He breaks Jeb’s grip and drags him away from me. I slump to the floor on my knees, holding my neck as I cough and wheeze. I whimper with each painful inhalation, relish the burn as it rushes through my bruised windpipe and into my aching lungs.
I want to plead with Morpheus not to hurt Jeb, but I’m too weak. Everything is throbbing, from my neck to my legs. I push myself to sit against the wall and bury my face where my arms cradle my knees, trying to stop trembling.
The sound of grunts and growls forces me to look up.
Morpheus kneels over Jeb’s supine form. He holds him down with a knee on his chest, stuffing Tumtum berries into his mouth. Surprise and relief surge through me. He’s helping Jeb instead of hurting him.
It’s like watching a James Bond movie. Morpheus—in a black trench-coat-style blazer that hangs to his thighs, gray tweed pants, a dark gray vest, skinny red tie, and black pin-striped dress shirt—could pass for a punk-fae secret agent who’s captured his villain. His thick blue waves touch his shoulders from under a gray tweed flat cap, and his wings drape down his back and across the floor, fluttering sporadically as he keeps his balance against Jeb’s resistance.
Of all the upheavals I’ve experienced over the past few days, this is by far the most mind-twisting: My dark tempter becoming my knight, and my knight becoming my persecutor. I know the reversal is temporary, but I’ll never be able to forget the way that hungry light fired Jeb’s eyes to such a vivid green … or the way it felt when he broke loose of his inhibitions and demanded I give as good as I got. I don’t want to forget, because we were rivals, yet at the same time partners.
Until he tried to kill me.
The berries take effect, and Jeb stops struggling, inch by inch, until he’s motionless.
“Once you’ve had a little nap,” Morpheus says to him, voice brutal and clipped, “we’ll discuss those marks you left on Alyssa’s skin.” He pats Jeb’s cheek with a black leather glove he drags from his pocket but can’t hide the rage bunched up in his jaw muscles.
Chessie appears next to my face—a flurry of wings, fur, and paws. He perches on my shoulder and tenderly nuzzles my neck where Jeb bit me.
“Thank you for getting Morpheus,” I tell him.
My voice is sandpaper and rust. My cough brings Morpheus over, his expensive black dress shoes coming to a halt beside me. They’re all I can see of him, until he kneels. He’s been smoking his hookah, and the scent enfolds me.
“Watch over the mortal, would you, Chessie-blud?” he says, appraising me as he tugs his leather gloves into place over berry-stained fingers.
The tiny netherling leaves my shoulder and perches atop Jeb’s resting form.
I strain my neck to look into Morpheus’s eyes, and my broken and bruised skin pounds. Sun from the skylights shimmers behind his silhouette—a halo of yellow light.
“I’m so glad you didn’t hurt him,” I mumble, unable to talk above a hoarse whisper.
Morpheus’s frown is fierce. “Had it been anyone other than the boy who bled himself dry for you in Wonderland,” he answers, “I would have killed him with my bare hands—no magic required.”
There’s a chilling grimness behind his gaze, and I let myself acknowledge what I’ve been denying: In his own way, Morpheus is my knight, too. He just has more muddled motivations than Jeb—not always unselfish and honorable, but vigilant. I have to give him that.
“You were right,” I say, swallowing my pride. “About my blood being used as a weapon against me. About me holding you to a different standard. I should’ve at least tried to trust you. I’m sorry. I’ll work on that.”
“See that you do.” Although his words are harsh, the expression on his porcelain-pale face is anything but. It reminds me of the netherling playmate from my past, eager to win my trust and adoration. Willing to do anything for it. He doesn’t have to say I’m forgiven or that he’s touched by my apology. Both of those emotions blink through his jeweled patches in colorful flashes.
I proceed to tell him everything I know—what I saw in the paintings Jeb made with my blood and glass, my mosaics in the loft. And I tell him that I suspect Red is here in the human realm and playing games with me.
He shakes his head. “That doesn’t sound like her. She’s not one for subtleties.”
“But the garden shears on the door,” I insist. “They were there to scare me.”
He looks genuinely baffled. “I didn’t come in the door. I came through a crack in one of the skylights. Are you sure that’s what you saw?”
“Go look for yourself if you don’t believe me.”
“I believe you, but it makes no sense. She would’ve wanted you at her mercy—unprepared. She was using your boyfriend not only for his imagination, but for his tie to you. He was bait. She lured you here, so she must’ve planned to be here, to vanquish you. But something spooked her, and as much as I’d like to think it was you, I know better.”