Unhinged

by A. G. Howard

  I’m about to tackle-hug him, but my netherling senses give me pause. Something’s not right. He hasn’t acknowledged me.

  A dusty white rabbit wiggles in his arms, wrapped up in the long-sleeved T Jeb had been wearing under his polo. Judging by the grass tangled in Jeb’s hair, he’s been outside chasing the animal. He’s so intent on his catch, he doesn’t notice anything else.

  “Jeb?”

  “I need more paint,” he says, but the words aren’t directed to me. “She didn’t leave enough.” His voice is rough, like it hurts him to talk. He rubs the rabbit’s ears, seemingly oblivious to the way it’s struggling to get free … to how it’s wriggled out of the shirt he had wrapped around it and is leaving bloody scratches on his chest and arm. “I’ve got to have more. To prove that I’m an artist.”

  Everything about this is wrong. The way he’s talking, the way he’s moving.

  I step closer, cautious. He’s in a trance of some kind.

  I notice his mouth, the unnatural color of his lips: dark purple.

  I look around for Chessie. He’s hovering up by the skylights, watching Jeb with wide, curious eyes.

  Jeb holds the rabbit in front of his face, one hand braced around its neck. “It’ll be so fast, you won’t feel a thing.”

  I react without thinking. “Jeb, stop!”

  My scream startles the rabbit. Its back claws thrust and leave a welt on Jeb’s chin. Cursing, he drops the animal, and it hops by me. I dive out of the way as Jeb races after it, pounding the floor with his bare soles. He skids into the easels and knocks them over. The glass panes fall and bust into glittery shards.

  It’s a strangely familiar scene. Jeb is so determined, so focused. I was where he is once, chasing a mouse across a table that was set for tea, driven by an unquenchable appetite. There are so many different kinds of hunger. Mine was for food and experiences I had never lived. Jeb’s is for his art, and to prove he’s the best.

  He manages to regain his balance, pursuing the rabbit as it darts from one side of the room to the other, so relentless he doesn’t realize he’s about to run through the glass and gouge his feet.

  “Jebediah Holt!” I’ve never used his whole name before. It feels dry and unnatural on my tongue, as if I’ve been licking cotton. He cocks his head and slows down enough for me to lunge at him. His shoulders hit the wall. I crash into his chest, and we both grunt with the impact.

  “Al?” He cups my face tenderly, trying to come back, though still far away. “I’m so …”

  “Hungry,” I offer, smelling the same familiar fruity, sweet scent that first hit me when I came in the door. That’s what was in the decanter on the loft’s floor. Jeb’s been drinking Tumtum juice. Red used it to channel his desire to prove himself into a gluttonous frenzy of artistic passion. That’s why he painted all night nonstop and never called, texted, or went home.

  Only one thing can cure him of the effects of the juice, and that’s to eat a handful of Tumtum berries whole. “Chessie,” I say, holding my voice from trembling, “Tumtum berries. Try the minifridge.”

  Chessie zooms up to the loft but comes back in a few seconds, empty-handed.

  The rabbit bounds by, gracefully hopping across the glass without cutting itself. I fall on my butt as Jeb pushes me aside and heads straight through the shards. I can’t get up fast enough to stop him.

  I concentrate on the glass on the floor, magnetizing it so it clumps together like a crocodile’s scaly tail. It sways out of the way each time Jeb’s soles come near it. With the path cleared, Jeb gains on the rabbit.

  The prey hops toward the door. I scramble up and get there first, just in time to throw it open and let the frightened animal escape. I slam the door shut and press my lower back against the doorknob, blocking Jeb from following his would-be blood donor.

  “Get out of the way.” Jeb’s voice is raw. His eyes lock on mine, but he can’t seem to focus. It’s like he’s looking through me. His jaw twitches and he grinds his teeth.

  “Chessie!” I screech. “Berries!”

  Chessie buzzes to the bathroom and disappears into a half-opened drawer. The wood rattles as he winds his way through the contents and into the next drawer. Only forty-eight more to go.

