by A. G. Howard
“Sneakie-deakie.” I can’t stop smiling, remembering that moment when Uncle Bernie closed the Gravitron’s door and orange sparkles filtered into the chamber. Chessie was planning to hitch a ride all along.
The little netherling attempts to fly, but I stop him, closing my fingers over Morpheus’s palm. “Wait. There are rules here. If you use your magic, you’ll hurt yourself. It will mutate you . . . kill you even.”
“True for most,” Morpheus corrects, and lifts my hand away. “But remember, our Chessie is a rare strain. Both spirit and flesh all at once. He can use his magic. He’s the one full-blood netherling who can.”
“Other than you, you mean?” I goad.
Morpheus intentionally avoids my stare and concentrates on Chessie. “You should refrain from snapping your head off whilst here. With the way the landscape changes, you might risk it getting lost. Now, do you wish to fly, or would you like to hitch a ride?”
Chessie flutters up to Morpheus’s one remaining pocket and deposits himself inside, leaving only his head sticking out.
Before Morpheus can move away, I place a hand on his lapel.
Stretching to the tips of my toes, I nuzzle Chessie’s fuzzy nose with mine. “Thanks for healing me earlier,” I tell him, “and for keeping my necklace safe.” Just as I’m about to kiss his head, he ducks into the pocket.
My lips land in the middle of one of the gaps in Morpheus’s shirt, smacking his warm, soft skin.
“Sorry.” Blushing, I jerk back and lose balance as the ground beneath me totters.
Morpheus catches me around the waist, affection tinting his jewels a pinkish hue. “No apology necessary.”
Dad clears his throat. I swallow, stepping away.
“We need to get a move on.” Dad gathers the duffel bag and shoves the map at Morpheus. “Where’s Jeb, according to this?”
Still intent on me, Morpheus shoves the parchment away without even looking at it. “That scrap won’t get you anywhere. The landscape is unpredictable, if you didn’t notice. Whoever provided that map should’ve told you that. Perhaps, having limited human intellect, they can’t comprehend the magnitude of said alterations.”
My dad frowns. “We were told that the gates’ positions never change. I can see their glow, there and there.” He motions to the radioactive green waves on the distant horizon to our right and left.
Sighing, Morpheus turns his attention to Dad. “All right. Riddle me this. Which is north and which is south? Do you know from whence direction you arrived? It is impossible to keep from getting turned around in this world without a compass.”
“And you have such a compass?” Dad asks.
“I have my walking stick,” Morpheus answers cryptically.
Dad clenches his teeth. “So you expect us to just follow you.”
Morpheus’s lips curl to a spiteful grin. “Alyssa won’t have any trouble keeping up. As for you, I can carry you on my shoulder again if need be.”
It’s a vicious barb, and I send a scowl Morpheus’s way.
“Not necessary,” Dad says, unfazed. “You’ll lead us to Jeb. I have ways of convincing you.” He pats the sheathed dagger slung over his left arm.
“Agreed,” Morpheus snips. “It’s not as if I have a choice in the matter.” His retort is edged with frustration. It’s got to be more than Dad’s iron dagger persuading him. After all, he can take off and fly anytime he wants.
He turns on his heel and starts picking his way through the small floating islands, using the walking stick to bridge the moats like he did earlier. Dad and I follow.
Balancing on the bobbing ground makes the trek difficult until we learn where to step, and fall into a rhythm. Momentary bouts of activity dot the landscape: packs of fluffy rabbits bounding along in the distance that, upon closer inspection, have the same muzzles and sharp canines as wolves; crocodile-like creatures lifting their heads out of the moats—giant jaws yawning to reveal soft white teeth reminiscent of toothbrush bristles; and centipedes scrambling beneath thorny weeds to protect bodies covered with silvery velvet hides and legs studded with tiny green jewels.
Most of the animals and bugs ignore us, which I prefer. I can’t hear them or the flowers. But when my tunic catches on a plant with dangling fruits that look like leathery crimson teacups hung upside down, I consider touching it.
“I would not bother those, were I you,” Morpheus calls from in front of me, not even sparing a glance my way.
