The intrusion migrates to my arms and legs, filling my limbs with power.

My veins illuminate under my skin. Each one grows, expands to the form of a living, breathing plant that blossoms out of me like a snake.

Red inhabits me, and I welcome her, because she’s making me strong.

The splitting agony in my heart yields to the sensation of needles stitching it back together. All the pain soothes away and the beat is unified and solid. I fill my lungs, drinking the air.

I wrap my arms around my chest, hugging myself, embracing Red’s vitality.

“ Yes, my child.” Her voice forces its way from my mouth on a breath. “Together, We shall be unstoppable.” She addresses us as a collective We, as if We are one being. The possibility appeals to my madness in ways I never imagined.

The leafy tendrils sprouting from my skin lash at the Queen of Hearts. She takes a step back, cautious. Red uses the connection between her ivy strands and my veins to move me, as if I were a marionette. This time, there’s no pain, no cracking of bones or ripping of muscles and veins, because I don’t fight her. I move gracefully, as if I’m floating. I look down to find my body propelled by the vines, a creeping plant. My feet aren’t even touching the floor.

However wrong it looks and feels, all dread and fear vanish.

What’s so bad, really? The power coursing through us? The horror on Hart’s face as We wrap her in our deadly ivy? Her eyes bugging out like a guppy’s as We tighten our clasp on her neck?

No. Nothing bad here. On the contrary, the brutality is rapturous.

“Please,” Hart murmurs, her voice no more than a whistle of compressed air. “Our bargain . . . the medallion.”

Right. We still don’t know which of her guards hid the medallion. My and Red’s thoughts intertwine as one. Let her live. She yet has a part to play.

Before We release the queen, several guards enter the room, their reptilian faces reflections of terror. “Y-y-your Majesties,” the one in charge stutters. “Manti has captured the human boy.”

We unwind our tendrils and drop Hart. She flops to the floor and gasps for breath. Her guards help her move a safe distance from us.

“Tell Morpheus the transfer is complete,” We say, our voices merging. “Bring the boy to the courtyard, and let the ceremony begin.”

Clouds darken the sky and a chill wind rustles our crimson locks, flicking them across our shoulders like unmanageable flames.

The courtyard has been stripped of the colorful carnival tents, all but an awning of canvas stretched over the stage where the ceremony will take place. The eight-foot stage rises alongside the pool of fears. Thick black ropes drape from the tops of the inwardly slanted castle walls to a wide pole standing in the center. Red ribbons are tied in bows along the ropes, reminiscent of that fool Grenadine’s forgetful and traitorous ways.

We bite back a snarl of envy. Soon, We’ll have our kingdom once more, and our first order of business will be to banish that faithless wretch into Wonderland’s wilds, forever.

The Queen of Hearts waits upon the stage with a shadow box cradled in her arms. She faces a priest in burgundy robes and a tall rectangular hat. His froglike form is secured by a harness to the center pole so he can sleep upright. His fat chins bubble with quiet snores. A small swarm of lightning bugs hovers around his head, waiting.

Behind Hart, at ground level, hundreds of witnesses are seated—those same guests who earlier played sadistic games in hopes of killing themselves. Imbeciles.

We wait behind the audience for Morpheus to arrive and walk us down the aisle. Outside the awning, up high on the skeletal platform where the caucus race commenced, sits one giant sphere. An inferno burns inside, licking the glass in hot oranges, yellows, and reds. At the end of the ceremony, We will walk in the midst of those flames with our groom, initiating our trial by fire. After that, We’ll be forever joined to him.

On the far end of the courtyard, the musician drags a bow across a cello. The strings are strung from the eviscerated gut of a half-living beast. The vibrations harmonize with the wounded creature’s wails and carry over the expanse to create a morbid wedding march.

Upon the third note, Morpheus steps from the shadows of the far tower. His shoes clomp, a sound barely audible beneath the keening acoustics. His wings drag lower to the ground as he sees our altered appearance.

At his arrival, the audience stands and applauds.

Our vines strike at the tiny sprite and that meddlesome cat where they flutter around Morpheus’s head. They cower and dive beneath his hat.

The audience applauds louder.

Jaw clenched, Morpheus offers a palm. Our ivy reaches for him, but he slaps it away.

The guests grow silent. Even the music stalls. Only the priest’s snoring, the lightning bugs’ buzzing, and the inferno crackling within the sphere can be heard.

Morpheus opens his glove once more. “Give me Alyssa’s hand. I will touch only her.”

We guide our limp fingers to join with his powerful ones. He bends his head to kiss our knuckles. Warmth sparks at the contact, sending a distantly familiar hum of pleasure through our human body. Our fingers jerk in response.

Morpheus tips his chin up, his jeweled markings a passionate purple. “Alyssa, can you hear me, little plum? She’s made you forget your humanness. But I know you’re still in there.”

“Of course We’re in here,” We answer. “But there’s room for one more.” We smile seductively, roaming our leafy tendrils along his black shirt and winding them through the spaces between buttons to stroke his bare chest underneath.

The affection on Morpheus’s face shifts to a tortured scowl as he drags our vines from the fabric, pushing them away.

We sneer. His comfort and happiness are irrelevant. He is a means to an end, a beautiful pawn on the chessboard of our life. We will relish using him up.

A tendon in his neck twitches as he starts us down the aisle to the beat of the macabre song that echoes once more in the courtyard. The monarch wings jingle on our dress with our movements.

He squeezes our fingers. “Why aren’t you wearing your gloves?” he mumbles from the side of his mouth.

The question is pointless, but his covertness amuses us, so We answer. “We thought you admired our naked palms. The battle scars won for you in our lesser form.”

He flashes us a sullen glare, as if We have no right to speak of such things. As if they’re sacred somehow.