Indelible

by Dawn Metcalf

  Joy leaned close to the metal, close enough to smell a whisper of paint. “Someone scratched a few numbers off....” Realization skittered through Joy. “They knew my combination.”

  Inq groaned. “You invoked the ward by dialing it. I can’t get in,” Inq said. “You don’t carry my signatura. I have no claim on you.” She tried peering through the wall of shadow, her voice warbling. “Are you alone in there?”

  The question brought a fresh set of fears. Joy glanced around.

  “I think so.” Now that she was listening, she wasn’t so sure. Whispers teased and sparks crackled in the humming, buzzing stillness.

  “I’ll get Ink,” Inq said. “Don’t touch anything. I’ll be right back.”

  Joy whispered a completely unnecessary “Hurry.” Inq raised her hand and disappeared.

  Joy sat on the floor and braced herself against her locker door. The metal was reassuringly real. She felt claustrophobic, the gray space pressing in on her, the tight, trapped feeling making her pulse race. She pushed back until the thin metal door behind her popped with a dull thunk. The slight glistening along the shadow wall crackled like the underbelly of a storm.

  The sound, when it came, scratched with a finger of dread.

  A long, drawn-out creak whickered just behind her ear. Joy turned her head quickly, but nothing was there. Nothing she could see, but she sensed something moving. Joy licked her lips to wet them enough to form words.

  “Who’s there?”

  Another elongated creak, the groan of heavy wicker baskets. Something was circling, predatory, just on the edge of her Sight. The dance of static lightning swirled.

  “Inq?” Joy couldn’t see her. Just the frozen people beyond the bubble. Joy kept her eyes open and thought to herself, Ink!

  Where was he? What was taking so long?

  Flash! Flash! A freeze-frame spliced her vision—an interrupting image of a long hem and a vibrant rust-orange coat. Her sinuses swelled with the scent of old-fashioned candy and firewood. It made her dizzy, even sitting on the floor. She pulled herself tighter.

  The phantom creaks became moans, a wail that ground into a series of small wooden pops. The sounds hushed to silence. It was probably standing right in front of her. She could feel its closeness. Malevolent. Invisible.

  She was tempted to kick.

  Ink zipped into existence just outside the barrier with a stony expression and sliced contemptuously through the dark. The barrier rippled and parted, folds wafting like windblown curtains. Ink stepped through, hauling Joy to her feet, as the breach behind him sealed itself closed.

  “Something’s in here,” she breathed.

  “I know,” he said and held her to him in a marble grip. With his free hand, he withdrew the fat needle and braced it with the length of his forefinger, pointing it like an accusation. “This is my lehman,” he said to the darkness, his eyes following the flicker that coursed along the wall. “She is my claim. Begone!”

  They stood still for a long moment, but there was no answer. Nothing moved in the shadows except blue fissures of light.

  Ink nudged her with his shoulder. “Show me the trigger,” he said. “Quickly.”

  Joy carefully pressed her forefinger against the things that were once the numbers 18, 24 and 53, which now looked like crazy squiggles. Ink squatted down and blew his breath upon them as if he were whispering a secret. He pushed the point of the needle through the tiny glyphs—there was a puff of light as the sigils broke into powdery dust. The darkness around them dissolved.

  People moved. A pen dropped. The second hand ticked.

  Joy stood up slowly, stunned by the sudden normalcy. The bell rang. Hall A swarmed with students headed for class. Joy leaned heavily against her locker. Ink stood beside her, needle in hand, eyes searching the school, silently daring the invisible unknown. He’d placed one foot in front of her, shielding her from the throng. People slid around them, unconsciously moved.

  “What was it?” Joy whispered under her breath.

  “A warning,” Ink said and took her hand without looking or asking, as natural as anything. “Come. I am taking you home.”

  * * *

  Joy figured cutting class and teleporting home was better than being trapped in a lightning-walled bubble locked outside of time, but it still made her nervous. Ink grimly ran a circuit of the condo as she shut off the alarm.

  “Are we safe here?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Ink said. “And I intend to keep it that way. These people are not the only ones who can make or break wards.” He took the black arrowhead and knelt by the door, carving a small symbol deep into the tile, kicking up bits of ceramic powder and dust. Before Joy could ask, he blew a long breath, erasing it from view. Running her fingers over the spot, Joy was amazed that she couldn’t feel any difference. Ink walked through the house, carving symbols into the window ledges, the doorways and the vents, making little piles of wood and metal shavings and yarn fibers that he dispersed with a breath.

  Returning to Joy, he gestured outdoors. “I am going to secure the grounds.” He spun the scalpel in his hand in a kind of a salute. “Wait here.”

  “Okay.” Joy twisted her hands in her shirt. “Be careful.”

  Ink hesitated, grinning ominously, then zipped into the air.

  She fiddled with her sleeves and sat down on the edge of a chair. It felt as if everything was spinning out of control. She felt the walls pushing in closer than ever. The room felt small. She sorted the mail for something to do.

  There was a FedEx package addressed to her on the kitchen counter. She flipped it over, not recognizing the business address, and cautiously ripped the seal: a plane ticket fell out.

  She stared at the ticket. First class. From Mom. Joy pressed a hand to her mouth and sat down again, furious and embarrassed, knowing that Dad had to have brought it in. Did he know what was inside? Had Mom told him? Did he think Joy knew? That she had asked to visit? That she’d made plans behind his back? That she wanted to leave? She wasn’t even talking to Mom! Could he think Joy had forgiven her? That she would betray him like that?

