by A. G. Howard
“Everyone will know.” I laugh the words through my own tears as the cramps relent for a moment—though it will be short-lived. They’re getting closer now, only minutes apart. “All of our enemies, all of our allies, each and every denizen of this world will see that you are still my footman.”
“Then you would give them the key to our defeat. You’re speaking madness.”
“Your native tongue,” I quip without hesitation.
There’s a potent glint of lust behind his gaze. Playfulness twitches at his lips, accentuated by the impish yellow flash of his jeweled markings. Even in a moment like this, he’s relishing my provocation. It’s in his nature and mine, too. On a typical night, such banter would lead to a scintillating duel of magic and word wizardry, and end in passionate ravishment.
But nothing is typical about tonight, and come to think of it, ravishment is how we got into this predicament in the first place.
“Ask what you will, My Queen,” Morpheus offers in humble submission, so unlike him. He cups my face in both hands and wipes the tears from my cheeks with his thumbs. “Toy with me, trap me, lock me in chains. I’ll give you anything so long as you bide my secret.”
A fluttering movement rolls within the cocoon of my flesh, just beneath my rib cage. At first it’s tiny and knotted, but then it spreads as if opening. An elbow, a fist, a wing tip? No. He can’t be trying to fly again; shouldn’t he be rolled into a ball, preparing to arrive? As if in answer, the unmistakable sensation of flapping stirs inside me.
A highly charged contraction follows the movement—rips through my belly, hot and grinding—as if to force the release of my prisoner. I scream, stiffen my legs, and arch my back. “Get him out!”
Acute regret shimmers in Morpheus’s inky eyes and his wings tug his shoulders to a slump. “Alas, you ask the one thing I cannot give.”
Snarling, I dispense punishment in fits, my powers as unruly and unpredictable as they were before I learned to control them. I attempt to throw off the blankets; instead, they take flight and dive-bomb us like temperamental ghosts. Morpheus curses and struggles to keep my nakedness covered. I try to fling the water curtain away, but push too hard. It becomes a tidal wave and washes across my king and our attendants, soaking them and snuffing out the candles. The only lights left to go by are the glimmering bodies of the sprites and the luminous flowers.
The wave crosses the room and shakes the shelves along the walls. Moths and caterpillars scatter in their terrariums. The current comes to rest only after it has shuttled Morpheus’s hats off their perches and scattered them across the floor where they float, adrift beside Rabid’s snoring form and a bevy of swimming toys.
Morpheus howls and lifts a foot from the puddles, prying a teething ring’s snapping jaws from his big toe. He drops the creature into the treacle that is somehow still boiling.
My king’s wet hair hangs limp as he grimaces at me in the dimness. By some miracle, my covers are still dry. Only my face and hair got splattered.
“Any other time,” he mutters darkly, concern overshadowing the madness and beauty that so often call to me from within his long-lashed gaze, “I would be tempted to ravenous by your challenge for dominance. But right now, you need to preserve your strength.” Igniting his blue magic, he uses the strands like a fan’s rotary blades to dry himself and me. “Someone capture the baby’s playthings and salvage the cradle!” he grouses to our attendants.
The sprites shake themselves off and putter about the room, bumping into one another in a rush to straighten the mess my wayward monsoon left behind.
“Fetch more clouds!” Their combined shouts tingle like a clatter of coins.
Chessie and Nikki appear with a mop to clean up the puddles. A few sprites assist with sponges. Others use miniature nets to scoop up the toys and return them to their box. Our attendants’ glimmering bodies reflect off the wet floor and form rivers of stars, small and distant. Disorienting.
I moan and close my eyes to fight a surge of nausea. My magical hair slaps my face, taunting me. Morpheus captures the long waves with his fingertips and wrestles them into a braid to contain them. It would be easier if he used his magic to do it. But he always insists on managing my hair with his hands. It’s his “honor and distinct pleasure to tame my tresses with his touch.”
A residual water droplet wriggles from my hairline, down my temple, and stops at my jaw—a benign itch that’s oddly grating against the backdrop of the electric currents racing through my torso.
