Ensnared

Uncle Bernie nods. “You haven’t built up a tolerance to the black mist you inhaled.” He speaks loudly over the twister coming our way. “Your vocal cords will stay asleep for a half hour or so.” He gestures behind us and we turn to see the fu

“You remember how to do this?” my uncle shouts to my dad.

Dad nods.

“Step in and hold tight to each other,” Uncle Bernie directs. He lifts a medallion at his neck, holding it up. An off-white oval shimmers in the center and red strands run through, jagged and fine like blood veins. Tarnished, brassy metal frames the strange stone. “We would give you a medallion of your own, but we can’t risk it getting into the wrong hands. Since you have someone to find, I’ll have the fu

Dad nods. Uncle Bernie hugs us both and nudges us toward the approaching fu

But I’m a woman and a queen now. And I’m the one responsible for all of this. There’s no hiding anymore. I tip my chin. I’m ready.

We pull down our hoods to keep ash out of our faces, then leap inside together, holding tight as our feet lift and our bodies swirl. Within minutes, the fu

We’re ejected onto the top of the peak, and the impact breaks us apart. Dad grabs for me but rolls down the opposite side of the incline, his hood opening so I can see his face and neck. It’s a haunting image, as if he’s been beheaded. I dig my nails through the fabric cloaking my hands in an effort to clutch the snow. But it’s not snow at all. The hill is coated with ash like the fu

I remind myself he’s been here as a child and survived, and this time he has the advantage of invisibility and a duffel filled with weapons.

My body twists sideways and the hood wraps tighter as I’m dragged along the dusty landslide. My bones clatter with the rough ride until a rock the size of a medicine ball slams into my stomach at the bottom of the hill. The impact knocks the air from my lungs.

I struggle to catch my breath.

“Well, bloody holiday. What have we here?” The deep, British accent strokes my eardrums like velvet.

I peer through my hood’s fabric. Morpheus stands on the other side of the rock, gaze turned down on me. He glows in the orange dimness, a soft blue light radiating from his hair. A lilac shirt under his navy tapestry jacket complements his alabaster skin. Striped pants hug his streamlined silhouette. He wears a fedora cocked to one side. Although I can’t make out the moths clustered around the hatband in this strange lighting, I know they’re there.

He holds a cane. The eagle-head handle is so realistic it could be on a plaque at a taxidermy shop. Feathered wings wrap the shaft, and four paws sprout from the base, each one covered with golden fur like lion’s feet. Talons splay from the toe-pads in place of claws.

Morpheus is as stylish and eccentric as I remember. Somehow, this place hasn’t broken him. I’m so happy, I want to hug him—until I notice the angry red jewels blinking at the tips of his eye markings.

He tucks the walking stick beneath his arm and kneels close, wings drooping. Anger hardens his exquisite features. “Here I’d hoped never to see your face again.”

Morpheus’s hatred hits me like a fist, an agonizing throb that rivals the bruises where the rock juts into my rib cage.

“Your being here changes nothing,” he seethes. “You’ve made your bed. Now lie in it.” He doesn’t spare another word, doesn’t ask how I got here or even speak my name. He simply shoves the rock aside so it’s no longer between us.

I curl into a ball. What did I expect? I destroyed the home he loves, then sent him to the looking-glass world to rot without his magic. It’s not like he was going to draw me into his arms and say how much he’s missed me.

But it’s not as if he didn’t play a part in this nightmare himself, either.

An apology tangles with my righteous indignation. Better the words stay locked inside a voice box that’s dormant. There’ll be time to break through Morpheus’s walls later. Right now, I need to find Dad and make sure he’s okay. Then we’ll search for Jeb—who will most likely have the same reaction to my being here.

I grip the diary and key at my neck to assure they’re safely under the clothes. I’m about to stand and trek through the barren trees when Morpheus gets to his feet and turns his back and wings on me.

“I said return to your bed of ash.” He prods the rock with his walking stick. “You’ve no call to chase me down unless I’ve beckoned you.”

I cock my head. Holding out an arm, I stare through it. I’m still invisible. Morpheus doesn’t know I’m here. He’s been talking to the rock all along. I stand as quietly as I can and stretch my aching muscles.

“We just w-w-wondered”—the rock responds to Morpheus from a mouth that appears beneath the white, dusty surface—“has our most g-gracious king considered our r-request to help us get our eggs back?”

“That’s our only question,” about thirty smaller rocks pipe in, powdery lips flapping. “If you’ll save our eggs.”

“Let us put this in perspective.” Morpheus lifts his wings over his craggy audience. “You were the ones who carelessly lost your eggs, leaving them unattended so you could take a swim in a temporary ocean. Now, I said I would consider helping you. Consideration, by definition, is evaluating facts and meditating on the outcome. That takes time. Even hardheaded scuttlers such as yourselves can understand that. I came here today for solitude, a rare commodity when one’s own shadow is always at his back. At last I’ve found a sunless spot, the perfect place for meditation. So, off with you.”

The rocks stand their ground. Using the clawed tip of the cane, Morpheus nudges one that has rolled too close.

“Perhaps your brains have fossilized,” he grumbles. “Do you truly wish to cross the only one with magic enough to grind your eggs to dust?”

Purple light trembles at the ends of Morpheus’s fingers where they meet the cane. The static descends along the shaft and then leaps from the lions’ paws to the ground like violet lightning.

I slap a hand over my mouth, too late to muffle my gasp.

Morpheus’s muscles tense and he looks over his shoulder, but the rocks catch his attention again.

“Oh, no. We never w-w-want our eggs to be crushed,” the largest stony creature answers. “P-p-please.” Six lobsterlike legs and two beady eyes burst with a pop from its body. The other rocks follow suit, freeing their limbs and eyes, reminding me of the rock lobster in Carroll’s tale.

Whimpering, the rocks scuttle backward in a wave to avoid the magical, crackling glow creeping toward them from Morpheus’s hands and cane. Their front pincers snip at the ashes, throwing a white haze across the streaks of violet magic.