Somewhere inside that gate are my two knights—the dark and the light. Morpheus has to be disappointed in me, for my colossal failure in destroying the entrances and exits to his beloved Wonderland. Then there’s Jeb, who believes I threw away the most pure and devoted love I’ve ever known.
All these weeks I’ve been concerned for their physical well-being. But what about their emotional states? Jeb thinks I betrayed him. And Morpheus will thrive on feeding that misconception every chance he gets.
Maybe it’s not the murderous prisoners or strange wildlife I should be worried about. It would be laughable to think that Morpheus took Jeb under his wings and helped him. All I can hope for is that by some miracle they parted ways without killing one another.
Again, my heart tugs in two directions—a literal, physical sensation that burns. I grit my teeth under my invisible veil, forcing myself to stay in step with our escorts.
We approach the gate. It stands over three stories high. Uncle Bernie strokes the serpentine bars. Even a nest of anacondas couldn’t compete with their size. The scales pucker and release, muscles rippling underneath. There’s no question how this gate kills its prey. One squeeze would crush anyone who violates the entrance.
These bars could obliterate armies. They probably have.
The image is so gruesome, I whimper—grateful for the sound-absorbing mist. In the gate’s center, one snaky appendage pulls free of the others. A white, oblong protrusion resembling a Venus flytrap drops down in front of my uncle and Phillip. It’s half the size of a human. As it opens, the jagged edges form eyelashes and a lone eyeball peers from inside, silver with a slitted black pupil, like a snake’s eye. I suppress a shudder.
The lashes blink, slow and studious.
Uncle Bernie and Phillip stand their ground in front of us. The leafy creature hovers across them from head to toe. It lifts high enough to look over their shoulders and I hold my breath, afraid it will somehow sense me or Dad.
It squints before snapping closed and weaving back into the other tentacles. The snaky bars wind together on either side—like curtains being drawn. We step through as a united front, my hair bristling as I jab my elbow into my side to keep from brushing the scales.
I don’t suck in a breath until the gate slithers into place behind us.
Dad and I draw back our hoods and share a sigh of relief. His brother and cousin pat my shoulder before stepping up to the top of the stone platform on either side of the threshold next to the knights they’ll be relieving. A twister of ash and wind sweeps down in the distance, similar to the white tornadoes I’ve seen on weather shows.
There’s more of the misty nothingness between the platform where we stand and AnyElsewhere’s landscape. The vapor glows green, as if radioactive. According to Uncle Bernie’s earlier rundown, instead of absorbing sound, it sucks up everything that attempts to cross it.
Both gates are separated from the terrain in such a way. The green glowing vortex holds the prisoners at bay, makes it impossible for them to storm the gates. They would have to control the wind funnels to get across. The other eyeball, the one that used to guard this side of the gate, was mentally connected to the funnels. The knights have formed medallions of the creature’s remains and now harness that power to safely travel into and out of AnyElswhere.
After a short discussion with the knights, Uncle Bernie steps down and offers a mechanical pigeon to Dad. “Push the button under its throat.” He demonstrates. “When the beak glows, you can record a message. Once you find the boy and make it to the Wonderland gate with the supplies, send us a message to let us know everyone’s okay. The pigeon will find us. It’s gilded with iron, to deter any of the prisoners from intercepting. You have one day. If we don’t hear back within twenty-four hours, we’ll follow the pigeon’s homing beacon and find you.”
Dad takes the iron-gilded bird, tucks it into our bag, and tries to talk. Nothing comes out.
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 funnel hovering close. Winds gust around us, slapping my braids against my face and neck.
“You remember how to do this?” my uncle shouts to my dad.