Morpheus clicks his seat belt into place and grips the dash, knuckles bulging and white. “I don’t much fancy this one.” The jewels under his eyes flash faintly—a deep turquoise, the color of turmoil.
I press the gas harder. The bar on the speedometer snaps from twenty-three m.p.h. to sixty-seven in under a minute. Dust swirls all around. I’ve been down this road with Jeb on his motorcycle countless times. There are rarely any cops here. It’s deserted, and a straight shoot for several miles until you hit the railroad tracks. Perfect terrain for driving like a maniac. I give the gas another punch and shoot the speedometer to eighty.
“Bloody hell, Alyssa!” Morpheus grips the console with one hand and the door with another. “Watch out!”
We hit a pothole and the car bounces. My stomach flips as we spin on the dirt. My dad taught me to drive on ice, and that training kicks in. I turn into the swerve. In a matter of seconds I’m in control of the car again.
I try not to smirk at the sound of Morpheus’s gasps for air.
My foot gets heavier, and we clip another pothole. The front bumper dips, and we slash through tall weeds. Thistles scrape the car’s underside like fingernails as we jostle along the uneven surface.
Morpheus yelps.
Once we’re back on the road, I catch a glimpse of him in the rearview. His beloved hat is crushed against his chest between his fists. As much as he’s worried about dents and dings, why hasn’t he made me pull over and taken the keys?
Then it hits me: It’s not concern for the car causing this reaction. It’s pure terror.
That’s why he lets other people drive the Mercedes: He’s afraid to. While imitating Finley, he can’t use his wings or transform into a moth. Never once has he had to rely on anything but himself for transportation, and he has no control of his momentum inside a car. It probably feels like he’s locked in a tin can, barreling down a cliff, and he can’t do a thing to stop it. So … better to leave the driving to someone who knows what they’re doing.
For the first time since I can remember, Morpheus is totally out of his element. For the first time since I remember, I’m the one in control.
All those years he teased and pushed me when we would go flying, all those times he made me confront gruesome creatures and frightening situations until I was paralyzed with fear. He showed me no mercy.
It’s time to serve up some crow and get some answers.
Pressing on the gas, I smile—a Cheshire smile.
Brown dust pelts the windows and the sides of the car—loud enough to sound like pea-size hail. Flipping on the windshield wipers to cut through the grit, I let out a hoot.
“This ride is spectacular! Right, Morpheus? Just like flying, right?” He tenses next to me, trying to hide his panic. I glance at him and he’s practically green; even the jewels beneath his skin flash a putrid, sickly tone. “What’s the matter? Stomach a little kicky? Didn’t you always say it’s the kicks that let you know you’re alive?”
“Blast it! Would you watch what you’re doing!” he screeches over the sound of the train whistle getting louder in the distance.
I laugh, returning my attention to the road, where the fork up ahead leads over the railroad crossing and straight to my neighborhood. “Tell you what. I’ll take it nice and easy the rest of the way under two conditions. First, you’re going to clear everything up with Jeb about what happened today in the girls’ bathroom. And second, I want to know the truth about my mosaics. Otherwise …” I give the gas a push, and the car leaps forward.
“All right.” He smashes the hat with shaky fingers.
“Both of my conditions. Vow it.”
He presses his palm to his chest, repeats my conditions, then finalizes the vow with a snarled, “On my life-magic.”
“Perfect. Now, about the mosaics.”
He slaps his thigh with his hat. “Do you honestly think I’m the only one with the ability to slip undetected into a car with its alarm on? Someone else wants those mosaics as much as we do. She’ll do anything to get them.”
“She?” I shake my head and slow down to forty miles per hour. “My mom? But she was in my hospital room. How could she …?”
Placing the crumpled hat in his lap, Morpheus gives me a glare that could put molten lava to shame. Then his gaze drifts to the key around my neck.
“Red,” I murmur, my temples pounding at the thought. “She’s here. She’s in the human realm.”
Morpheus looks nauseated again, but this time it has nothing to do with my driving.
“If Red is indeed here,” he says, “things are direr than I thought. Both kingdoms have the portals guarded against her. For her to come through, she must be holding a palace hostage—either the Red or the White. Which alters the balance of everything. And if she’s seen part of what you know, she’s going to want the rest of those mosaics to complete the puzzle. We have to ensure she doesn’t get them. We can’t let her see your visions first.”