Indelible

by Dawn Metcalf

  “Hello, Joy.”

  “Hi, Mr. Vinh.”

  Joy grabbed a gallon of milk out of the refrigerated compartment, two chocolate bars and some sugarless gum. She plunked them on the counter and watched him stack the menthols as she dug out the ten.

  “No smoking, right?” he asked.

  Joy shook her head. “Bad habit.”

  “Underage,” he said as he rang up her total and began to count change. “I noticed the gum. Not many kids chew gum nowadays unless they quit smoking. Chocolate, yes, candy, yes.” He smiled. “Not so much gum.”

  “It’s a nervous habit,” Joy said.

  “Too many habits,” he chided. “You’re young. Relax.”

  Joy pocketed the candy bars and change and hefted the milk. “Not many kids relax nowadays, either,” she said with a wry smile. “Have a nice night.”

  “You, too, busy kid. You, too.”

  Shouldering open the door with its two-tone goodbye, Joy backed out into the night. The air was cool and the sidewalk looked surreal in low-glow orange, flecks of mica winking like stars in the concrete. It looked almost magical. Joy stepped on the constellations, lost in thought. It was tough to know what to think of a world that held black-eyed time travelers and $3.19 milk.

  A rising prickle on the back of her neck should have been from a cold breeze, but the air was eerily still. Her eye snagged something white wafting by. Flash! Flash! She watched the wisp of motion. A silvery sort of light danced on the edge of her already-altered vision, slipping like steam off a storm drain, playing a sinister tag with her nerves. Joy swallowed and kept walking, trying not to quicken her step. Acting afraid only made you look weak. Girls’ Self-Defense 101: walk confidently, head held high. And carry your keys. Joy fitted hers between the first two knuckles of her right hand and tightened her grip on the jug of milk.

  A distant roar, like angry whispers down a long tunnel, echoed in her ears. She turned to look. Her footsteps faltered, a misstep on the edge of the pavement. The milk’s weight sloshed, pulling her off-balance. The vapor circled her, like a shark on TV. Girls’ Self-Defense 102: trust your gut.

  Her gut said, Run!

  The milk was heavy. Should she drop it?

  She shouldn’t have hesitated.

  The shriek was feral and high-pitched. Joy spun as the colorless film rushed toward her wearing a woman’s face, hair snaking out in a veil and fingers outstretched for Joy’s throat.

  Joy ducked, covering her head with one hand, scratching her own cheek with her keys as the thing swooped by. A strange numbness spread over her shoulders as it passed with an odd tingle like Novacain.

  She bolted down the sidewalk, hands tight with milk and keys, unable to let go of anything in sheer terror, trying to stay in the streetlight’s sickly orange path. The phantom face swam through the air, a lazy kite trailing a tail of tattered dress. It watched her with dead eyes, matching her in effortless pursuit.

  Joy ran.

  Panting, eyes stinging, Joy crouched beneath a lamppost and whirled her arm around, whipping her keys sideways. The misty specter slipped through her body, heedless of her blows, and the dentist-office sensation seeped further into her veins. Joy’s knees buckled, her bones filled with heavy, pins-and-needles lead.

  The ghost-woman’s eyes contracted like twin mouths, emitting another unearthly shriek, flattening Joy against the ground. The weight of it pressed her into the earth, grinding her down. Her forehead scraped painfully against the edge of the concrete. Covering her ears, Joy whimpered against the feeling that her eardrums might burst.

  She couldn’t think. She couldn’t get up. Joy held her keys over her head, squeezing her eyes shut, and screamed.

  Something bloomed in the back of her brain, changing her scream to a single word: “INK!”

  Her voice rose, as did the phantom wail. A crackle and electric pop, and the orange streetlights exploded, one by one, spitting a hail of glass that bounced against the walk. The numbing buzz in her body wound deeper, filling her lungs, slowly creeping up her throat, smothering her heart. It was getting harder to breathe. Joy wheezed and felt the world tilt.

  A metallic shing split the air. The terrible cry ceased.

