Ensnared

I sip slivers of air with each movement of his brush . . . afraid to breathe too loud, afraid to move. Afraid if I disturb the atmosphere in any way, I’ll break the spell he’s under. Maybe I can bring him back, help him remember the good parts of his human life. Maybe, if I can get him to reach out and hold me, it will remind him of everything we meant to each other.

His hand starts to shake the moment he finishes painting my left breast.

“Jeb.” I venture a whispered plea. “All those weeks I was in the asylum, I gave in to my madness, faced those fears. But I never forgot you. Or us. Please, show me you remember, too.”

His gaze intensifies on mine. My body aches with longing, familiar with that look from the past.

The palette and brush clatter at my feet as he grabs my face, careful not to smear the paint on my chest. His thumb traces the trails my tears made on my cheek and then nudges the dimple in my chin. His breath cloaks my face, warm and sweetened by the honeycomb-flower he ate earlier.

I run my palm across his chest and lower, seeking his scars through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. Seeking the Jeb I’ve grown up with. My solid rock in spite of his own broke

He groans. His fingers thread through the hair bunched at the base of my neck. I clutch his shirt, tip my face to kiss the labret at the edge of his lower lip.

With a surprised sound, he breaks my hold and jerks back. Red light reflects off his face. We look down at my neck simultaneously. The diary’s pages are glowing.

“What is that thing?” His voice is thick with emotion. The red light flickers in his eyes like candles’ flames. His expression changes from curious to mesmerized. He uses his pinky to lift the two strings grazing my collarbone, managing not to touch the dip between my breasts.

“Are those real pages?” he asks.

I push my heartbeat from my throat with a gulp. “It’s nothing.” I lift the tiny book along with the key over my head and hide them in my fist.

Don’t slip away again . . . Please, stay with me . . . Hold me, hold me, hold me.

My silent mantra shatters as he catches and flips my wrist to drop the necklaces onto his waiting palm. The moment they make contact, he curses and flings them across the room. Eyes widened in shock, he opens his fingers.

The diary left an imprint—a red, fiery brand—in the center of his hand.

Jeb pries his palm away as I try to assess the severity of his wound. His mood shifts to accusatory in the blink of an eye. “What do you have inside that book? Why did it burn me?”

“I don’t know,” I mutter, as much to myself as anyone.

The diary has protected me at least twice while I’ve been inside this mountain. Does it think Jeb is a danger to me, too?

Is he?

“It’s just words,” I add. “Magical words. Nothing to do with you.” I can’t be any more specific, or he’ll figure out that I’m pla

Jeb narrows his eyes, as if he doesn’t buy it. I’m bewildered, wondering once more where all this animosity and suspicion is coming from.

Dad chooses that instant to step back into the room. He notices my half-painted state and quickly looks away. “Everything okay with you two?”

“Never better,” Jeb says.

Dad picks up the duffel and carries it to the table to sift through the supplies with his back turned, an obvious ploy to give us privacy.

Not that we need it. Jeb makes additions—a panel of lace flowing out from my T-shirt’s hem to cover my navel and lower back, and fingerless gloves that match—so removed from the motions, I feel as if I am a one-dimensional doll after all, and he’s folding paper clothes around me.

When he’s done, he leads me to the cheval mirror so I can watch as he taps each painted piece with the brush’s tip, now lit with violet sorcery.

The golden pigment on my legs transforms to glittery, footless tights that end at my ankles. They bend and stretch, like spandex. The two flaps of red, ivory, and green plaid he painted from my waist to midthigh form a front and back seam on a miniskirt, and the black cropped T-shirt loosens to a comfortable fit. The ivory skull and gold vines on front puff out as if embroidered with metallic thread.

He takes down my hair, then whisks the paintbrush through my platinum blond waves. I reach up to touch a tiara-like headband of white roses and glistening rubies that match my crimson streak.

For the first time in a month, I feel like me again. Part netherling and part human—and a touch regal.

Jeb’s reflection appears behind mine, his chin above my head. He drops the diary and key necklaces into place, careful to touch only the strings. “I can’t stress this enough,” he says. “Don’t get the clothes wet.”

I turn to thank him for giving me such beautiful things, but he’s already across the room, discussing the Wonderland gate mission with Dad.

Back behind my screen, I check under my clothes. The bandages have bonded with the painted outfit, leaving only Morpheus’s lacy gifts intact. I pull my Barbie boots over my tights. We decided it was better I have waterproof shoes. As soon as I step out, Dad and Jeb escort me to the lighthouse.

Dad gives me a hug and strict instructions not to budge till they return. Together, they head back to the boat. I’m gloating to myself, laughing at how they’ve forgotten I can fly, when Jeb stops halfway down the stone stairs, says something to my dad, and returns to where I’m standing.

He grips the doorframe above my head, leaning over me, his strong features lit up by the moon. “I know you’re pla

I stifle a denial, furious he can anticipate my every move when I can’t even peel away one layer of his thoughts.

“There are only two ways to get out of this refuge,” he continues. “One, the way you came in. I’ve commanded the graffiti not to hurt you, but also not to let you into that tu

The netherling in me is impressed by his new role as master manipulator. But the human side, the one who knows this isn’t the real Jeb, is afraid of what he’s become.

“Take advantage of this time,” he insists. “Rest and preserve your strength for Wonderland. It isn’t going to be a picnic for you or your dad.” The old Jeb flashes into view as he looks hesitant, and I wonder if he’s considered what it will mean for us if he stays in AnyElsewhere. That it will be good-bye forever.

He drops his burned hand and squints at the fresh scar. “You never told me what was in that book.”

I cradle the diary between my fingers. “I told you it was words.”

He huffs. “Well, it looks like words will always stand between us then, huh?” With that, he leaves. “Sometimes words are louder than actions” echoes in the scrape of his boot soles on the stone steps.

What could I have said the last time we were together that was so treasonous it tore his faith in us apart?

Gritting my teeth, I slam the door. Despite what Morpheus would have me believe, there’s something other than rage, jealousy, and regret eating away at the Jeb I know. Maybe netherling magic is too much for any mortal to harness without going crazy.

I sit on the bed in the tower. Worried about Jeb and Dad’s excursion, and disoriented by the perpetual darkness, I leave the canopy curtains open and lie on my side to watch the starry sky through the porthole. I breathe in the salty air, and plan my escape: Once Jeb and Dad have time to leave, I’ll seek out Morpheus in the underground rooms. He’s bound to know of another exit from the mountain. We’ll use the diary to lead us to Red. Although I’m not sure how we’ll find our way back afterward.