by A. G. Howard
Dad must see how close I am to losing it. “Let her go, Ali-bear,” he says. “She hasn’t had much time to herself today.”
Finally, Mom agrees after insisting I take an extra quilt, “since the evenings are cooler with the wet weather we’ve been having.” But I have other plans for it.
On the patio, strands of twinkle lights glow along a gazebo-like trellis that houses the swing, camouflaging it from the back window.
I fluff up the pillows on the porch swing and strategically place the blanket that’s already there over them. Then I balance my book open on top, so if Mom peeks out through the window, she’ll see the silhouette through the trellis and think it’s me.
Quilt in hand, I take the path away from the porch. The fragrances of flowers are magnified by the damp evening air. Moonlight and the twinkle lights reflect off the pale blossoms and foliage. Everything is relaxed and dreamy. The opposite of how I feel.
I spread the quilt in the darkest corner of the yard, out of view of the back door and window. This is the one patch of ground that isn’t overgrown with flowers or plants. A weeping willow’s canopy hangs over the fence that separates Jeb’s backyard and ours, creating a cave. Mom tried to plant things here a few times, but when they never blossomed, she decided there was too much shade.
Little does she know it’s because Jeb and I have spent so many nights under this tree—sneaking out after everyone went to bed—to talk, to count stars, and to do other things …
It’s our sanctuary.
We’re the ones who stifled the seedlings. And I have no regrets.
I lie down and wrap my fingers around Jeb’s locket at my neck.
Moonlight streams through the cluster of branches overhead, and the water fountain gurgles. Everything about this place reminds me why I chose to stay in this world last year, why I love being human. And Morpheus wants me to leave it all behind for a battle in another realm.
I’m starting to realize he’s right. If it means saving those I love, I have to go.
But first I’m going to tell Jeb. I want him in on this. Maybe because I know he’ll try to convince me it’s okay not to leave. Not for something so dangerous. Not when I might not make it back.
I want to hear that it’s okay to be a coward. Even if I won’t believe it.
My hand brushes the key necklace, and the image of a crumbling Wonderland blinks through my mind. My heart hurts—a tearing feeling, as if it’s being ripped down the middle.
A cricket bursts into song somewhere to my left. Between chirps, it taunts me. Courage, Alyssa. Many changes coming … mad, mad changes. They’ll bring out the queen in you.
I freeze in place, fingers clamped on both necklaces. A clunk on the other side of the fence silences the cricket. Leaves shake above my head, and several flutter down to tickle my face. I brush them aside to study the shadowy silhouette outside the canopy.
“You look incredible in the moonlight.” Jeb’s voice, low and silky, is a balm, soothing away the foreboding echoes of the cricket’s message.
I tuck the necklaces under my tunic’s collar, voice caught in my throat.
Branches part to reveal his face and disheveled hair. He’s wearing a sexy, sideways smile. “I know, I’m two minutes late. I deserve a spanking.”
I snort, calmed by his teasing. “You should be so lucky.” I can do this. I can tell him anything. It’s Jeb, after all.
He lets himself drop, hanging on to a branch with one hand so he can flip around, feet first. It’s a trick he used when we would play king of the mountain in our earlier summers.
In one graceful movement, he straddles me, his weight pressing me into the soft quilt. “This okay? Am I too heavy?”
I tighten my arms around him when he tries to balance on his elbows and knees. “Stay just like you are.” He settles back into place, and I twitch my muscles in contentment. Nothing feels as perfect or as safe as being breathless under him.
His hand glides along my rib cage and stops at each bone, like he’s checking to make sure I’m in one piece. “Finally, I have you all to myself,” he whispers, breath hot on my face.
I bask in the scent of his cologne. “Jeb, I need to tell you something.”
“Mmm, can’t it wait, skater girl?” His lips nuzzle my neck.
