For the rest of us, Butterfly Threads will be our first stop. There are full-length mirrors across the walls, and plenty of clothes, although I’ll have to make some creative adjustments to fit anything over my wings.
It’s only ten after twelve. When Penelope’s understaffed, she closes the store from noon to one for her lunch break.
I tuck Morpheus’s blazer into my backpack, then check my cell. There are two texts from Jen and three voice mails from Dad. First I respond to Jen:
Found Jeb. Deets later. He’s safe. Be home in a while …
Next, I listen to my dad’s most recent voice message:
“Allie, I’m worried. Enough thinking, okay? Come home. We’ll talk. We can fix things.”
His voice is tight. He’s freaked, without a doubt, but apparently he’s home and, judging by the “I’m worried” line, hasn’t told Mom about what’s happened yet. Good, because if she found out about the events at school, she’d put two and two together and do something impulsive. I don’t need her in danger, too.
Dad said we could “fix things.” I know what that means: When I get back, I’ll be grounded. Shut off from my car, phone, computer, and friends until Monday when he can take me to Mom’s psychiatrist. I wonder if he even plans to let me graduate with my class on Saturday.
There has to be some way to fix this, but I don’t have the time or brainpower to waste on it now. After Red is defeated and I get Sister Two off Jeb’s back, I’ll return from Wonderland and make things right somehow.
If I survive the war.
All of the guilt, fear, and doubt form a lump in my vocal cords. I hope to see you and Mom soon, Dad, I text—meaning it with all my heart.
I take a deep breath and turn off the phone.
We arrive at the strip mall at half past noon. I use the alley behind Butterfly Threads. It’s a safe place to leave my car while we’re gone halfway across the world.
Gravel crunches under Gizmo’s tires as I come to a stop a few Dumpsters down from the shop’s back door, angling the car between a box compressor and a nine-foot brick fence to hide it. Persephone’s red Prius is absent from its usual curb slot, and all the shop’s lights are off. If we hurry, we’ll be gone before she gets back from lunch.
I take off my sunglasses, grab Morpheus’s decanter, and climb out of the driver’s side. I’m not looking forward to releasing him, but I need him to help me carry Jeb and unlock the store’s back door.
His buggy eyes stare at me through the glass. He’s tinged green, which means that those bumpy shortcuts took their toll.
I stand between the Dumpster and the bricks for privacy. Holding a breath against the stench of baked trash, I look around to ensure we’re alone in the alley. The hot sun glints off a car grille in the distance, but there’s no one inside it, so I unplug the jar.
Morpheus squeezes through the neck and balances on the rim, as if getting his bearings. He launches into the air—a flutter of wings and blue static—then transforms in front of me into an ominous silhouette that blocks the sun and chills my skin.
“My Peregrination Cap,” he grumbles, straightening his tie and vest while wavering on wobbly legs.
I gesture to the layer of moths crawling around on Gizmo’s roof. “We lost a few of them to the wind. Sorry.”
“Brilliant.” Scowling, Morpheus walks over and sweeps his hand across the insects, coaxing them to form the hat. They manage all but the brim. He puts it on anyway and turns to me.
I bite my cheeks in an effort not to laugh.
He narrows his eyes. “Don’t get too cheeky, little plum. Though your prank may have been irresistibly wicked, I’m still in the lead by a set of wings.” He glances over my shoulder at the slipping drop cloth.
The netherling in me nudges until I no longer want to hide what I am. I glance around the deserted alley, then twist the belt so it holds the sheet secure across my front but opens in back. My wings splay high and free behind me, opaque white and glimmering with rainbow-colored jewels similar to the gems under Morpheus’s eye markings.
His wings rise, mirroring mine, and we face one another, silently calling a truce. For now.
We take the back door to the storeroom. Air-conditioning greets us, along with the lavender scent of Persephone’s latest obsession: holistic aromatherapy in the form of wickless soy candles.
Morpheus slumps Jeb against the wall and shuts the door as I flip on the light switch. A thousand tiny bulbs light up, all strung together on one wall like a cobweb made of amber Christmas lights.