Ensnared

  Two faces appear on the mountainside, one of them made of soil, the other of stone. The stony face is the cranky one and has large bulging eyes. The other—the dusty face—has a squinty, almost humorous demeanor.

  Dad drops the duffel bag and takes a seat on it. His left eyelid is twitching as fast as the second hand on a clock.

  “It’s okay, Dad. I got this.”

  Nodding, he rubs a hand through his hair.

  Stepping across some loose pebbles, I make my way over to the squinty-eyed face. “We need to get inside.”

  “Ohhhh, sorry,” says the stony, grumpy voice from behind me. “Only the master can open the door.”

  “Yep, sorry.” Squinty-eyes looks at me sympathetically. “So sorry, in fact, my heart sinks for you.”

  The ground beneath us quakes and we start to sink into the ocean. Dad gathers the duffel bag, and together we climb as fast as the ocean rises around us. All the times I went rock climbing with Jeb come back to me, and I have the added advantage of wings. Dad does, too, with the griffon cane.

  “We’re going to have to fly!” I yell. “Before the peak is submerged!”

  Dad gets knocked off balance when the duffel bag and dagger slide from his shoulder. He catches them at the last minute but loses the cane. It shuttles down the moving mountainside and plops into the rising waves. When it surfaces, it’s the griffon. It screeches, wings flapping as it flails, then melts bit by bit until it’s an oily puddle of floating colors.

  Dad and I stare in disbelief, oblivious to the waves ebbing at our ankles.

  “Allie, go!” Dad shouts, the first one to remember that the mountain is dropping.

  Climbing in time with him, I try to coax out my magic. My mind is racing so fast, my imagination can’t catch up. I draw a blank. “Stop!” I screech to the mountain out of desperation.

  The movement pauses. White froth laps my shins. “Your master would want you to help us,” I say, hoping to coax the faces back into view.

  “Is that so?” The dirt one appears at the mountain’s tip. “Well, there is another way in.”

  Panting, Dad and I exchange hopeful glances.

  “Okay. What would that be?” I ask.

  “A horse. A special horse. He can get you inside. All you need is to shout his name at the top of your lungs.”

  Something tells me I’m going to regret asking, but I do anyway. “So . . . what’s his name?”

  “I can’t say it for you, bony fool.”

  I scowl, holding back the urge to stomp on the dirt clods making up the face’s lips. “Then give me a hint. The letters of the name . . . an anagram. Something!”

  “All’s I can say is it’s a horse.”

  The other face appears on the edge of a golf ball-size stone, the features scrunched up to fit the smaller surface. “A horse without legs that can move up and down and forward and backward . . . A horse without a saddle that can cradle the most fragile rider . . . A horse without wings that can sail with the grace of a bird.”

  I slide my palm down my face. “Are you kidding me? Another stupid riddle?”

  The stony speaker curls his mouth to a frown. “I’d rather tread water than listen to your bellyaching. You have only one guess, so be sure you’re right!” Then, rocking back and forth until his stone loosens, he rolls into the water with a kerplunk.

  Squinty-eyes looks up at me and crinkles the sprig of grass that makes up his nose. “Best you figure it out fast. Because your ingratitude has me feeling very low.”

  The mountain starts to sink again. Within moments, the waves lick our thighs.

  I groan. “Dad, what do you think?”

  He rubs his twitching eyelid. “Not sure. Maybe a rocking horse?”

  I consider the clues. It does seem to match, mostly. “What about the sailing part? Rocking horses don’t sail. Maybe a carousel horse. They’re suspended on a pole, so that could count. They move up and down. But they don’t move back and forth, really. And they have legs . . .”

  The water reaches Dad’s abdomen. “Allie.” His expression is the one he gives me when he’s about to lay down the law. I don’t want to hear what he’s thinking, because I already know.

  “You’re going to have to fly,” he says as the water laps at my sternum. “Go while we still have ground to stand on.”

  “No! I’m not going to let you get hurt!” Not like I did Mom.

  Her face comes back to me, the desperation in her eyes as the mome wraiths snatched her away and dragged her into the crumbling rabbit hole along with Sister Two and all her soul-filled toys. I couldn’t hold on, no matter how I tried. Tears burn along the edges of my lashes.