  Jeb grips my arms, fingernails gouging my tender skin through my sleeves, muscles straining as he tries to move me away from the entrance. He’s always been able to lift me as if I weigh nothing, but this time, I imagine the doorknob behind me being a fist and envision its fingers uncurling, just like the doorknob that morphed into an old man’s hand in my Shop of Human Eccentricities memory. Cold metal spikes cinch and curve tight around the waist of my jeans, holding me in place.

  Jeb strains harder, frustrated.

  Desperate to bring him back, I tug him down and kiss him, gentle and coaxing.

  Come back to me, my lips say.

  He clamps his mouth shut and keeps struggling to move me aside. There’s a small ripping sound as the metal fingers at my waistband start to lose leverage. I grip Jeb’s bare shoulders, dragging his body close so there’s no space between us. His torso presses mine, and I kiss his throat. Even through my layered shirts, the unnatural heat of his skin scorches me.

  He tenses, and I feel the change. It’s not surrender; it’s a redirection. His hands drag up along my rib cage, stopping under my arms. I lose all concentration on the doorknob, and the fingers release me, transforming back into the knob. My feet lift as Jeb pins me to the door.

  There’s nothing gentle about his expression. His raging hunger is focused on me now.

  More drawers rattle in the bathroom.

  “Chessie … hurry.” I can only mumble the plea. Being under the scrutiny of Jeb’s eyes—the brightest green I’ve ever seen them—makes my bones melt to liquid.

  Chessie flits from the chest of drawers and sifts like smoke through cracks in the skylights. He must be going out to use my car mirrors. He’ll have to go through the rabbit hole to find some berries.

  But I’m not sure I care if he finds any or not. At last, I’m the center of Jeb’s undivided attention, and I like it.

  A low rumble escapes his throat as he initiates a kiss this time. Our tongues touch, then wrestle. Enough Tumtum residue remains in his mouth to ignite heat in my abdomen. He tastes of defiance and wildness, of things both wicked and sweet. He’s the flavor of Wonderland interwoven with all things Jeb. I urge him to deepen the kiss. He wraps my legs around his waist, moving on instinct—no romance, no caution, only lust motivated by a potent fairy drug.

  I’m lost to sensation. This is the raw passion he only reserves for his paintings. He’s not suppressing his wants or needs to protect me; he’s not worried I’m fragile or breakable. He’s starving, daring me to match his fierceness.

  He knots his fingers in my hair and his labret scrapes my chin hard enough to leave welts. His kisses burn heavy like a brand and I brand him right back.

  He catches my wrists, smacks them to the wall, and holds them there. He abandons my lips, both of us panting as his mouth glides along my neck, teeth bared against my jugular vein. A painful twinge makes me break a hand free and shove at his face. There’s blood on his lower lip. I touch my stinging neck where he broke my skin, shocked.

  Jeb runs his tongue across my blood on his mouth. His face changes. He’s never been rough enough to leave imprints on my skin; hurting me must’ve brought him back to himself. Still holding me against the wall with his body, his hands move to my neck.

  I expect comfort or an apology. Instead, he clamps his fingers around my throat, shutting off my air supply. I grapple with his wrists, but he’s too strong. The breath locks in my lungs; I can’t force it out or drag any more in.

  I dig my fingernails into his skin and squeeze my legs around his waist, trying to get his attention.

  “Paint,” he mumbles, licking the blood on his lip again. The distant look has returned to his eyes, tinged with murderous intent. Cold dread slashes through me.

  In his m
ind, I’m the rabbit.

  This is what Mom’s flowers were predicting. My death at his hand. He’ll never forgive himself.

  I have to stop him.

  I try to force a sound from my throat to shake him out of his trance, but his grip is too tight. His thumbs clamp harder around my windpipe, fingers pressed to my vertebrae. The bones ache under the strain.

  I panic … can’t concentrate … can’t evoke my powers… can’t even focus.

  Black fuzz creeps across my vision.

  “I have to finish what I started,” Jeb says, mechanically. Maniacally. “It’ll be so fast, you won’t feel a thing.”

  Jeb’s viselike grip tightens on my neck.

  My body goes limp just as a gust of wind rushes by.

  “Playtime’s over.” Morpheus’s gruff command snaps my eyes open. My heart kicks my sternum, thumping at the chance to stay alive. I never thought I’d be so happy to hear that cockney accent.

