He ran a thumb along his thigh, tracing the ridges of the pinstriped fabric and smoothing the wrinkles.

Why was he feeling so out of sorts? He’d found exactly what he’d hoped to find. Jebediah’s weaknesses had been there for the taking: a rage that could easily be coaxed out and manipulated, a sense of worthlessness fed by a violent and critical father, a jealousy that evoked a reckless protectiveness—even at the expense of his own life.

What Morpheus hadn’t expected to find, however, was how similar he and the boy were. The demons from Jebediah’s tormented past were not unlike his own. He’d often found himself jealous of humans . . . having never had a father or mother’s tenderness. He also empathized with the fear that he might never know completely another’s trust and affection, based solely on his place in the world.

Although, in the past, Morpheus had never considered that a bad thing. He’d enjoyed being a reclusive and self-reliant soul. At times he was vainglorious, of course, when it suited him to be the center of attention. But attention, affection, or trust weren’t things he needed. Not until Alyssa came along. When she chose to ignore him, he couldn’t function . . . felt bumbling and incompetent.

And now, after standing in Jebediah’s shoes, Morpheus understood more than he wanted to about how the human side of Alyssa worked. Although one half of her had wings and could float past trivial, mortal insecurities, the other half of her was grounded and craved what any human would crave: reassurance and reliability.

Having seen Jebediah’s courage, ingenuity, and loyalty to Alyssa firsthand, Morpheus knew without a doubt that that was exactly what the boy was offering her: a safety net of emotion that would keep her from ever falling too hard.

No wonder she was so captivated by him. No wonder he held her in his thrall. Hell, Morpheus himself was morbidly fascinated by the boy’s honorable traits, unusual in a human so damaged. Morpheus was tempted to step back and let Jebediah have his moment of happiness. Some might even say he’d earned it by being willing to give up his future, his memories, his life for Alyssa.

Morpheus growled and slumped forward, hands clenched, trying to lighten the unfamiliar weight upon his chest. It wasn’t as if the boy would be around forever. He was mortal. Someday he would die of old age, at the very least, and Alyssa would be fair game once more.

Fair game.

Morpheus’s jaw twitched. Romance wasn’t fair. Nor was it a game. It was war. And, as on any other battlefield, compassion and mercy had no place there.

The carpet beetle had been right. Human emotions were unpredictable and powerful things. They’d gotten into Morpheus’s head, weakened his resolve.

Elbows on his knees, he held his palms up, unable to see even their silhouette in the darkness. He conjured a small strain of magic to gather at his fingertips in plasma electric balls the size of peas, then coaxed the orbs through every corner of the room, trailing blue lightning like static electricity. They climbed the walls before gathering together in the form of a woman. The light pulsed hypnotically.

Imagining Jebediah with Alyssa, showing her the ways of love, taming her savage spirit with his common human conventions, scalded Morpheus’s throat with a bitter tang of envy.

He didn’t want her wildness to be subdued by any other man, didn’t wish to share any part of her. He wanted both sides: her innocence and her defiant spirit.

Where was the excitement in dependability? Where was the spontaneity in a predictable world? He could offer her an eternity of challenges and passion, of quiet, tender moments stolen in the depths of riotous flames and ravaging storms—tranquility amidst the chaos.

She belonged with him, wearing regal robes. He had so much to teach her about the nether-realm, about the glories of manipulation and madness. If he fed her gluttonous netherling side, her human insecurities and inhibitions would fade and, in time, vanish altogether. She would no longer crave Jebediah’s safe love.

Morpheus called his magic back, reeling in the coils of blue light until he was surrounded by darkness once more. His wings swept the floor as he stood. He lifted them high in a determined arc that nearly touched the ceiling.

No more deliberating. He’d tried to do the fair thing in past instances, and, without fail, it always came back to haunt him. He could suppress the twinge of guilt stirring in his chest, but he could not give up his needs for Jebediah’s. He would never be himself again without Alyssa by his side—the flame to his moth. He wouldn’t stop until she was back where she belonged, in Wonderland.

To win, he would fight dirty, reap the spoils of her heart by any means necessary, no matter what it cost the mortal boy. It was the netherling way, after all. To do any less would make Morpheus human. And he knew, now more than ever, that that was the last thing he ever wanted to be.

DEPORTATION

Some people might say it’s impossible to die and then live to tell about it. They’re the ones who’ve never experienced magic. As for me, I’m the great-great-great-granddaughter of Lewis Carroll’s Alice inspiration. I’ve believed in the unbelievable for over sixty-four years, ever since I was sixteen, and learned Wonderland was real and populated with a whimsical, eerie, mad sect of beings governed by bargains and riddles. Yet sometimes, no matter how much you believe in the impossible, things don’t quite work out the way you planned. Even magic can hit a snag now and then.

For example, I never expected my corpse to end up in a shoebox. That’s what the cremation casket reminds me of . . . a human-size, corrugated cardboard box. The casket offers little comfort. There’s no velvet lining to soften the plywood base. No cushion to cradle my curved spine. And no clothes, other than a crinkly paper gown, to cover my wrinkled and aged skin.

The scent of cardboard settles in my nose and the gurney’s steel wheels roll along the tile hallway, squeaking somewhere beneath me alongside unfamiliar footsteps. I sense the transition from the cool, temperature-controlled room where the coroner signed off on my “deadness” (as the pixies in Wonderland would say). He then laid a stainless steel identification tag atop my chest and placed a lid over me, cloaking me in darkness.

There’s a sharp jolt when the gurney takes a turn into a much warmer place. The rotten-egg stench of propane gas confirms our whereabouts. I’ve visited this room. I toured several local crematoriums late at night over the last few months, when no one else was around. So I’d be familiar with the giant brick-lined furnace that would be waiting to sizzle away my flesh. So I’d find the perfect layout, with a bathroom and a full-size mirror across the hall.

Once I decided on the crematorium at Pleasance Rest Cemetery, I prepared to die.

My original plan was to use Tetrodotoxin. In small, sublethal doses it leaves the victim in a near-death state for days, while allowing her mind to retain consciousness. But Morpheus didn’t agree. He pointed out that the margin of error between a nearly dead state and a truly dead state is slim in the mortal world, and not something to be trifled with. He didn’t want me to risk it. So he offered a Wonderland substitute: an enchanted cessation potion that works much the same way, but has a counter-inception potion with a one hundred percent success rate.

I drank down the cessation dose this morning, and ten hours later I can still taste the bitter and numbing flavor, like cloves swirling at the bottom of vinegary cider. I can’t smack my tongue to relieve the potency. The magic has rendered me catatonic—my eyes closed and unblinking, my heartbeat and breath muted to a silent purr undetectable by any human means.