Ensnared (Splintered, #3)(35)

We. I teeter inwardly, my emotions rocking. “You promise you’ll be with me?”

“To the very end. You can get us out of this.”

“How?” If only I were strong enough to carry him.

“I know how to swim,” he answers. “I can backstroke long enough for you to get one of those automated parasols the birds left, or even a piece of driftwood I can cling to.”

It’s like last year in Wonderland, when I couldn’t carry Jeb across the chasm. I was supposed to find a way to come back for him, but I failed him, just like I failed Mom.

My teeth clamp tight. I can’t let my doubts win.

I nod to Dad.

He drops the duffel so he can lie back in the water. The bag trails bubbles as it submerges. I scan the distance, unable to see land anywhere. I’ve no idea how far we’ve come, or if the parasols disappeared when the landscape changed last.

Still, I have to try.

Hugging Dad tight, I press a kiss to his cheek, tasting salt from the ocean’s spray. “I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t,” he says, and nuzzles the top of my head.

He binds his fingers together for a step to lift me from the water. Taking a deep breath, I push up and spread my wings high, rivulets drizzling from them as I rise.

“When you’re ready, I’ll launch you.” Dad forces his lips into his famous Elvis half smile. His fake confidence has the opposite effect, reminding me of all the times he put up a front when Mom was in the asylum, and during these past weeks she’s been gone. He’s doing it again, even though he’s as confused and scared as I am.

It’s time for me to be the strong one.

Preparing for liftoff, I shake my wings. They’re heavy on my back, not just from being soaked, but from the moss wrapped around them like sea creatures.

Sea creatures.

The waves creep to Dad’s chin. “Allie, hurry.” He spouts water from his mouth. His fingers tense under my boot’s sole.

“Wait,” I plead. A horse without legs that can move up and down, forward and backward . . . A horse without a saddle that can cradle the most fragile rider . . . A horse without wings that can sail with the grace of a bird.

“A sea horse . . . ,” I whisper. They use their tails to maneuver in any direction, carry their babies in pouches, glide gracefully through the water as if sailing.

“No more time!” Dad yells, and thrusts me up into the sky—just before his head disappears beneath the water.

“Sea horse!” I shout loud enough to make my lungs ache, spreading my wings and flapping so I hover in place.

Dad resurfaces, doing the backstroke. The water bulges as something giant rises behind him. An armored hump bursts out, covered with bony plates, clear like glass. Water streams off to reveal the curve of a spine beneath the transparent armor. The graceful neck of a sea horse—as big as the Loch Ness Monster’s—emerges. Sun glistens off the creature. It’s beautiful, and looks more like a glass statue than a living counterpart: a sea horse’s body with the head of a wild stallion.

Its belly pouch opens, and a funnel of water drags Dad toward it. I dive to join him. We slip into the translucent pocket. The opening cinches closed before the creature submerges once more. The cavity is damp, but comfortable. Dad and I sit and hold on to one another, watching underwater plants and confused fish dart past as we descend toward the sunken mountain. An entrance appears—just as it did with Morpheus—and held safe within our living submarine, we glide into a dark tunnel as the mountain closes around us, shutting out the light.





As we surface, a muted, purplish glow casts shadows all around. The sea horse bends its spine back and forth, squeezing its pouch until we burst free into the shallows.

I cough and shove myself to my hands and knees. Behind me, my wings drape, as soggy and muddy as my clothes. The sea horse snorts, blows froth from its equestrian muzzle, then sinks back into the depths.

Weak from physical exertion, I force myself to stand in the ankle-deep water. Dad gets up, offers his hand, and we wade to a cement embankment to sit and catch our breath.

“Any idea where this is?” I ask, wringing out my tunic. “Did you visit here as a child? Do you remember?”

His brows furrow. “This world is so different than I remember, Allie. It keeps changing. It’s as if we’re in a picture book and the pages are flipping in the wind.”

When I glance over my shoulder for a closer look at the dim tunnel, my breath catches: Graffiti stretches for what seems like miles—words like love, death, anarchy, peace, and pictures of broken hearts, stars, and faces are painted in fluorescent colors.

It’s a replica of the storm drain Jeb and I almost drowned in over a month ago, the one we used to go to as kids. It even sounds the same, with water dripping all around. But there’s one huge difference: The images on these walls are moving.

The broken hearts stitch themselves together, beat several times, then break and bleed. The stars shoot from one end to the other, leaving sparkles in their wake that catch fire and snuff out with the scent of scorched leaves. And the faces glare at us, as if angry. I muffle a whimper.

“Do you see that?” I ask Dad.

“It’s not possible.”

“Anything is possible here,” I correct, then stand, facing the ultraviolet images. My legs tremble, but I step forward. “You realize what this means?”