Ensnared
Page 3
The conductor either grimaces or frowns—a tough call with all those moving facial features. He motions toward the aisle. “This way, madam.”
We head toward the private rooms. Two doors down from Dad’s, the beetle stops, looks over his shoulder to assure we weren’t followed, and drops a brass nameplate into place: Queen Red.
My wing buds tingle, wanting to burst free. A brew of magic and rage simmers just beneath my skin. Ready, waiting.
The conductor starts to unlock the door, then pauses. “I attended a garden party at her palace once.” He’s whispering again. “Watched her shave the skin off that Door Mouse’s friend . . . that hare fellow.”
I cringe, remembering when I first saw the hare at the tea party a year ago, how he appeared to be turned inside out. “March Hairless? Red skinned him?”
The beetle nods so frantically his cap nearly falls off. “She caught him nibbling the rose petals. Granted, they’d been planted in honor of her dead father. But still. She used a garden hoe to do it, like a vegetable peeler . . . flayed his hide. Blood spritzed all over the guests. Ruined everyone’s best white suits and all the daisies. Ever hear a rabbit scream? You don’t forget a sound like that.”
I study the bug’s blinking eyelids. He’s losing his nerve. I sympathize, having been on the receiving end of Red’s violence myself. She once used my blood veins like marionette strings—the most physically excruciating experience of my life. She even left behind an imprint on my heart . . . one that I can still feel, a distinct pressure.
Lately, it’s more than just pressure. Ever since that fated night when everything went wrong at prom, when I embraced my madness, the press upon my heart has evolved to a recurrent twinge of pain, like something inside is slowly unraveling.
I haven’t told Dad. I was busy practicing my magic, concocting my plan. My loved ones need me to win this battle, to be stronger than Red for good this time.
I don’t have the luxury of getting a doctor’s appointment. And it wouldn’t help anyway. Whatever’s wrong with me was brought on by magic. Red’s magic. My gut knows. And I’m going to make her fix it before I end her sorry existence forever.
More determined than before, I reach for the key the conductor’s holding.
He tucks it under his hat and then fiddles with the nameplate, trying to get it out of its slot. “I changed my mind,” he says through popping mandibles. “A bug is wont to do that, at times.”
“No.” I grip his twiglike arm. It would be so easy to snap. A fluttering temptation shadows my thoughts—taunting me to be cutthroat—but I pull back and lay a palm across my chest, pledging. “I vow on my life-magic, I’ll never tell her you showed me.”
“Best you have a seat and wait for your father,” the conductor says. Fumbling around beneath the shag that covers his thorax, he pulls out a package of peanuts and hands them to me. “You must be hungry after your journey. Have some lunch.”
“I’m not budging until I see her memories, bug in a rug.” I drop the peanuts at my feet and press my back to the door, blocking the nameplate.
The beetle makes an angry gurgling sound. “Doesn’t matter if my body is made of rugs. My mind works just as well as yours.”
“Obviously not. You’ve forgotten what Morpheus told you. I’m royalty.”
“Ah, but Morpheus isn’t here, is he?”
I struggle to think of a comeback, but the memory of why Morpheus isn’t here ices through me, making my tongue as ineffective as a slab of frozen beef.
“You’re nothing more than a royal pain,” the conductor taunts. “You are aware we’re under an iron bridge? Netherling magic is limited here. It’s why we store the lost memories in this place—to keep them safe. So you can’t force me to do anything. And I won’t get squashed under the thumb of Queen Red for a scrawny, powerless half-blood snippet.”
A hot flash of pride pulses through me, defrosting my tongue. “Maybe you should worry more about being trapped than being squashed.”
I call upon the firefly chandeliers overhead, envisioning them as giant metal jellyfish. Chains rattle and bolts snap loose from the ceiling. The harnesses pop open, releasing their firefly captives. Thrilled to be free, the glowing insects bounce and spiral around the car like a planetarium show on steroids. The other passengers screech and burrow under their seats.
Yelping, the conductor tries to back away as the chandelier contraptions swim toward us through the air—their metal tentacles propelling them in a graceful yet disturbing display. I duck and the chains capture the bug, knocking off his hat and thrusting him toward a wall. The bolts snap into place and form a giant metal net. He’s pinned inside, high enough that his legs dangle off the ground.
The fireflies hover and cast a soft glow.
Teeth clenched, I fish the key from beneath the conductor’s fallen hat along with the bag of peanuts. “There’s a new queen in town.” I glare up at him. “And because of my human-tainted blood, my magic is unaffected by iron. So Red’s got nothing on me.” I start toward Queen Red’s door.
“Wait,” the beetle pleads. “Forgive my impertinence, Your Majesty. You’ve made a fair point. But I’m the conductor. I must protect the reserves of lost memories from the stowaways. Let me down, I beg of you!”
I swivel on my heel to face the others. They peer out from under their seats—eyes ogling, tails drooping, hair frizzed—sneezing and trembling in fear.
The conductor whimpers as I toss the bag of peanuts at him. It snags inside one of the chains close to his left arms.
“He’s on his lunch break,” I tell the passengers. “Anyone who leaves their seats for any reason will have to deal with me. Are we clear?”
The stowaways answer with a collective nod and cautiously settle back into their places. A tendril of satisfaction unfurls within me.
Smirking, I slip the key into place, and open the door to my enemy’s past.
The instant I shut the door behind me, all my confidence wavers.
The room is small and windowless. An ivory tapestry hangs above a cream-colored chaise lounge and a tall lamp stands beside it, casting a glow on the checked floor.
An almond scent drifts from the moonbeam cookies that always seem to be waiting on a plate. As hungry as I am, I can’t eat them. Everything is too painfully familiar here.