  “Dad, I summoned the creatures that took Mom away. I’m responsible for the danger she’s in. If she’s gone forev—”

  “Alyssa Victoria Gardner.” Dad catches my hands in his. “Don’t even say it. Whatever you did, it was because you had to. Mom knows that. She’s strong, and she’s okay. And we’re going to find her.”

  We. I teeter inwardly, my emotions rocking. “You promise you’ll be with me?”

  “To the very end. You can get us out of this.”

  “How?” If only I were strong enough to carry him.

  “I know how to swim,” he answers. “I can backstroke long enough for you to get one of those automated parasols the birds left, or even a piece of driftwood I can cling to.”

  It’s like last year in Wonderland, when I couldn’t carry Jeb across the chasm. I was supposed to find a way to come back for him, but I failed him, just like I failed Mom.

  My teeth clamp tight. I can’t let my doubts win.

  I nod to Dad.

  He drops the duffel so he can lie back in the water. The bag trails bubbles as it submerges. I scan the distance, unable to see land anywhere. I’ve no idea how far we’ve come, or if the parasols disappeared when the landscape changed last.

  Still, I have to try.

  Hugging Dad tight, I press a kiss to his cheek, tasting salt from the ocean’s spray. “I won’t let you down.”

  “I know you won’t,” he says, and nuzzles the top of my head.

  He binds his fingers together for a step to lift me from the water. Taking a deep breath, I push up and spread my wings high, rivulets drizzling from them as I rise.

  “When you’re ready, I’ll launch you.” Dad forces his lips into his famous Elvis half smile. His fake confidence has the opposite effect, reminding me of all the times he put up a front when Mom was in the asylum, and during these past weeks she’s been gone. He’s doing it again, even though he’s as confused and scared as I am.

  It’s time for me to be the strong one.

  Preparing for liftoff, I shake my wings. They’re heavy on my back, not just from being soaked, but from the moss wrapped around them like sea creatures.

  Sea creatures.

  The waves creep to Dad’s chin. “Allie, hurry.” He spouts water from his mouth. His fingers tense under my boot’s sole.

  “Wait,” I plead. A horse without legs that can move up and down, forward and backward . . . A horse without a saddle that can cradle the most fragile rider . . . A horse without wings that can sail with the grace of a bird.

  “A sea horse . . . ,” I whisper. They use their tails to maneuver in any direction, carry their babies in pouches, glide gracefully through the water as if sailing.

  “No more time!” Dad yells, and thrusts me up into the sky—just before his head disappears beneath the water.

  “Sea horse!” I shout loud enough to make my lungs ache, spreading my wings and flapping so I hover in place.

  Dad resurfaces, doing the backstroke. The water bulges as something giant rises behind him. An armored hump bursts out, covered with bony plates, clear like glass. Water streams off to reveal the curve of a spine beneath the transparent armor. The graceful neck of a sea horse—as big as the Loch Ness Monster’s—emerges. Sun glistens off the creature. It’s beautiful, and looks more like a glass statue than a living counterpa
rt: a sea horse’s body with the head of a wild stallion.

  Its belly pouch opens, and a funnel of water drags Dad toward it. I dive to join him. We slip into the translucent pocket. The opening cinches closed before the creature submerges once more. The cavity is damp, but comfortable. Dad and I sit and hold on to one another, watching underwater plants and confused fish dart past as we descend toward the sunken mountain. An entrance appears—just as it did with Morpheus—and held safe within our living submarine, we glide into a dark tunnel as the mountain closes around us, shutting out the light.

  As we surface, a muted, purplish glow casts shadows all around. The sea horse bends its spine back and forth, squeezing its pouch until we burst free into the shallows.

  I cough and shove myself to my hands and knees. Behind me, my wings drape, as soggy and muddy as my clothes. The sea horse snorts, blows froth from its equestrian muzzle, then sinks back into the depths.

  Weak from physical exertion, I force myself to stand in the ankle-deep water. Dad gets up, offers his hand, and we wade to a cement embankment to sit and catch our breath.

  “Any idea where this is?” I ask, wringing out my tunic. “Did you visit here as a child? Do you remember?”

