Ensnared (11 page)

Black mist cloaks our surroundings, so thick I can’t make out the ground beyond the ride’s platform. There’s no sound anywhere; even the gears of the carousel trundle along in silence.

Dad and Uncle Bernie fall onto their mounts in front of me. Dad’s cousin Phillip, dressed in a Red knight’s uniform, is already seated on a bench next to Uncle Bernie’s horse. I grab the brass rod that holds my mount secure. Tiny triangular mirrors cover the center pole. Through them I can see the inside of the Gravitron. That’s where we came out and where the knights must somehow go back in. It looks physically impossible, considering our size in contrast to the narrow bits of shimmering glass.

The adrenaline pumping inside me starts to slow as the ride comes to a stop. Dad takes the duffel from Uncle Bernie and helps me down. My legs waver as if trying to remember how to walk.

Together, the four of us step away from the light and into the nothing. My boots glide as if on air. I’d half expected to feel a sludgy mud sticking to my soles. The strange fog bubbles up around our knees, then falls to our ankles like a boiling, steamy stew, although nothing is wet. The mist has a sound-absorbing quality, eating up every whisper, breath, or shuffle of clothing and feet.

A glowing white gate looms in the distance. The iron dome rises behind it, dark and threatening, like a gargantuan, overturned witch’s cauldron.

I pause. The plan my uncle and his cousin came up with—to distract the gate’s eye as Dad and I creep through—is too dangerous. With the simulacrum suits, we’re all assured safe passage. But we
need to get them on before we’re close enough for the gate to spot the four of us.

I tug at the duffel bag on Dad’s shoulder, making him stop.

“I have to show you something,” I attempt to say, but the sound is sucked away before it even leaves my tongue. Uncle Bernie said communication would be tricky here. I had no idea that meant our words would actually be swallowed by emptiness.

I take the duffel bag and pull on one pair of simulacrum coveralls over my clothes. The transparent fabric hangs off my shoulders and waist. I pull the pant legs’ extra length over my feet and tie it in place to cover my boots.

Next, I concentrate on my settings and hold out my arms. The fabric shrinks, fitting my other clothes perfectly. As I keep my thoughts on my surroundings, the background begins to move through me. Only my bare hands can be seen, sticking out from the enchanted cuffs. The rest of my body appears to be gone. By pulling the sleeve cuffs over my fingers, I become nothing but a floating head.

Phillip and Uncle Bernie nod.

Within minutes, Dad has his invisibility gear on. Since he can’t speak, he can’t question where I got the camo or yell at me for how I went about it. He tucks the duffel under his arm inside the coveralls, so it’s hidden from view. The hoods drape our faces so we can see through the fabric, but not be seen.

Our escorts start toward the gate. We follow, spaced far enough apart that we won’t accidentally bump elbows or trip over each other’s boots. As we get closer, what I thought were bars become scaly tentacles, white and writhing like albino snakes. An unexpected emotion overwhelms me. Not fear. Not trepidation.

It’s an all-encompassing sense of loneliness as vast as the nothing around us.

Somewhere inside that gate are my two knights—the dark and the light. Morpheus has to be disappointed in me, for my colossal failure in destroying the entrances and exits to his beloved Wonderland. Then there’s Jeb, who believes I threw away the most pure and devoted love I’ve ever known.

All these weeks I’ve been concerned for their physical well-being. But what about their emotional states? Jeb thinks I betrayed him. And Morpheus will thrive on feeding that misconception every chance he gets.

Maybe it’s not the murderous prisoners or strange wildlife I should be worried about. It would be laughable to think that Morpheus took Jeb under his wings and helped him. All I can hope for is that by some miracle they parted ways without killing one another.

Again, my heart tugs in two directions—a literal, physical sensation that burns. I grit my teeth under my invisible veil, forcing myself to stay in step with our escorts.