Hearing my nickname breaks me. I pull up his head to kiss him. Just once, before I completely shatter his world. My fingers wind through his hair. He rolls us so I’m on top, and we lie like that: my body imprinting on his, mouths trailing necks, ears, faces. We kiss under the stars, outside of the world’s reach, and don’t stop until we’re both breathless.
Panting, we draw back and stare at each other—overwhelmed by the drama and emotions of the past few days. And it’s about to get so much worse.
“So …” Jeb breaks the silence. “Is this your way of distracting me so you can steal my king?”
I almost smile at the memory. “Am I that transparent?”
He pulls me to lie beside him on the quilt, brushing hair from my face. “Can’t believe we wasted so many summers playing chess under this tree while your dad was at work.”
“You’re just mad because I always won,” I say.
He rests his head on his outstretched arm. “It was worth it. I got to tickle you afterward.” He traces my lips with a fingertip. “I liked having an excuse to touch you.”
I kiss his finger. “Even back then you thought about touching me?”
“Spending every day surrounded by sketches you inspired left little time to think of anything else.”
I suppress a wave of longing for the simplicity of the life we once lived. I had no idea at the time how easy it was.
How am I supposed to tell him I’m leaving? How do we say good-bye to moments like these?
I skim my fingernail along his ear, searching for the words.
He shivers and smiles. “Speaking of my artwork,” he says before I can speak, “we need to talk about Ivy. We were wrong about how much she’s willing to pay.”
I tighten my lips at hearing the heiress’s name. No wonder he was so evasive on the phone. He was counting on that money to help us get started in London.
This is the perfect opportunity. I’ll tell him it doesn’t matter. That money is the least of what’s standing in the way of our future now.
I open my mouth, but Jeb beats me to the punch again. “She’s offering ten thousand more,” he says as he sits up and brushes leaves from his T-shirt and jeans.
I scramble to sit beside him, mind spinning. My tunic slides off my shoulder, leaving it cool and exposed. “Twenty thousand bucks? For one fairy painting?”
Jeb glides a fingertip along my shoulder. “Not exactly. She wants a series … three new fairy paintings. Sexier ones.”
When Jeb paints me, he poses me, evaluates every contour of my body, studies the way the light and shadows skim my skin, which often leads to things other than work. I’ve missed those sessions. It would be so perfect to start them again. The thought makes me ache even more not to leave.
I swallow, fighting to say good-bye, wishing I didn’t have to.
Jeb leans down to kiss my bare shoulder—tender, warm, and sweet—then covers my skin with my sleeve. “You need to know, there’s one condition,” he says, leveling his gaze to mine. “Ivy wants me to paint a collection of her. She wants to be my muse.”
I shove aside all thoughts of Wonderland and magic wars. “Ivy wants to model for you?”
Jeb was bound to get commissioned for customized portraits eventually, but I wasn’t prepared for that to happen today.
He watches me in silence.
“What do you mean, sexier paintings?” I press.
“Well, she has this amazing costume. She wore it when we met at the studio. It’s a little revealing, but …” Jeb scrapes his palm down his chin. “It’s not a nude series or anything. I told her I wasn’t down with that.”
I’m grateful for his chivalry, but it’s a small comfort. The thought of
him being tempted day in and day out by a sophisticated, experienced, half-naked woman makes my stomach churn.
“Al, you just need to meet her. You’ll feel better when you see how serious she is about the art. She has some really cool ideas … eccentric even beyond the costumes. She’s an old soul, like us.”
Old soul. Bad enough that she’s beautiful and rich. He’s not supposed to like her personality, too.
My heart sinks so low I would trip over it if I was walking. That possessive chant resurfaces: mine mine mine.
The leaves around us begin to flutter, even though the wind isn’t blowing. I concentrate on the willow branches, sending everything I’m feeling into them. They curl around Jeb’s shoulders, as if to hold on to him—a puppet’s strings to make him do my bidding.
He jumps, and the limbs loosen. Looking up at the swaying canopy, he frowns. He doesn’t realize I’m causing the motion, that something is waking inside of me, something I’ve kept hidden for months. Something I don’t want to suppress right now, because the feral anger makes my insecurities seem conquerable, which in turn makes me feel stronger.
