Ensnared (Splintered, #3)(48)

Jeb crouches to fill in the sketch’s lower half with paint. His lips twist to a cruel sneer. “That’s your favorite pastime, right? And you’ll have your prince of moths for company.”

I keep my expression unreadable. Morpheus staying behind is actually a good thing. He can accompany me to find Red. He knows his way around this world and understands its occupants better than me. The only downside is my vow to him, how determined he is to collect, and how a part of me is starting to crave those twenty-four hours at his side in Wonderland.

“So . . . you’re not taking Morpheus?” I manage to sound nonchalant.

“He’d be lost without his griffon.” It’s impossible to miss the smugness in Jeb’s voice. “He can’t fly without it, and he needs its homing device to lead him back here if he gets turned around.”

“So that’s his compass.”

“Right. All my paintings have the ability to find their way back to this mountain—to me—no matter how far they wander.”

“But Morpheus can use his shadow.” I attempt to reason with him.

“I took it away. It needs some repairs,” Jeb says—an answer for everything.

Unable to hide my annoyance, I blurt, “Well, that seems like a pretty stupid move. There’s safety in numbers, you know.” I bite my tongue so they won’t know I’m the one needing a safety net.

“We’re taking reserves.” Jeb motions toward one of the Japanese screens in the corner. The crane flaps its wings and pecks at the panel it’s stuck to.

“What, the cranes?”

Preoccupied and silent, Jeb guides Dad to back up into the painting, then seals them together with a flash of magic from his brush.

Dad steps away and the painting peels off the canvas—a quiescent, fluid trail along the floor—looking like an ordinary shadow with the addition of wings.

I wander over to the Japanese screen Jeb pointed to, curious.

“Al, wait,” Jeb warns, dropping his brush in some water and rushing my direction.

Before he can reach me, I peer behind the screen. A drop cloth hangs in place atop something shaped like a hat rack. I tug the covering away.

CC screeches and scrambles out, almost knocking me over in its haste to escape.

I scream.

“Hey!” Dad starts toward the creature.

Jeb catches it before it can run out the door. “It’s okay. I’ve forbidden him to ever touch either of you again.” He pats his doppelganger’s shoulder. “Show them, CC,” he urges—his voice tender, as if speaking to a child or a pet.

The creature turns and I steel myself for the macabre fissures in its face. Instead, a red heart-shaped patch covers its eye along with the gaping holes I saw yesterday. There’s a slit in the middle for CC to see out. The other perfect eye and cheek are uncovered, and the elfin markings sparkle in the daylight. It’s easier now to make out the creature’s porcelain coloring—somewhat lighter than Jeb’s olive complexion. With the heart over its eye, CC resembles a harlequin from a pantomime. All that’s missing is a diamond-patterned costume instead of jeans and a T-shirt.

Considering the red smudges on Jeb’s clothes and hands, this is the project he was working on before coming to the island.

“You made a mask for CC this morning?” I ask.

“I made it for you. Last night. I didn’t want his grotesque appearance scaring you again.”

The kindness of the gesture touches me. No wonder the circles under Jeb’s eyes seem so much darker today. I wonder if he slept at all.

He sends the creature out and avoids looking at me. “I’ll coax your shadow out when it’s time to fly,” he says to Dad.

Dad nods and watches the dark shape move with him along the floor.

“Clothes are next,” Jeb says, rinsing his brush. “They’ll be removable once they’re dry, and you can wear them multiple times. But the paint has to touch as much of your bare skin as possible to make them fit.”

Dad stalls. “As much as possible?”

“You’ll wear a loincloth. That’s how I make roach-boy’s clothes.”

Imagining Jeb and Morpheus in such an intimate position is both sexy and comical. As vain as Morpheus is, a lot of bickering about fashion choices must’ve taken place.

“What about Allie?” Dad asks, a paternal defensiveness raising the pitch of his voice.

Jeb concentrates on the paint he’s mixing. “Unless she wants to wear my clothes, we don’t have any other option.”

I shrug, accentuating the size of his shirt. “These are about to fall off. They won’t work for traveling.”

“She’s not going to wear just a loincloth while you paint on her,” Dad insists.

“Of course not.” Jeb tosses two rolls of elastic bandages my way. “I found these in your duffel bag. They’ll adhere to the paint to become part of the outfit. Cover your underclothes. Leave your arms, stomach, and legs bare. It’ll be no worse than wearing a bikini. And there’s a clip for you to pin up your hair.”

His curtness stings. Four weeks ago, he wouldn’t have suggested me wearing something like that without anticipation in his eyes. In fact, before all of Wonderland broke loose at prom, we were talking about taking the next physical step in our relationship. The biggest step. It’s excruciating to know I’ve lost the power to move him on a human level.