  Joy felt something cover her, heavy and dark, a comforting weight against the pale, numbing light. Joy clung to it blindly, dimly recognizing the slippery shimmer of silk and the cool smell of rain. Joy felt his voice vibrate in his chest flat across her back.

  “Stop,” he said.

  She could hear the wraith reeling closer. Ink switched his grip on the blade in his hand. The cleaving sound struck again, clanging and clean. The howling retreated.

  “She did not get your message,” Ink said, his arm held high. Joy cowered beneath him. “We will heed it,” he promised. “Presently. Now.”

  Joy chanced a look. The wraith woman, her eyes wide holes of fury, exhaled a high, modulating cry before spinning into the darkness like a dandelion puff.

  Silence returned.

  Joy relaxed in small increments, joint by joint. Ink pressed against her numb shoulders and the ground sank with their combined weight in the grass. Joy lay curled protectively under Ink, dizzy and trembling.

  Ink stood swiftly, gazing out into the pinpricked sky.

  “That was a bain sidhe,” he said. “A banshee. The curse of the Isles. Evidently, a message has gone unanswered for too long.”

  Curse of the Isles. Joy remembered the note in her locker. She groaned. “Crap.”

  Ink turned and stared at Joy for a long moment before offering one of his glovelike hands. “Now, lehman, you must come with me. We have an obligation, you and I—understand?”

  Joy nodded and stood up, her palm sliding off his like oil. “I thought...” she began, swallowing her icy jitters. “I thought you said you couldn’t lie.”

  “I did not lie,” Ink said as he folded his knife into his wallet and tucked it away. “I said you did not ‘get’ the message, not that you did not ‘receive’ it. I intended ‘get’ as ‘understand.’ And I was correct that you did not understand the message,” he said archly. “Did you?”

  “No,” she admitted and bent to get her keys.

  Ink watched her with that shy, intense curiosity she’d seen when he’d inspected their joined hands.

  “I felt you,” he said quietly. Joy hesitated. “Even before you called for me.” His eyes met hers. “Inq never said it would be like that.”

  Joy didn’t know what to say. Her arms felt heavy, full of wet sand. She debated leaving the milk on the ground.

  “Pick it up,” Ink said, as if reading her thoughts. Obediently, she did. Through a woozy sort of haze, Joy hadn’t the will to refuse. Ink followed her movements with those penetrating eyes. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Do you want to see a trick?”

  His words surprised her. And she wasn’t really up for any more surprises, but the way he’d said it made her wonder if this was an offering of some kind.

  “Sure,” she said. “But can I sit down?”

  “No. It requires your participation and speed.” At her groan, he added, “It will help—the bain sidhe effects fade quicker if you keep moving. It reminds your body that you are still alive.”

  Joy rubbed her hand against her jeans. Tingles pricked like electric sparks.

  “Great. Okay,” she said. “What do I do?”

  Ink extracted one of the deadly blades from his wallet and gestured with it. A dimple teased in one cheek, threatening a smile. “When I tell you to,” he said, “drop the milk, then jump.”

  Joy frowned. Was he kidding? Was this a test?

  “Jump?”

  “I am certain that you can,” he said. “You jump very well.”

  It shocked her like a dare. How long had he been watching her at Abbot’s
Field? Joy bit back a retort and sank into her knees, ignoring the numb, prickling sensation, ready to spring.

  “Okay.”

  “On my mark,” he said.

  There was a familiar swoop of motion, a tear in the world, and Ink peeled back a flap of nothingness.

  “Drop it,” he said. “Jump!”

  She tossed the jug high and jumped through.

  Her feet landed on green fields so bright they shone. Joy’s first, crazy thought was that she’d stepped into Oz, but that illusion disappeared with the smell. Wet, woolly sheep with dirty coats dotted the hillsides, their spray-painted butts reeking of poop and the smoky scent of peat. Joy squinted up at the open sky, robin’s-egg blue with an early, silver-gold sun. The nearby narrow road was lined with low walls of uneven gray stone. A rock cottage squatted on the hillside, its bright red door ajar.

  She gawked in a trance of delight and awe. Ink stood by her side.

  “Where are we?” Joy asked.

