In an attempt to look busy, I take down my braid and rub my fingers through my hair to loosen the waves. I lean toward the rearview mirror to clean the smudges off my face. One look and my stomach flips.
It's not soot at all. My netherling eye patches have returned-a more feminine version of Morpheus's, without the jewels. It must've happened when I started losing touch with my human side. No wonder everyone was looking at me so weird in the school office.
I'm braving another glance at the marks when I notice a gray and orange striped tail hanging from my rearview mirror.
"Chessie?"
The fuzzy appendage twitches.
Dad gives me a pointed glare as he's backing out, and I pretend to dig a Kleenex from my glove box. As soon as he's on the street, I check the parking lot to make sure I'm alone, then tap Chessie's tail. It wraps around my finger and dissolves into an orange mist.
When the feline netherling materializes, I hold out my palm. He perches there-furry, wiggly, and warm.
"Let me guess. Morpheus wants me to find him," I say.
His shimmery green eyes study me for a minute before he flutters to the driver's-side window. Breathing over the glass to fog it, he etches the letters m-e-m-o-r-y with a clawed fingertip.
I put my key in the ignition. "I know. He's waiting among lost memories. Look, I don't have time to figure out what that means right now." The motor roars to life. "Jeb needs me."
Chessie shakes his head, then breathes another stream of fog across the windshield in my line of vision. This time he draws a picture of a train and a set of wings.
I sigh. "Yes, you saved me and Morpheus from the train. I remember. Thank you. Now, go back and tell him he's going to have to wait a little longer." I wipe away the condensation from the windshield with a Kleenex.
Chessie flaps around me. The downy white tufts above his eyes furrow.
I wave him toward the dash and slide on a pair of sunglasses. "I'm not changing my mind. I'm doing this first. You can come, but only if you don't distract me."
The tiny netherling plops down on the dash, arms crossed. His usual toothy smile curves to a frown, and his long whiskers droop. As I pull onto the street, a pickup passes. The driver stares at Chessie so hard he almost misses his turn.
"You're going to have to look more…inconspicuous," I tell my passenger.
Releasing a teensy sigh that sounds like a kitten's sneeze, he crouches on all fours with his tail curled behind him, lays his wings flat against his back, and loosens his head so it will bob-a perfect imitation of a bobblehead car accessory.
I'd laugh if I wasn't so worried about Jeb.
It takes twenty minutes to find the studio. It's located at the end of a lonely dirt road eight miles south of the same housing development Morpheus and I passed yesterday.
I park on a dusty plot of land that doubles as a driveway. As soon as I kill the engine, Chessie reaffixes his head and flits to his perch on the rearview mirror, hissing.
I remove my sunglasses, scared enough to hiss myself. A half dozen dying mesquite trees surround a run-down cottage with a flat roof. Their trunks and branches are gnarled. A few of them appear to have grown into the cottage walls, as if they're attacking the place. It's not a welcoming sight.
Weathered wooden slats form the front and side walls. The only part of the cottage that looks new is the door, which is painted a deep red with shiny brass hinges and an oddly shaped knocker. The whole door seems out of place against the rotting background.
There aren't any windows-at least from the front. How could there be enough light for painting in a windowless cottage? I'm starting to think I made a wrong turn until I notice Jeb's Honda lying next to what might've been a rabbit hutch. It's more like a pile of kindling and wire now.
Seeing his bike on the ground validates my worst fear: He's been here all night. He's either alone and unprotected, or not alone-and that might be worse.
Dread and guilt wrap around my heart. I should've told him the truth from the beginning. If he'd known since last summer, he would have been prepared.
My cell phone rings, startling me. It's Dad. I turn off the ringer but send him a text:
I'll be home soon. Try not to worry. I just need to be alone, to figure out some things.
He'll be furious and will start looking for me immediately, but at least maybe he won't worry as much.
I drop the phone into my backpack and turn back to the cottage. I shouldn't feel intimidated by this run-down building after what I just faced at school. But there's a possibility Red is here-one of the few netherlings even Morpheus fears. To think of Jeb facing her alone makes me shiver.
The wind kicks dirt across my windshield in a gritty scatter of brown. Chessie hisses again-a reminder that at least I'm not alone.
"I have to go in," I say to him.
He grabs his tail and twirls, wrapping the appendage around his body and face to hide.
"Well, do you have any better ideas?" I ask.
He peers out, fogs the window again, and writes Find M with the tip of his tail.
I narrow my eyes. "We'll find Morpheus after we take care of this. Now, are you coming?"
Chessie frowns, his fur puffed up like a frightened cat's. He shakes his head.
"Fine. Stay out here by yourself, then."
The instant I open my door and step out, Chessie's fluttery wings touch my ear. He lights on my shoulder and ducks underneath my hair.
Relief rushes through me. He may be little, but he's magic, stealthy, and adept at fixing things. It's better than going in by myself.
