Ensnared (Splintered, #3)(99)
I leap from the unhinged jaw into the heavily wooded thicket behind Dad. Jeb and Morpheus bring up the rear. The neon grass glistens with frost and crunches beneath my boots. A mildewed scent hangs on the air, even though everything is cloaked in winter.
Tangled branches and looking-glass rejects—netherlings that have been spit back out of the tulgey in strange and awful forms—all stand motionless. Morpheus names the creatures: a carpenter ant with a body made of tools; a hornet with a trumpet for a nose; and a grasschomper with a locust’s body and a horse’s head, sporting a clump of frosty grass sticking out from its muzzle—as if it was suspended mid-chomp.
The scene is uncannily like the frozen tea party Jeb and I encountered on our first trip here. But unlike the tea party, there’s no broken watch that has suspended time in its icy thrall. This is something else entirely.
I meet Jeb’s gaze and he tips his head, acknowledging the memory.
Morpheus stops beside me. Glowing blue flecks swirl around his hands like fiber-optic mittens. They brighten and dim, then brighten again. His magic is stuttering as it warms up, like a car’s motor that has sat too long without use.
“Are you sure you told us everything about the vision?” he asks me as Jeb and Dad search for a path.
“I think so.” I rub my forehead. “I was . . . in a weird place when I had it. Why?”
Morpheus purses his lips. “I expected the terrain to be under a perpetual winter. But Ivory froze the residents. I can’t understand her motive. It was the landscapes that were in danger of falling into disrepair. Not the netherlings.”
I nibble on my lip. Something nudges at the back of my mind. Didn’t Mom use a strange word to describe the sickness that had fallen over everything? But I can’t remember what it was . . . it started with a D.
Frustrated by my amnesia, I trundle over to where Dad and Jeb are clearing away fallen branches from a trail that appears to be the only way out.
Dad stops me as I reach down to help. “Allie, let us do this. I don’t want you to reopen your cuts.” He turns to Morpheus. “Will you be able to heal her soon?”
Bright orbs of blue light—strong and unfaltering—burst along Morpheus’s fingertips. The glow reflects off his face. He smirks like an enchanted schoolboy. “Yes.”
Chessie flutters around him in celebratory spins.
Dad nods and takes an iron dagger from the sheath at his shoulder. “All right. Jeb and I are going to see if this trail is safe. We’ll be back.”
Jeb squeezes my hand before he follows. I hold on to him, surprised to see his tattoo still glowing, though instead of violet, it’s pure red. He lifts his eyebrows in a bewildered gesture before rolling down his sleeve, an unspoken request for us to solve the mystery later. He and Dad duck under a mass of low-hanging tulgey branches and vanish from sight.
Chessie’s eyes whirl, telling me and Morpheus how much he’s missed his home and wants to revisit his favorite haunts.
“First, find Alyssa’s mum and Ivory,” Morpheus insists. “Let them know we’re here. If the mirror passages are working, have them open one for us.”
Chessie agrees, then weaves through some closely knit trees, gone before I can blink.
Morpheus lifts his hands, testing his power. Blue electric filaments reach to every branch in the canopy overhead, shaking white billows loose. He stands there—wings arced high—proud and regal as a fluffy downpour showers over him. A hearty laugh rumbles deep in his chest. He’s carefree and playful, even more than when he was in his room in AnyElsewhere. He’s been without magic for so long, he’s drunk on it.
The snow flurries over me, too, cold and refreshing. It reminds me of Texas and the seasonal snowfalls Jeb, Jenara, and I played in as kids. Snowmen, snow ice cream, snow forts. I can’t help but laugh with him, in spite of how weak I feel.
“Dance with me, blossom,” he coaxes, and when I hesitate, he reels me in with his magic. I snuggle into his chest and let myself savor his vitality, wishing I could absorb it.
He wraps an arm around my waist and clasps my hand with his. Lips pressed to my dreadlocked head, he hums the lullaby’s tune while his inner voice fills my head on a frequency only I can hear: “ You dazzled me today. So uninhibited. So filled with malice.”
I smile secretly and follow his graceful steps. His wings cascade around us like swirls of ethereal ink.
“In fact,” his mind-speak continues, “now that I have my magic back”—he spins me out, then pulls me against him again—“I expect you to give me another crack at our game.”
“Game?” I ask.
“I am not averse to roughing it up,” he answers, no longer humming. He takes my hand, nips at the knuckles with taunting teeth, then guides my fingers to the red marks on his neck. “Wrathful queen and wayward footman . . . that will be standard fare for our love-play. Sans Red’s vines, and we’ll both be scantily clad.”
I snort. “You’re delirious.”
“I prefer the term ‘mad.’”
I smile up at him, thrilled to see him teasing and content. I press my ear to his chest so I can hear his strong heartbeat. I try to make my dual heart merge to one beat and follow its perfect rhythm. I fail.
“Alyssa, I am whole again,” he murmurs as our dance slows to a gentle rocking motion.