We approach the gate. It stands over three stories high. Uncle Bernie strokes the serpentine bars. Even a nest of anacondas couldn’t compete with their size. The scales pucker and release, muscles rippling underneath. There’s no question how this gate kills its prey. One squeeze would crush anyone who violates the entrance.

These bars could obliterate armies. They probably have.

The image is so gruesome, I whimper—grateful for the sound-absorbing mist. In the gate’s center, one snaky appendage pulls free of the others. A white, oblong protrusion resembling a Venus flytrap drops down in front of my uncle and Phillip. It’s half the size of a
human. As it opens, the jagged edges form eyelashes and a lone eyeball peers from inside, silver with a slitted black pupil, like a snake’s eye. I suppress a shudder.

The lashes blink, slow and studious.

Uncle Bernie and Phillip stand their ground in front of us. The leafy creature hovers across them from head to toe. It lifts high enough to look over their shoulders and I hold my breath, afraid it will somehow sense me or Dad.

It squints before snapping closed and weaving back into the other tentacles. The snaky bars wind together on either side—like curtains being drawn. We step through as a united front, my hair bristling as I jab my elbow into my side to keep from brushing the scales.

I don’t suck in a breath until the gate slithers into place behind us.

Dad and I draw back our hoods and share a sigh of relief. His brother and cousin pat my shoulder before stepping up to the top of the stone platform on either side of the threshold next to the knights they’ll be relieving. A twister of ash and wind sweeps down in the distance, similar to the white tornadoes I’ve seen on weather shows.

There’s more of the misty nothingness between the platform where we stand and AnyElsewhere’s landscape. The vapor glows green, as if radioactive. According to Uncle Bernie’s earlier rundown, instead of absorbing sound, it sucks up everything that attempts to cross it.

Both gates are separated from the terrain in such a way. The green glowing vortex holds the prisoners at bay, makes it impossible for them to storm the gates. They would have to control the wind funnels to get across. The other eyeball, the one that used to guard
this side of the gate, was mentally connected to the funnels. The knights have formed medallions of the creature’s remains and now harness that power to safely travel into and out of AnyElswhere.

After a short discussion with the knights, Uncle Bernie steps down and offers a mechanical pigeon to Dad. “Push the button under its throat.” He demonstrates. “When the beak glows, you can record a message. Once you find the boy and make it to the Wonderland gate with the supplies, send us a message to let us know everyone’s okay. The pigeon will find us. It’s gilded with iron, to deter any of the prisoners from intercepting. You have one day. If we don’t hear back within twenty-four hours, we’ll follow the pigeon’s homing beacon and find you.”

Dad takes the iron-gilded bird, tucks it into our bag, and tries to talk. Nothing comes out.

Uncle Bernie nods. “You haven’t built up a tolerance to the black mist you inhaled.” He speaks loudly over the twister coming our way. “Your vocal cords will stay asleep for a half hour or so.” He gestures behind us and we turn to see the funnel hovering close. Winds gust around us, slapping my braids against my face and neck.

“You remember how to do this?” my uncle shouts to my dad.

Dad nods.

“Step in and hold tight to each other,” Uncle Bernie directs. He lifts a medallion at his neck, holding it up. An off-white oval shimmers in the center and red strands run through, jagged and fine like blood veins. Tarnished, brassy metal frames the strange stone. “We would give you a medallion of your own, but we can’t risk it getting into the wrong hands. Since you have someone to find, I’ll have the funnel drop you in the middle of the world, where we release the
prisoners. Beware, though. The landscapes are unpredictable lately, and since the twisters are tied to them, they’ve become unruly. So we can’t be sure exactly where you’ll end up. We’ve provided a map. Look for both of the glowing green gates from where you land. They are the north and the south. Use them as the key to the map. Above all else, stay together.”

Dad nods. Uncle Bernie hugs us both and nudges us toward the approaching funnel. I watch Dad’s hand disappear into his suit as he tightens the duffel on his shoulder. He stares into my eyes. I want to crawl into his hug and hide, like I did as a little girl.

