Ensnared

  Dad offers an apologetic frown. “We plan to take the supplies to the guards and feel things out,” he explains. “You’re staying here. So we can be sure everything is on the up-and-up before you and I try to leave together.”

  You and I. The room grows gloomier.

  I clench my hands to fists. “There’s no way I’m sitting here while you two face all the weirdness out there. I’m going.”

  I want to add one thing more: that if Jeb thinks for one second I’m going to let him stay behind when we leave for Wonderland, he’s mistaken. I’ll use my magic to force him to come home if I have to.

  The thought of his graffiti army stomps through me. I had no power over them. Jeb is my match now, in every way. It would be a difficult fight to win.

  “Allie, please,” Dad presses.

  “What?” I snap. “You still don’t think I can hold my own? Even after everything you’ve seen?”

  “That’s not it at all. It’s your bloodlust I’m worried about. None of us knows where Red is. But it’s a given she knows you’re here now after our encounter with those birds. I don’t want you running into her. Remember our deal? We get in, we get to the gate, we get out.”

  I can’t help but notice he omitted the part about getting Jeb. Frustration burns my eyes. There’s nothing I can do about Jeb until I have some time with him. But maybe I can use his and Dad’s absence today to my advantage. After they leave, I’ll go out on my own and search for Red. I have a feeling the diary will lead me straight to her.

  I look up at the moths on the ceiling to maintain an angry facade. If Jeb were to find out about my plan, he could paint a gilded cage around me and I’d be trapped. “So, what am I supposed to do all day while you’re gone? Play with bugs?”

  Jeb crouches to fill in the sketch’s lower half with paint. His lips twist to a cruel sneer. “That’s your favorite pastime, right? And you’ll have your prince of moths for company.”

  I keep my expression unreadable. Morpheus staying behind is actually a good thing. He can accompany me to find Red. He knows his way around this world and understands its occupants better than me. The only downside is my vow to him, how determined he is to collect, and how a part of me is starting to crave those twenty-four hours at his side in Wonderland.

  “So . . . you’re not taking Morpheus?” I manage to sound nonchalant.

  “He’d be lost without his griffon.” It’s impossible to miss the smugness in Jeb’s voice. “He can’t fly without it, and he needs its homing device to lead him back here if he gets turned around.”

  “So that’s his compass.”

  “Right. All my paintings have the ability to find their way back to this mountain—to me—no matter how far they wander.”

  “But Morpheus can use his shadow.” I attempt to reason with him.

  “I took it away. It needs some repairs,” Jeb says—an answer for everything.

  Unable to hide my annoyance, I blurt, “Well, that seems like a pretty stupid move. There’s safety in numbers, you know.” I bite my tongue so they won’t know I’m the one needing a safety net.

  “We’re taking reserves.” Jeb motions toward one of the Japanese screens in the corner. The crane flaps its wings and pecks at the panel it’s stuck to.

  “What, the cranes?”

  Preoccupied and silent, Jeb guides Dad to back up into the painting, then seals them together with a flash of magic from his brush.

  Dad steps away and the painting peels off the canvas—a quiescent, fluid trail along the floor—looking like an ordinary shadow with the addition of wings.

  I wander over to the Japanese screen Jeb pointed to, curious.

  “Al, wait,” Jeb warns, dropping his brush in some water and rushing my direction.

  Before he can reach me, I peer behind the screen. A drop cloth hangs in place atop something shaped like a hat rack. I tug the covering away.

  CC screeches and scrambles out, almost knocking me over in its haste to escape.

  I scream.

  “Hey!” Dad starts toward the creature.

  Jeb catches it before it can run out the door. “It’s okay. I’ve forbidden him to ever touch either of you again.” He pats his doppelganger’s shoulder. “Show them, CC,” he urges—his voice tender, as if speaking to a child or a pet.

  The creature turns and I steel myself for the macabre fissures in its face. Instead, a red heart-shaped patch covers its eye along with the gaping holes I saw yesterday. There’s a slit in the middle for CC to see out. The other perfect eye and cheek are uncovered, and the elfin markings sparkle in the daylight. It’s easier now to make out the creature’s porcelain coloring—somewhat lighter than Jeb’s olive complexion. With the heart over its eye, CC resembles a harlequin from a pantomime. All that’s missing is a diamond-patterned costume instead of jeans and a T-shirt.

  Considering the red smudges on Jeb’s clothes and hands, this is the project he was working on before coming to the island.

  “You made a mask for CC this morning?” I ask.

  “I made it for you. Last night. I didn’t want his grotesque appearance scaring you again.”

  The kindness of the gesture touches me. No wonder the circles under Jeb’s eyes seem so much darker today. I wonder if he slept at all.

  He sends the creature out and avoids looking at me. “I’ll coax your shadow out when it’s time to fly,” he says to Dad.

  Dad nods and watches the dark shape move with him along the floor.

  “Clothes are next,” Jeb says, rinsing his brush. “They’ll be removable once they’re dry, and you can wear them multiple times. But the paint has to touch as much of your bare skin as possible to make them fit.”

  Dad stalls. “As much as possible?”

  “You’ll wear a loincloth. That’s how I make roach-boy’s clothes.”

  Imagining Jeb and Morpheus in such an intimate position is both sexy and comical. As vain as Morpheus is, a lot of bickering about fashion choices must’ve taken place.

  “What about Allie?” Dad asks, a paternal defensiveness raising the pitch of his voice.

  Jeb concentrates on the paint he’s mixing. “Unless she wants to wear my clothes, we don’t have any other option.”

  I shrug, accentuating the size of his shirt. “These are about to fall off. They won’t work for traveling.”

  “She’s not going to wear just a loincloth while you paint on her,” Dad insists.

  “Of course not.” Jeb tosses two rolls of elastic bandages my way. “I found these in your duffel bag. They’ll adhere to the paint to become part of the outfit. Cover your underclothes. Leave your arms, stomach, and legs bare. It’ll be no worse than wearing a bikini. And there’s a clip for you to pin up your hair.”

  His curtness stings. Four weeks ago, he wouldn’t have suggested me wearing something like that without anticipation in his eyes. In fact, before all of Wonderland broke loose at prom, we were talking about taking the next physical step in our relationship. The biggest step. It’s excruciating to know I’ve lost the power to move him on a human level.

  I slip behind the closest screen and strip down, then pin up my hair.

  Dad comes out from his screen first. While Jeb works on his clothes, I take my time so I don’t have to see my dad in a loincloth. Of all the horrifying things I’ve witnessed, that would rank up at the top.

  I wind the bandages around Morpheus’s lingerie and craft a swimsuit any mummy would be proud of. After I check to be sure Dad and Jeb are done, I step out, using the flannel shirt like a robe.

  Dad takes a quick look at me and seems satisfied I’m properly covered.

  My jaw drops. He’s cloaked in feathers, has four wings, and reminds me of the goon birds we encountered yesterday. “What is that?”

  “We’ll blend in better if we look like Manti’s lynch mob,” Jeb explains, rinsing his brushes. “They run surveillance across the sky. I have a goon costume of my own. It’s the perfect camouflage.”

  The word ca
mouflage 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.”