“Little plum.” My king’s knuckles sweep across my eye markings and swipe away the water—leaving a gossamer trail as delicate as a spider’s web. “Let nature take its course. Stop fighting it.”
My eyes open to narrow slits. The candles have spontaneously relit.
“Nature?” My voice is earsplitting and terrible, the one I reserve for disobedient subjects. “I’m ready . . . you’re ready. Our entire kingdom is ready. But no. He’s too busy flying around in there. He’s the one fighting it. He doesn’t want to leave! Nothing about that is natural.”
Hues of purple and gray glisten through Morpheus’s jeweled eye markings. He drops to his knees on the damp floor and sculpts his hands around my swollen abdomen beneath the sheets. “All right, Trouble.” His term of endearment for the baby incites an irascible arm or leg to jut from inside. “Stop playing games. Wrap up your wings. ’Tis time to meet your subjects. Your mum is tired.”
Our son reacts to his father’s voice in an excited tizzy. The flapping intensifies, stirring more contractions. I glare at Morpheus. “You just had to teach him to use his wings. You couldn’t have waited a few more weeks until he’d actually need them!”
Morpheus’s head bows, a blue curtain hiding his features. With a trembling hand, I push back the strands, regretting my harshness. He’s on the opposite end of the same situation as me. He has no idea how to act, what to do.
“Forgive me,” I whisper.
He clasps his fingers over mine and meets my gaze. “No need. I would’ve already taken off the heads of everyone in this room were I being tortured like you.”
With all the magic my king and I have between us, neither of us can control what’s happening to my body, or appease this lightning storm that brews within me, refusing to come out. But the pain doesn’t quench my maternal desire. My longing to see our prince . . . to cradle his tiny, magical body to mine, nuzzle his downy blue hair, smell his scent. To love him eternally. Unconditionally.
It’s overwhelming to consider how important he’s going to be, to more than just me and Morpheus. He’s going to improve our way of life here, by teaching the netherlings how to dream so they’ll never again need to rely on humans for that rare resource crucial for peace among the restless spirits in the cemetery.
Innocence and imagination, the components of dreams, have been missing in the fae lineage for so long, no one can even remember when they possessed such traits. Ivory once told me that it’s why Wonderland’s occupants don’t have childhoods. The nether-realm is founded on chaos, madness, and magic. Innocence and imagination fell by the wayside long ago, replaced by manipulation and murderous intent on their children’s playgrounds.
But Morpheus experienced innocence through me, each time we played together in my dreams, and he learned to wield an imagination because of it. So our son will be the first child to be born to two netherlings who’ve shared a genuine childhood. He’ll possess Morpheus’s dream-magic, and my imagination. Somehow, he’s going to pass on this unprecedented power, so the fae children will learn to dream again. They will experience childhood, in every sense of the word.
I don’t know all the details, I only know the prophecy, and the fact that Morpheus and I are to guide our son so he can master his gifts and impart them to all of Wonderland. I’m both honored and nervous to have a role in such a prestigious commission. Our prince is arriving not a moment too soon. The dreams Jeb left behind will begin waning now that he’s been gone for several years. That’s why I
joined Red’s spirit to his muse, to buy us a little extra time. Sister One has assured me the substitute will last for a while longer. Still, I’ve no idea how old our prince will be before he comes into his full power.
Another contraction needles through me, and I bite back a howl.
Our kingdom has been on high alert over the last few months, preparing for their dream-child. But Morpheus and I have waited even longer to meet our son. Decades. So why is he determined to end me before I can even kiss his head?
I’m exhausted and scared like the human I once was. I’ve forgotten the process completely. When I experienced childbirth as a mortal, my mother was there to hold my hand, to guide me. I feel alone and fragile without her wisdom.
A sob clogs my throat as the thought of her provokes another: that she and Dad are gone forever, just like Jeb. That nothing is left of the human husband I loved except my memories and our children and grandchildren—a mortal family in a human realm I’ll never see again.