  His brows furrow. “This world is so different than I remember, Allie. It keeps changing. It’s as if we’re in a picture book and the pages are flipping in the wind.”

  When I glance over my shoulder for a closer look at the dim tunnel, my breath catches: Graffiti stretches for what seems like miles—words like love, death, anarchy, peace, and pictures of broken hearts, stars, and faces are painted in fluorescent colors.

  It’s a replica of the storm drain Jeb and I almost drowned in over a month ago, the one we used to go to as kids. It even sounds the same, with water dripping all around. But there’s one huge difference: The images on these walls are moving.

  The broken hearts stitch themselves together, beat several times, then break and bleed. The stars shoot from one end to the other, leaving sparkles in their wake that catch fire and snuff out with the scent of scorched leaves. And the faces glare at us, as if angry. I muffle a whimper.

  “Do you see that?” I ask Dad.

  “It’s not possible.”

  “Anything is possible here,” I correct, then stand, facing the ultraviolet images. My legs tremble, but I step forward. “You realize what this means?”

  Dad doesn’t respond.

  Of course he doesn’t. He can’t see inside my past.

  “These are from Jeb’s memories,” I explain. “Our memories.” The thought that I’m about to see him makes every muscle in my body leap. I take off for the far end of the tunnel.

  “Allie, we need to be careful.” Dad catches up, gripping my shoulder.

  I shake him off. “We have to find him!” But with each step, the tunnel shrinks, and so do we. Either that, or it’s an illusion—because I don’t feel like I’m shrinking. I’ve done that enough to have the sensation memorized.

  No. We’re not getting smaller. The images are growing, elongating. They lift from their places on the walls and scrape our skin as we pass. The stars singe my sleeves; the hearts drizzle wet blood. The faces nibble at me—their teeth cold and prickly like straight pins.

  I shiver as Dad and I move faster.

  A sketch stands guard at the tunnel’s end—a neon orange fairy whose wings spread behind her in pinks, blues, and whites.

  It’s me. The one Jeb painted on the tunnel wall in our world. But this is not a part of the wall. She’s facing us, an ominous barricade . . .

  “Stay behind me.” Dad draws the dagger, waving it as he faces her. Bright colors reflect off the shiny blade and the iron bypasses her lines. Dad steps through without any trouble. “Come on, Butterfly. It’s just an illusion.” He holds out a hand.

  I reach for him, but something jerks his shoulder from the shadows behind. The dagger falls from his grasp and hits the floor with a clang. “Run, Allie!” he yelps as he’s dragged away out of my sight.

  Terror ices my spine. “Dad!”

  My fluorescent double steps back into place, blocking me. “You should be in pieces like the others,” she whispers. Her breath smells of sadness, lost dreams, and abandoned hopes—like stale, dust-covered keepsakes in a forgotten attic.

  I grit my teeth against revulsion and fear. Dad walked right through her. That’s proof she’s not real.

  I lunge.

  My body meets a prickly barrier, each sketched line piercing like barbed wire. I yell and my attacker echoes me. I rip free from her barbs and hit the ground. My bones rattle even with my wings cushioning the impact.

  The drawing drifts toward me, her body and face warping as she gets closer. Her mouth stretches cavernously wide and she screeches, “Shred her!”

  Her thorny fingers scrape my neck. I shield my face, trying to use magic to recruit the other graffiti along the walls to help. Either I’m too panicked or they’re under someone else’s spell, because they refuse to obey.

  I roll and snatch the dagger Dad dropped in the adjoining passage. In the same move, I whip the blade through the fairy’s fluorescent lines, but it has no effect. She attacks again, along with the other graffiti now pulled away from the walls. They surround me: glowing, barbed wire artwork.

  I toss away the dagger and hold my hands over my head like we did in school during tornado drills. The diary at my neck trembles and shakes. I brave a look at the sensation of warmth at my chest. Light radiates from under my tunic, as if the words on the pages are infrared.

  The drawings shudder and back up, each of them whimpering, even the fairy sketch. They reattach to the walls and settle into place, leaving the adjoining tunnel unguarded.