  “Ireland,” said Ink, and he marched through the open door in blatant disregard for personal property. Joy hurried after him, wondering how anyone could live with a door open to the world, where anybody off the street could walk in like this. She tiptoed gingerly into the house.

  A boy of nine or ten lay dozing in a chair. A heavy plate littered with the remains of ham and eggs sat on a table beside a cold mug of strong-smelling coffee. He slept in a button-down shirt, loose pants and thick boots, with a floppy hat pulled down over half his face. Only the very end of his nose and his chin peeked out; both were heavily freckled. Joy thought the boy might be more freckle than not.

  He didn’t stir as Ink plunked his wallet onto the table and selected the leaf-tipped wand. Joy leaned on the edge of the thick, wooden table, watching Ink unbutton the boy’s sleeve and tug it up over his elbow. No one should have been able to sleep through such treatment, but somehow, the kid didn’t wake. Joy wondered if that was some magic of Ink’s or the young boy’s impressive commitment to sleep.

  “Can you move?” Ink asked Joy, pointing the wand. “You are blocking the light.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Sorry.”

  The sleeping boy stirred. Joy froze. Ink’s eyebrows crinkled a stern warning. Joy nodded and silently crept around the table, touching nothing. While Ink might go unnoticed, obviously she did not. Joy stood very still and watched from over his shoulder.

  Ink tilted his head and considered the skin: a line dividing the freckled, pale part from a deep farmer’s tan. Ink shifted the boy’s elbow, attempting to drape the rest of the arm awkwardly over the sunken chest, but the loose weight kept dragging the arm down. After three tries, Ink scowled and turned black eyes to Joy.

  “You want to be helpful?” he asked finally. Joy nodded. “Stand there.” Ink indicated a spot behind the wooden chair. Joy picked her way over. Ink held up the boy’s speckled right hand.

  “Hold this,” he directed, slapping the hand on the boy’s shoulder. Joy gingerly pressed down on the knuckles to keep it in place. Satisfied, Ink reexamined the spot near the elbow and poised the blade like a paintbrush.

  Joy watched the serrated leaf outline a slow curve, its touch bursting black fireworks, strange tattoo symbols dancing on skin. Celtic knots slithered into two woven patterns. She saw a dove, an eagle and something like wheat. Ink drew the line steadily, ignoring the play of pictures, until he’d drawn a small, bean-shaped mark. It glowed fiery pink—the color of fingers on flashlights.

  “The banshee was sent to complete this transaction,” he said as he worked. “A gentle reminder that there are promises to keep.” Ink spared a glance at Joy. “The Madigans have been under Luighsaech protection for ages. Every generation develops the mark of the clan.”

  He traced the bright line into its final shape. The design expanded and collapsed, forming a fresh, brown kidney mole—a dark bean upon pale, freckled skin. Not a whisper of anything unusual remained.

  Satisfied, Ink inspected the leaf and blew it clean. Placing the wand back into its sheath, he folded the wallet into thirds and stood. Joy, remembering her hand pressed on the boy’s knuckles, let go. The arm slumped forward. Ink tugged the sleeve down and buttoned it into place.

  “Time to go,” he said.

  Obediently, Joy backed out of the room, the floor creaking thickly under her feet. She could still hear the fat bleating of sheep outside. There was a flitter of motion by the boy’s boots and Joy knew she hadn’t imagined the tiny blue face smiling there. Joy hurried outdoors.

  Ink was waiting patiently under the eaves, taking in the panoramic view. The scenery was picture-postcard perfect, but smelled sharply of manure. That one imperfection was what made it believable. Still, Joy kept expecting someone to pinch her so that she would wake up.

  Ink switched the blade to his left hand, spreading the fingers of his right.

  “Now, keep your eyes on this hand,” he said. “And when I say go, go quickly.”

  Her heart pounded. Joy didn’t know what to expect, but she felt herself grinning.

  “You call it,” she said.

  Ink crouched, knees bent, ready to spring. It was excellent form. Joy recognized it instantly: he’d copied it from her. Ink drew a wide curve, eyes intent. He nodded to Joy.

  “Ready?” he said. “Go!”

