by Dawn Metcalf
Joy placed her empty glass down. “You sound like his older sister.”
“Well, he’s like my younger brother in many ways, and I have far more experience being human than he does. Ink, like my lehman, is my responsibility,” Inq said and shrugged. “But Ink doesn’t know what it is to be human—to be with humans—and I do.” She waved Nikolai over. He hadn’t strayed far. He settled down next to Inq. The deck chair groaned.
“You see, there is this debate regarding your world and mine,” Inq said while she twined her and Nikolai’s fingers together. “On the one hand—” she smirked at the pun “—there are those who believe we are meant to live together, in balance, that one world cannot exist without the other.” She examined their light-and-dark fingers and placed a kiss on each of his fingertips. A tiny spark of scrollwork and vines faded like fireworks after the pop. “Others argue that there are cycles—eras—and that when the Age of Man fades, our glory will return and vice versa. Always waxing and waning, polar opposites, each allotted their time in the sun.” She playfully swung her and Nikolai’s hands back and forth. “But the most radical argue that humans hamper our rise and that they must be abolished so that we may ‘rule supreme.’” Inq simpered at the full-lipped Russian, who nipped at her nose. She pouted playfully before turning her black eyes to Joy. “Nonsense. Where would we be without humans, I ask you? Our lives, like our worlds, are intertwined and I, for one, welcome it.” She seemed to relish the words in her mouth. “Ink, however, has kept himself apart, forever on the outside, only briefly looking in.” She shook her head. “He does not yet understand how people think, how they feel.” She teased the joined hands closer to her face. “What they like.”
Inq kissed the back of Nikolai’s hand in an explosion of eggs-within-eggs-within-eggs-hatching-birds. The details were one or two shades lighter than the color of his skin, like henna in reverse.
“Ink doesn’t know chalk dust from chocolate,” Inq said, her lips caressing Nikolai’s skin. “He doesn’t know the difference between a nip and a bite.” She playfully nipped his forefinger. Nikolai gasped as a river of patterns raced down the thick of his wrist. “If he likes his first taste, he might gobble you up. Swallow you whole.” Inq gave her a sidelong glance. “And you might like it.”
Joy kept her eyes on her glass, stabbing the straw as she stirred. She knew what a kiss was, and what it was like to be kissed, but she’d always been the one being kissed, not the one who kissed first. And how did Inq know if Ink wanted to kiss her, anyhow? Did Ink even want to be kissed? By anyone? By Joy?
“This is all new to him and he doesn’t know what to do with it—doesn’t know what to do with you, specifically,” Inq continued. “I wanted you to realize that before this goes any further.” Her voice dipped low. “Because it will all be for nothing if you get caught. His work will be in question and your life will be at risk. I’m here to make sure that never, ever happens.” Inq disentangled herself from Nikolai and sat up. “You think you’ve seen weirdness? You haven’t seen anything yet. These monsters? They are just the first experimental prods checking you out. The Twixt wants to see what you’re made of, where you stand and whether Ink will stand by you.”
“Will you?” Joy asked before thinking. But Inq laughed and clapped Joy good-naturedly on the leg.
“You bet! This was my idea, after all. I’d never live it down if one of my own plans failed.” Inq smiled convincingly, but Joy hardly felt convinced. At least Inq was being honest. Not like Stef or Mom. It was brusque, but oddly refreshing to be having a frank conversation for once.
Joy’s phone made the rounds, each lehman taking photos of himself and entering emails, phone numbers, names. She was one of them now. Cabana Boys. Joy tried on how that felt.
“I like you, Joy, really,” Inq said. “But you’ve got to lighten up.” She scooped up a truffle from an iced silver dish and popped it into her mouth.
“Can you tell the difference between chalk dust and chocolate?” Joy teased.
“Oh, yes!” Inq gushed. “It takes some maneuvering, but I’ve learned to concentrate and create touch and taste and smell—I can move my senses around like billiard balls.” She gestured to Enrique, who had been smoking a cigar, and he obligingly brought out an embossed gold lighter. With a practiced flip, he lit the flame and Inq stuck her finger into the fire, holding it there for far longer than she should. Enrique snapped the lighter lid closed. Inq stuck her finger in her mouth as if it were a Popsicle and gave him a wink.
