Splintered (Splintered, #1)(22)

He drops to his belly on the ground. His wings spread on either side like puddles of glimmering black oil as he leans over the pile of moth corpses. After stabbing one through the abdomen, he slides it into place behind the others on the string.

The girl watches, fascinated. “I want to stab one.”

He lifts a hand and five fingers splay out—white, graceful, and long. “Give me five secrets, and I’ll let you string a moth for each one you get right.”

Clapping, the girl grabs the Queen Red sketch and lays it in her lap. “She likes ash in her tea, still glowing with embers.”

The boy nods. “And why is that?”

Her head tilts as she’s thinking. “Um.”

I can’t explain how, but I know the answer. I bite my tongue, waiting to see if the girl guesses, rooting for her.

Lifting his line of corpses, the boy teases, “Looks like I shall finish this alone.”

She hops up, feet stomping the lime green grass. “Oh! The ash is for her mommy. Something about her mommy.”

“Not good enough,” he says, and stabs another moth onto his needle, the pile beginning to dwindle. He smiles wickedly.

Her frustration is tangible. He chides her like this often. Pushing her until she pushes back; but there’s another side to him, one that’s encouraging and patient, because I can sense her affection and respect.

He threads another moth, clucking his tongue. “Shame you’ll not get to help. I think you’re too much of a baby to hold a needle anyways.”

She growls. “Am not.”

Tired of his arrogance, I shout out the answer. “The hiss of steam when the embers snuff out in the tea! It comforts the queen. Reminds her of her mother’s shushes when she would cry as a baby.”

Both children snap their heads in my direction, as if they heard me. The girl’s face is exposed—a vivid reality. She’s me … a dead ringer for my prekindergarten school picture, missing front tooth and all. But it’s his face—the boy’s familiar black eyes leaking ink—that lands me back in my living room on my knees, the meadow vanishing from around me.

I’m numb. Is it possible? These aren’t memories of some movie I watched; they’re memories I made. If I had that memory trapped inside me, what else happened to me that I can no longer remember?

Have I actually been to Wonderland, spending time with some netherling creature …

I inhale a ragged breath. No. I’ve never been there.

My finger traces the lines of Queen Red’s flaming hair on the sketch. If I’ve never been there, how did I know about the queen and her mother? How do I know she was lonely as a young princess after her mother died, because the king couldn’t bear to spend time with her for her resemblance to his dead wife, and her sadness when her father remarried because he had to, since queens rule Wonderland?

I know these things because he taught them to me. The winged boy.

British … I’m reminded of the voice I heard in my head at work, along with the poster and the guy’s bottomless, bleeding black eyes. His challenge resurfaces in my mind: “I’m waiting inside the rabbit hole, luv. Find me.”

Luv. That’s what the boy called the girl—what the boy called me—in my resurfaced memory. It’s the same person … or creature … but he’s older now, like me. I suddenly feel like I’ve been missing him for years. My emotions scramble in two different directions—a heady mix between terror and yearning—making me dizzy.

The doorbell rings, crashing me back to the present. Dad’s garage-door opener has been on the fritz. It has to be him.

I stand. Stuffing covers the floor. Cottony fluff oozes out from the holes in the chair’s upholstery. It looks like one of those toys that squeezes Play-Doh through strategically placed orifices.

The doorbell rings again.

I drag stuffing out of my hair. How will I ever explain what I’ve done to the recliner?

Mind racing, I hide my findings inside my backpack, making a spontaneous decision to take it all to London. Then, considering the violent nether-realm creatures I saw online and the black-eyed, winged boy who is somehow a part of my past, I drop Dad’s army knife in, too.

After setting the bag aside, I stumble to the door and unlatch the lock, glancing over my shoulder at the mess.

As I open the door, Jeb steps up onto the porch, shoving his phone into his tux’s jacket pocket. I struggle to maintain a calm appearance. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he says back. Lightning slashes the clouds behind him. The flash casts shadows of his long lashes across his cheeks. A gust of wind carries his cologne to me.

Maybe he’s here to apologize. I hope so, because I could use his help right now.

“We need to talk,” he says. The sharpness in his voice pulls my defenses up instantly. He towers over me at the threshold. Despite the tuxedo, he’s still grunge, all the way from his unshaved chin to the bandana cinched around his left biceps. His ribbed white tank and weathered black combat boots in lieu of a dress shirt and shoes help complete the look. Paris Hilton of Pleasance High is going to have a hissy when she sees his wardrobe enhancements.

“Shouldn’t you be on your way to the powder-puff ball?” I ask, cautious, trying to feel him out.

“I’m not driving.”

Translation: Taelor’s picking him up in the family limo and is running fashionably late.