A deep sadness flares inside my chest. When I came here to reign as the Red Queen permanently, I made the choice not to have contact of any kind—even to view them through the looking glasses—although I couldn’t resist sending out scouts to watch over them. But aside from their reports of well-being, I ask for no other details out of respect for my king. As long as my earthly family doesn’t need me for anything life-threatening caused by my Wonderland ties, I have to stay away. To step in and intervene with magic under any other circumstance would only cause problems for everyone.
Still, there are times I long to know their everyday lives, times I grieve for those who died before I left. I’ve become strong, the master of my sentimentality. But tonight, I’m vulnerable, and the bittersweet memories threaten to drag me into their undertow.
I can’t reveal something so human to the Red King. He’d be disappointed by my weakness, maybe even wounded by my wistfulness. My mask is slipping, and I won’t let him see.
“You should leave until it’s over,” I mutter and writhe as another wave of contractions contorts my body.
“Like hell.” Morpheus scowls. “I made a vow never to leave you when you were hurt. Not that I would go otherwise. Your bandersnatch’s serpentine tongues couldn’t tear me away.”
“Listen to your king.” The Ivory Queen’s wise and gentle voice breaks from the doorway.
Morpheus tenses, as if torn between greeting our dear friend and holding on to me so I won’t drift away on crashing waves of pain. Although we sent a message via sprites, we haven’t had a chance to personally offer our condolences since Ivory lost her love, Finley. Though she’d been able to extend his life expectancy by retaining his physical age with a youth potion, his mortality finally took him from her just a few weeks ago. No human can live forever, as I know only too well.
Instead of going to Ivory at the doorway, Morpheus stays by my bedside, and I love him even more for it.
“Neither of you can get through this alone,” Ivory continues. “It will take both of you working together to bring this child into the world, just as it took both of you to create him.”
“I am at a complete loss,” Morpheus moans, and I know by the rasp in his voice that it’s physically painful for him to admit he can’t manipulate a way to fix this situation.
Ivory kneels beside him in a swish of skirts and wings that match her glistening skin—the lavender frost of snow beneath a winter moon. “This is the first birth between a full-blood and a half-blood in the history of Wonderland,” she answers. “Of course you’re befuddled. We all are. The best you can do is comfort her. Strengthen her. Show her your faith in her fortitude. But remember, the labor itself is upon you both.”
Ivory strokes the bump on her own belly. This event holds personal interest to her, considering that she’ll be following in my footsteps and giving birth to Finley’s child in a few months. By some magical surprise, it’s the last gift he gave her. I only wish he could’ve lived long enough to see their baby born. But Morpheus and I plan to be there to help every step of the way. Ivory won’t be alone.
Gossamer ducks into view and perches atop Morpheus’s shoulder possessively.
“I don’t understand. What is my role in such a thing?” Morpheus murmurs to Ivory.
“Support her,” Ivory answers. “Emotionally and mentally. Remind her she’s not alone in this.”
I cringe against another labor pain.
Morpheus frowns in sympathy. “But she is alone, in her suffering. I don’t understand why it’s taking so long. She’s done this before as a mortal.” His finger soothes circles across my scarred palm. “Shouldn’t she fall into old habits? Is it so different for our kind?”
Ivory blots my hairline with a soft, damp cloth. “Of course it is different. Wings are involved. But that’s irrelevant. Don’t forget, it’s all new to her. Her mind remembers her human life, but she physically never experienced any of it. Being a lover and a mother became foreign terrain the moment she returned to her sixteen-year-old form.”
Gossamer clucks her tongue. “Good thing for you, Master. Elsewise, why would anyone want to wait sixty-some years for such a privilege?” Her tinkling voice holds a jealous bite.
She’s lucky the unrelenting contraction still holds me captive. If I wasn’t concentrating so hard to keep from wailing like a banshee, I’d launch her across the floor using Chessie’s wet mop as a hockey stick.
Morpheus flashes the saucy sprite a threatening grimace. “Never speak of our queen or her past life with such disrespect.” His deep voice slices the silence, both royal and brutal, making even my hair prickle. “Know your place. Or risk losing it.”
