Untamed

by A. G. Howard

  His countenance lit up. He was obviously eager to answer, but he kept his mouth closed tight.

  “Come on,” I pressed. “Are you from Wonderland?”

  He remained silent.

  “Seriously?”

  “You asked me to stop talking.”

  I dug my fingers into my knees. “Ugh. Answer me!”

  “Tut.” He peeled off his gloves, one at a time, leisurely and maddeningly calm. “No need to get peevish. Yes . . . I’m from Wonderland, as are my lovely little pets outside.”

  “Which means,” I swallowed, “Wonderland really is real?”

  “It is.”

  “And the rabbit hole, too?” I asked around the knot in my throat.

  Studying me in the dim light, Morpheus nodded. “I can provide you with a map. Just say the word.”

  I gripped the collar of my shirt, trying to cover the rapid pulse at my neck. “What role do you play there? I’ve never seen you in the stories.”

  A strand of blue magic leapt from his fingertip to my “Alison’s” Adventures in Wonderland book. The electrified currents flipped the pages, stopping when they arrived at the illustration of the Caterpillar speaking to Alice. “Much like our clever and curious heroine, I wasn’t quite myself in the earlier tales.”

  My gaze fell to the text on the page and Alice’s answer to the Caterpillar’s question of her identity: I’m afraid I can’t explain myself, sir. Because I am not myself, you see?

  I gulped, the realization hitting me like a slap in the face. “You’re the Caterpillar . . . hatched from a cocoon.”

  Morpheus winced, as if offended. “Moths and butterflies do not hatch. They transform. Now, six questions to go. Don’t squander them, peaches.”

  “Wait . . . I’ve only asked four so far.”

  “I beg to differ.” He held up his hands in a strand of moonlight, wiggling his fingers and making shapes on the wall—startlingly real for shadows. Some looked like teacups, some like mushrooms, others like roses getting splashed with buckets of paint. “You’ve asked fourteen, albeit most of them were inane and wasteful. First, you asked me if I’d ever played Twenty Questions. Well, that in itself is a question. Then, when I gave the riddle, you said—and I quote—‘Huh?’ Another question. Next, after you told me not to call you ducky, you asked if you had feathers, and then if I ‘got it?’ Finally, you queried what I meant about you being more than merely a name. Honestly, can you even think of a reason any of those were necessary? Of course, when you asked about the sprites—what they were, and if they would be killing your half-witted zookeepers—that bordered on relevant.”

  My ears grew hot. “I don’t live in a zoo!” I snarled.

  Morpheus smirked and merged his shadow puppets into a rabbit hopping along the wall. “Add to that the four questions about me and my home—the only ones that actually bore some semblance of importance, mind—and you asked eleven. Unfortunately, you repeated one of them twice after first asking me to stop talking, and then you questioned my seriousness. Which was another three. So, only six remain. Choose your words wisely.”

  Suppressing a growl, I squeezed the pen in my hand until it bit into my palm. “Okay,” I mumbled, preparing to ask the one question I was most afraid to have answered before he could trick me out of any more chances. “You reached out to my mom, didn’t you? When she was a teenager.”

  The washers and dryers grew silent as his magic receded back into his body, just as the mischief drained from his features. He took off his hat and laid it in his lap. “I tried to, Alison. Her mind was . . . more fragile than I anticipated.”

  I slammed my notebook down and scrambled to my feet. “You told me that abandon always merits a second chance at life. So why didn’t you catch her? You caught me! You couldn’t have done the same for her? Her fall was so much shorter! You could’ve stopped her with your wings!” Tears blazed down my cheeks. I was furious, maybe more at myself than him. I’d promised I’d never cry again.

  He stared up at me from his seat on the floor. His jeweled markings blinked a fuzzy periwinkle shade, mirroring the softness of his expression. It was almost as if some small part of him sympathized. “Your mum chose to leap out in the open. There were too many spectators in the parking lot. She made it impossible to be rescued. If only she’d jumped from a little higher, her own wings could’ve saved her. Those two miscalculations cost her everything.”

