Unhinged (Splintered, #2)(68)

I’m braving another glance at the marks when I notice a gray and orange striped tail hanging from my rearview mirror.

“Chessie?”

The fuzzy appendage twitches.

Dad gives me a pointed glare as he’s backing out, and I pretend to dig a Kleenex from my glove box. As soon as he’s on the street, I check the parking lot to make sure I’m alone, then tap Chessie’s tail. It wraps around my finger and dissolves into an orange mist.

When the feline netherling materializes, I hold out my palm. He perches there—furry, wiggly, and warm.

“Let me guess. Morpheus wants me to find him,” I say.

His shimmery green eyes study me for a minute before he flutters to the driver’s-side window. Breathing over the glass to fog it, he etches the letters m-e-m-o-r-y with a clawed fingertip.

I put my key in the ignition. “I know. He’s waiting among lost memories. Look, I don’t have time to figure out what that means right now.” The motor roars to life. “Jeb needs me.”

Chessie shakes his head, then breathes another stream of fog across the windshield in my line of vision. This time he draws a picture of a train and a set of wings.

I sigh. “Yes, you saved me and Morpheus from the train. I remember. Thank you. Now, go back and tell him he’s going to have to wait a little longer.” I wipe away the condensation from the windshield with a Kleenex.

Chessie flaps around me. The downy white tufts above his eyes furrow.

I wave him toward the dash and slide on a pair of sunglasses. “I’m not changing my mind. I’m doing this first. You can come, but only if you don’t distract me.”

The tiny netherling plops down on the dash, arms crossed. His usual toothy smile curves to a frown, and his long whiskers droop. As I pull onto the street, a pickup passes. The driver stares at Chessie so hard he almost misses his turn.

“You’re going to have to look more … inconspicuous,” I tell my passenger.

Releasing a teensy sigh that sounds like a kitten’s sneeze, he crouches on all fours with his tail curled behind him, lays his wings flat against his back, and loosens his head so it will bob—a perfect imitation of a bobblehead car accessory.

I’d laugh if I wasn’t so worried about Jeb.

It takes twenty minutes to find the studio. It’s located at the end of a lonely dirt road eight miles south of the same housing development Morpheus and I passed yesterday.

I park on a dusty plot of land that doubles as a driveway. As soon as I kill the engine, Chessie reaffixes his head and flits to his perch on the rearview mirror, hissing.

I remove my sunglasses, scared enough to hiss myself. A half dozen dying mesquite trees surround a run-down cottage with a flat roof. Their trunks and branches are gnarled. A few of them appear to have grown into the cottage walls, as if they’re attacking the place. It’s not a welcoming sight.

Weathered wooden slats form the front and side walls. The only part of the cottage that looks new is the door, which is painted a deep red with shiny brass hinges and an oddly shaped knocker. The whole door seems out of place against the rotting background.

There aren’t any windows—at least from the front. How could there be enough light for painting in a windowless cottage? I’m starting to think I made a wrong turn until I notice Jeb’s Honda lying next to what might’ve been a rabbit hutch. It’s more like a pile of kindling and wire now.

Seeing his bike on the ground validates my worst fear: He’s been here all night. He’s either alone and unprotected, or not alone—and that might be worse.

Dread and guilt wrap around my heart. I should’ve told him the truth from the beginning. If he’d known since last summer, he would have been prepared.

My cell phone rings, startling me. It’s Dad. I turn off the ringer but send him a text:

I’ll be home soon. Try not to worry. I just need to be alone, to figure out some things.

He’ll be furious and will start looking for me immediately, but at least maybe he won’t worry as much.

I drop the phone into my backpack and turn back to the cottage. I shouldn’t feel intimidated by this run-down building after what I just faced at school. But there’s a possibility Red is here—one of the few netherlings even Morpheus fears. To think of Jeb facing her alone makes me shiver.

The wind kicks dirt across my windshield in a gritty scatter of brown. Chessie hisses again—a reminder that at least I’m not alone.

“I have to go in,” I say to him.

He grabs his tail and twirls, wrapping the appendage around his body and face to hide.

“Well, do you have any better ideas?” I ask.

He peers out, fogs the window again, and writes Find M with the tip of his tail.

I narrow my eyes. “We’ll find Morpheus after we take care of this. Now, are you coming?”

Chessie frowns, his fur puffed up like a frightened cat’s. He shakes his head.

“Fine. Stay out here by yourself, then.”

The instant I open my door and step out, Chessie’s fluttery wings touch my ear. He lights on my shoulder and ducks underneath my hair.

Relief rushes through me. He may be little, but he’s magic, stealthy, and adept at fixing things. It’s better than going in by myself.

I hold his tail for comfort as I walk to the door. Dirt clods and pebbles crunch under my feet. The bugs whisper all around. I can’t tell if they’re cheering me on or warning me; there are too many voices to pick apart.