After my encounter with his doppelganger and Morpheus’s accusations about his pent-up rage, I need some assurance.
“Al.”
My name on his tongue shifts my eyes to his. What I wouldn’t give to hear him call me skater girl.
“What was Morpheus talking about?” he presses.
“I promised him something,” I answer softly. I don’t want to admit what he already knows. That there’s more going on between me and Morpheus than I ever let on.
“A promise, huh? How romantic.” His words slash like knives. He’s become a master at wielding more than a brush since he’s been here. “So that’s why you’ve crashed our little paradise. To keep your promise to Morpheus.”
I wince. “No. I came to rescue you both. You have every right not to believe me . . . to be mad at me. I know this has been hell. This place . . . it’s broken you.”
“I was broken before that.” His tortured expression delivers the allegation—thanks to you and bug-rot—better than his voice ever could. “But I’ve taken my life back. I’m the one with magic here. I have the ability to make the world as it should be. As it always should’ve been.”
He lifts his right hand, and rolls his sleeve cuff so the tattoo shows on his inner wrist. The Latin words Vivat Musa aren’t black anymore. They glow with the same violet magic as his brush did earlier, giving new meaning to their translation: Long live the muse.
“I understand now,” he murmurs. “Why the power seduced you. With just a turn of my hand I can create, kill, maim, and heal.” There’s a dreamlike quality to his movements and words, as if he’s in a trance. Blinking, he drops his arm to his side again. “No one can ever make me, or anyone I care about, a victim again. This place isn’t hell. It’s heaven. And I . . . I am a god.”
The ominous declaration hangs between us. My chest caves in, as if someone punched me.
Jeb’s shimmery gaze treks across my face, then he steps out the door.
The moon appears outside the glass ceiling, gilding the surroundings with a silvery haze. Rustles erupt under the drop cloths as the paintings begin to move. They jab at the heavy covers as if trying to break free.
Biting my tongue to keep from screaming, I leap from the table and follow the man responsible for the monsters . . . the man dangerously close to becoming one himself.
“Jeb, slow down, please.”
Some six feet in front of me, he ignores my request as we plod toward Dad’s room. My legs drag as if cement blocks have dried around my boot soles, and it’s only partly because I’m tired. Even more, I’m disturbed. This winding, slanted corridor looks too much like Jeb’s house and mine, each turn embellished with familiar paintings and mosaics from our own collections. Morbid projections stick out from the walls like disembodied hands.
I hold my breath while passing, in hopes nothing grabs me. I can’t stop seeing the red snapping vines, fingers, and eyes that gushed out of Jeb’s monstrous double.
“Jeb, that creature in the hallway . . .”
“Yeah, for future reference, he’s not a creature. His name’s CC.”
“CC?”
“Carbon Copy. And he doesn’t have a tattoo on his arm. In case you need help telling us apart. You know, if the pointed ears and gashes under his eye aren’t enough.”
The taunting is so unlike Jeb, I don’t even know how to respond. “Those things inside him. What was that?”
“C’mon now.” He turns a corner and I rush to catch up. “You’re an artist. What are our masterpieces made of?”
Exhaustion threatens to overtake. I fight the urge to fall into a heap on the floor, determined to keep up with him on every level. “Bits and pieces of us?”
Jeb glances over his shoulder. His expression changes for an instant, as if he’s pleased with the answer. Then his emotionless façade returns, and he looks away. “Bits and pieces of everything we’ve ever imagined or experienced—good or bad. So if a painting were to somehow become real . . . instead of intestines, organs, blood . . . what would be at its core?”
“Our dreams and nightmares.”
“Nailed it,” he answers.
I cringe and watch another door go by. Is that what waits inside these rooms? Nightmares?
A spectrum of resentment and anguish colors Jeb’s past. And he’s chosen to delve into that palette to build his ideal world. Where are all the happy memories? The hopes? The love?
After what feels like ten minutes, we stop at a door that’s made of diamonds. I’m instantly reminded of the tree on the black sandy beaches of Wonderland. The jewels sparkle even in this low light.
Jeb stalls, his hand on the ruby doorknob. “I didn’t know you were out there today. I wouldn’t have left you and your dad alone . . . defenseless.”
I’m not sure I believe him. I want to, but after the way his creations attacked me?
No. Jeb deserves the benefit of the doubt. This is the first real glimpse of the boy I’ve grown up with, and I’m going to fight for him.
“Nothing could’ve stopped us from finding you. We missed you. We love you.” I place my hand over his on the doorknob. “I love you.”
He tenses. My chest touches his side and his body reaches out to me involuntarily as his ribs expand with every breath.
“Remember what you said the last time we were together?” I whisper, my mouth at his shoulder, aching at the proximity and heat radiating there. I want to lift to my tiptoes and press my lips where his hair curls against his nape, want to feel him tremble at my touch like he used to. “You said you don’t give up without a fight. That was a promise.” I wind my fingers into the spaces between his on the doorknob.
His hand tightens. “I never promised.”
“You said it. And your word is as good as a promise. I refuse to believe that’s changed.”
He relaxes, as if I’ve gotten through. He turns his head and his scruffy jaw brushes my temple. His breath rustles the top of my hair.
The Barbie diary grows hot at my chest, lit up again under my tunic.
“You’re wrong, Al,” Jeb mumbles against me, as if the red glow brought him to his senses. “Everything has changed.”
The bitterness in his voice shatters me.
“Open,” he commands the doorknob. With a flash of purple light, it turns. Jeb drags me inside and shuts the door behind us. Disoriented, I spin around to take it all in.