  “No. It was you that cost her everything. Why do you keep bugging my family?” I refused to think about the irony in my choice of words, and hoped he would do the same. If he cracked some stupid joke about it, or taunted that I’d squandered four more questions and was now down to two, I would lose every ounce of control I had left. I’d strangle him with my bare hands, electrical magic or not.

  Mercifully, he only shook his head and said, “I am not responsible for, nor am I here to make amends for, all the wrongs you’ve been dealt throughout your life. Instead, I am offering a way for you to honor your mum’s death. To make peace with it.”

  I slapped the hot wetness from my face. “I don’t want to make peace with it! All I’ve ever wanted was to know her. And the only things I have to remember her by are these stupid stories! The stories that killed her.” I kicked the books toward him. They slid along the floor a few inches but didn’t go far enough. I glared at them, wishing they would leap into the air, dive down on him like birds of prey . . . grow beaks and peck out those beautiful, endless black eyes so filled with cryptic riddles and even more cryptic answers.

  As if hearing my thoughts, the two books lifted from the floor, pages flapping wildly, like wings. They swooped toward him to attack, but he was ready, safely behind a dome formed of blue lightning.

  “Splendid show,” he said with something like pride in his voice as he straightened the cravat at his neck. “Do let me know when you’re finished with your tantrum.”

  Wait. I’d spurred the books to action? I made them fly? My jaw dropped.

  Not possible. The books fell to the floor with a clunk, as if my logical reasoning killed them.

  “I did that.” It was an observation. Even in my state of disbelief, I was aware enough not to frame it as a question. I only had two left now . . . choose your words wisely.

  I looked from the crashed books to Morpheus, who had reeled in his magic and was unprotected again, waiting in the moonlight, patient and somber.

  “My mom, she had the same abilities, didn’t she?”

  He returned his hat to his head. “Yes, though hers were dormant. I tried to awaken them, to show her in her dreams what she was capable of. Tried to encourage her to animate her paintings on the walls. But before she could . . .” He held up a palm. “Well, never mind that. You enlivened those books almost without trying. Think what you can accomplish with guidance and focus. You see, you do know your mum. Because that touch of magic was a part of her. What she left you via the blood you share. What you choose to do with it, that’s up to you. All she wanted was freedom and escape. Some might say she got that. But as for you, something tells me such an ending wouldn’t be satisfactory for one with your . . . drive and determination. So, what do you want, Alison?”

  I didn’t hesitate. “I want to leave this world.” My voice sounded wispy, like a slip of air through a screen window, as I sunk to the floor atop my jacket. I crossed my legs, mimicking Morpheus’s pose. “But I also want so much more . . .”

  He smiled. “Of course you do. You want it all. The crown, the throne, fearful subjects kneeling prostrate at your feet. And you shall have it. It is your heritage. It was taken from you, and you’re going to win it back. I believe it’s time to show you my ace, little princess.” He withdrew a cylinder of paper from inside his jacket’s cuff and unrolled it so I could see the beautiful winding letters. The golden ink looked wet, though I knew it wasn’t because it hadn’t smeared. It was reflecting the flashlight’s glow:

  Burst through Stone with a Feather; Cross a Forest in One Step; Hold an Ocean in H
er Palm; Alter the Future with Her Fingertip; Defeat an Invisible Enemy; Trample an Army beneath Her Feet; Wake the Dead; Harness the Power of a Smile.

  “I don’t get it . . .”

  “They’re tests,” he answered. “Should you pass each one, you will dethrone the imposter seated in your stead, and be crowned the one, true Red Queen. Half of Wonderland will be yours to reign, and you’ll need never return to this zoo again.”

  I gulped. A slow thrill trickled through my body, warm and sweet, like a tree feeling the sap flow through her limbs at the first breath of spring. It was my enchanted intuition awakening. I had a place where I belonged. Where I was meant to rule. There, I would never be lonely again and everyone would be at my mercy. “But how can I accomplish such impossible things?”

  Morpheus rolled up the paper again and tucked it away. “That is your twentieth question, and well spent. The answer is in the riddle I gave you earlier. And in case you haven’t figured it out, consider this: Any interpretation can be altered simply by looking at things from different, more colorful angles . . . view the words and the world through a kaleidoscope instead of a telescope.”

