Ensnared
Page 25
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 releases 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.
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 releases 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.
