Splintered (Splintered, #1)(47)
Recounting what the octobenus said about vows among the netherlings—a fact verified by the promise Morpheus kept to Alison not to contact me—I add one thing more. “I want your word … an oath.”
“Well, drat.” Sighing, he holds a palm over his chest as if pledging allegiance. “I vow on my life-magic not to send away or harm your precious boyfriend as long as he’s loyal to you and your worthy cause. Although I reserve the right to antagonize him at every given opportunity. Oh, and I will happily explain all your questions.” He bows then—every bit the gentleman.
Leather suit and crumpled mask, that morbidly sexy hat. He thinks he’s a rock star. Maybe he is one in this place. But he’s given his word and he has to uphold it, or his wings will shrivel up and he’ll lose all his mojo.
Straightening, he takes a full step forward so his boot tips touch mine. “There. Since that unpleasantness is out of the way, shall we proceed? Seeing as we’re both grown up now, we have some re-acquainting to do.”
I scan the trees. All of the sprites have left. Nerves jump beneath my skin. “Where is everyone?”
“Preparing a celebratory banquet for us at the manor. We have no chaperones. Might as well take advantage.”
Panicked, I take a step back, but his wings curl around me and hold me in place, blotting out everything but him. It’s like we’re sharing a cave.
His skin is almost translucent in the dimmed light. “Time to let me inside, lovely Alyssa.”
Before I can respond, he peels off his mask and drops it to the grass underfoot. What I thought was makeup around his eyes are actually permanent markings—like tattoos, but inborn. They’re black like overblown eyelashes, with teardrop-shaped sapphires blunting the pointed ends. The effect is beautiful, in a macabre, circus-folk sort of way. I can’t resist the urge to reach up and touch the glistening tears. The jewels flash through a spectrum of color until they’re no longer blue sapphires but fiery topazes—orange and warm. His lashes close as if in bliss for all of two seconds. Then his inky gaze opens and swallows me whole.
“I am ageless.” His voice echoes inside my head, though his lips don’t move. “I can use magic to mimic any age I wish. Using this power affects netherlings mentally, physically, emotionally. We become the age in every way. So, in essence, the only childhood I ever had was with you in your dreams. Open your memories, and you will see.”
The song comes to life once more—Morpheus’s lullaby.
This time, I don’t fight it. I wrap my mind around the fluid notes, letting them permeate my every thought until …
Slivers of my past play out like movies across the black screen of his wings. I’m a newborn, lying in my crib. A soft satin blanket swaddles me—red with white-ribbon trim. My window is open, and a summer breeze whispers under eyelet curtains, swaying the mobile over my head. Rocking horses and ballerinas dance above me.
It’s the song that woke me. Not the mobile’s music but his. The moon shines, and he’s there, a moth silhouette hanging on the outside of my screen. His deep voice drifts in, cooing and gentle:
“Little blossom in white and red, resting now your tiny head; grow and thrive, be strong and keen, for you will one day—”
Before I can summon the verse’s end, I’m thrust into another memory. This one’s hazy, as if I’m looking through smudged glass. I realize it’s because I’m dreaming. I’m a toddler, not more than three, walking with a six-year-old Morpheus along a black, shining beach. His small wings curl over us for shade. I hold his hand, awed by the glistening spectacle in front of us: a tree made of jewels. Morpheus crouches to point out the maze on the tree’s base, then rolls up his lacy sleeve cuff to reveal a matching mark on his forearm. I turn my ankle, making the connection. He helps me press my birthmark against the trunk. As the doorway opens, he jumps to his feet and dances around. “We have the keys! We have the keys!” his small voice exclaims in childlike glee. I giggle, bouncing along behind him.
Then I’m back in my house two years later. It’s Saturday morning, and I’m drawn to the screen door by Morpheus’s lullaby—now as familiar as the pink-rose linens upon my daybed. The scent of a spring storm breathes through the mesh. He waits in moth form on the other side. It’s our routine: I play with him, my childhood friend, throughout my dreams at night—exploring our enchanted world in the glimpses he gives me—then I see him in intervals throughout the day as the insect. Lightning blinks, and I shiver at the door, fearing the storm. But his teachings are already embedded within my head, coming alive in a fluttery sensation of confidence that pushes me to find a way out. Soon I’m dancing with my moth in our garden. Mommy sees. Rushing outside, she carries long, sharp scissors and snips at flower petals while screaming, “Off with your head!” When I realize what she’s really after, a strange discomfort stirs inside. I’ve seen how the petals tatter beneath the blades. I don’t want her to ruin my moth’s pretty wings. I throw my hands over the scissors to stop her. The moth escapes unscathed. But I’m not so lucky …
Coming out of the trance, I drop to the ground and clutch aching palms to my chest. The scars throb as if freshly cut. Morpheus bows over me, smoothing my hair. “I told you that you were special, Alyssa,” he murmurs, the weight of his palm strangely comforting on the top of my head. “No one else has ever bled for me. The loyalty of one child for another is immeasurable. You believed in me, shared new experiences with me, grew with me. That has earned you my sincerest devotion.”