Ensnared
Page 23
He stands his ground as seven of them flap across the moats and surround him, clicking their razor-sharp beaks. Five more climb the hill where the rock lobsters are hiding.
“My, my.” Morpheus smiles pleasantly. “If it isn’t the doltish dozen. That was quite an entrance. I see you’re doing your best to control your mutations. But I’m afraid the real damage is done. I do hope you haven’t come for fashion advice. There’s no amount of style or suave that can conceal that much ugly.”
“Shut up,” caws a bird that looks like a kingfisher. “You won’t be so cocky once you hear that Manti’s found your weakness.”
“Yeah, weakness.” An eaglet creature snaps his beak close to Morpheus’s ear, leaving behind a bloody scratch on his lobe. Morpheus winces but doesn’t budge. He performed magic earlier. Why doesn’t he take flight and escape? I try to break loose from Dad’s grip, but he tightens it.
“This isn’t your fight,” he whispers, barely audible over the rustling wet feathers and bubbling geysers.
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.
“My, my.” Morpheus smiles pleasantly. “If it isn’t the doltish dozen. That was quite an entrance. I see you’re doing your best to control your mutations. But I’m afraid the real damage is done. I do hope you haven’t come for fashion advice. There’s no amount of style or suave that can conceal that much ugly.”
“Shut up,” caws a bird that looks like a kingfisher. “You won’t be so cocky once you hear that Manti’s found your weakness.”
“Yeah, weakness.” An eaglet creature snaps his beak close to Morpheus’s ear, leaving behind a bloody scratch on his lobe. Morpheus winces but doesn’t budge. He performed magic earlier. Why doesn’t he take flight and escape? I try to break loose from Dad’s grip, but he tightens it.
“This isn’t your fight,” he whispers, barely audible over the rustling wet feathers and bubbling geysers.
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.