“Show-off,” he scolded her and ran strong fingers through her feathery hair. She leaned her skull back and groaned in her throat.
Inq popped her finger out of her mouth and grinned at Joy. “It doesn’t hurt if I don’t want it to,” she said. “I can taste what I want and smell the flowers or feel the cold.” She held up her arm, which sprouted a shiver of tiny goose bumps. “I don’t have to, but I want to. Ink has never bothered, and so he is learning as he goes. Watching you.” She spoke gently. “Remember that he will be learning about everything, watching you.”
Joy crossed her ankles, feeling the sun on her bare feet. “No pressure,” she muttered, taking a truffle.
Inq laughed and poked her playfully. “You can handle it.”
Joy blinked. Flash! Flash!
“I know I can,” Joy said and bit through the chocolate shell.
CHAPTER EIGHT
JOY SAT AT THE dinner table, sneaking peeks over the instant mashed potatoes to see if Dad suspected anything. About Stef. About Ink. About her. But he ate calmly and quietly, sprinkling pepper on his meat loaf as if nothing were any different. She dunked forkfuls in ketchup, trying to make certain, checking the landscape of his face for hints. Did he know? He couldn’t know. Joy rubbed her flashing eye. Either her father had developed a perfect covert-ops mask of indifference, or he really didn’t have a clue.
She hadn’t seen Ink all day. She wasn’t sure when she’d started expecting him to be waiting for her, but not having him show up made her twitchy and anxious, as if bees were humming under her skin. She took her last bite and picked up her plate.
“I’m turning in,” she announced.
“Really?” Dad checked the microwave clock. “It’s seven-thirty.”
“I’ve got homework and a headache and I’m beat.” At least two of those things were a lie, but it might as well have been all three. Joy couldn’t concentrate. Her mind was a whirlwind of blue skies, half-naked male models and a cell phone full of new pics from halfway around the world.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll try to keep the party down to a low roar.”
Joy grinned, secretly thinking of chocolate truffles and Mylar balloons. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
On the way to her room, in her head she replayed the pool party, the beach landing, squatting in the dungeon, the jab of a needle, the splash of pool water and the taste of frozen strawberries. She was already a jumble of mixed emotions when she opened her door and saw the large greeting card on her bed.
The handwriting reached into her chest and squeezed. The sight of her own name and address was enough to give her shivers and a tight twist in her side. She hadn’t received an actual letter from her mother in months—just phone calls and texts that Joy mostly ignored. They were too painful. They were too this.
Joy sat down heavily, aware of every ache and pain, from the tiniest twinge of sunburn to the echo of her two broken toes from that missed aerial three years ago. Her mother had taken her to the hospital, wrapping her tightly in her arms and a thin blue blanket—sacrificing her hand to Joy’s squeezing when they’d snapped the bones back into place—and then had taken her out for ice cream to feel better.
It felt like a million years ago. It felt like yesterday.
She opened the envelope without thinking, already registering the generic Get Well message and every blank space filled wit
h Mom’s handwriting.
Honey, I know you’re still angry with me, but I wanted to make sure you were all right. When your father told me you’d gone to the E.R., I was so worried! I tried to call you, but there was no answer. I couldn’t help thinking about the time—
Joy snapped the card closed. Her father had put this in her room and hadn’t said anything. He’d known the whole time, and she was the one who hadn’t had a clue. Fine, she thought, feeling sick, betrayed. Fine. Now they all had secrets and separate lives. The difference was Mom’s could be kept at a comfortable distance, available on folded, recycled cardstock with a Forever stamp.
Joy opened her top drawer and dropped the peach-colored card onto the stack of envelopes with the same L.A. address. Most of them were unopened and postmarked last year. Dad had asked her to stop writing Return to Sender and mailing them back as a petty way to hurt her mother that she “might regret later,” but Joy never opened them. Her father hadn’t mentioned them since.
