Unhinged: 2 (15 page)

I sigh and turn on the radio, watching a display screen the size of an iPad blink to life. “Oh, please. We both know you were at the hospital, spying on everyone.”

An alternative rock song thunders through the speakers. The rhythm is skittish and fierce, echoing my mood. I punch a button to lower the volume. “You waited for Mr. Mason to go inside with the first set of mosaics. Then you took the others from his car. Who else could break into the locks without triggering the alarm?”

“Blast it!” Morpheus snarls. Air gusts across me as he shoves away from the car and stands. I watch him rush around to the passenger side until my gaze catches on the faux raccoon tail hanging over the rearview mirror; the stripes flicker from black and red to orange and gray as it swings gently in the breeze coming through the open doors. The tail looks vaguely familiar. I start to reach for it, but
Morpheus drops his long body into the passenger seat and activates the doors to shut. Then he takes off his hat and tosses his sunglasses onto the dashboard.

I don’t even have a chance to react before he presses my fingers around the key and forces me to start the car. The motor roars to life with a purr through my calves and thighs, a giant beast ready to perform at my beck and call.

I stare at Morpheus, confused.

“We’re paying your mum a visit,” he says. “Now drive.”

I’m not going to argue with that. I want to talk to my mom about the mosaics, too. Although I’m not sure it should be with Morpheus around. Even if she’s less fragile than she looks, I don’t know if she can handle seeing him.

I exit the parking lot and take the main street that runs through a residential neighborhood. In about a half mile, it will open up to a suburban housing development surrounded by winding dirt roads and a railroad track. It’s the long way to my duplex community.

This route will buy me extra time to grill Morpheus about my magical artwork and why it’s so important to him and Wonderland’s decay.

Air-conditioning blasts through the vents and flutters my hair. I adjust the rearview mirror to reflect the passenger seat so I can keep an eye on Morpheus. The color-changing raccoon tail swings in and out of my peripheral vision as I drive.

I stop at a four-way intersection with no one else around and turn all my attention to my passenger. “So you’re trying to tell me you have nothing to do with my missing mosaics.”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he looks straight ahead and holds his hat on his lap, muscles tensed. He’s definitely hiding something.
Still staring at him, I start to ease off the brake. He puts a hand on my knee to stall me and gestures in front of the car.

A kid on a tricycle pedals through the crosswalk. My heartbeat shoots into overdrive and a jolt of alarm crashes over me, making my arms heavy on the steering wheel. I would’ve hit that little boy if Morpheus hadn’t intervened. I could’ve killed him.

“I don’t get it,” I whisper, my pulse slowing to its normal pace as the boy pedals away safely on the sidewalk.

“Get what, luv?” Morpheus asks, setting his inky gaze on me.

“You could’ve let me plow over that little boy. You don’t care anything about him. He’s just a worthless human soul. Like Finley.”

He schools his expression to an indifferent scowl. “I didn’t wish to muck up my car.”

So stunned by his callousness, I momentarily forget I’m at a four-way stop. A Chevy honks from the stop sign opposite us, and I wave the driver on. “You really have no compassion, do you?” I frown at Morpheus’s reflection.

He looks back at me in the mirror and returns my frown. His palm is still on my knee, heavy and warm through my leggings.

“You can let go now,” I press.

He tightens the clasp of his fingertips before withdrawing his hand. “Pay attention. Driving is a privilege.”

“Whatevs,
Grandma M
.” I rub my leg to erase the echo of his touch. “I’ve been behind the wheel a lot longer than you. And I’m not dead yet.”

I roll through the stop sign, headed toward the housing development, a plan taking form in my mind. The knowledge that Morpheus loves his car more than a human life has just given me my upper hand.

A sign appears:
LUXURY AND AFFORDABILITY: AUTUMN VINTAGE MANORS
. Several skeletal roofs jab the sky on the other side of a deserted construction site. A train whistle bellows in the distance … a sad, lonely sound.

“This isn’t the way to your house.” Morpheus’s observation lifts my mouth to a smirk.

“Yeah? Well, I’ve decided to play a little game,” I say, baiting him. “You always told me games were fun.” Taking the first dirt road, I pick up speed.

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.”

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.