“Al.”
My name on his tongue shifts my eyes to his. What I wouldn’t give to hear him call me skater girl.
“What was Morpheus talking about?” he presses.
“I promised him something,” I answer softly. I don’t want to admit what he already knows. That there’s more going on between me and Morpheus than I ever let on.
“A promise, huh? How romantic.” His words slash like knives. He’s become a master at wielding more than a brush since he’s been here. “So that’s why you’ve crashed our little paradise. To keep your promise to Morpheus.”
I wince. “No. I came to rescue you both. You have every right not to believe me . . . to be mad at me. I know this has been hell. This place . . . it’s broken you.”
“I was broken before that.” His tortured expression delivers the allegation—thanks to you and bug-rot—better than his voice ever could. “But I’ve taken my life back. I’m the one with magic here. I have the ability to make the world as it should be. As it always should’ve been.”
He lifts his right hand, and rolls his sleeve cuff so the tattoo shows on his inner wrist. The Latin words Vivat Musa aren’t black anymore. They glow with the same violet magic as his brush did earlier, giving new meaning to their translation: Long live the muse.
“I understand now,” he murmurs. “Why the power seduced you. With just a turn of my hand I can create, kill, maim, and heal.” There’s a dreamlike quality to his movements and words, as if he’s in a trance. Blinking, he drops his arm to his side again. “No one can ever make me, or anyone I care about, a victim again. This place isn’t hell. It’s heaven. And I . . . I am a god.”
The ominous declaration hangs between us. My chest caves in, as if someone punched me.
Jeb’s shimmery gaze treks across my face, then he steps out the door.
The moon appears outside the glass ceiling, gilding the surroundings with a silvery haze. Rustles erupt under the drop cloths as the paintings begin to move. They jab at the heavy covers as if trying to break free.
Biting my tongue to keep from screaming, I leap from the table and follow the man responsible for the monsters . . . the man dangerously close to becoming one himself.
“Jeb, slow down, please.”
Some six feet in front of me, he ignores my request as we plod toward Dad’s room. My legs drag as if cement blocks have dried around my boot soles, and it’s only partly because I’m tired. Even more, I’m disturbed. This winding, slanted corridor looks too much like Jeb’s house and mine, each turn embellished with familiar paintings and mosaics from our own collections. Morbid projections stick out from the walls like disembodied hands.
I hold my breath while passing, in hopes nothing grabs me. I can’t stop seeing the red snapping vines, fingers, and eyes that gushed out of Jeb’s monstrous double.
“Jeb, that creature in the hallway . . .”
“Yeah, for future reference, he’s not a creature. His name’s CC.”
“CC?”
“Carbon Copy. And he doesn’t have a tattoo on his arm. In case you need help telling us apart. You know, if the pointed ears and gashes under his eye aren’t enough.”
The taunting is so unlike Jeb, I don’t even know how to respond. “Those things inside him. What was that?”
“C’mon now.” He turns a corner and I rush to catch up. “You’re an artist. What are our masterpieces made of?”
Exhaustion threatens to overtake. I fight the urge to fall into a heap on the floor, determined to keep up with him on every level. “Bits and pieces of us?”
Jeb glances over his shoulder. His expression changes for an instant, as if he’s pleased with the answer. Then his emotionless façade returns, and he looks away. “Bits and pieces of everything we’ve ever imagined or experienced—good or bad. So if a painting were to somehow become real . . . instead of intestines, organs, blood . . . what would be at its core?”
“Our dreams and nightmares.”
“Nailed it,” he answers.
I cringe and watch another door go by. Is that what waits inside these rooms? Nightmares?
A spectrum of resentment and anguish colors Jeb’s past. And he’s chosen to delve into that palette to build his ideal world. Where are all the happy memories? The hopes? The love?
After what feels like ten minutes, we stop at a door that’s made of diamonds. I’m instantly reminded of the tree on the black sandy beaches of Wonderland. The jewels sparkle even in this low light.
Jeb stalls, his hand on the ruby doorknob. “I didn’t know you were out there today. I wouldn’t have left you and your dad alone . . . defenseless.”
I’m not sure I believe him. I want to, but after the way his creations attacked me?
No. Jeb deserves the benefit of the doubt. This is the first real glimpse of the boy I’ve grown up with, and I’m going to fight for him.
“Nothing could’ve stopped us from finding you. We missed you. We love you.” I place my hand over his on the doorknob. “I love you.”
He tenses. My chest touches his side and his body reaches out to me involuntarily as his ribs expand with every breath.
“Remember what you said the last time we were together?” I whisper, my mouth at his shoulder, aching at the proximity and heat radiating there. I want to lift to my tiptoes and press my lips where his hair curls against his nape, want to feel him tremble at my touch like he used to. “You said you don’t give up without a fight. That was a promise.” I wind my fingers into the spaces between his on the doorknob.
His hand tightens. “I never promised.”
“You said it. And your word is as good as a promise. I refuse to believe that’s changed.”
He relaxes, as if I’ve gotten through. He turns his head and his scruffy jaw brushes my temple. His breath rustles the top of my hair.
The Barbie diary grows hot at my chest, lit up again under my tunic.
“You’re wrong, Al,” Jeb mumbles against me, as if the red glow brought him to his senses. “Everything has changed.”
The bitterness in his voice shatters me.
“Open,” he commands the doorknob. With a flash of purple light, it turns. Jeb drags me inside and shuts the door behind us. Disoriented, I spin around to take it all in.