As I notice the bewilderment on his face, ice-cold shame washes over me. I stanch my anger and jealousy. The branches go still again.
Jeb’s gaze meets mine. “Did you see that?”
My heart pounds. “See what?”
He rubs his hair. “I could’ve sworn …” He stops himself. “Must’ve been a gust of wind.”
I have no response. I’m horrified by how easily my darker side bubbled over—by how much I wanted to overpower Jeb. To control him.
He must see the shame clouding my features because he takes my hand and laces our fingers together. “I’m sorry to spring this Ivy thing on you. But I need to give her an answer. She’s only here through this week. If I turn her down, it could affect my reputation.” He studies our linked hands. “Collectors and reviewers might think I’m a one-trick pony.”
“I get it,” I mumble, trying not to let my emotions control me again.
I wish he’d at least pretend this was a hard choice for him, but his expression is hopeful. It’s obvious he wants me to say I’m cool with all of this, whether for the money or for the artistic growth. But it hurts, even though I know it shouldn’t. I’ve always been his inspiration, and this just proves he no longer needs me … at least artistically.
To be honest, it seems like he’s been growing away from me for a while now, and that’s what really hurts.
The twinkle lights over the porch swing blink on and off, my parents’ subtle hint that I quit studying and come inside. Their timing sucks.
Jeb lifts me to my feet, leans in, and kisses my forehead. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.” I take a step back, but he grabs the neck of my tunic and the heart-shaped locket underneath to keep me close. “Hey, don’t you forget that I love you.”
“I love you, too.” I hold his hand at my chest. The leaves rattle around us again before I catch myself.
After glaring overhead, Jeb gives me a lingering hug and kiss, then stretches to pull himself into the tree.
“Wait.” I snag the waistband of his jeans before he can settle in the branches. None of this has to happen. I can get his mind off Ivy and this commission for good by showing him the truth about Wonderland, about me. “Can you pick me up from school tomorrow?”
Hanging above me, he frowns. “I’m not sure I can leave work that early.”
I grind my teeth against the disappointment.
“Okay,” he says, as if to placate me. “Okay, I’ll find a way.”
“Good. Because I’m ready to show you my mosaics.”
I only hope he’s ready to see them.
Thursday morning, I don’t take the time to argue with Mom. I choose an outfit she’ll approve of—a two-layer organza petticoat skirt that hangs past the knees of my pinstriped leggings—and step into first period as the five-minute warning bell rings. I finish my chemistry test before class is half over, which leaves an excruciating two more periods to sweat over what I’ll say to Morpheus about my decision not to leave the human realm until I fix things with Jeb.
Morpheus isn’t going to make it easy for me.
Several times between classes, I pass him in the halls with his harem. He walks by without a word, snubbing me, yet each time manages to rake his arm across mine or brush our hands. It’s painful in the strangest way.
Finally, fourth period rolls around, and I shut myself in the abandoned girls’ bathroom to wait for him. The bell rings, and soon the hall empties.
Sunlight dapples the floor through the hopper window, but the room around me is gray and still. Today the bugs have been relentless in their whispers, as if the cricket from last night is leading them in a revolt:
They’re here, Alyssa. They don’t belong … send them back.
I lean against the sink. “Who?” I whisper aloud, frustrated with the obscure warnings.
As I’m waiting for a response, I hear a rustle inside one of the half-closed stalls. I inhale a startled breath, drop my backpack, and lean down to look under the metal door, careful not to let my hair touch the damp tiles.
“Is someone there?”
No answer and no cowboy boots. Unless he’s crouched atop the toilet, it’s not Morpheus. Steeling myself, I swing the door open.
A gurgling hiss greets me along with the distorted face of the clown. It’s toy-size again and standing on the toilet lid. I screech and stumble back, tripping over my backpack. My elbow knocks the paper towel dispenser open. Squares of brown paper flutter down all around me.
