I force my eyes to stay forward, only peeking sporadically at the rearview. “My visions? What are you talking about?”
He grinds his teeth, and the scar at Finley’s temple wriggles. “Since you were the last one crowned of the Red royal lineage, the crown-magic now channels through your blood and yours alone, even when you’re not wearing it. This power is at its peak when your kingdom is threatened—it has the ability to show you the future. With the war brewing in Wonderland, the magic is overflowing. Your blood can no longer contain it, and it’s found a way to play out on its own, with glass as its receptor. Those mosaics you’ve made are like bottled visions. And Red doesn’t want you to decipher them before she can, for fear you can use them to defeat her, in the same way that she can use them against you.”
I tighten my fingers around the steering wheel so hard I almost swerve. “So, if she can get my blood, she can make her own mosaics and read them?”
“No. The magic always chooses a route unique to the crown’s bearer. For you, that’s an artistic venue. Red is a full netherling; she lacks the ability to set her imagination and subconscious free. You are part human, and an artist. Creation is your power. It’s a power she covets but will never have. Although, if she can steal what you’ve already made and decipher it …”
My windpipe tightens as I take the fork in the gravel road. My duplex community lies about a half mile on the other side of the train tracks.
“That’s why she would do anything to get them,” I answer, dread winding around my heart.
Morpheus nods. “Now do you understand why we need to get to your house?”
In that moment, the railroad crossing arms start to lower and the alarm bell rings.
My intention to “take it nice and easy” is all but forgotten. I shove the gas pedal to the floor, determined to beat the train and get to Mom, too worried for her safety to care about anything else.
The motor roars and the car speeds forward, full throttle, until there’s a loud thump in the engine. Shaking and stuttering to a stop, the Mercedes stalls and the engine dies—right in the middle of the train tracks.
The alternator light blinks on. “Oh, no,” I whisper. “No-no-no.” I grind the key and pump the gas. Nothing happens.
“Start the bloody car,” Morpheus says with a desperate glance out the window on his right, where the freight train barrels toward us.
I turn the key, and turn again, but the engine won’t start.
“Do it!” he yells.
“I can’t! I—I don’t know what’s wrong!”
The train’s whistle blares, no longer lonely but ominous.
“Get out!” Morpheus unbuckles his seat belt. Fingers stiff and trembling, I try to loosen mine, but my skirt is still bunched inside, screwing up the release button.
I sob, and every muscle strains as I put my whole body into pulling at the fabric. Morpheus wedges himself between the console and the seat. First he tries to rip the skirt. When that doesn’t work, he yells at me to take it off.
“The zipper is part of what’s stuck—” I choke on the realization that we’re both about to die. “We don’t have time!”
Snarling, he grips his hand over mine and we push the button together, but it won’t give. “Use your magic, Alyssa!”
My mind races, trying to think of something to imagine that could get us out of this. But panic climbs my spine into my skull, blotting out all thought. I tremble and slam my forehead against his shoulder. “Just leave!” The shrill scream rips from my throat and over the whistle.
The train’s oncoming roar vibrates the car’s metal frame, and I scream again for Morpheus to save himself.
Then all sense and sensation fade. The train seems mere yards away, but the only sound I hear is my pulse racing in my ears. Even when Morpheus shouts the words, “Chessie-blud, a little help!” it’s like he’s talking underwater.
I squint to see the raccoon’s tail, now orange and gray, disappear into the rearview mirror’s glass. A loud clanging bursts from under the hood. The engine roars to life. My hands are locked in place on the steering wheel, but I’m too numb to move. The train is bearing down, only feet away.
Morpheus shoves his leg over mine and gives the car gas. The tires spin, propelling us off the tracks and onto the road on the other side. The train rumbles by, whistle still bellowing, missing us by mere seconds.
Morpheus eases his foot off the gas and pulls the emergency brake. The Mercedes idles quietly. Neither one of us moves. His body is still pressed against my right side, hands gripped over mine on the steering wheel, his rasping breath beside my ear. Sound, sensation, and light sweep back in increments, until everything is too vivid, too bright.
Emotions follow in the wake: delayed terror, confusion, regret … too much, too fast. I shake, unable to hold back my tears.
Morpheus puts an arm around me. “You’re all right, blossom,” he says, his mouth at my ear. “Can you drive?”