“Like I could have ever seen this coming, Jeb!”
Before Jeb can respond, Morpheus steps between us, gripping us each by the shoulder. “Beg pardon, lovebirds,” he intones. “But as much as I’m enjoying this, your quarrel is in danger of upstaging my grand unveiling.”
He motions to the door, where Gossamer has returned with twenty other sprites. Five of them carry a red top hat with a wide black band holding a peacock’s feather in place. A string of iridescent blue moth corpses drapes the brim like a garland.
The other sprites bring a black bag too heavy to lift, so they drag it across the floor.
“All the guests have arrived, Master,” Gossamer says, her tiny voice quavering. She and her companions drop the top hat onto Morpheus’s head while the others leave the bag next to our backpack.
“Introduce the appetizers and have the harp play a tune.” Morpheus angles his hat. The dead moths tremble with the adjustment, as if they’re struggling to escape. “We’ll be there shortly.”
Gossamer nods and trails behind the others, glancing over her shoulder once before she flits into the adjoining hall.
Morpheus snatches up the bag. As he strolls toward the glass table, his satiny wings skim my left boot. A vibration hums through my birthmark and up my shin before it stops to settle in my thigh, warm and titillating. Frowning, I slide my leg back and tap my boot to ease the sensation. Jeb watches me with disapproval in his eyes.
Morpheus folds down the bag to expose a tall silver hatbox flocked with white velvet. I’ve never seen anything like it, even in my dreams. Curiosity lures me to the table.
Morpheus gestures to the chair, playing the role of gentleman host again.
“I’ll stand,” I murmur. I’d like to blacken his already black eyes for stirring up things between Jeb and me just to get back at us for the kiss. Although I’m strangely intrigued that he cares enough to be jealous in the first place.
Jeb settles behind me and squeezes my shoulders—still my protector, even when he’s angry. I lean into his body heat, grateful for it.
Morpheus shoots a disgusted glance at us, then drags the box to the center of the table. It’s actually made of pewter. White velvet roses cover the sides, and engravings curl across the top of the hinged lid in some archaic language. The longer I stare at the words, the more legible they become. Is that another manifestaton of the Liddell curse? That this language comes naturally to me?
“Time for introductions,” Morpheus says, opening the lid an instant before I make sense of the first sentence.
Dark, oily fluid sloshes inside the box. A sheet of glass over the top holds the liquid inside. Morpheus gives the contents a jiggle and a whitish object bobs toward the surface.
It reminds me of a Magic 8 Ball I once saw at a garage sale. The black plastic ball had a window inset. Blue fluid filled the core, and a white die would drift up to the window, marked with phrases on every side. All you had to do was ask the ball a question, roll it around in your hands, and then turn it over. Your answer would appear in the window on the die … everything from Most Likely to Ask Again Later.
Only this floating object is almost the size of a honeydew melon and oval shaped. Thick whitish strands swirl around it, attached to it. Morpheus gives the box another shake. The orb spins to reveal a face.
It’s a head!
Yelping, I battle the bile rising in my throat.
Jeb curses and tries to turn me to him, but I can’t look away. The liquid must be some kind of formaldehyde. Why would Morpheus have a pickled head in a pewter hatbox? What kind of psycho is he?
“Wake up, fair one,” Morpheus whispers, a strained tenderness to the request. I watch, mortified, as he taps a finger along the glass, tracing the face’s closed, crystallized lashes. When the eyes flip open, I almost jump out of my skin.
The thing’s alive.
Recognition dawns on me from the chess piece reenactment. It’s the Ivory Queen, even more beautiful than her jade counterpart, as delicate and pale as moonlight. Black tattoolike marks line both temples in a network of veins, as if dragonfly wings were pressed onto a stamp pad, then transferred to the skin. Her eyes are so light blue, they’re almost colorless; long lashes curl upward on each blink. They’re just like her eyebrows, silvery and crystalline as if coated with ice. At the outer corners, two black lines dip down to her cheekbones and end in teardrop shapes; it’s like she’s weeping ink. Pale pink lips—as curved and lovely as a heart—open to an adoring smile as her gaze falls on Morpheus. She tries to talk.
He leans close, sweeping his gloved palm lovingly across her encased cheek. She tries to talk again but can’t be heard through the liquid and glass.
Jeb and I stand there, imprisoned in our own silence.