I jerk my hand back. “Is the fruit poisonous?”
“It’s not fruit,” Dad answers from behind. “Those are egg sacs for AnyElsewhere’s amphibious genus of bats.”
Bats that live on land and in water. Creepy.
I give the plants a wide berth so as not to disturb the teacup-shaped flower pods. The poem from Carroll’s story echoes in the back of my mind:
Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!
How I wonder what you’re at!
Up above the world you fly,
Like a tea tray in the sky.
Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!
How I wonder what you’re at!
While trying to remember the rest of the words, I stumble into a large shrub. A confused medley of monarch butterflies stirs from the leaves. Their wings are paper-thin and metallic, like a mix between hammered copper and stained glass. I reach to capture one, but my netherling intuition stops my hand midair.
“What about the butterflies?” I ask.
“They’re indigenous to this place,” Morpheus answers from a few steps ahead, before Dad can. “And by that, you can expect them to be the opposite of what you’d expect. The crocodiles’ teeth are as gentle as a brushstroke, and their temperament the same. They’re rather like kittens in this world. But butterflies? One sting, and you’re turned to stone. Or, they might choose to slice an artery with a razor-sharp wing. The constant changes in scenery serve to keep the wildlife distracted. Ignore them, and they’ll show you the same courtesy.”
As the graceful butterflies ride away on a current of air, I notice a shiny, sharp needle protruding from each of their thoraxes, curved and poison-tipped like a scorpion’s stinger.
Things quiet down as the wildlife moves on to their usual routines. If you could call anything about teacup-eggs and metal-winged scorpions usual . . .
After discussing a few other weird creatures with Dad, I release my wings and flutter to catch up to Morpheus.
He glances over as I light beside him. A satisfied smile greets me.
“What?” I ask.
“You may not be dressed like royalty, but it’s good to see you embrace your netherling side so openly.”
I study my red boots, suppressing a rush of pride. He doesn’t know the half of how easy it’s getting to let the madness have free reign. “So, are you going to tell me who this Manti is? Is he dangerous?”
“Bah. He’s an ambitious manticorn who’s been a lowly knave for far too long. He craves prestige and power. Nothing to concern you.”
The fact that there’s a real-life half man/half unicorn running around is enough to concern me, and Morpheus’s assurance feels forced at best.
“Don’t you think we’d get there faster if we flew?” I ask to suppress my jittery nerves. “Dad can use your griffon. You could let him ride him.”
Morpheus returns his attention to the landscape. His bejeweled profile sparkles from red to black. “I don’t much feel like sharing with your father. I’m sure you can understand.”
“Then wait for us, and I’ll go back and get one of the parasols the birds left.”
“Don’t much feel like waiting, either.”
I frown. “Stop being so petty.” I look back at Dad, who’s keeping us in his sight from a few steps behind. “Put yourself in his place. Can you imagine what he’s been through? The nightmares he’s had to relive and accept as reality over the past few hours?”
Several steps ahead of me now, Morpheus lifts his head, letting the humid breeze ripple the blue fringe at the
edges of his hat. “Yes, poor fellow. Must’ve been unbearable, realizing how much the woman he adores loves him back.”
Flapping my wings, I match his swift pace. “You can’t possibly compare their romance to . . .”
He appraises my face, wearing a wry smirk. “To whose, Alyssa?”
I nibble the inside of my lip, annoyed with myself for almost showing my hand. “Wait.” I study him, from head to toe. Yes, he still appears to be the same Morpheus I’ve always known. But there is one discernible difference: His wings trail behind him like drizzles of ink, whereas mine flap, lifting me inches above the ground. “This isn’t you holding a grudge. This is you changing the subject. You’re stalling.”
Morpheus scoffs as he drags another mat of drifting land close enough for us to step on without getting wet. “Ludicrous. Why would I do that?”
I jump lightly across. “Because you need the griffon. You can’t fly any more than my dad can.”
While we wait for Dad to catch up, Morpheus holds the adjoining island in place with the walking stick. The only sound is the geysers burbling all around. His silence speaks volumes.
