Ensnared (Splintered, #3)(82)
A death he saved me from, I remind myself.
I clench my jaw as he holds my hand, fingers woven through mine. I’ve postponed unleashing my magic and the deadly dress. I’m going along with the engagement charade for three reasons:
One: Jeb is somewhere in this castle, and I have to keep my cool long enough to locate him.
Two: I’m so relieved that Morpheus’s heart isn’t on the chopping block, I can’t find it in my own heart to strangle him yet.
And three: Morpheus’s expression promises answers and begs cooperation. There’s more to this than he’s letting on.
I’ll finesse the truth out of him once he and I are alone, which must be what he had in mind when he requested we have a moment to ourselves before the ceremony. Red agreed, but each step I take becomes more weighted. I suspect she was compliant because we’re going somewhere private to transfer her spirit.
Without the lifeline of the diary, I may as well be drowning. I tighten my fingers through Morpheus’s as waves of insecurity roll over me. Holding my gaze, he lifts my hand and kisses my gloved knuckles. He’s genuinely glad to see me.
That would change in a blink, were he to hear about my life-magic vow to Jeb. Even though the human side of me has always belonged to Jeb, even though somewhere in Morpheus’s heart he’s always known it, he’s going to be furious. Both guys may have learned to coexist in this world, but if Jeb stands in the way of some master plan, things could change in a heartbeat. I won’t tell Morpheus while we’re in this castle. His jealous, feral side is too unpredictable when it comes to Wonderland or me.
After climbing two flights of winding stairs, we walk through a marble hallway. Hundreds of shadow boxes line the walls, boasting a selection of hearts—different sizes and shapes—that pump wildly in their compartments. With each thump, blurs of red smear the glass lids, as if the organs are knocking on the doors of their prisons. A coppery, meaty stench curdles my stomach.
I try not to compare the bugs I killed and hung on the walls at home to what Hart has done, but the parallel is striking. Collecting must be in my blood. I don’t dare speculate what else might be . . .
The guards open a set of double doors and usher us into a chamber with black shag carpet and burgundy tiled walls. The queen accompanies us inside against her will. It’s apparent by her crimson hair that Red has taken over again. After we’re safely inside, the guards step out into the hall and close the door behind them.
“Welcome to Hart’s playroom.” Red’s breathy murmur slithers into my personal space.
Her presence pricks that frangible place behind my sternum where she left her mark. I crush my fur-lined bodice against my skin in an effort not to be paralyzed by the climate of terror and oppression that surrounds her in any form. I have to be stronger than her.
I familiarize myself with the room, seeking out possible weapons. An assortment of gold velvet parlor chairs and chaise lounges lines the walls. Stolen hearts provide the decor: picture and mirror frames utilize the throbbing organs in grisly albeit creative ways; throw rugs ornament the carpet, tasseled with sprite-size thumping beads like the ones on the queen’s sleeves.
The most intricate and morbid display is a giant brass chandelier at the center of the domed ceiling, tipped with the pulsating organs. Impaled with light bulbs, they glow from within, casting veined luminaries along the white ceiling. The contractions of hollow muscles and the rush of blood circulate in an eternal loop, as if projected onto a screen. With the discordant vibration of heartbeats and the strange, pulsing lights, the room feels like a conscious thing—and we are the prey, trapped inside its rib cage.
Is this what Morpheus felt like, being swallowed by the bandersnatch?
Disoriented, I catch his elbow. In response, one of his wings enfolds both of mine, snuggling me into his side in unwavering support. His scent surrounds me.
“The one thing Hart asks,” Red says, her vines wrestling the queen’s hands to maintain control, “is that you not touch her paints or her tarts.”
A table is set with pastries along with a glass of white liquid that looks like milk. On the wall above it hangs an easel filled with blank papers held in place by a clip. A set of finger paints in small containers waits to be used. The sight of them makes me think of Jeb, and I gasp against the shortness of breath that has come to accompany the knifelike stab behind my breastbone. Dizziness blurs my vision.
As if sensing my distress, Morpheus takes a seat on a parlor chair and draws me into his lap—my wings draped to one side of his legs and my calves along the other. He folds his arms around me, completely at ease.
“You see. It’s as I told you,” he speaks to Red, his voice a deep rumble close to my ear. “We’re utterly in love, and planning our future.” He settles our joined hands in my lap, causing the dress’s tiers to jingle softly. I struggle not to stiffen as I wait for the ripping inside my heart to subside. The backs of my thighs are flush against his lithe, muscular ones, a distraction and a comfort. “She wore the wedding dress I told you of. Is that not proof enough? Now, as per your side of the bargain—”
“Oh no,” Red intones. “Not until we are married. That is the bargain. You’ve tricked me once. It won’t happen again.”
“We are married? What do you mean, we?” I look over my shoulder at Morpheus, who offers a pleading wince from beneath his hat’s brim. It’s infuriating to have the iron dome overhead. Without it, he could send me his thoughts instead of me playing this game blind.