Hopping to the floor, the demented toy scurries after me, razor-sharp teeth bared and snapping. One of its shoes slips on a paper towel and it falls. It crawls toward me instead, never slowing. Heart pounding, I look around for something to use as a weapon—to protect myself from that snarling mouth.
My backpack is too far; there’s nothing else within reach. My gaze catches on the dingy white ceiling and the rusty stains branching out like veins. I calm myself, breathing deeply, and imagine the stains are made of twine.
Swerving to avoid the rabid toy, I stay focused on the stains. They begin to peel from the ceiling and drape down. Concentrating harder, I coax them around the clown’s arms and legs, stringing it up like a marionette.
I control it now.
Fear fading to anger, I make the creepy thing dance in midair, then envision the strings spinning up the toy, trapping it in a cocoon of yellow-brown stains. With a screech, the clown uses its cello’s handle to snap the bindings before I can enclose it, then scrambles toward the bathroom door. The toy slips out into the hall, and the door swings shut.
I slide along the wall to the floor, shaking. My rapid pulse beats in my neck. The stains, neglected by my thoughts, retract back into the ceiling, finding their permanent places once more.
I’m shocked, stunned, and ecstatic all at once. The moment I visualized exactly what I wanted the ceiling stains to become, my powers came through in less than a heartbeat. I’m getting better at this.
But why should I have to draw upon that magic in my world? Why is Morpheus’s clown still here? Didn’t it already serve its purpose?
My cheeks flame and I clap cold palms over them, trying to subdue the adrenaline rush.
Several minutes pass and the door to the hallway begins to open slowly. I fold my knees to my chest, preparing to use my magic again.
The toe of a cowboy boot comes into view, and Morpheus steps in.
Relief washes over me, chased by a flash of annoyance.
Seeing me surrounded by paper towels on the floor, Morpheus lifts his eyebrows. “Building a nest?” he asks. “There’s no need to start acting like a bird simply because you have a propensity for flying.”
“Just … shut up.” I struggle to get to my feet, but my soles keep slipping on paper towels. He reaches out a hand. I reluctantly take it and stand.
Before I can break away, he clasps my fingers and rotates my arm in the di
m light, observing my sparkly skin. It’s a visual manifestation of my magic … a result of using my powers.
“Well, well. What have you been up to?” he asks, grinning. There’s a glint of pride behind his teasing eyes.
“As if you don’t know.” I escape his grip, frowning at him as I check over my shoulder in the mirror to be sure my eye patches haven’t appeared. “What are you trying to prove?” I ask, relieved to see I still look normal although I feel anything but. “Why do you keep bringing that thing around?”
Silence. His confused frown in the reflection makes me furious. He has the ability to look completely innocent even when I know he’s as pure as a pirate.
I turn to face him. “If you didn’t bring it here, you had to at least see it.”
“It,” he says.
“That freak-show toy!”
He smirks, a familiar look on Finley’s unfamiliar face. “Well, seeing as there are boxes all over your school with toys inside, I should say yes. Yes, I have seen a toy or twenty.”
“I’m talking about the clown you sent me at the hospital. Don’t pretend you had nothing to do with that.”
“I didn’t send you any toy at the hospital.”
I growl. Of course he’s not going to admit sending it, any more than he would admit bringing it here.
I push by him, glancing out the door. First one side of the hall, then the other. There’s no one and nothing besides the charity boxes. I start to step out to dig through the donations. If I shove the proof in his face, he’ll have to come clean.
Morpheus grips my elbow and drags me back inside, putting his body between me and the door. “You’re not going anywhere. We have mosaics to decipher and a war to win.”
I glare at him. “I don’t have the mosaics.”
“Pardon?” Morpheus asks, the anger in his voice edging me closer to the wall. Paper towels slide under my feet. “I gave you one thing to do. One. You’ve no idea how important they are to our cause.”
Squaring my shoulders in determination, I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not leaving yet anyway. So stop bullying me.”
