Ensnared

  I stifle a growl.

  “The jig is up, pretty boy,” an osprey says, jerking Morpheus’s lapel with one wet, apish hand. The walking stick slips from Morpheus’s grasp. “Manti’s been spying on you. He knows you disappear after magical stints to recharge. What he wants to know is how you recharge, and how you use your magic without it affecting you.” The osprey looks at Morpheus’s jacket where the fabric he was clenching has disintegrated, leaving a jagged hole. “How did that happen?”

  Morpheus snorts. “It would appear my clothes have an aversion to your grimy touch and choose to avoid it at all costs.”

  My body shakes with an involuntary giggle. Dad squeezes my shoulder again—a warning.

  The osprey leans closer to Morpheus’s face. “Best to get all that drollery out of your system. Manti doesn’t have the sense of humor we do.”

  Morpheus clucks his tongue. “Well then, perhaps we should try for another afternoon. I’m feeling particularly facetious today. Now, if you’ll step aside, I’ll just get my walking stick . . .”

  “Not happening.” The kingfisher mutant closes in. “We sent the rock lobsters to drain you of your magic in exchange for their eggs. You’re used up. So you have no choice but to come with us and answer Manti’s questions.”

  Morpheus glances toward the hilltop, where the other five bird creatures are paying the rocks with what appear to be strands of pearls as big as baseballs. His gloved fingers tap his thigh. “Traitorous little crustaceans. Should’ve known they were up to no good.” He turns back to his captors. “So, your boss would like to toss his hat into the ring, aye?”

  “You’re the one who insisted on rocking the boat and forming a royal dictatorship. We all know the crown belongs to Manti. He’s been the queen’s knave since before they were even exiled here. Centuries ago. Did you really think you could become king without another candidate stepping up to challenge you?” The osprey kicks Morpheus’s walking cane, causing the feathers to flutter. “Nay. The Queen of Hearts has called for a Hallowed Festival day after next, and there’s to be a caucus race to elect an official king. The one who wins the race will rule by the queen’s side. And those who are defeated will lose their beating hearts.”

  “Them’s the rules,” a duckbilled bird scoffs, shaking his parasol in Morpheus’s face. “Made by the queen herself.”

  “Them’s the rules?” Morpheus chuckles, deep and soft. “You need to work on your scare tactics, Ducky. Incorrect grammar wielded by a goon bird who carries a frilly sunshade. Doesn’t have quite the effect you’re hoping for.”

  The seven birds tackle him, slamming him to the ground.

  I struggle against Dad, but he refuses to relent.

  “No eating him!” the duckbilled creature shouts. “The boss man said!”

  “He’s right,” the osprey growls to his companions. “Manti ordered us to bring him in alive. But he didn’t give specifics. Barely alive work for you gents?”

  They all squawk in agreement, attacking Morpheus’s prone form. Some pound him with their parasols; others use their multiple fists.

  Unable to break free of Dad, I yell until my throat comes fully awake. Hearing me, the birds look over their winged shoulders. I strip off my simulacrum suit just as Morpheus’s hand shoves out from the distracted pile of feathers. He snaps a gloved finger and thumb, and the wings along his walking stick open.

  The cane transforms into a living griffon—the head and wings of an eagle, with the golden-furred body and paws of a large lion. The beast flies toward the huddle with a roar, dive-bombing the birds.

  Morpheus rolls out of the chaos and stands. More gaps mar his jacket now, along with a few in his shirt where his smooth chest peeks through. Even his pant legs have some holes, as if the suit was hung in a moth-infested closet. He picks up his hat and brushes it off. His eyes lock on mine. Heat rushes through my cheeks as he wipes his smudged face with a handkerchief.

  The seven birds don’t budge under the griffon. Snarling a warning, the mythological creature takes to the sky, chasing the other five birds and the rock lobsters until they disappear over the hill.

  As Dad struggles out of his simulacrum suit, Morpheus holds our stare. He tucks away his handkerchief, his expression somewhere between fascination and pride. It’s hard to pinpoint, because the jewels under his eyes are flashing through uncountable emotions.

  “My Queen,” he finally speaks, and his usually strong voice holds the slightest tremor.

  “My Footman.” I don’t even blink, playing along with his nonchalance. “You don’t seem surprised that I’m here.”

  “Oh, I knew you would find your way. It was just a matter of when. You actually made it sooner than I expected.” He gestures around him. “Thus, the deplorable state of my house.”

  “Good help is so hard to find,” I tease.

  His dark, inky irises sparkle like onyx, and a grin plays at his lips. I can’t fight it another second and smile back. The moment shatters as the seven bird mutants rise behind him.

  “Look out!” I shout.

  Four attack him. The other three fly toward me and Dad.

  “Allie, get down!” Dad opens the duffel bag.

  One of the birds swoops at Dad’s head. The other two collide in midair and flop to the ground. Dad parries, an iron dagger in one hand and a chain mace in the other. Shifting his feet gracefully, he swings the iron-studded ball, taking a chunk out of his attacker’s beak.

  The two birds on the ground roll into Dad, sending him to his knees. He groans, sprawled next to scattered water bottles and protein packets. Mom’s capture flashes through my thoughts in vivid, techno-colored pain.

  The madness beneath the surface of my skin awakens. I concentrate on the miniature geysers closest to us, envisioning them as tongues unfurling from water serpents’ mouths. The cascades grow until they’re big enough to lash in midair and snatch up Dad’s attackers, capturing the bird with the wounded beak on the way back. The liquid tongues jerk the giant birds into the moats to immerse them.

  Dad teeters at the water’s edge with dagger ready. Bubbles rise from the depths, becoming fewer and farther between.

  “Alyssa,” he prompts.

  I don’t acknowledge the fact that he used my full name, or the concern in his voice.

  Instead, I let the coils of madness creep around my human compassion—caging it so it’s oblivious to my actions. Then I stare at the bubbles, willing the air to dissipate, waiting for the birds’ lungs to cave in. Craving their deaths.

  “You’ve never murdered anyone, Allie. Be sure it’s the only way. Otherwise, it will haunt you . . .” Dad’s logic breaks through.

  A sick pang roils through my stomach.

  He’s wrong. I have killed. There were so many bugs in my lifetime, I could fill up a grain elevator with their corpses if I hadn’t used them for mosaics. I also contributed to the deaths of countless card guards and juju birds in Wonderland, not to mention an octowalrus.

  That’s enough. For now.

  With a silent command, I resurrect the geysers. They rise, carrying the mutant birds atop them. A hot spray spatters across me as I guide the cascading water to the closest tree, imagining the bare branches opening like flower petals. The water plops its passengers inside, and the branches curl closed around them, leaving my dripping, gasping prisoners to glare down at me. The geysers sink back into the moats.

  “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 re
leases 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.