Unhinged (Splintered, #2)(29)

“I get it,” I mumble, trying not to let my emotions control me again.

I wish he’d at least pretend this was a hard choice for him, but his expression is hopeful. It’s obvious he wants me to say I’m cool with all of this, whether for the money or for the artistic growth. But it hurts, even though I know it shouldn’t. I’ve always been his inspiration, and this just proves he no longer needs me … at least artistically.

To be honest, it seems like he’s been growing away from me for a while now, and that’s what really hurts.

The twinkle lights over the porch swing blink on and off, my parents’ subtle hint that I quit studying and come inside. Their timing sucks.

Jeb lifts me to my feet, leans in, and kisses my forehead. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.” I take a step back, but he grabs the neck of my tunic and the heart-shaped locket underneath to keep me close. “Hey, don’t you forget that I love you.”

“I love you, too.” I hold his hand at my chest. The leaves rattle around us again before I catch myself.

After glaring overhead, Jeb gives me a lingering hug and kiss, then stretches to pull himself into the tree.

“Wait.” I snag the waistband of his jeans before he can settle in the branches. None of this has to happen. I can get his mind off Ivy and this commission for good by showing him the truth about Wonderland, about me. “Can you pick me up from school tomorrow?”

Hanging above me, he frowns. “I’m not sure I can leave work that early.”

I grind my teeth against the disappointment.

“Okay,” he says, as if to placate me. “Okay, I’ll find a way.”

“Good. Because I’m ready to show you my mosaics.”

I only hope he’s ready to see them.




Thursday morning, I don’t take the time to argue with Mom. I choose an outfit she’ll approve of—a two-layer organza petticoat skirt that hangs past the knees of my pinstriped leggings—and step into first period as the five-minute warning bell rings. I finish my chemistry test before class is half over, which leaves an excruciating two more periods to sweat over what I’ll say to Morpheus about my decision not to leave the human realm until I fix things with Jeb.

Morpheus isn’t going to make it easy for me.

Several times between classes, I pass him in the halls with his harem. He walks by without a word, snubbing me, yet each time manages to rake his arm across mine or brush our hands. It’s painful in the strangest way.

Finally, fourth period rolls around, and I shut myself in the abandoned girls’ bathroom to wait for him. The bell rings, and soon the hall empties.

Sunlight dapples the floor through the hopper window, but the room around me is gray and still. Today the bugs have been relentless in their whispers, as if the cricket from last night is leading them in a revolt:

They’re here, Alyssa. They don’t belong … send them back.


I lean against the sink. “Who?” I whisper aloud, frustrated with the obscure warnings.

As I’m waiting for a response, I hear a rustle inside one of the half-closed stalls. I inhale a startled breath, drop my backpack, and lean down to look under the metal door, careful not to let my hair touch the damp tiles.

“Is someone there?”

No answer and no cowboy boots. Unless he’s crouched atop the toilet, it’s not Morpheus. Steeling myself, I swing the door open.

A gurgling hiss greets me along with the distorted face of the clown. It’s toy-size again and standing on the toilet lid. I screech and stumble back, tripping over my backpack. My elbow knocks the paper towel dispenser open. Squares of brown paper flutter down all around me.

Hopping to the floor, the demented toy scurries after me, razor-sharp teeth bared and snapping. One of its shoes slips on a paper towel and it falls. It crawls toward me instead, never slowing. Heart pounding, I look around for something to use as a weapon—to protect myself from that snarling mouth.

My backpack is too far; there’s nothing else within reach. My gaze catches on the dingy white ceiling and the rusty stains branching out like veins. I calm myself, breathing deeply, and imagine the stains are made of twine.

Swerving to avoid the rabid toy, I stay focused on the stains. They begin to peel from the ceiling and drape down. Concentrating harder, I coax them around the clown’s arms and legs, stringing it up like a marionette.

I control it now.

Fear fading to anger, I make the creepy thing dance in midair, then envision the strings spinning up the toy, trapping it in a cocoon of yellow-brown stains. With a screech, the clown uses its cello’s handle to snap the bindings before I can enclose it, then scrambles toward the bathroom door. The toy slips out into the hall, and the door swings shut.

I slide along the wall to the floor, shaking. My rapid pulse beats in my neck. The stains, neglected by my thoughts, retract back into the ceiling, finding their permanent places once more.

I’m shocked, stunned, and ecstatic all at once. The moment I visualized exactly what I wanted the ceiling stains to become, my powers came through in less than a heartbeat. I’m getting better at this.

But why should I have to draw upon that magic in my world? Why is Morpheus’s clown still here? Didn’t it already serve its purpose?

My cheeks flame and I clap cold palms over them, trying to subdue the adrenaline rush.