Heavy boots echo along the mirrored floor and I glance up.
“Jeb!” I race toward him. The floor is slick, and the boots the sprites gave me have little traction. I slip. Jeb drops the backpack, leaps forward, and catches me.
He drags me up until our foreheads touch and my feet dangle above the ground. It never ceases to amaze me how easily he can lift me, as if I weigh nothing at all.
I stroke his clean-shaved face and garnet labret—breathing him in, assuring myself he’s all right.
“Did he touch you? Hurt you?” Jeb whispers in the silence.
“No. He was a gentleman.”
Jeb frowns. “You mean a gentleroach.”
I snort, which melts his severity and makes him smile. He spins me around. “I’ve missed you,” he says.
I tuck my chin against his broad shoulder and hug him tightly. My body’s thirsty, drinking up his warmth like a sponge. “Never let me go, okay?” Any other time, that might sound lame. But right now, it’s the most genuine request I’ve ever made.
“Never plan to,” he whispers, his mouth close enough that his breath grazes the top of my ear.
When I lean out of the hug, he’s watching the moving silhouettes race all around us.
“Gossamer told me about them,” he says. “I didn’t believe her. The guy’s moth-crazy.”
I prop my forearms on his shoulders, feet still swinging at his shins. “You should see his room. He has tiny glass houses filled with living ones. He keeps them there until they leave their cocoons. When they’re strong enough, he sets them free.”
“He had you in his room?” A dark cloud crosses Jeb’s face. “Do you swear he didn’t try anything?”
“Scout’s honor.”
He squeezes my waist, tickling me. “Too bad you were never a Scout.”
I squirm and smile. “Nothing happened.” That’s a lie. Morpheus got to me in a big way, showing me a side of myself I can hardly believe exists—one I’m not sure Jeb will be able to accept. But I’m thinking maybe he doesn’t have to know about the thrummings in my head or my weird powers. Maybe I can hide my cursed tendencies until we get out of here and I’m cured.
Fingers locked around Jeb’s neck, I tug his short ponytail. To help us fit in at the banquet, we’re both going in costume. He’s supposed to be an elfin knight, so the sprites drew his hair across his ears to cover their rounded tips. I like it this way. His strong jawline and expressive features take center stage.
“Figured they’d put you in a hat,” I tease.
“Nah. Those are reserved for worms with wings.”
I laugh and nudge his shoulders, unspoken permission to put me down.
He sets me onto the floor. “You look amazing.”
“Thanks.” I don’t tell him my outfit is Morpheus’s creation: a peach baby-doll sleeveless tunic with cascades of ruffles that start under my breasts and go all the way to midthigh. Red lace trims the ruffles and complements the red bondage-style belt encrusted with glistening rubies that cinches my waist. Five sturdy silver rings embellish the belt, matching the gray blouse layered under my tunic. The blouse’s puffy sleeves cover my arms to my wrists, where fingerless red lace gloves peek out. Gray and peach striped leggings coat my legs like candy canes and disappear into knee-high red velvet boots.
The entire ensemble is a calculated effort to make me look wild and untamed, so the eccentric dinner guests will be more receptive to me. To that end, the sprites wove red berries and flowers into the funky, dreadlock-style braids all over my head, then tucked the hairpin from Alison’s recliner treasures just above my left temple. For some reason, Morpheus was adamant that I wear it.
I point to Jeb’s elfin knight uniform. “I’ve seen this before. That cross represents the elite of the jeweled elves.” The black pants wrap his legs like a well-worn pair of jeans. There’s a silver chain linked in and out of two belt loops, forming the illusion of five separate strands, and a cross made of glistening white diamonds on his left upper leg. I slide my fingers along the jewels. “You’re not just a knight … you’re one of the royal escorts.”
Jeb stops my palm at his muscled thigh. His eyes grow intense, the way they did when we embraced on the ocean floor.
I slide my hand free and he clenches his jaw.
Embarrassed, I concentrate on the rest of his uniform. The shirt is long-sleeved, made of something clingy. It’s silver with vertical black stripes made of semisheer fabric. I search for his cigarette burns, aching to see them, then notice his spattering of chest hair is gone. “You shaved your chest?”
He looks down at the sheer black stripes. “Actually, there wasn’t a mirror in my room. Gossamer did it after my bath, when she shaved my face. She said elves are hairless everywhere but their heads.”
Everywhere? I picture him naked—Gossamer touching his abs, among other places. “That sprite saw you in the nude?”