I inhale a ragged breath. No. I’ve never been there.
My finger traces the lines of Queen Red’s flaming hair on the sketch. If I’ve never been there, how did I know about the queen and her mother? How do I know she was lonely as a young princess after her mother died, because the king couldn’t bear to spend time with her for her resemblance to his dead wife, and her sadness when her father remarried because he had to, since queens rule Wonderland?
I know these things because he taught them to me. The winged boy.
British … I’m reminded of the voice I heard in my head at work, along with the poster and the guy’s bottomless, bleeding black eyes. His challenge resurfaces in my mind: “I’m waiting inside the rabbit hole, luv. Find me.”
Luv. That’s what the boy called the girl—what the boy called me—in my resurfaced memory. It’s the same person … or creature … but he’s older now, like me. I suddenly feel like I’ve been missing him for years. My emotions scramble in two different directions—a heady mix between terror and yearning—making me dizzy.
The doorbell rings, crashing me back to the present. Dad’s garage-door opener has been on the fritz. It has to be him.
I stand. Stuffing covers the floor. Cottony fluff oozes out from the holes in the chair’s upholstery. It looks like one of those toys that squeezes Play-Doh through strategically placed orifices.
The doorbell rings again.
I drag stuffing out of my hair. How will I ever explain what I’ve done to the recliner?
Mind racing, I hide my findings inside my backpack, making a spontaneous decision to take it all to London. Then, considering the violent nether-realm creatures I saw online and the black-eyed, winged boy who is somehow a part of my past, I drop Dad’s army knife in, too.
After setting the bag aside, I stumble to the door and unlatch the lock, glancing over my shoulder at the mess.
As I open the door, Jeb steps up onto the porch, shoving his phone into his tux’s jacket pocket. I struggle to maintain a calm appearance. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he says back. Lightning slashes the clouds behind him. The flash casts shadows of his long lashes across his cheeks. A gust of wind carries his cologne to me.
Maybe he’s here to apologize. I hope so, because I could use his help right now.
“We need to talk,” he says. The sharpness in his voice pulls my defenses up instantly. He towers over me at the threshold. Despite the tuxedo, he’s still grunge, all the way from his unshaved chin to the bandana cinched around his left biceps. His ribbed white tank and weathered black combat boots in lieu of a dress shirt and shoes help complete the look. Paris Hilton of Pleasance High is going to have a hissy when she sees his wardrobe enhancements.
“Shouldn’t you be on your way to the powder-puff ball?” I ask, cautious, trying to feel him out.
“I’m not driving.”
Translation: Taelor’s picking him up in the family limo and is running fashionably late.
He grinds a knuckle into the door’s scrollwork, his jaw working back and forth. He’s ticked about something, all right. What could it be? I’m the one who deserves an apology. A groveling, in fact.
“Can I come in?” Red sparkles under his lip where a brand-new garnet labret catches the light. The mystery of the bag from the jewelry store is officially solved.
“How adorable,” I mock. “Taelor gave you lip jewelry … and it’s sparkly.”
He nudges the piercing with his tongue. “She’s trying to be diplomatic.”
Anger rises in a white-hot surge as I remember London and all the things Taelor said to me. “Of course she is. Because she’s eight kinds of wonderful, and that’s just her legs.”
Jeb furrows his brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Taelor has all the diplomacy of a black widow spider. Garnet’s her birthstone. You’re wearing her birthday on your lip. Talk about spinning you up in her web.”
He looks down at me, frowning. “Cut her a break. She’s had a bad enough day. She lost her purse with some money in it.” Pausing, he traces a finger along the door’s frame. “The last place she remembered having it was at your store. But she figured you would’ve contacted her if you’d found it. You didn’t see it, right?”
I push down the guilt nudging me. “No. And I’m not her royal majesty’s purse keeper, FYI.”
“Seriously, Al. A little compassion, okay? Didn’t you hurt her enough already?”
“I hurt her?”