I hold his tail for comfort as I walk to the door. Dirt clods and pebbles crunch under my feet. The bugs whisper all around. I can't tell if they're cheering me on or warning me; there are too many voices to pick apart.
After stepping onto the crumbling porch, I pause and stare at the brass knocker. It's in the shape of a pair of garden shears.
Goose bumps erupt across my flesh. I look down at my scarred palms. Whoever put this knocker here knew I would come…they're playing games with me. I grit my teeth. It doesn't matter. I'm not leaving without Jeb, no matter how menacing his captor is.
The knob turns easily, and I push the door open but stay on the porch to look in. The place appears to be abandoned, and it occurs to me there's one outcome that could be worse than finding Jeb here: not finding him at all.
I stick my head in farther. The scent of paint and a pungent metallic odor hit me first. Then something else…sickly sweet and fruity…familiar enough that it makes my mouth water, but I can't place it.
Sun rays stream from the ceiling where skylight panels make up the roof, giving the place a greenhouse effect. Cobwebs flecked with bug corpses drape from the glass and hang to the floor in places, glistening like grotesquely jeweled wedding veils. There's one big room-not counting the loft to the left and a bathroom to my right, where a tall chest with fifty or more minidrawers stands just inside the open door. The canvas-covered walls are taller than they looked from outside. There's no furniture, other than the portable scaffolds propped against the walls, so the sun's reflection hazes off a dusty wooden floor.
The result is bright and ethereal…almost heavenly. Now I can see why Ivy chose this studio. I tiptoe around some art supplies, leaving the door ajar behind me. Chessie tenses under my hair.
There are paintings everywhere-three on easels covered with drop cloths, others on the canvas walls. I spin to take them all in, the wooden floor slick beneath me.
My breath accelerates as the paintings' subjects become clear: garden shears and a child's bloody hand; an octopus being swallowed by a clam; a rowboat afloat on a romantic river of stars; two silhouettes skimming on boards down a cliff made of sand; bleeding roses and a box with a head inside. Memories that Jeb and I made in Wonderland. Memories that no longer belong to him. Yet I'd recognize that morbidly beautiful style anywhere. He painted perfect renditions of our journey. He had to be working nonstop all night.
Somehow he's remembered everything.
I back up and hit a rolled piece of canvas with my heel. I open it, revealing a painting of Jeb breaking into Mr. Mason's car in the hospital parking lot, a nurse waiting beside him in a white dress.
I rock in place, feeling dizzy.
So Nurse Terri did play a part in my stolen mosaics-and Jeb helped her?
I remember Morpheus's words: "Do you honestly think I'm the only one with the ability to slip undetected into a car with its alarm on?" He was right. Even some humans have that ability, if they know enough about cars.
But there could be an innocent explanation. Mr. Mason's car is new, and Jeb has never seen it. The nurse could've lied and told him it was hers…that she had locked herself out. Once he had her car unlocked, he left. Then she stole my art-maybe under the orders of another netherling. That might explain how I never saw a fae form through her glamour.
That has to be how it happened, because Jeb would never betray me.
Morpheus was right about something else, too. I do hold him and Jeb to different standards. In the same situation, I would never give my dark tormentor the benefit of the doubt.
"Jeb!" I yell, struggling to suppress a sob. "Are you here?"
No answer, just the echo of my desperation.
Chessie weaves his way out of my hair.
"He's in the loft…he has to be." I say it aloud to comfort myself, although it doesn't work. I climb the ladder. The rungs creak under my weight.
I stop once I'm high enough to see the upper level. The fruity, sweet scent is strongest here. There's a large glass decanter turned over on the floor, droplets of what appears to be dark purple wine leaking from its wide mouth.
Jeb wouldn't have been drinking. He almost never drinks, and especially not while painting.
Everything, including the barren wooden walls, is covered with thick, opaque webs full of bulges. There's a minifridge and a floor lamp in the far corner. A box mattress sits next to the railing. I shake off the sudden image of my nightmare in the hospital, of Jeb's body bound in web on a cot. This mattress might be dusty and old, but there's nothing lying on top of it.
In fact, it doesn't look like anyone's been up here for years. I start to climb down, but then I spot something-the black polo and Japanese tie Jeb wore to his photo shoot yesterday-spread out in the corner closest to the ladder. Holding my breath, I return to the top two rungs, then reach out and grasp it. As I drag the shirt toward me, my three stolen mosaics come into view, hidden underneath.
I slap my hand over my mouth. The sound reverberates in the empty room and brings Chessie up beside me.
Just like at school, I can't make out much, other than what appears to be a ravaged Wonderland and an angry queen. I wonder how Mom was able to read anything else into them.
Chessie buzzes around me, as if trying to tell me something.
Morpheus said the feline netherling's gift is mapping out the best way to solve puzzles, then fixing them. Maybe that applies to magical artwork, too.