Joy shut the drawer with the flat of her hands and wiped them against her jeans. She debated going back into the kitchen to yell at Dad, to scream at him, to cry with him, to lay everything out on the table until it pushed the dishes off the edges and crashed into pieces on the floor. She slammed the drawer again. That was how this felt!
Exhausted, palms stinging, Joy flumped onto her bed and plugged herself into angry guitar wails.
* * *
She must have fallen asleep. She must have forgotten to turn on the lights. She must have also forgotten to lock her window and take off the earbuds, because while the sudden breeze woke her, she never heard a thing.
Her shins scraped the bedpost as she was hauled backward by her throat, surprise and pressure squeezing her mute. Being airborne ended abruptly as she slammed against the wall with a bone-rattling shake. She was face-to-face with the bulbous yellow eyes of an angry aether sprite.
“Remember me?” it drawled and lifted her higher. Joy’s legs kicked at nothing, her fingers scrabbled at her neck. She curled, wrapping both legs around the thing’s bony arm, squeezing her thighs and wrenching to one side. Something popped. It switched hands. Her hair whipped across her face as it flung her toward the opposite wall. Was Dad home? Had he gone out? If she could scream... A hooked finger pointed a claw in her face.
“Don’t speak,” it warned. “Your silence is what brought us here, yes? Why start speaking now?” It cackled. “‘Won’t stand for it,’ I said,” the sprite’s scratchy voice lilted. “You should have listened, little one. Words have power, and you have forfeited yours.”
She swallowed and inhaled to scream, but a talon poked deep into her trachea, the tip sinking sharply into her skin.
“Lehman to Ink,” it said. “Did not heed.” It tsked and wagged its claw back and forth. “Did not listen. Tchoo tchoo.” Fingers coiled about her throat, joint by joint, like a bicycle chain. “Now you go to Briarhook.”
She closed her eyes. All she needed was enough air to say Ink’s name. She moved her lips. She couldn’t swallow. Her tongue lodged between her teeth. Air wheezed through her nose. The aether sprite tossed her casually over one bony shoulder, slamming her against his back, which felt as if she’d hit brick. His head was a rock; his ribs, iron bars. What little breath she had popped out her mouth. She gagged.
“Do not speak,” it hissed. “Try to speak, I crush your throat.”
The ropy fingers slithered closer by a fraction, and her vision tunneled.
“Good. You understand. Don’t fight—you do not want me to drop you.”
It clambered back to the window, slipped the screen wider and jumped.
Even in free fall, Joy couldn’t manage a scream.
They never hit ground. She felt the sprite hook onto something, her stomach dropping and bouncing against her closed throat. They bobbed, swinging forward and gliding swiftly over the yard. Her hair and pajama pants flattened in the wind. The chill scurried over her bare breasts as her shirt billowed around her. She shivered, blinking back tears and bright flashes that sparked in both eyes, winking on the edge of consciousness, in terror and with growing speed. They were moving fast, every second carrying her farther from home.
The creature stopped with a clatter of claws. Joy craned her head to the side and looked down. They were high above the ground, zip-lining over the cable wires, carabining overhead along the telephone poles. Cars passed beneath them with a whoosh of slush. Joy stiffened. It was a long way down.
Look up, she prayed in her head. Please, somebody, see me!
But if anyone did, she couldn’t tell. It was dark, it was late and she was thirty feet up. No Officer Castrodads would be there to save her. Nobody knew where she was. And no one was likely to report a girl in pajamas blowing like a flag in the dark. Part of her really hoped to pass out, but the cold kept her vividly awake. Her teeth chattered. Her nose ran. Her cheeks stung with salt as she cried.
Another launch onto the neighboring pole and Joy was able to better position her legs. Pinning her heels against her captor’s hips, she arched her spine in an easy backbend. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was better than banging against the brick-hard body, hanging tethered by her throat. Her knees absorbed the jostling and her shoulders anchored her head. The aether sprite jumped again. They swung like silent apes through a power-grid jungle.
Then: nothing—an unspooled ribbon of free fall.
Smack! Joy whiplashed against his skull and saw stars. Her mouth felt funny. She might have bitten her tongue. The thought of blood made her nauseated and she half swallowed. Her ears popped. Her eyes watered. She needed to breathe!
