I’m moving downhill, which means I’m being pulled away from the chasm, toward the cemetery thicket at the lower end of the valley.
Three things are wrong with this scenario: I’m trapped with no chance to fight or see what’s dragging me; I’m getting hauled farther away from Jeb; and, last but not least, I’m about to be alone, deep inside Wonderland’s garden of souls, with nothing but dead things for company.
Escape is futile. No matter how hard I concentrate on the chains and rope that bind me, I can’t animate them. I’m too distracted by the claustrophobia.
I try to tell myself I’m wrapped in a snuggly blanket, but my brain’s not buying it. When we finally come to a stop, my wings ache and my back and tailbone throb from the uneven terrain we bulldozed on the way here.
I breathe quietly as a strange argument takes place over me.
“Stupidesses! Stupid, stupid! She usn’t smellum deadish!”
“But she lookum deadses. She lookum it!”
Bad news is, they’ve figured out I’m alive. Worse news, I can’t be sure about them. Their decomposing stench burns my throat. They don’t sound very big. Maybe they’re pygmy zombies.
I creep myself out with that thought and have to suppress a whimper.
The ropes loosen around my ankles. They’ll have me out of my winged cocoon soon. Then I’ll have to face whatever they are. Nervous anticipation makes my pulse jump.
“Usses are only to brung the deadses. Twids usn’t approve of ’stakes being missed,” one of the creatures says shrilly.
“Missing ’stakes aren’t the worsest of our oblems-prob.”
“Eps and yesses. Mistakens usn’t our aults, f’s or any other. Sister One asks usses to brung her here.”
“Asks or notses, Sister Two will hang usses by our necks! No iving-lees are to be brunged. No breathers or talkeresses. None, none, none!”
Their language is a mix between pig latin and utter nonsense. The best I can tell, they work for the Twid Sisters as the gatherers of dead things. They’re worried Sister Two won’t be pleased that something living has been brought onto the hallowed grounds. Sounds like she might hang them for that mistake. If they think on it long enough, they might decide to make me dead to save themselves.
I clench my teeth to stave off a stab of fear. Maybe Sister One won’t let them hurt me, since she assigned them my capture. Which raises a new question: Why did she want me here?
A distant thrum of thunder rolls through my bones. I force myself to breathe, inhaling the scent of moist earth over the stench of my captors. The cemetery must be watertight, because rain’s hitting what sounds like leaves overhead, but I’m not getting wet.
What if Jeb is in the middle of the storm? What if he gets caught in a mudslide?
I’ve got to get back to him. I can use the rope around my ankles as an extension to the chain.
My captors are still arguing about what to do with me, and the reality hits that no one’s going to come to my rescue here. It’s up to me to save myself.
Insecurity sinks its teeth in, vicious and biting.
But wait. I’m no stranger to this world—I’m acquainted with its secrets. Maybe that was only in my dreams, but I still learned things that have saved me more than once on this journey. I’m not the helpless and vulnerable little girl I was when I used to play here.
I’m not even the same girl I was when I arrived in the rabbit hole with Jeb. I’m stronger.
For one, I have wings now; and, as I’ve seen with Morpheus, they can be used for more than just flying. They can be weapons and shields.
Hoping for the benefit of surprise, I thrash my legs where the ropes are loose. The creatures ricochet off my bucking shins, no heavier than guinea pigs.
They scream as I shift to my side and the chain jingles to the ground. I unlatch it from my belt and my wings snap open. Gasping air into my lungs, I kick out my legs and roll to my feet, keeping a brave front in case the creatures are like dogs and can smell fear. I even manage a decent roar while I balance my weight against the new appendages.
The creatures scurry around my feet, hissing. They’re wearing tiny miner’s caps, and the lights bob all around like reflections from a disco ball, disorienting me.
I immediately recognize them from the Wonderland website. They’re like the paintings of pixies trapped in cages, crying silver tears—gruesome yet fascinating.
Their long tails and primate faces remind me of spider monkeys, except for their hairless hides. Silver slime oozes from their bald skin, the origin of the noxious scent I’ve been gagging on. Their bulbous eyes are silver, too, with no pupils or irises, so they glimmer like wet coins—almost glaring, even in the dim light.