  He breaks Jeb’s grip and drags him away from me. I slump to the floor on my knees, holding my neck as I cough and wheeze. I whimper with each painful inhalation, relish the burn as it rushes through my bruised windpipe and into my aching lungs.

  I want to plead with Morpheus not to hurt Jeb, but I’m too weak. Everything is throbbing, from my neck to my legs. I push myself to sit against the wall and bury my face where my arms cradle my knees, trying to stop trembling.

  The sound of grunts and growls forces me to look up.

  Morpheus kneels over Jeb’s supine form. He holds him down with a knee on his chest, stuffing Tumtum berries into his mouth. Surprise and relief surge through me. He’s helping Jeb instead of hurting him.

  It’s like watching a James Bond movie. Morpheus—in a black trench-coat-style blazer that hangs to his thighs, gray tweed pants, a dark gray vest, skinny red tie, and black pin-striped dress shirt—could pass for a punk-fae secret agent who’s captured his villain. His thick blue waves touch his shoulders from under a gray tweed flat cap, and his wings drape down his back and across the floor, fluttering sporadically as he keeps his balance against Jeb’s resistance.

  Of all the upheavals I’ve experienced over the past few days, this is by far the most mind-twisting: My dark tempter becoming my knight, and my knight becoming my persecutor. I know the reversal is temporary, but I’ll never be able to forget the way that hungry light fired Jeb’s eyes to such a vivid green … or the way it felt when he broke loose of his inhibitions and demanded I give as good as I got. I don’t want to forget, because we were rivals, yet at the same time partners.

  Until he tried to kill me.

  The berries take effect, and Jeb stops struggling, inch by inch, until he’s motionless.

  “Once you’ve had a little nap,” Morpheus says to him, voice brutal and clipped, “we’ll discuss those marks you left on Alyssa’s skin.” He pats Jeb’s cheek with a black leather glove he drags from his pocket but can’t hide the rage bunched up in his jaw muscles.

  Chessie appears next to my face—a flurry of wings, fur, and paws. He perches on my shoulder and tenderly nuzzles my neck where Jeb bit me.

  “Thank you for getting Morpheus,” I tell him.

  My voice is sandpaper and rust. My cough brings Morpheus over, his expensive black dress shoes coming to a halt beside me. They’re all I can see of him, until he kneels. He’s been smoking his hookah, and the scent enfolds me.

  “Watch over the mortal, would you, Chessie-blud?” he says, appraising me as he tugs his leather gloves into place over berry-stained fingers.

  The tiny netherling leaves my shoulder and perches atop Jeb’s resting form.

  I strain my neck to look into Morpheus’s eyes, and my broken and bruised skin pounds. Sun from the skylights shimmers behind his silhouette—a halo of yellow light.

  “I’m so glad you didn’t hurt him,” I mumble, unable to talk above a hoarse whisper.

  Morpheus’s frown is fierce. “Had it been anyone other than the boy who bled himself dry for you in Wonderland,” he answers, “I would have killed him with my bare hands—no magic required.”

  There’s a chilling grimness behind his gaze, and I let myself acknowledge what I’ve been denying: In his own way, Morpheus is my knight, too. He just has more muddled motivations than Jeb—not always unselfish and honorable, but vigilant. I have to give him that.

  “You were right,” I say, swallowing my pride. “About my blood being used as a weapon against me. About me holding you to a different standard. I should’ve at least tried to trust you. I’m sorry. I’ll work on that.”

  “See that you do.” Although his words are harsh, the expression on his porcelain-pale face is anything but. It reminds me of the netherling playmate from my past, eager to win my trust and adoration. Willing to do anything for it. He doesn’t have to say I’m forgiven or that he’s touched by my apology. Both of those emotions blink through his jeweled patches in colorful flashes.

  I proceed to tell him everything I know—what I saw in the paintings Jeb made with my blood and glass, my mosaics in the loft. And I tell him that I suspect Red is here in the human realm and playing games with me.

  He shakes his head. “That doesn’t sound like her. She’s not one for subtleties.”

  “But the garden shears on the door,” I insist. “They were there to scare me.”

