Ensnared (Splintered, #3)(36)

Dad doesn’t respond.

Of course he doesn’t. He can’t see inside my past.

“These are from Jeb’s memories,” I explain. “Our memories.” The thought that I’m about to see him makes every muscle in my body leap. I take off for the far end of the tunnel.

“Allie, we need to be careful.” Dad catches up, gripping my shoulder.

I shake him off. “We have to find him!” But with each step, the tunnel shrinks, and so do we. Either that, or it’s an illusion—because I don’t feel like I’m shrinking. I’ve done that enough to have the sensation memorized.

No. We’re not getting smaller. The images are growing, elongating. They lift from their places on the walls and scrape our skin as we pass. The stars singe my sleeves; the hearts drizzle wet blood. The faces nibble at me—their teeth cold and prickly like straight pins.

I shiver as Dad and I move faster.

A sketch stands guard at the tunnel’s end—a neon orange fairy whose wings spread behind her in pinks, blues, and whites.

It’s me. The one Jeb painted on the tunnel wall in our world. But this is not a part of the wall. She’s facing us, an ominous barricade . . .

“Stay behind me.” Dad draws the dagger, waving it as he faces her. Bright colors reflect off the shiny blade and the iron bypasses her lines. Dad steps through without any trouble. “Come on, Butterfly. It’s just an illusion.” He holds out a hand.

I reach for him, but something jerks his shoulder from the shadows behind. The dagger falls from his grasp and hits the floor with a clang. “Run, Allie!” he yelps as he’s dragged away out of my sight.

Terror ices my spine. “Dad!”

My fluorescent double steps back into place, blocking me. “You should be in pieces like the others,” she whispers. Her breath smells of sadness, lost dreams, and abandoned hopes—like stale, dust-covered keepsakes in a forgotten attic.

I grit my teeth against revulsion and fear. Dad walked right through her. That’s proof she’s not real.

I lunge.

My body meets a prickly barrier, each sketched line piercing like barbed wire. I yell and my attacker echoes me. I rip free from her barbs and hit the ground. My bones rattle even with my wings cushioning the impact.

The drawing drifts toward me, her body and face warping as she gets closer. Her mouth stretches cavernously wide and she screeches, “Shred her!”

Her thorny fingers scrape my neck. I shield my face, trying to use magic to recruit the other graffiti along the walls to help. Either I’m too panicked or they’re under someone else’s spell, because they refuse to obey.

I roll and snatch the dagger Dad dropped in the adjoining passage. In the same move, I whip the blade through the fairy’s fluorescent lines, but it has no effect. She attacks again, along with the other graffiti now pulled away from the walls. They surround me: glowing, barbed wire artwork.

I toss away the dagger and hold my hands over my head like we did in school during tornado drills. The diary at my neck trembles and shakes. I brave a look at the sensation of warmth at my chest. Light radiates from under my tunic, as if the words on the pages are infrared.

The drawings shudder and back up, each of them whimpering, even the fairy sketch. They reattach to the walls and settle into place, leaving the adjoining tunnel unguarded.

I scoop up Dad’s dagger and plunge after him, using the red glow from the diary to guide me. It’s the first time I’ve seen the tiny book react in such a way, as if the magic inside is burning to come out. I’m not sure what caused it, but I’m grateful. It saved my life.

Absorbing my wet, weighted wings into my skin, I maneuver down the narrow corridors. The sound of dripping water fades. My plastic boots splat on the stone floor. Every nerve in my body skitters at what the sketches planned to do to me and what might be happening to my dad.

You should be in pieces like the others . . . Shred her!

What did the fairy sketch mean, the others? I squirm in my damp clothes.

The ceiling drops gradually, as if I’m growing again. The sensation is dizzying, but also gives me a sense of security. The bigger I am, the stronger I feel.

Masculine voices echo through the corridor and lure me to a passageway on my right, where soft slivers of light filter from behind a heavy-looking door that’s ajar. I sneak toward it, in hopes one of the voices belongs to Dad.

“You’ve no inkling what you’ve done in your desperation to keep me under your thumb.” It’s Morpheus. “No idea what you caused me to leave behind.”

“It wasn’t desperation,” Jeb answers.

An all-encompassing relief swarms through me at the sound of his voice. I inch closer to the door’s opening.

“The sprites told me Manti was after you,” Jeb continues from the other side. “That he’d sent some goon birds your way. And this is the thanks I get. For saving your ass for the thousandth time since we’ve been here.”

“Bloody hell, my arse,” Morpheus speaks. “Your arse is on a blasted power trip, as always. But you crossed a line. And once I tell you what you’ve done, you’ll never forgive yourself.”

Jeb huffs. “Uh-huh. Sit up here so I can fix your ear. I have a painting to finish.”

The domestic undertone of their interaction is so fascinating it makes me pause. I wonder how long they’ve been holed up here together. For the entire time they’ve been trapped in this realm? I peer inside.