Unhinged (Splintered, #2)(37)

With a swish of his tail, Chessie scurries back into place on the rearview mirror. His top half vanishes, and he’s a counterfeit car ornament once more.

I wipe smeared tears from my cheeks. “Do you have any more surprise stowaways up your sleeve?” I ask Morpheus.

Pushing dents out of his hat, he scowls. “I’m starting to fear I didn’t bring enough. If there’s one thing netherlings are good at, it’s cleaning messes.”

“Yeah, well, they’re pretty good at making them, too,” I say.

“Agreed. Some are good at making very big messes.” He looks pointedly at me and buckles his seat belt. “Roadkill comes to mind. Use a little caution this time. We’ll be no help to your mum or to Wonderland if we’re dead.”

Although I’m shaken, I manage to get us to my house. When we pull into my driveway, I’m relieved to see that everything looks normal and peaceful, at least from the outside.

Once more, I try to tell Morpheus thank you for his bravery at the tracks, but he dismisses me like he did all the way here: “I stayed for the car.”

I know better. It’s not the first time he’s done something selfless for me. And I’m starting to suspect he didn’t let me hit the little boy at the stop sign because of the same soft side he doesn’t like to show.

If only he would be consistent—instead of always turning my image of him on its head.

I shut off the ignition and touch Chessie’s swinging tail. “You can come in, if you’ll stay hidden.” The tuft of fur wraps around my finger like a hairy snake, squeezes, then loosens. The gesture leaves me at peace and warm.

“He needs no invitation,” Morpheus scoffs. “If he wishes to go inside, no one will be able to keep him out.”

I start to take off my seat belt. “I’m still stuck.”

Morpheus eases closer and grasps my hand. “Shall we try to take the skirt off?” he says, his voice provocative. “We have the leisure of doing it right this time.”

I’m not sure if he intends all of the innuendos packed into that suggestion, but considering it’s Morpheus, I suspect he does.

“Forget it. I’ll take care of it myself.” I try to jerk away, but he guides my hand to the seat belt. Curling my fingers around the car’s key, he uses the teeth to dig my skirt out of the latch while working the button. After a couple of minutes, the fabric pops free, wrinkled but salvageable.

“Thanks,” I whisper.

“My pleasure.” Eyes meeting mine, he brings my hand up to his lips and flips it to expose my inner wrist. He breathes over my skin—so balmy and close, my veins ache in response. Then at the last minute, he unfolds my fingers, takes the keys, and drops my hand. Before I can even get my bearings, he’s back in his seat.

I press on my wrinkled skirt with my thumb, wishing I could iron out my emotions as easily as the fabric.

“Look …” I find my voice again. “I’m sorry for scaring you by driving so crazy. I shouldn’t have played on your fears like that.”

He opens his door. As it glides upward on its hinges, he sets his feet on the ground and looks over his shoulder.

“You wish to apologize?” He grins. “Whyever for? Everyone has something that can be used against them. You set aside your innate compassionate nature and used my weakness to get what you wanted from me. That was well played. You followed your instincts and let down your inhibitions without my even having to coach you. That is good. For the only way you’ll be able to defeat Red is by learning to be merciless. Compassion has no place on any battlefield … magical or otherwise.” He eases out of the car. He sways as if to get his bearings after the earlier drama. “You know how to manipulate me, and I know how to manipulate you. That makes us even.”

No. We’ll never be even.

We’ll always be trying to outdo each other. I won’t say it aloud, any more than I’ll admit that I like it that way; that some primal, powerful side of me craves the challenge and always has.

“Wait.” I get out of the Mercedes, grab my backpack, and press the remote to shut the doors. “Before we see my mom, we need to get our story straight. You’re an exchange student from school. You’re interested in seeing my art. That’s how we’ll bring up the mosaics she has.”

Forearms propped on the roof of the car, he stares across at me, a hint of the jewels under his dark eyes glittering beneath the shade of his hat. “And what if she sees the truth beneath the mask? She shares your blood.”

“We’ll deal with it,” I answer, although I know it won’t be that simple.

We start toward the garage, but a shout from next door stops us.

“Hey.” Jen jogs up with a dress bag over one shoulder and her sewing tote hanging from the other. I completely forgot we had plans to do last-minute alterations on the prom dress she made for me. She looks Morpheus up and down. “M?”

She appears puzzled but not mad, which means she still hasn’t heard about our supposed lunchtime liaison.

“Hey, Jen.” I play with the backpack’s strap on my shoulder, keeping my eyes averted from Morpheus. “Did you get my text?”

“Oh, sorry,” she answers. “My phone died during lunch. It’s charging at home.” Her attention wanders back to Morpheus, that curious glint still there.