“There’s a pity.” Morpheus’s voice floats out from the cloud, as sultry as the smoke that carries it. “You’re certainly dressed for it. Your mortal has outdone himself.” He puffs and a wisp of smoke drifts toward me. “I suppose, though, since we shan’t be showing off your stunning ensemble, we could find a waterfall to play in. I’d like a peek at those gifts I sent you last night.”
The skin under my lingerie tingles. I stiffen my chin, determined not to let him see his effect on me. “I saw the rooms.”
“Ah,” comes his disembodied answer without a hint of surprise. “Well, before you rain down all the usual accusations, I should clarify that I wasn’t going to let you kill Red. Not until we flush her from your mortal toy’s system.”
I fake a laugh. “Right. You want Jeb dead as much as her. Two birds with one stone.”
“If that were true, he wouldn’t be here now. When we landed, the goon birds started swarming overhead. They prefer live food, so I faked killing Jebediah. I hid him to protect him, just as I’ve been doing ever since.”
Taking a few steps closer, I stub the toe of my boot on a baseball-size rock. I pick it up, rolling its smooth surface between my lacy gloves. “You’re not protecting him. You’re hoarding him. He’s your crown jewel. With the magic he rations out to you, everyone treats you like a king—” I stop myself short because it’s a role Morpheus will play again for real, if I pledge my eternal future to him one day.
His deep chuckle curls up on a tail of smoke. “Does it ever disarm you, Alyssa . . . how well we see through one another? It does me.” His voice softens on the admission—a depth of vulnerability he doesn’t often use.
Of course it disarms me; everything about him does. I toss the rock from one hand to another. “Birds of a feather. Yada yada yada. The cliché is kind of boring.”
“I rather like to think of us more as moths of a flame. And trying to predict which of us might get burned first is far from boring, luv.”
A trickle of excitement drizzles through me at the underlying challenge. “You realized Jeb had been touched by magic. That’s why you saved him.”
Another chuckle thickens the smoke around the mushroom cap. “I saw crimson dribbling from the end of the vine and the purple light under his shirtsleeve. Somehow, the iron dome caused a magnetic reaction, merging my and Red’s magic into him. Yes.”
“So, that’s when you came to the mountain?” I press.
“Jebediah did a sketch with some mud out in the open. His creation came alive. So we made a makeshift paintbrush and paints. With those, he hollowed out the mountain and tamed the ocean and its inhabitants by altering the existing world. It’s how his landscapes work: He reshapes the water into lakes and moats . . . molds the terrain to mountains, hills, or valleys. Each time I venture out, he changes my surroundings to keep the wildlife confused and clear of my path. But this ability has emotional limitations. Though he has no trouble conjuring landscapes and crafting creatures, when it comes to his more personal paintings, he’s plagued by an artist’s block. And the less satisfied he is with the results, the deeper he falls into despair, which gives Red’s magic a tighter hold on his muse.”
My eyes water, either from the smoke or my fear for Jeb’s sanity. His warning to Morpheus when I first saw them together in the studio makes sense now: Remember what happened when her face turned up in my paintings. “Something went wrong when he tried to paint me.”
“He could never get you right. You were missing legs and arms. Gaping holes in your face. Just like the self-portrait he made.”
My stomach knots. “But I thought the other paintings attacked CC.”
“Sometimes the paintings attack one another. But that one was Jebediah’s doing. He can’t see past the broken image that his father trained him to see. So he cannot paint himself whole. It’s why he finally painted it as an elfin knight, in a last-ditch attempt. Same was true of you. His confusion and anger kept getting in the way of perfection. He hid in that willow-tree room, trying to get you right . . . trying to make an image ‘worthy of your memory.’ The only way I could get him to come out, to live again, was to abduct each of your facsimiles. I led them to the water and watched them dissolve to nothing. They were so horribly disfigured it was inhumane to keep them alive, but our tortured artist didn’t have the strength to destroy them. So I did it for him. I convinced him the best way to be free was to stay out of the willow room. To avoid reminders of you, and embrace his anger.”
I lean against a tree and press the cool rock against the ring hanging under my shirt, to ease the pricking sensation in my chest behind it. No wonder rage and violence are ruling Jeb’s heart. He’s subsisting on powers siphoned from two of the most potent, brilliant, and manipulative Wonderland denizens. He’s at war with himself trying to contain it. Just like I used to be. Yet his struggle is greater, because he’s two parts netherling to one part human.
I close my eyes. “He must’ve felt so alone.”