  She jumped, plunging into darkness and skidding on the landing. She tried to keep her eyes on Ink’s hand but could only manage to follow the flicker of his arm. She resisted blinking as sidewalk solidified underfoot. Reality clicked into place the instant Ink caught the milk.

  He held it up proudly.

  “Only takes a second,” Ink said casually. “If that.”

  Joy stared at the plastic jug swinging in his right hand and laughed. “That was amazing!”

  He glanced aside through lowered lids. “You are easily impressed,” he said and handed her the milk. Joy examined it as they started walking, her shoes scraping through broken streetlamp glass.

  There was a comfortable silence while Joy struggled to sort the questions and exclamations and impressions in her head. Everything suddenly felt bigger, brighter somehow, but she managed to find her priorities.

  “Thank you,” she said. “For rescuing me.”

  There was the shortest pause before he answered. “You are my lehman,” Ink said. “My charge and my troth. Perhaps now you will not forget to give me a message in the future?” His rebuke didn’t sound half as harsh as it had in her kitchen. It was warmer, closer to teasing, but tentative, unsure.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t forget!”

  Ink gave the slightest nod, the slightest smile. “Good.”

  She struggled in that moment. Ink was almost...friendly. Not menacing or threatening. It still shocked her when she felt his unfamiliar touch, taking her hand and carefully threading their fingers together, one by one. Remembering her role and the possibility that unknown eyes were watching, she didn’t pull away, but was keenly aware every time their forearms touched. They walked that way for a while in silence, a growing electricity traveling up her arm. Flustered, Joy attempted casual conversation.

  “So...how does this work—marking people?”

  Ink faced forward, unreadable in profile. “I take the order and make the mark,” he said, finally. “I do what I do because I was made to do it. Inq and myself. We mark people with signaturae to keep the Folk safe. Otherwise, they would be at risk of exposing the Twixt and themselves and upset the balance. Our job is to be the pen and knife.” He gestured with his free hand to the trees beyond the walk. “The Folk have been pushed to the edges of the world, all but forgotten. Without the old territories, our kind are desperate to have magic remain part of the world. We must preserve the balance or be lost.”

  “And so you and Inq can mark people, but ordinary Folk can’t,” Joy said. “An
d that keeps everyone in line?”

  “In theory,” Ink said. “Anyone can lay claim to a human inside their purview, setting their own signatura upon their skin. If one of the water Folk claims a river and a human swims there, they would be well within their rights to mark that human as theirs.” He gave a little bow. “But it is considered far more...civilized if signaturae are assigned through proper channels. It makes things easier for the Council and puts fewer of our people at risk.”

  Joy searched his face. “What about you?”

  Ink frowned slightly, his dimples drawing down. “The risk is mine,” he said. “It is what I do.” But something in his voice went flat. She caught his eye. He shrugged. “Inq says that the Folk are an endangered species,” Ink said. “We preserve our world by minimizing their exposure to danger.”

  “Is marking people so dangerous?”

  Ink looked her straight in the eye. “It is always dangerous, dealing with humans.”

  “Ah.” Joy dropped her gaze and swung their hands. “Case in point.”

  He half smiled. One dimple. “Yes. If you want to know more about dealing with humans, perhaps you should ask Inq,” he said. “She has far more experience than I.”

  “Really? Is it the same when she marks people?” Joy asked, thinking about the swirling calligraphy on her pale skin. “I’d love to see that.”

  Ink smiled fully. It changed his whole face. “It is...different,” he said. “Inq marks those who have undergone profound, life-altering experiences that affect them deeply, internally—invisible, yet there. I mark those who have survived such experiences who wear proof of it on their skin. I have fewer clients, mostly inherited protections and badges of honor.” Ink glanced at Joy. “Mine is a less graceful art. Maybe next time, we will visit Inq. You could watch her work—she would welcome it. She likes you.” He smirked. “And she appreciates an audience.”

  “Really?” Joy said.

  “She is quite the exhibitionist, which is a shame when you are invisible.”

  Joy laughed. Ink looked up, surprised.

  “That was funny,” she said. “I didn’t know you could be funny.”