We head toward the private rooms. Two doors down from Dad’s, the beetle stops, looks over his shoulder to assure we weren’t followed, and drops a brass nameplate into place: Queen Red.
My wing buds tingle, wanting to burst free. A brew of magic and rage simmers just beneath my skin. Ready, waiting.
The conductor starts to unlock the door, then pauses. “I attended a garden party at her palace once.” He’s whispering again. “Watched her shave the skin off that Door Mouse’s friend . . . that hare fellow.”
I cringe, remembering when I first saw the hare at the tea party a year ago, how he appeared to be turned inside out. “March Hairless? Red skinned him?”
The beetle nods so frantically his cap nearly falls off. “She caught him nibbling the rose petals. Granted, they’d been planted in honor of her dead father. But still. She used a garden hoe to do it, like a vegetable peeler . . . flayed his hide. Blood spritzed all over the guests. Ruined everyone’s best white suits and all the daisies. Ever hear a rabbit scream? You don’t forget a sound like that.”
I study the bug’s blinking eyelids. He’s losing his nerve. I sympathize, having been on the receiving end of Red’s violence myself. She once used my blood veins like marionette strings—the most physically excruciating experience of my life. She even left behind an imprint on my heart . . . one that I can still feel, a distinct pressure.
Lately, it’s more than just pressure. Ever since that fated night when everything went wrong at prom, when I embraced my madness, the press upon my heart has evolved to a recurrent twinge of pain, like something inside is slowly unraveling.
I haven’t told Dad. I was busy practicing my magic, concocting my plan. My loved ones need me to win this battle, to be stronger than Red for good this time.
I don’t have the luxury of getting a doctor’s appointment. And it wouldn’t help anyway. Whatever’s wrong with me was brought on by magic. Red’s magic. My gut knows. And I’m going to make her fix it before I end her sorry existence forever.
More determined than before, I reach for the key the conductor’s holding.
He tucks it under his hat and then fiddles with the nameplate, trying to get it out of its slot. “I changed my mind,” he says through popping mandibles. “A bug is wont to do that, at times.”
“No.” I grip his twiglike arm. It would be so easy to snap. A fluttering temptation shadows my thoughts—taunting me to be cutthroat—but I pull back and lay a palm across my chest, pledging. “I vow on my life-magic, I’ll never tell her you showed me.”
“Best you have a seat and wait for your father,” the conductor says. Fumbling around beneath the shag that covers his thorax, he pulls out a package of peanuts and hands them to me. “You must be hungry after your journey. Have some lunch.”
“I’m not budging until I see her memories, bug in a rug.” I drop the peanuts at my feet and press my back to the door, blocking the nameplate.
The beetle makes an angry gurgling sound. “Doesn’t matter if my body is made of rugs. My mind works just as well as yours.”
“Obviously not. You’ve forgotten what Morpheus told you. I’m royalty.”
“Ah, but Morpheus isn’t here, is he?”
I struggle to think of a comeback, but the memory of why Morpheus isn’t here ices through me, making my tongue as ineffective as a slab of frozen beef.
“You’re nothing more than a royal pain,” the conductor taunts. “You are aware we’re under an iron bridge? Netherling magic is limited here. It’s why we store the lost memories in this place—to keep them safe. So you can’t force me to do anything. And I won’t get squashed under the thumb of Queen Red for a scrawny, powerless half-blood snippet.”
A hot flash of pride pulses through me, defrosting my tongue. “Maybe you should worry more about being trapped than being squashed.”
I call upon the firefly chandeliers overhead, envisioning them as giant metal jellyfish. Chains rattle and bolts snap loose from the ceiling. The harnesses pop open, releasing their firefly captives. Thrilled to be free, the glowing insects bounce and spiral around the car like a planetarium show on steroids. The other passengers screech and burrow under their seats.
Yelping, the conductor tries to back away as the chandelier contraptions swim toward us through the air—their metal tentacles propelling them in a graceful yet disturbing display. I duck and the chains capture the bug, knocking off his hat and thrusting him toward a wall. The bolts snap into place and form a giant metal net. He’s pinned inside, high enough that his legs dangle off the ground.
The fireflies hover and cast a soft glow.
Teeth clenched, I fish the key from beneath the conductor’s fallen hat along with the bag of peanuts. “There’s a new queen in town.” I glare up at him. “And because of my human-tainted blood, my magic is unaffected by iron. So Red’s got nothing on me.” I start toward Queen Red’s door.
“Wait,” the beetle pleads. “Forgive my impertinence, Your Majesty. You’ve made a fair point. But I’m the conductor. I must protect the reserves of lost memories from the stowaways. Let me down, I beg of you!”
I swivel on my heel to face the others. They peer out from under their seats—eyes ogling, tails drooping, hair frizzed—sneezing and trembling in fear.
The conductor whimpers as I toss the bag of peanuts at him. It snags inside one of the chains close to his left arms.
“He’s on his lunch break,” I tell the passengers. “Anyone who leaves their seats for any reason will have to deal with me. Are we clear?”
The stowaways answer with a collective nod and cautiously settle back into their places. A tendril of satisfaction unfurls within me.
Smirking, I slip the key into place, and open the door to my enemy’s past.
The instant I shut the door behind me, all my confidence wavers.
The room is small and windowless. An ivory tapestry hangs above a cream-colored chaise lounge and a tall lamp stands beside it, casting a glow on the checked floor.
An almond scent drifts from the moonbeam cookies that always seem to be waiting on a plate. As hungry as I am, I can’t eat them. Everything is too painfully familiar here.