  I scoop up Dad’s dagger and plunge after him, using the red glow from the diary to guide me. It’s the first time I’ve seen the tiny book react in such a way, as if the magic inside is burning to come out. I’m not sure what caused it, but I’m grateful. It saved my life.

  Absorbing my wet, weighted wings into my skin, I maneuver down the narrow corridors. The sound of dripping water fades. My plastic boots splat on the stone floor. Every nerve in my body skitters at what the sketches planned to do to me and what might be happening to my dad.

  You should be in pieces like the others . . . Shred her!

  What did the fairy sketch mean, the others? I squirm in my damp clothes.

  The ceiling drops gradually, as if I’m growing again. The sensation is dizzying, but also gives me a sense of security. The bigger I am, the stronger I feel.

  Masculine voices echo through the corridor and lure me to a passageway on my right, where soft slivers of light filter from behind a heavy-looking door that’s ajar. I sneak toward it, in hopes one of the voices belongs to Dad.

  “You’ve no inkling what you’ve done in your desperation to keep me under your thumb.” It’s Morpheus. “No idea what you caused me to leave behind.”

  “It wasn’t desperation,” Jeb answers.

  An all-encompassing relief swarms through me at the sound of his voice. I inch closer to the door’s opening.

  “The sprites told me Manti was after you,” Jeb continues from the other side. “That he’d sent some goon birds your way. And this is the thanks I get. For saving your ass for the thousandth time since we’ve been here.”

  “Bloody hell, my arse,” Morpheus speaks. “Your arse is on a blasted power trip, as always. But you crossed a line. And once I tell you what you’ve done, you’ll never forgive yourself.”

  Jeb huffs. “Uh-huh. Sit up here so I can fix your ear. I have a painting to finish.”

  The domestic undertone of their interaction is so fascinating it makes me pause. I wonder how long they’ve been holed up here together. For the entire time they’ve been trapped in this realm? I peer inside.

  My breath hitches as I see Jeb’s back. He’s shirtless, wearing faded, ripped jeans in a room lit with a pinkish-orange sunset. The light streams through a glass ceiling. It’s like a greenhou
se—a carbon copy of the art studio in the human realm where he was trapped a month ago. There’s the pattern again: Everything here is born and built of Jeb’s memories.

  Paint glistens in wet smudges on his toned arms. I hold my breath, wishing for a glimpse of his face, but he won’t turn. His hair is longer now, the dark, unkempt waves just shy of touching his shoulders.

  Morpheus misled me. Jeb hasn’t changed. He even has the same passions.

  There are easels everywhere. Some untouched, others filled with landscapes, a few of which match the changing terrains we experienced in the midst of the looking-glass world. My brow crinkles as I try to make sense of it all.

  Morpheus sits on a table in front of Jeb, dark wings draped forward and dragging on the floor. His discarded gloves lie in his lap, and he picks at one of the holes in his pant leg.

  His little sprite companion, Nikki, flutters around both guys as if unsure where to perch.

  Jeb lifts a paintbrush to Morpheus’s ear, accidentally stepping on the tip of a wing.

  Morpheus winces and slaps Jeb’s hand away. “Ouch! Your bedside manner is sorely lacking, pseudo elf.”

  Nikki hovers at the tip of Jeb’s nose, shaking a finger. After gently shooing the sprite away, he leans over Morpheus and lifts his brush again. “If you’d keep those things up on the table, there wouldn’t be an issue. Now hold still and stop acting like a little girl.”

  A pulse of violet light passes from the wet bristles to Morpheus’s ear. Like magic, the wound heals. I stifle a surprised moan.

  Back still turned, Jeb straightens to appraise his handiwork.

  Morpheus smirks—a practiced, acerbic twist of lips. “So, is there any particular girl I remind you of?”

  Nikki flutters between them, her hands clasped and head tilted in a dramatic gesture. She bats her lashes.

  “You’re right, Nikki.” Dragging a fingertip through the paint on Jeb’s chest, Morpheus rubs the smudge between his thumb and finger. “He must be thinking of his girlfriend. Though I daresay, if I were Alyssa, his bedside manner would improve tremendously.”

  Jeb throws his brush down and grips Morpheus by his holey lapel, every muscle in his back taut. Nikki hovers, her tinkling voice scolding them both.