  I nodded, because he made perfect sense, in some crafty yet absurd way. After all of his badgering about using my words wisely, I was starting to see everything differently already: connotation versus denotation, instinct versus logic, infinity versus . . .

  “Time,” I whispered, answering his riddle.

  “Indeed.” He stood, drawing out a small key on a chain from his lapel. He held it up so it glistened in the moonlight. “Time to train you, time to outsmart the tests, and time to win over your subjects.”

  “How long will that take? And what’s in it for you? You said we’d be striking a bargain.”

  “Sorry, Alison. You’ve run out of questions. All you need to know is it’s as much to my advantage as yours to see you crowned.” He tossed the key to me, and I caught it in midair. “Nothing will get in our way, however long it takes. You give me time, and I’ll give you all the tools you need to claim your birthright, to change everything you once thought you were. And then, time will matter no more, for you will don the robes of netherling immortality. Starting tonight, we reshape your destiny.”

  TRAIN TRACKS

  The absence of the shower’s lull shatters my nostalgic haze.

  I stretch and sit up on the bed, glancing at the half-opened door where steam drifts out in a ghostly dance. Thomas is shaving. Water swishes in the sink, then pauses as he hums softly while passing the razor over his skin. The song is one he used to sing to me when we were dating. The words spin through my memory: a man begging forgiveness for loving his lady too much, telling her he’d want no other but her forever, that it was worth any amount of pain to be with her.

  He’d upheld the message from the song, stood by me when any other man would’ve thrown up his arms and left. I’ve never once regretted choosing him over my netherling destiny. I only regret hurting him. Just as I regret almost robbing Alyssa of her chance to be immortal.

  I thought at the time that I was doing the right thing, keeping silent to save her from Wonderland’s barbaric practices. I was only sixteen when I stumbled upon Sister Two’s lair and saw what she was using human children for, but even at that age, I couldn’t close my eyes to the tragedy, or the similarities: how the grave keeper siphoned away their dreams to feed the restless souls in the cemetery. Similar to what had been done to me by unnameable monsters throughout my life—siphoning away my dreams for their own pleasure and satisfaction. But unlike me, Sister Two’s victims never escaped.

  Seeing Thomas wrapped inside her webs after having been imprisoned there for ten years—all of his life draining away—changed me. And my betrayal changed Morpheus. It was a tragic chain reaction.

  I shudder and turn away from the bathroom, staring down at my bare feet, my mind stalled in that awful place and time.

  The mattress sinks as Thomas settles behind me in a pair of gray slacks and a lavender dress shirt hanging from his broad shoulders, loose and unbuttoned.

  “Ali-bear. What are you thinking of?” He kisses my neck, surrounding me with the scent of his aftershave. His fingers mold around my abdomen, sending shivers of pleasure through every inch of my skin.

  I smile as I melt into his lips, my back snuggling against his bare chest as he kisses the spot beneath my ear.

  “You, now,” I answer, running my fingers over the slick fabric covering his arms.

  “Perfect,” he whispers. “Because I’m thinking of you, and how beautiful you are.”

  “You approve of the dress, then?”

  “Not just that . . .” His teasing mouth finds its way to my nape. “You smell good, too.”

  I giggle and he smiles against me.

  “If we’re going to go anywhere tonight,” I press, trying to concentrate in spite of his soft kisses, “we should leave soon.”

  He sighs—petals of warm breath blossoming around my left shoulder blade and wing bud. “I guess you’re right. Especially since we’re not just going out. We’re going away.”

  I glance over my shoulder where his mouth makes contact and leaves an imprint of sensation. “Away . . . where?”

  “Faraway London.” He grins. His damp hair catches the sunset filtering through the blinds—a glossy mess of chocolate waves. When he smiles at me like that, he looks nineteen again.