I grasp his hand where he clutches his cane. Through his thin glove, I feel his muscles tense. “I haven’t seen you use your wings. Not once since I’ve been here. That bird thing . . . he said you have to recharge. You’re out of magic. Which means you’re not immune to the dome. Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
His other hand closes over mine—making me the captive instead of the captor—as he meets my gaze. “Of course. As soon as you tell me what’s in the teensy diary around your neck.”
My heartbeat hammers the tiny book where it rests atop my sternum. It’s still under my tunic, so there’s no way he’s seen it. “How did you—?”
“Chessie speaks through his eyes. All you have to do is look, and listen.”
Chessie’s tail slips over the edge of Morpheus’s pocket and squirms as if to taunt me.
“Actually,” I say, almost to myself, “we have been learning to communicate lately.”
“Good.” Morpheus nods. “A queen’s top priority should be an open rapport with her subjects. Now, back to my question.”
I press my lips together, not ready to share the diary’s secret. Bringing up my plan to vanquish Red will open the subject of the life-magic vow I made to Morpheus a month ago, that I’d spend twenty-four hours with him after I defeated her. This isn’t the time or place to discuss that.
Dad crosses to where we are, obviously distracted by our joined hands. “What are we stopping for?”
Morpheus scowls. “Simply waiting for the human to catch up, whilst knowing that he never truly will,” he quips, cool as always. Yet there’s a worried crease between his eyebrows—a subconscious tic he can’t hide from me. He never answered my question about his wings. The invincible Morpheus is crippled. And that saddens me.
We start walking again, Dad trailing behind. I want to press Morpheus more about his weaknesses here, but his pride won’t let him answer. So I change the subject. “I’m feeling curious again.”
He twirls his walking stick. “Ah, of course. It is your most endearing quality.”
I shake my head at his teasing. “The birds mentioned the Queen of Hearts earlier. Is that Red’s pseudonym here?”
Morpheus tilts his chin. “The Queen of Hearts is not in fact Queen Red. Your mum often confused them, though I tried to set her straight. Hart was a queen of the Red Court centuries ago. She is distantly related to you. She had barbaric tendencies, murdering her subjects for the most inane reasons. Taking a bite off a tart and leaving it on a plate, or spilling her finger paints. For this, she inherited the sobriquet of Hartless. In a twisted bid for respect, she began to collect the one thing her subjects said she was missing.”
“Hearts?” I ask, almost gagging at the thought. “That’s what the goon meant earlier, when he said those who don’t win the caucus race will lose their beating hearts?”
“Precisely. Netherling hearts are unique. They can be harvested so they continue to beat forever even after their bodily cage is gone. The queen has mastered this technique. She can also sense a heart’s quality. She uses the organs for everything from clothing embellishments to paperweights. She was banned from the kingdom for that practice, and sent here after she became too violent and murderous to contain. Unfortunately, now she is harboring Red’s spirit. Two queens for the price of one. It’s quite a bargain.”
My throat clenches. “But you said spirits can’t possess other bodies here . . .”
“Unless said ‘body’ is willing, and of the same bloodline. In the absence of magic, lineage becomes the strongest bind. The flower fae that Red arrived in was damaged. In fact, when I last saw her, I thought she was as good as dead—fodder for the goon birds. But she convinced them to carry her to Hart’s castle and worked out some sort of bargain with her ancestor to share her body. Although I have yet to hear what the terms were.”
Dread chills my bones. If Red is inside another queen’s body, a queen who is just as malicious and savage as she is, the memories in my diary could be useless. I need something else to bargain with. Maybe if I figure out Red’s ultimate plan . . . “I heard something earlier, from Humphrey’s friend, Hubert. We stopped at his inn.”
Morpheus practically beams. “Ah, Hubert. How is the old sot?”
“Glittery.” I furrow my brow. “And grumpy.”
A deep laugh rumbles in Morpheus’s chest. “I’ve always enjoyed his company.”
“Yeah.” I scowl. “He’s a real good egg.”
Morpheus laughs again, and I can’t contain an answering smirk.
