Splintered (Splintered, #1)(79)

A few of the pixies pause at my feet and look from the chain to me, debating whether it’s worth the effort to bind me again. I pick up the links, then swoop my wings low to bowl the creatures over, stomping my feet for good measure. The pixies squirm into some hedges where the others have already hidden.

Whimpers shake the leaves, along with flashes of light from their caps. The creatures sound more scared than I feel.

I’m in a covered garden, dark and musty. Over to my left, I spot a smattering of glittery items—from bracelets and necklaces to unset jewels—and a pile of bones along with several reels the size of bicycle tires filled with gold, shimmery thread. I’m reminded of the creepy staircase Jeb and I climbed down to get into the heart of Wonderland; it could’ve been built from these materials. Maybe the jewelry is the pixies’ payment for their creations.

I pick up a reel of gold and tug on the thread. Though it looks elegant and fragile, it’s deceptively strong, like telephone cord. Strong enough to hold Jeb’s weight.

As I loop the chain through the hole in the middle of the reel to fashion a sling, a few of the pixies scurry out to drag the remaining reels, bones, and jewelry into their hiding places, hissing at me.

I size them up, searching my memory for anything Morpheus taught me about them, trying to assess if they’re a threat. I remember a sketch he drew. How his long, elegant fingers pointed to their likenesses. He said they’re docile and shy and love anything that glitters. Like snakes, they shed their skin when they grow, but, unlike snakes’, their skin decomposes in greasy patches before falling off, giving them a unique rapport with the dead. In fact, they feel more at home with corpses than living things.

I’m nothing but a novelty to them. They have no reason to hurt me. The staccato beat of my heart slows.

I turn on my heel, looking for an exit. The wings tangle under my boots, causing me to step all over them. Twinges of pain shoot through my spine and shoulders, proof the appendages are attached to my skeleton.

A few wayward giggles shake the bushes and I glare at my invisible audience while freeing myself. My wings can’t stretch all the way up, due to the low-hanging thorny vines and briars of the roof.

I pull a wing over my right shoulder to make sure I didn’t hurt it. Contact with the veinlike cross sections sends pulses through my back. It’s like touching sunlight and webs. Warm, ethereal, but not sticky … fine-spun.

I’m struck by how something so delicate can give me such a sense of power. My wings are not black like Morpheus’s. They’re closer to white frosted glass with spots of glittery jewels that blink every color of the rainbow like the jewels under his eyes. The pattern reminds me of butterflies.

Butterfly. Ironic, that all these years Dad has called me that. Now I really am one. A trapped butterfly.

I look around again. The air down here is motionless and clammy. Judging from the sharp-cornered hedges, I’m smack in the middle of a garden labyrinth worthy of any gothic suspense novel. There are three openings branching off from here. One of them is my escape route.

Rain slams harder on the leaves overhead. I have to hurry.

Slinging the chain and reel over my shoulder and underneath my wing, I jingle a warning to the pixies for good measure—I won’t go down without a fight—then choose the opening on my right, where a soft glow radiates. I weave my way through the maze, stopping to work the chain free from underbrush each time it gets snagged.

Soon the path branches off again, this time to five options—all equally bright. I take the opening in the middle and keep moving.

Ten steps in, and I plunge through an archway, ending up where I first started. The pixies have crawled out of hiding. Their miner’s caps bounce light all around as they snicker. I glare at them and they scrabble back to the hedges, leaving oily tracks behind.

Maybe it’s time to bargain for some answers.

Taking off my belt, I wave it in front of the hedges so the dim light catches the rubies. “I’ll give this to whoever shows me the way out of the maze.”

Murmurs erupt, but no one volunteers. I plop to my knees and part the leaves at the base of the closest hedge. A set of reflective eyes peers back from the depths. The light on the creature’s cap is turned off.

“Hi.” I amp up the charm, trying to be diplomatic like I was with the ferret creature at Morpheus’s banquet. It’s not easy when the subject smells like rotting meat. I thread the belt through the leaves, letting the pixie see the jewels up close. “Pretty, right?”

It yanks the belt out of my hand and dons the accessory like a scarf. Petting the sparkly rubies, it purrs.

“Do you know why Sister One wants me here?” I ask.

The pixie blinks its long lashes demurely. Its eyelids are vertical, closing side to side like stage curtains before snapping open again. Just plain freaky.

“Usses usn’t know,” it murmurs.

“Okay.” I can buy that. “But Sister Two doesn’t want me here, right?”

The creature shudders in answer.

“Then help me get out, and the big bad sister will never know. You won’t get strung up that way. Make sense?”

The pixie nods. “Uses the ee-kay, sparkly talkeress,” it whispers before withdrawing deeper into the leaves.

“The key?” I ask aloud. He can’t mean the one Jeb left in the rabbit hole door. But what other key is there?