  “You want to go to London, tonight.” I shift around on the mattress to help him button the shirt. It’s one of my favorites, for how the color complements his complexion, and how the silky fabric clings to his form. I skim my fingers along his chest before I close the placket. His daily fencing regimen has refined his muscles to a new level—a sophisticated and seasoned density that only a man his age could acquire. “So . . . I guess this impromptu trip means you’ve decided to forfeit our sword fight tomorrow. Are you sure that’s wise? Don’t get me wrong, you’re in great shape. I’m just not sure you have the legs for a miniskirt.”

  He chuckles, causing the dimple in his chin that matches Alyssa’s to catch a shadow and appear deeper. “Oh, we’ll be back in time to defend our titles. We’re going to take a shortcut.” He places my key necklace around my neck. “Our royal daughter offered us the use of her mirror.”

  I force a smile, in spite of the chill that wraps my spine—as if ice-tipped spiders are spinning webs of frost around each bone. Every time I use the looking-glass passages, I feel like I’m falling back into my past, which is why, when we make our visits to the Skeffingtons in London, I always insist we go the traditional route and take a commercial flight.

  But tonight, I don’t have the heart to put a damper on his plans. I can do this. We’ll still be in the human realm, after all.

  There was a time I craved stepping through the glass and going down the rabbit hole, just to see the landscapes and creatures again. But after being trapped there a few months ago, spending every day and every night in Ivory’s castle, helping Grenadine plug her memory leaks, I’m done. I’m ready to stay here for the rest of my days, with Thomas and Alyssa. I get my fix for netherling companionship at Humphrey’s Inn twice a month when we visit Thomas’s family. That’s enough.

  “Okay. Just let me finish dressing.” I bend down to gather the strappy sandals, but Thomas beats me to it, falling to his knees at my feet.

  “Wait, now,” he scolds, low and gentle. “That’s a knight’s job, princess.” He lifts my bare foot, pressing his lips to my ankle before slipping the shoe into place. He does the same with my other foot, then finishes with a kiss at my knee before placing the sole of my shoe gently on the floor.

  “My sweet Tommy-toes.” I lean forward so our foreheads touch, so I can get lost in his warm, kind eyes.

  Grinning that Elvis smirk that I adore, Thomas stands and helps me up. He grabs a sport jacket and my lacy shawl, then leads me across the hall and into Alyssa’s room. Muffled laughter and conversation burst from the kitchen. The scent of melting cheese, spicy peppe
roni, and marinara sauce makes my mouth water. The kids must’ve decided on homemade pizza.

  “So, we’re going to Humphrey’s Inn?” I ask, suddenly craving a plate of spaghetti Bolognese with a side of artichoke-feta garlic bread, my favorite of Hubert’s specialties.

  “That’s on the agenda,” Thomas answers. “We’ll be spending the night there. But first, we’re going to Ironbridge Gorge.” He flashes the mushrooms in his jacket pocket—our “tickets” to the memory train—before shrugging into the sleeves.

  I frown and help him straighten his lapels, studying our shared reflection in Alyssa’s cheval mirror—a French silver-framed antique she found at a thrift store. It was the first thing she bought upon our return from Wonderland, so she could check in with her subjects throughout the day when necessary. “I don’t understand. Why would we go to the Iron Bridge? Haven’t we seen all there is to see?”

  “You haven’t,” Thomas answers, his face glazed with pinkish sunset. “I know you’re still wrestling with regrets. I see the pain on your face every day.” He traces my frown with his thumb. “It’s time to forgive yourself. Time for you to realize the positive impact that letting Morpheus and Wonderland into your life has had on the rest of us, because you’ve dwelt so long on the negative, you’ve lost sight of it. I asked Alyssa about lost memories yesterday. She told me that once they’re stored as cargo, they become part of the train, even after they’re viewed by the one who made them. So, we’re going to take one last look at my missing years, but this time, we’re doing it together. You need to see what would’ve become of us all, had you not intervened.”

  Our trip to the Ironbridge Gorge is simpler than it was the times Alyssa and I came here in the past, each seeking different things. With Jeb’s help, she recently installed a tall looking glass in the bridge’s tunnel. Transportation here is now as simple as stepping from one mirror to the next. There’s no traversing the countryside. It’s a straight shoot from her bedroom to the tunnel.