He gulps air hungrily. “I”—he coughs—“will always”—another breath—“do what’s best for you.”
I blink rain and tears from my lashes. “Jeb is dead!” My shout strains my throat and the tendrils holding my heart together. Dizziness rushes in and I wobble. I gather my bearings and drag Morpheus closer. More vines erupt from my skin, wrapping him from his waist to his chest. “How can that be what’s best for me? Answer me!”
“Skater girl.”
The voice comes from behind, not from Morpheus’s compressed vocal cords. I drop the vine from his neck, but the others hold position. I can’t turn around, afraid I’m imagining things.
“Look, I get that he’s a pain in the ass.” A strong, familiar hand touches my bare elbow and the heat stings my cuts. “But it’d be more sporting with a king-size flyswatter. Set him down, huh?”
Morpheus holds my gaze, a smug smirk quivering at his lips. “Told you.” Then he glances over my head and takes another gulp of air. “About bloody time you got back.”
My limbs tremble and I lower Morpheus to the ground. The vines retract into my body as I spin on my heel.
It’s CC facing me. The harlequin doppelganger now wears a knight’s tunic and pants. Chessie sits on his shoulder, smiling from ear to ear. Two of Jeb’s shadow creatures stand under the portico next to the drawbridge to stay dry, their wings at rest as they await further commands.
I watch in wonder as CC transforms in the rain.
The sleeves of his tunic are rolled up, and a glowing purple tattoo begins to appear on his right inner wrist, a sheet of flesh-colored paint rinsing away. The points of his ears, the heart-shaped eye patch, and the mutilations under his left eye melt away, too. His porcelain coloring vanishes as rivulets of black, red, and white track down to reveal Jeb’s clear, olive complexion. Everything—the gashes and the dislocated eyeball, the elfin jewels and ear tips—were painted on . . . made alive at Jeb’s command.
He and Morpheus managed a trade somehow: Jeb for his creation.
They tricked everyone. Including me.
I shake my head. Chessie launches from Jeb’s shoulder and flutters in front of me. His whirling, all-knowing eyes recount everything: Morpheus finding Jeb in the dungeon; the two of them in private, coming up with the plan and sneaking into Manti’s chamber in simulacrum suits; Manti agreeing to everything as long as he got to play the loyal king to salvage his reputation in his queen’s eyes; Jeb painting and animating the miniature hookah that triggered my human memories; and last of all, Jeb touching up his doppelganger’s face to flawless perfection before painting bloody streams under the blindfold and gag, then masking his own ears and face with elfin features, harlequin face paint, eye patch, and gaping holes.
Chessie smiles again, tiny teeth glinting. I open my palm for him and he rolls to his back so I can rub his tummy. With a contented grunt, he leaps into flight and makes a beeline for Morpheus, who puts him to work looking for his hat in the ashes.
I turn to Jeb, still shaky. “CC’s image. His face. I thought you couldn’t complete him.”
Jeb rubs his labret with his thumb. “Because I couldn’t see inside my heart. Ever since I can remember, I measured my worth against who my old man was, or how successful my art was. You’ve been telling me all along that I chose to be better than my dad. It was a choice. It finally hit me that you were right. Every time your life was at stake, my first thought was to help you. Like today, even if I couldn’t have painted a way, I would’ve found another. That’s the one good thing that came out of my childhood. Having seen the worst is what helps me choose the best. This place let me face my demons. But you . . . you always had faith I would beat them. And now I have. Thanks for that, Al.” His green eyes shimmer with a self-possession they’ve never had. Complete and total acceptance.
The rain stops, and reality hits full on.
Jeb’s alive and whole—in every way. Morpheus didn’t betray us. And all the horror I just witnessed was a brilliant, twisted lie.
Jeb twines one of my blond dreadlocks around his finger. “You okay?”
I’m tempted to scream at him for letting me believe such terrible things about both of them. But I’m too happy to have him alive, standing here and talking to me . . . touching me . . .
I want to leap into his arms and hug him tight. Since my dress is a killing machine, I settle for pressing my palm against his chest. His heartbeat thumps from the other side of his clothes. I will never take that rhythm for granted, or the fact that he still has a life-clock.
“Never scare me like that again,” I say.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Hey, that’s my line.” Using my dreadlock, he draws my face close and brushes his lips and labret across my forehead, then down my temple to my mouth in a gentle peck.
Morpheus makes a huffing sound. “Well, that’s just jolly beautiful. I’m the one who got a bump on the noggin and half strangled.”