“Anyway,” I continue, “he said something unbelievable about Red and Lewis Carroll. That they knew each other before Alice came into the picture.” Morpheus looks genuinely surprised but waits for me to finish. “Red wanted Lewis to find Wonderland, according to the egghead. Do you know anything about that?”
Morpheus doesn’t have a chance to respond before the sun rips through the clouds overhead, a blinding flash that makes us shield our eyes. The sky fades to a peachy sheen and the ground shakes. Morpheus grabs on to my elbow. Water drains from the moats and the puzzle pieces clack together once more. The barren trees that surround us sprout green shimmery leaves and white flowers; in the same instant, grass forms a fringe around our feet.
When everything stabilizes, including the ground, Morpheus lets me go and Dad catches up to us. I squint. It’s bright enough that we each cast a shadow, and the tall, leafy foliage forms dappled shade on the ground. Even the smells have changed, from stagnant and smoky to fragrant and flowery, carried on a temperate breeze. It’s like springtime in Texas. A pang of homesickness chases that thought. I’m about to mention it to Dad, when a green-tinged sparkly light—no bigger than a grasshopper—drifts down from the sky.
As it descends, the lima-bean-colored skin, glittery scales curved around breasts and torso, and pointed ears, come into view. The sprite’s wings flutter, milky white and furred with fuzz, and her hair glistens like strands of spun brown sugar. She drops onto Morpheus’s shoulder, burrowing beneath his hat. As he lifts a pinky to pet her foot, she peeks out from behind his blue curtain of hair, metallic eyes shimmering like copper sunglasses.
“So, my lovely little Nikki,” Morpheus says to her tenderly. “I suppose you’re here to warn me that my ride is coming.”
She speaks so softly into his ear, all I can hear is tinkling music like a wind chime.
“Wait,” I say. “Why can she fly without mutating? That doesn’t make sense.”
“You’ll have all the answers you seek soon enough.” Morpheus hands me his walking stick. The gesture is mechanical, almost resigned. “And you shall be reunited with Jebediah, as well. But beware. He’s not the same boy you once knew.”
“Huh?” I ask.
“Simply tell the cane to fly,” Morpheus says, sidestepping my question. “Above all, don’t get it wet.” Then he turns his b
ack on me.
The hair at my nape prickles when I notice his shadow doesn’t turn with him. Instead, it faces him head-to-head, more like a blotted reflection than an eclipsed outline on the ground. Sighing, Morpheus grasps hands with the dark silhouette and is lifted into the sky on ghostly echoes of his own wings. The tiny sprite looks me over once before following them.
I gape, unmoving.
Dad places a hand on my back. “We have to go. He’s our only ticket to Jeb and out of here.” His voice is tremulous, and I know he’s as freaked as I am.
I hand him the griffon staff.
Arranging the duffel bag on his shoulder over his dagger, he straddles the cane like a child atop a stick horse. “Fly,” he half whispers, and—with a rustle of feathers and fur—the creature comes to life. Its beak opens with a roar. The eaglelike wings thrash, rustling my hair, as the griffon ascends with Dad holding tight to its mane.
I suppress the questions spinning in my head, flap my wings, and soar up-up-up, keeping both Dad and Morpheus in my sights as we cut through fluffy clouds, headed toward the white-capped waves of an ocean that glistens in the distance.
A mountain rises from the water upon our descent as if it were waiting for us. The sprite and Morpheus, along with his shadow, plummet toward the boulders on the slope. The mountain opens and swallows them before the entrance closes again.
The moment Dad hits solid ground, the griffon transforms into the cane. I land beside them. My wings weigh heavy at my shoulder blades, weary from the workout. I wipe sweat from my brow.
“What now?” Dad asks.
I try to find a crevice or crack that might be the key to opening the mountain. “Could I borrow that?” I reach for Morpheus’s walking stick and use the talons to dig at some pebbles. When nothing happens, I stomp my feet along jagged outcroppings.
“Stop it!” A voice—grinding, like stones clacking together. “Stop it at once!”
My chin drops.
“That’s no way to make a first impression,” the voice speaks again.
“Yes, to make an impression, you really should have a chisel,” a second, less peevish voice, adds.