But I’m a woman and a queen now. And I’m the one responsible for all of this. There’s no hiding anymore. I tip my chin.
I’m ready.

We pull down our hoods to keep ash out of our faces, then leap inside together, holding tight as our feet lift and our bodies swirl. Within minutes, the funnel opens to reveal a snow-capped hill coming up fast beneath our feet. Scraggly, leafless trees dot the landscape at the base. I can’t see the iron dome overhead. There’s a false firmament between it and the ground that looks like an orange sky. A smoky tang stings my nose through the fabric, as if there’s a fire somewhere close.

We’re ejected onto the top of the peak, and the impact breaks us apart. Dad grabs for me but rolls down the opposite side of the incline, his hood opening so I can see his face and neck. It’s a haunting image, as if he’s been beheaded. I dig my nails through the fabric cloaking my hands in an effort to clutch the snow. But it’s not snow at all. The hill is coated with ash like the funnel we arrived in. The terrain crumbles beneath my fingers and sends me skidding out of sight of Dad.

I remind myself he’s been here as a child and survived, and this
time he has the advantage of invisibility and a duffel filled with weapons.

My body twists sideways and the hood wraps tighter as I’m dragged along the dusty landslide. My bones clatter with the rough ride until a rock the size of a medicine ball slams into my stomach at the bottom of the hill. The impact knocks the air from my lungs.

I struggle to catch my breath.

“Well, bloody holiday. What have we here?” The deep, British accent strokes my eardrums like velvet.

I peer through my hood’s fabric. Morpheus stands on the other side of the rock, gaze turned down on me. He glows in the orange dimness, a soft blue light radiating from his hair. A lilac shirt under his navy tapestry jacket complements his alabaster skin. Striped pants hug his streamlined silhouette. He wears a fedora cocked to one side. Although I can’t make out the moths clustered around the hatband in this strange lighting, I know they’re there.

He holds a cane. The eagle-head handle is so realistic it could be on a plaque at a taxidermy shop. Feathered wings wrap the shaft, and four paws sprout from the base, each one covered with golden fur like lion’s feet. Talons splay from the toe-pads in place of claws.

Morpheus is as stylish and eccentric as I remember. Somehow, this place hasn’t broken him. I’m so happy, I want to hug him—until I notice the angry red jewels blinking at the tips of his eye markings.

He tucks the walking stick beneath his arm and kneels close, wings drooping. Anger hardens his exquisite features. “Here I’d hoped never to see your face again.”

Morpheus’s hatred hits me like a fist, an agonizing throb that rivals the bruises where the rock juts into my rib cage.

“Your being here changes nothing,” he seethes. “You’ve made your bed. Now lie in it.” He doesn’t spare another word, doesn’t ask how I got here or even speak my name. He simply shoves the rock aside so it’s no longer between us.

I curl into a ball. What did I expect? I destroyed the home he loves, then sent him to the looking-glass world to rot without his magic. It’s not like he was going to draw me into his arms and say how much he’s missed me.

But it’s not as if he didn’t play a part in this nightmare himself, either.

An apology tangles with my righteous indignation. Better the words stay locked inside a voice box that’s dormant. There’ll be time to break through Morpheus’s walls later. Right now, I need to find Dad and make sure he’s okay. Then we’ll search for Jeb—who will most likely have the same reaction to my being here.

I grip the diary and key at my neck to assure they’re safely under the clothes. I’m about to stand and trek through the barren trees when Morpheus gets to his feet and turns his back and wings on me.

“I said return to your bed of ash.” He prods the rock with his walking stick. “You’ve no call to chase me down unless I’ve beckoned you.”

I cock my head. Holding out an arm, I stare through it. I’m still invisible. Morpheus doesn’t know I’m here. He’s been talking to the rock all along. I stand as quietly as I can and stretch my aching muscles.

“We just w-w-wondered”—the rock responds to Morpheus from a mouth that appears beneath the white, dusty surface—“has our most g-gracious king considered our r-request to help us get our eggs back?”