Ensnared (Splintered, #3)(106)

My stomach falls.

Dream-boy. I’m slammed with the image of my Dad’s brain being siphoned of dreams and nightmares as a child. My hallucination in the hospital a month ago comes full circle: Jeb sheathed inside a thick sheet of spider silk, me slicing it open, then him staring dead-eyed back at me. Was it a vision all along?

Ivory didn’t mention him in her earlier explanation of my future, only that I would live out my life in the mortal realm.

Jeb is planning to sacrifice his existence so no more humans will suffer, because that’s what he does. He protects the vulnerable. No matter what it costs him.

My skin flashes hot and cold. Not this time. Not when he’s finally found his way.

Without another word to Ivory, I scramble up and sprint out the door, insisting Chessie show me where Jeb is. He takes to the air in front of me with Nikki skirting behind. Ivory calls out, but time is too precious. I don’t stop.

I turn a corner that opens to a long, sleek corridor.

There’s no traction on the white marble floors. My bare feet slip. Righting myself, I untie my makeshift robe and leave it behind as I release my wings and take flight down the wide expanse. I pass a dozen or so elfin knights who watch with detached curiosity, but make no move to stand in my way.

I don’t even feel embarrassed that I’m wearing a transparent gown. There’s no need to be proper or modest. I’m the Red Queen: untamed, wild, and maniacal. I dare anyone to question my choice of clothes.

I’m on a mission. Sister Two isn’t going to use Jeb up until his heart stops and he’s a dreamless corpse.

That is not the ending my mortal knight deserves.





Chessie and Nikki lead me to the highest tower that overlooks Ivory’s kingdom, then flutter off before I can thank them.

Panting to catch my breath, I wait outside the open door and absorb my wings. The large room is windowless. Windows are unnecessary in a palace with transparent walls. Unlike the chamber I was in earlier, no frost or ice impedes the view. Daylight reflects off the snow outside and illuminates the surroundings with sunny brilliance.

Finley is taking canvases off their easels, his back turned to me. There’s no sign of Jeb.

I step quietly inside. Stacks upon stacks of canvases lie on the floor, all of them slathered with beautifully bizarre landscapes. I’d recognize the handiwork anywhere.

I look to the world outside the glass tower, where patches of color on the horizon bleed Jeb’s paintings into being. The fluid metamorphosis reminds me of when I was small, when I would sandwich crayon chips between sheets of waxed paper, and with a hot iron, Dad melted them into gleaming “stained-glass masterpieces.” I never thought I’d see such vibrant, visionary bursts of color in anything but a kaleidoscope, certainly not to scale across an entire world.

I’m awestruck.

Movement in the sky catches my attention. The graceful arc and lift of giant black wings swoops through the clouds, making holes that close again before I can blink. Even though he’s cloaked in the white fluffy haze, I know it’s Morpheus, supervising the rebirth of his beloved home. A part of me aches to be with him. To climb to the top of this tower and dive off so we can soar together, hold hands, feel the wind whipping through us. I want to watch the jewels on his face flash through that thrilling rainbow of emotions.

But something else is calling to me right now, an equally strong pull . . .

Jeb has outdone himself. He brought our world back to its full freakish splendor, and Wonderland will be forever in his debt. I won’t allow him to sacrifice anything else.

Finley stops working, preoccupied with a standing mirror in the far corner. His body blocks the reflection he watches.

Just like in my vision, he’s wearing an elfin knight uniform: black pants that fit like well-worn jeans, a silver chain linked in and out of two belt loops, and a cross of glistening white diamonds on the left upper leg. The shirt is long-sleeved, made of stretchy fabric that clings to his muscles—silver with vertical black stripes.

“Where did the artist go?” My question comes out sharper than I intend.

Finley turns. Upon seeing me, he looks down and rakes a hand through his dark blond hair in an awkward gesture, reminding me how sheer my gown must be with the sun filtering through.

My face flushes, but I don’t turn away.

“He took the mirror passage.” Finley sets aside the canvas he’s holding, revealing the looking glass’s surface.

I step closer. A vast hollow blinks in the reflection, filled with ice-slicked weeping willow trees. An endless array of teddy bears and stuffed animals, plastic clowns and porcelain dolls, hangs from webs on the drooping branches.

The restless souls.

My breath catches as the image disappears.

So Jeb is in the cemetery, beyond the dead and barren willows, in the shelter of ivy where a thick sheath of web thrashes with light and breath. The glowing roots may already be attached to his head and chest, siphoning away his dreams and imagination.

I swallow a moan. Every nerve in my body fizzes with rage.

“Envision where you wish to go,” I whisper, and picture Sister Two’s lair—the deepest part, where she stores her dreamer, the one who provides entertainment for those wretched, restless souls to keep them at peace.

The glass crackles and Jeb appears in the reflection. He’s not wrapped in web or hooked up to the tree roots yet, but the spidery grave keeper is standing over him, her eight legs pinning him in place. The striped fabric of her skirt bubbles wide like a hoop around her spinnerets. Her upper torso, deceptively human, tenses beneath a matching bodice. Her left hand, a pair of gardening shears in place of fingers, prepares to strike, moments from rendering him a vegetable.