The sprite averts her dragonfly gaze, blushing a darker green—more a splash of reverent fear than shame. She flaps her furred wings and lifts from his shoulder. Bowing to me, she flutters away.
Ivory stands and squeezes my and Morpheus’s hands where they’re joined. “You can help your queen by reaching out to your son together, as a united front. Your prince needs to realize what he’s missing by hiding. Make him understand . . . help him see the magic and vicious beauty that awaits him. Once he does, he will want to be born. And then all of this will be behind you. Your new life as a royal family will begin.” Smiling kindly, she glides toward the baby cradle to help some sprites arrange cotton candy clouds within.
Morpheus rises to sit on the mattress again. His jeweled markings shift from midnight blue to impassioned purple. He lifts my hand, kisses my wrist, and murmurs in my mind so only I can hear: “You’re giving me a gift tonight, luv. Worth more than a king’s ransom and all the white gold in Wonderland. I am forever in your debt. But tell no one of my weakness.”
His sweet concession shatters my barriers, exposing the unbreakable bond between us.
He leans in to kiss me. Lips, silky and flavored with a hookah smoke haze, press upon my chapped and strained mouth. My fingers weave through his hair, pulling him closer, begging him to deepen our connection. To take me away from here as only his kisses can.
His tongue teases mine to join his, and I’m lost in the salty-sweetness of our yesterdays, forgetting the agony and fear of the present. We’re back again, after our eternal wedding vows and the resulting manic celebration with our subjects, when we escaped to be alone and waltzed on Wonderland’s sun; when our clothes burned to ash and I went to him—naked and bared, body and soul, without reservation; when he put a stop to our lovemaking because I was innocent again, and cloaked us in clouds to fly me back to our room in the Red castle so he could romance me throughout the night with patience and gentleness. In spite of how long he’d waited for that moment. In spite of his feral nature.
Falling back to the present, I break his kiss and watch the gems around his eyes flash through calming hues. It’s clear why he wanted me to remember that night. It was to remind me that he understands the human in me, that he adores her as much as my netherling side. I don’t have to admit how scared I am, or that I sometimes miss the mortals I will alway
s love. He already knows. Just as I know he will never be my footman again, because I respect, adore, and need him as much as he does me. He is my partner in every way.
“Your secret is eternally safe, solitary fae,” I whisper and draw his face to mine, giving in at last.
His mouth curves to a smile and drags across my lower lip, then glides from my cheek to my temple. His fingertips trail my jawline and skim my neck, then lower.
So intent on his touch, I almost miss the flutter of wings at my cheeks and brow. My eyes pop open to find five sprites hovering around us, along with Chessie’s decapitated head and grinning face—all of them mesmerized by our impassioned spectacle.
“Blast it!” Morpheus shouts upon looking up. “Do you not have better things to do?”
Chessie gestures his whiskered muzzle toward his body where it continues to mop the floor on the other side of the room with the help of Gossamer and Nikki—as if that excuses his nosiness.
“Step off, or you’ll all lose your heads,” Morpheus grinds out through clenched teeth. “Permanently.” It’s a promise, not a threat.
Chessie’s head and the naughty spritelings hustle to escape, crashing into one another in midair in a clumsy race off the mattress. The commotion causes the baby to flutter again, triggering another influx of high-voltage pulses through my abdomen. I double over, dragging Morpheus with me as I bite down a scream.
“He’s going to stay in there forever,” I cry between panting breaths.
My king caresses my back. Although he’s trying to help, it only antagonizes me, too small a comfort for pain this intense.
“How are we supposed to convince him to join us”—I force the words through constricted vocal cords—“if he’s intent on never leaving all he’s known?”
Morpheus tips my chin so our eyes meet. “The same way I once convinced you. We entice him with a journey through the terrible and beautiful wilds, via our memories.”
“But we have so many memories . . . I can’t wait that long.” I grit out the response, the relentless contractions intensifying my pessimism.
