Ensnared (Splintered, #3)(89)
When my fingers glide across the image of our little boy, smudging him to an indiscernible blob, that stitch in my heart ruptures another agonizing degree. A coppery taste stings my tongue. I cough, cupping my mouth with my palm. As I pull my hand away, fresh blood spatters the paint between my fingers. I double over, struggling for breath.
The room shakes to the beat of a thousand pulses. Streaks of burgundy and black mingle with shivering light. My arms and legs ache. I absorb my wings to lighten the load, but my spine curls and I lower myself to my knees as darkness swarms my vision. I shut my eyes, focused on breathing. Rolling to my stomach, I let the shag carpet cushion my cheek as I drift toward unconsciousness, into the hazy, numb warmth of a vision . . .
My body is light as air, free of pain. A black oily sludge drips from the walls and seeps across the floor toward me. The puddles rise into phantom shapes like smoke.
Mome wraiths.
They engulf me, sniffing my hair, wailing in my ears until my bones clatter. Oily marks stamp my skin where they grip my arms, fingers of shadow and illusion biting into me. They drag me to the top of the castle’s tower and toss me down. My stomach leaps into my throat.
Far below, the rabbit hole opens—a black, spiraling tunnel. I fall fast, racing past open wardrobes, stacks of floating books, pantries, and jars of canned goods pinned to the tunnel’s sides with thick ivy curls. I clutch at a wall, knocking into furniture and tearing at vines until my descent slows.
Below in the darkness, a struggle takes place. Sister Two wrestles in midair with my mom, who’s strung up by webs. Mom uses her magic, animating wayward books and pinned-up furniture to bombard Sister Two’s head and torso. The grave keeper’s eight legs and poisonous, scissored hands are preoccupied deflecting the attack, which buys Mom time to break free. She slips out of the spider’s thrall and starts falling.
“Mom!” I shout.
She looks up. “Allie!” she calls back and reaches for me.
The wraiths wail overhead and pull the rabbit hole closed, shuttling us all out of the tunnel and propelling us into Wonderland on a landslide of dirt.
I dig myself out into the flower garden. Lightning slashes the sky, casting fluorescent hues across the landscape. A pungent, charred scent carries on a loud and melancholy wind. Dark purple clouds fill the sky.
Mom is just within my reach, surrounded by vicious zombie flowers as tall as trees. Sister Two scuttles toward her with an army of undead toys.
I clamber up to help Mom, but my hand passes through her. I’m nothing but a ghost here, and I realize I’m reliving her entry into Wonderland that fated night.
A white swan swoops down, transforming into Ivory. Landing on the ground, she glitters from wing tips to toes. Her magic radiates in the purest strains of silver. She twirls like a crystalline ballerina and white mist streams from her mouth. Frost cloaks the ruthless flowers, slowing their movements.
A man breaks through the trunklike stems. I recognize him as Finley, the mortal Morpheus used as an imprint when he was in the human realm. Finley’s dressed as an elfin knight and commands Ivory’s army. With a collective shout, the elves attack the flowers, their swords clanging against the iced stems, cutting through in one sweep. The flowers scream and fall, writhing on the ground. Sister Two hisses and herds her undead toys into the heart of Wonderland, retreating to the garden of souls.
Ivory turns and offers a hand to my mom.
Mom takes it, then looks back at me. “I’m safe and we’re surviving. But the heart of Wonderland is dying. The doldrums are closing in. Come soon. We’ll hold them off as long as we can.”
I try to make sense of her warning, picking my mind apart for the definition of doldrums, but it escapes me.
“Allie!” Mom screams. “Wake up . . . wake up!”
Lightning streaks across the sky and splits into my chest, slamming me back into my broken body and the reality of unquenchable pain.
Someone has propped my back against what feels like cool tiles. I’m too weak to even lift my eyelids. I inhale and strangle on the liquid filling my lungs.
“She’s dying,” Red says, somewhere beyond my closed eyes.
“As she should be,” Hart responds. “Just look at the mess she made of my paints! And she nibbled on a tart. Confounded little mouse.”
Judging by Hart’s tirade, we’re still in the playroom. The scent of her perfume suffocates me, even more potent with my eyes closed. It’s the stench of death—wilted flowers and rotted flesh.
“Let me out so I can preserve her vessel,” Red hisses.
“Don’t be cross with me!” Hart scolds. “You had to know this would be the result when you put the spell upon her.”
“No. Once the netherling side fully awoke to madness, it was supposed to absorb the human one, transform it. I could never have predicted the mortal half of her heart would put up such a fight. That it would be strong enough to hold on for so long and endanger them both.”
A whimper lodges within my throat and a bitter metallic flavor gags me. I want to clench Red’s neck, to choke her. Instead, I’m the one choking . . . on my own blood.
“It’s your spell. Simply reverse it,” the queen suggests, ignoring my struggle.
“Now that the heart is splitting in two, I know of no magic that can save her. Nothing for me to do other than pull her together from the inside.”