Her feet stumbled against the earth as the ground tilted. They were clambering down a ravine bank, her bare feet kicking up dirt tinged in frost. It got warmer as they descended. She could feel moist heat on her face and saw gray tendrils of steam misting the air. A car passed overhead in a spray of asphalt-heated slush. Drops of wet snow slapped her face as the sprite dragged her down.
There was a massive drainpipe built into an archway below the street. The concrete blocks hung with heavy ivy and moss still clinging to life in the cast-off heat. Steam rose off the surface of puddles and surrounded the grate where Joy’s feet dangled, the elongated hand still noosed at her throat.
“Briarhook,” the aether sprite called out like a summons. “I brought the girl.”
Joy hit the ground hard. She spat out some bits of bark and leaf that clung to her face and covered the ravine floor. The aether sprite pushed her flat against the mulch. She struggled, stopping when a large portion of the undergrowth detached from the wall.
Huge and filthy, it gave off an overwhelming smell of mold and rotting leaves. When it moved, it kicked up puffs of brown pollen that hung in the air, scratching the back of her throat and making her sneeze. Her eyes watered; the left side of her face stung.
Briarhook’s eyes were piggy pinholes in its fat, fleshy face, all but hidden under massive quills, its striped porcupine hair pockmarked in leaves. Its cheeks sagged and its clothes hung in mealy rags. It might have looked pitiful if not for the cruel curl of its lip and the rusty meat cleaver it clutched in one hand.
Hooked feet clawed through the earth and debris, dragging a sluggish tail behind it. Its voice was thick and scratchy as it folded over its belly.
“Lehman?” Briarhook asked the sprite, sounding suspicious. Joy gagged and her eyes ran. His breath smelled of fetid meat.
“Yes.” Her captor smashed her face in the dirt for emphasis. The aether sprite sounded far away—one of her ears had plugged with water. “Lehman to Ink.”
Briarhook shuffled forward, quills rattling, and she instinctively shrank back. His terrible face hung over hers, the floppy ends of his cheeks brushing her forehead as he spoke his broken, putrid English.
“You. Take message. My message. No?” Briarhook said. “M
ake message. You take.” He gave a satisfactory grunt. “Make message. You.”
Joy scrambled against the ground, all thoughts on the cleaver. It amused the sprite and Briarhook both. She ground her teeth and kept flailing in her cold, soaked pajamas. Girls’ Self-Defense 103: Never give up! Her teeth chattered. Strange sounds eked from the back of her throat.
“Hold,” Briarhook ordered, and its moleish toes clenched over her right wrist, pinning it. Something poked her in the shoulder. “Here.”
No! She couldn’t speak. She was beyond terror.
The aether sprite wrenched her arm, inverting her elbow and locking her spine. She craned backward. Soggy things clung to her skin. A leaf stem poked her eye. She’d scraped her chin. She tasted mud.
The cleaver thunked an inch from her nose, the tip buried two inches into soft earth.
She’d peed herself warm, then cold.
“Think use this?” Briarhook chortled. “No. That Ink. Job Ink. My job, this.” He grasped one of his quills and with a grunt ripped it from his own skull. The quill came loose with a flap of skin. Briarhook picked it off and twisted the pointed end with deft fingers, forcing it into a shape. Joy watched, horrified, as Briarhook flattened the end with a bang against the wall.
Satisfied, he snapped his fat fingers. His palm burst burning-hot red, turning near white in the center. The glow lit his features. She struggled to move. She quivered, whimpering in her nose. He pressed the flat end of the quill to his hand, like a branding iron. It began to smolder. A thin plume of smoke slithered up, gray and sharp smelling.
Briarhook huddled closer. The aether sprite laughed. Joy tried to do anything. Anything! Tried. Struggled. Failed.
“This, job mine,” Briarhook hissed. “Now you? Job yours.”
He held the glowing thing in front of Joy’s eyes—she could feel the heat curl her lashes. Briarhook withdrew and she saw a flash of orange on the edge of her vision. Someone else was there in the dark. She tried to turn and see who it was, tried to beg for help, but Briarhook pushed the quill deep into her arm and the world went white.