"Do you know how to read these?" I ask Chessie. "You were perched on Mom's shoulder in my mirror-to help her read them, right?"
As if he's been waiting for me to connect the dots, he dissolves into orange sparkles and gray smoke. He drifts like a cloud over the glass beads and acts as a filter, bringing clarity to the lines of the mosaics. Once he's in place, it's like watching a monochromatic film play out: First, there's a giant spider chasing a flower; in the next mosaic, one Red queen is left standing amid a storm of magic and chaos; and in the last one, there's a single queen whose upper half is wrapped in something white, like web.
Disturbing clues I can't quite fit together.
Shaken, I descend the ladder, leaving the mosaics where I found them.
On the floor, I hold Jeb's shirt up in the sun. Something dark is caked all across the front. The scent reminds me of blood. I suppress a moan.
"We have to find him." I slap stray tears from my face and toss the shirt aside.
Chessie hovers around one of the covered easels. Maybe the remaining paintings will tell us where Jeb is now.
I nod, giving my netherling companion permission to do what I'm too scared to do myself.
Holding a corner of the cloth in his paws, he flits his wings and drags it away. Instead of canvas stretched over a frame, there's a pane of glass streaked with red paint so fluid, it dried in drizzles. I study the runny lines, the image unmistakably more of Jeb's handiwork.
The same coppery scent that was on Jeb's shirt overpowers me. Following a hunch, I scrape off some of the red paint and touch it to my tongue. Nausea follows in the wake of the salty-metallic flavor.
Blood.
My mind tumbles to a dark, terrible place, but I haul it back and hold myself steady. Jeb needs me to be strong. I can't imagine him draining his veins for paint like he did last summer in Wonderland. But he survived it once. He will again. He's okay. He has to be.
I look closer at the painting. It's familiar beyond Jeb's style. It's an abstract version of one of my mosaics-one of the ones now hidden somewhere under a bridge in London. Chessie helps me remove the cloth from the second one. It's also a glassy rendition of my artwork. The last easel holds a clean pane next to three empty plastic vials. The same ones Nurse Terri used to take samples of blood at the hospital.
My blood.
Morpheus pointed out that even if Red had access to my blood, she didn't have the imagination to set the visions free. Since I'm partly human and an artist, creation is my power.
Jeb's an artist, too. And he's fully human. Morpheus was right about my blood being used as weapon against me. And Jeb unwittingly wielded the sword in the form of a paintbrush.
Once again, he's caught in the middle of my identity crisis.
My eyes well with tears, but I don't have the luxury of time to cry.
Chessie blinks at me, waiting, and I give him permission to help decipher the artwork.
He uses his magic veil again to animate the glass paintings: What was a stationary queen on a rampage in Wonderland becomes three fighting queens, just as Mom described. They move across the glass, using magic and wit to one-up each other and gain the crown. Another woman spies from behind a cluster of eight spindly vines.
Chessie rakes his paws through the residue left on the first pane of glass and smears it on the next glass painting, as if transferring his magic. This time, only two queens are left to battle for the crown, while the third is eaten alive by some vile creature. The mystery woman who was watching from behind the vines retreats. As she leaves, the vines go with her. They appear to be coming out of her bottom half. She's not hiding behind a plant at all-the appendages are a part of her. And the top half is too humanoid to be a zombie flower, so it can't be Red.
Chessie materializes and lands on my shoulder. I'm too numb to even thank him for his help. There's little satisfaction in our discovery because I can't understand what any of the mosaics mean. All I do know is that they're proof that Red has used my blood to gain the upper hand in our battle. Even worse, Jeb has been in her clutches and is now gone.
My heart hurts-a pain that sucks the breath out of me. Unable to stand on my trembling legs, I sit hard on the floor, knees curled up to my chest. It's like my sternum is caving in. All this time I was trying to protect Jeb from my past by hiding it. And now he's been swallowed by my future.
I know I need to think beyond this world, to what this means for Wonderland. Red is one step ahead of me. She's seen five of my six mosaics. I can only hope she wasn't able to interpret them, because they show the results of a war that is only just starting to play out. She wants to alter the ending to her benefit, and I need to find the last mosaic so I can be a step ahead.
But she's got Jeb.
I hold his locket to my lips to taste the metal, burying my face behind a curtain of hair. Our plans for London, our life together. His chance at being a world-renowned artist…it can't be gone.
If it is, I don't know how to go forward.
The door slams shut, making me jump. I shove my hair back and look up.
I nearly scream when I see Jeb standing there. I'm off the floor in an instant. He's wearing his black jeans from yesterday, but that's all. Even his feet are bare. Sunlight shimmers on the dusting of chest hair between his pecs. His olive skin glistens with sweat, and colorful paint smudges his torso, covering several of his scars. There's not a hint of magic to him, yet he's the most spellbinding thing I've ever seen.
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 mind, 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."
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