  He looks genuinely baffled. “I didn’t come in the door. I came through a crack in one of the skylights. Are you sure that’s what you saw?”

  “Go look for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

  “I believe you, but it makes no sense. She would’ve wanted you at her mercy—unprepared. She was using your boyfriend not only for his imagination, but for his tie to you. He was bait. She lured you here, so she must’ve planned to be here, to vanquish you. But something spooked her, and as much as I’d like to think it was you, I know better.”

  My heart drums at the thought of who or what could’ve spooked someone as powerful as Red. “Do you think it was the mystery woman in my mosaics? The one who’s hiding in the shadows? The one with the tentacles …”

  “Perhaps the answer is in your final mosaic. We need to find it. But first, let’s have a look at your battle scars.” He cups my chin, thumb running across the welts left by Jeb’s labret. “You managed to make me come back without begging. I suppose you’re proud of yourself.”

  His gentle teasing slows my heart rate down, calms me. “You came back for me? I figured you were just missing your car.”

  Morpheus’s lips quirk—an almost-smile. He tips my chin up to get a better look at my neck. The action stretches my bruised muscles and I yelp.

  “Sorry, luv.” He winces and releases me, then taps the skin around Jeb’s bite mark. His gloves feel cool and soothing. “I do think you’ll live, though.” His attention shifts to my face, respect sparking in his dark gaze. “Appears you’ve had a busy day of magic making.”

  I scrub at my eye patches. “You already knew that. You had Gossamer and Chessie watching over me.”

  “So I might stay away until you found me. But as always, you’re determined to be the crimp in my plans.”

  “Well, if it makes you feel any better,” I say, holding my neck where I can still feel the burn of Jeb’s handprints, “I did figure out where you were, so I would’ve found you.”

  Morpheus tilts his head. “Is that so?”

  I nod, then point at Jeb’s paintings all along the walls. “When I saw Jeb’s lost memories, they reminded me of what Chessie drew on my windows on the way here: a train, and you. And the word memory. After my mom went to London through my mirror, you asked her if she took a train ride and relived lost memories. You were waiting at Ironbridge Gorge, right? That’s why you sent Chessie. You expected me to go there and find my mosaics, and you knew I would need his help to read them.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Is that why you wanted to lure me there? For the mosaics?”

  “Partly. But I wanted you to ride the train most of all.
”

  I furrow my brow. “So the train is real?”

  Morpheus slides off his flat cap. His glowing blue hair appears to move and reach for the air, as if thrilled to be liberated. “What’s your definition of real?”

  I look around the room, stopping at Jeb’s sleeping form. “It’s ever changing.”

  Twirling the hat on his fingertip, Morpheus nods. “As it should be. There’s an underground tube passageway close to the bridge that was deserted and sealed up years ago by humans. Netherlings have a freight train that runs through it, specializing in very precious cargo. There are passenger cars available for those who have a personal stake in the merchandise. I arranged tickets for us.”

  “You mean you were planning to go, too? You’re afraid of riding in a car. How’s a train any better?”

  He shrugs, his frown sheepish. “The train doesn’t exactly move.”

  “But you said it runs through the passageway.”

  He waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. “You would have to experience it to understand. There’s something there you need to see. A memory in the cargo that doesn’t belong to you but has shaped you nonetheless. A memory that’s been lost for years, that needs to be found before you face Red.”

  His answer whets my curiosity. “I don’t understand. The cargo in the train is memories?”

  “Lost memories.”

  “But how …?”

  “Let’s just say that the human concept of a freight train is as misguided as the human concept of a hat.” He offers me his cap.

  Puzzled, I take it. It’s the first hat I’ve ever seen him wear that doesn’t have moth embellishments. I hold it up in the sunlight. The texture doesn’t feel like tweed. It’s silkier and seems to breathe and move under my touch. I meet Morpheus’s gaze, confused.

  With a wink, he takes the cap back and places it on his head. In a subtle gesture, he waves a hand over the hat’s crown. The tweed transforms from cloth to living moths. They burst off his head and flutter all around us, then, at a whistle from Morpheus, they reunite, scuttling into place like puzzle pieces to form the hat again.