus takes our unresponsive hand and holds it close to his
lips. His breath cloaks our fingertips, another disarming sensation. “Remember: Memories are your greatest weapons,” he whispers.

We turn back to the suffering mortal. Pictures blink through our mind: the same boy in cargo shorts and a dark tee beneath his Underland vest, black lights highlighting his toned arms with bluish flashes; the boy in his feather-duster mask for the junior prom masquerade;
Jeb
sand surfing with
me
on tea carts, then pouring out his blood to save my life over and over and over; Jeb kissing me after I broke his heart, and fighting at prom for me and every other human.

One of the threads on our heart breaks loose with a visceral twang, reviving the voice:

His tongue said beautiful words to you . . . His eyes held you in their gentle gaze. Never again. Unless you stop this. He might still be healed with magic, just as he once healed Morpheus.

It’s
my
voice—my reasoning—quiet and still, desperate to be heard. But my vocal cords lie dormant as if I’ve swallowed the black mist outside of AnyElsewhere’s gate. Like my body, my words are held captive by Red’s vines.

Still, she can hear my liberated thoughts.

Jeb is wounded . . . but he can be saved. Morpheus will do the right thing.

Morpheus will show no mercy
, Red contradicts in my mind.
He’ll do anything for Wonderland. That is his priority. That is why I chose him to be our king. That, and the fact that because of his childhood with you,
he can father a dream-child. What a profoundly perfect twist of fate that turned out to be.

Another thread snaps loose from my heart, the pain precise and acute. I embrace it, because it reminds me I’m still here. I’m alive. I’m empowered.

Determination boils in my blood, scalding my skin. I concentrate on my fingers, forcing them to squeeze Morpheus’s hand.

His eyes widen. He looks from me to the medallion Hart’s holding. A muscle in his jaw twitches.

“Make a choice,” Hart seethes. “Either the human gives his life, or Wonderland belongs to the denizens of the looking-glass world.”

Morpheus looks at the crowd of deranged guests salivating and brutal, then down at Jeb’s kneeling form. The blood on Jeb’s chin has dribbled to the T-shirt under his tuxedo vest, bright red against the white fabric.

My feet twitch . . . My legs ache . . . My stomach knots. Every part of me slowly wakes, but my vocal cords shrivel under Red’s clutches. I fight for the use of my limbs. Her vines hold me too high; I can’t get my feet on the ground. A grinding sensation shuttles through my bones as punishment for even trying. Red winds my arms within her ivy and pins them to my sides.

A whimper dies in my throat.

Memory nudges beneath the pain. A reminder that I overpowered her once before. I move, ignoring the splitting sensation inside me, and clamp my fingers around a vine. I tug it. Rivulets of blood spurt from where the ivy stretches my skin.

Another one of my heart’s seams snap . . . then another and
another. I yelp from the excruciating burn. I can’t tear her out without ripping my own heart in half.

Defeated, I go limp.

“
Hurry
,” Red says aloud, using me as her mouthpiece, desperate now.
“Kill the boy, and she’ll be your queen forever, Morpheus. Simple as that.”

“Give me his life-clock!” Hart shouts to Morpheus. She holds the medallion high, swinging it like a pendulum to tempt him.

Morpheus grips Jeb’s vest and forces him to stand. Jeb wavers, unbalanced by the inability to see. He strains against the cuffs binding his hands. He kicks his legs blindly in self-defense.

Morpheus turns his gaze to me, the black depths filled with so much remorse I know what he’s going to say before he even says it. “Alyssa, forgive me. But I will always do what’s best for Wonderland.”

“No!” I shout, freeing my vocal cords at last.

The crowd surges, provoking the guards and goon birds to strengthen their barricade.

Still holding Jeb’s vest, Morpheus glances over his shoulder at the chaos. “Now!” he shouts.

Chessie and Nikki appear from out of nowhere, hovering over Hart. Nikki distracts the queen as Chessie dips down and snags the medallion, taking off toward the gate. Manti sends the doppelganger after the feline fae. The crowd’s fervor reaches manic intensity as they turn on the royal party and the stage.

Hart screams and Manti drags her toward the castle for safety.

Red screeches in my head. The sound guts my inner ears like a chain saw set loose, sending me in a vertigo tailspin.

The surroundings blur as if I were riding a spinning top. I can
make out snippets: Red’s vines whipping out and slapping Morpheus and Jeb off balance; Morpheus tumbling over his wings and hitting his head, his eyes lolling shut; Jeb, tripping over the rock behind him and sending it over the edge.