  Joy bunched up the cardboard envelope and shoved it into the trash. The ticket remained on the counter, untouched, like a rebuke. What was Mom doing sending Joy plane tickets? It was completely presumptive and obnoxious, forcing her hand—making Joy out to be the spiteful teenage daughter, petty and selfish, if she didn’t accept such a generous gift. She hadn’t even asked Joy if she wanted to come! But then again, maybe she had. Maybe that’s what all the phone calls were about.

  Joy slapped the ticket down on the table, caught between throwing it out or throwing it in the drawer—hiding it or sending it back or tearing it into shreds. She didn’t know what she wanted to do with it, except she didn’t want Dad to see it. She didn’t even want to think about it. There’d been a lot of that going on lately.

  Furious and frazzled on a near-empty stomach, Joy had only one clear solution: brownies. Lots of them.

  Fifty-five minutes later, the brownies came out gooey in the middle with a crispy black crust. Maybe adding extra chocolate chips hadn’t been a good idea. Joy was quick-stabbing her way around the nine-by-thirteen pan when the door opened. She glanced up, surprised, as her father walked in...with Shelley.

  Shelley had a long face that seemed out of place on her plumper body. Her lips were poppy-red, which matched her hair, and her earrings were far too large for her head. Joy tried to quell her first impression of “not like Mom,” which, if she thought about it, was probably the point.

  “Thought we’d come home for lunch,” her dad said awkwardly. Her father’s eyes were dangerously bright. “What’s this?”

  Joy opened her mouth.

  Ink sliced through the wall.

  There was a moment when her heart stopped. Her skin felt too tight. Her pa
lms damp with sweat. The mix of unexpected company and two completely different lives converging made her head spin. Luckily, she was already stabbing: a good nervous activity. Joy stopped when she began to enjoy it too much.

  Ink surveyed the scene. Joy shook her head slightly.

  “Hi, Dad. Um...”

  Shelley smiled as Joy’s father took her coat. “Hi,” she said, offering her hand. “I’m Shelley Auerbach. And you must be Joy.”

  Joy switched hands, thankful Shelley wasn’t offering a hug. “Hi. Yes. I’m Joy. That’s me.”

  Her father looked at the pan. “And what are you making?”

  “Brownies, sort of,” Joy said and gestured vaguely with the knife. “It’s kind of an experiment.”

  “Perfect,” Shelley said with a smile. “I’m always up for experimental cooking.”

  Joy grinned despite herself. “Um... It’s a really ‘interesting’ experiment.” She gently elbowed Ink while she edged the pan over the plane ticket. Dad looked as though he wanted to ask what other “interesting” things had happened today, for instance, why she was home and not at school. His eyes promised, We’ll discuss this later. Ink followed his steely gaze.

  “He is protective of you,” Ink said. “I approve.”

  Joy shifted the pan and muttered, “Great.”

  “Hmm. Got any ice cream?” Shelley asked. “I find that always helps.”

  Dad’s bad mood melted at the words ice cream. “We have chocolate and vanilla mint chip.”

  “Perfect,” Shelley said, giving Joy a conspiratorial wink. “Let’s get some bowls and test the theory.”

  Shelley and Dad bustled into the kitchen. Unseen, Ink touched Joy’s face with gentle fingers.

  “You will be safe here,” Ink said. “Nothing can enter by door or window.” His voice, unheard by Dad or Shelley, tickled her ear. “I am going to the Bailiwick. We will speak again soon.” She nodded, unable to reply as Shelley counted out spoons. Ink retreated two steps, swung his knife and disappeared, leaving Joy to survive her first meeting with Shelley, not with politeness or preparation, but over burnt brownies à la mode.

  * * *

  Joy was reading in bed when Dad knocked on her door.

  “Come in,” Joy said around a fluttery stomach that she blamed on the weird afternoon rather than the half-baked brownies.

  Dad sat heavily on the edge of her bed, jostling her as if she was six years old and about to hear a bedtime story. In that moment, Joy felt sad and way too big. Her father struggled for a long moment, stretching for words that wouldn’t come. Joy twisted her highlighter cap, waiting, knowing that this wasn’t going to be easy.

  “I forgot to ask how your eye was feeling,” he said lamely. “You still want to go to the doctor?”

  “Uh...” If he was going to ignore the whole skipping school thing, she was perfectly willing to do that. In exchange, she was willing to forget about Shelley’s secret noontime visit. Joy blinked purposefully: Flash! Flash! She wondered if that was the only way she would be able to see invisible stalkers who creaked as they moved.

  “No,” she said, finally. “I’m fine.”

  “Fine,” Dad said and nodded. He took a deep breath and held his hands in his lap. “I...wanted to say thank-you for being good about Shelley—we hadn’t planned on stopping back here,” he said. “We met for coffee and spent so long talking, I didn’t want to miss out on lunch. I was the one who suggested grabbing something from the fridge.” His eyes dropped to the floor.

  Joy shifted her pillows around the awkwardness and the uncertainty; it was a vulnerability they didn’t often share. She and her dad didn’t talk about stuff like this. It stayed where it belonged: behind closed doors and private. A squirmy, uncomfortable empathy itched beneath her ribs.

  She knew exactly how he felt—unsure whether two separate parts of life could coexist in the same space or if they would explode, destroying or irreparably damaging one or both. Being forced to choose and not wanting to, afraid to try and dare to have it all... When had her dad become a regular person?

  Joy dropped her book on her chest.

  “She’s nice,” Joy said, which meant I love you.

  Her dad nodded and leaned forward, giving her a hug and pushing a kiss into her hair. Joy kissed him back, unexpectedly choked up. They held each other for a while in a warm and comfortable quiet.

  “You know you’re grounded, right?” he said past her ear.

  Joy sighed and squeezed him. “Yeah, I know.”

  He pulled away and considered her frankly. “Well, how about this—I don’t know why you were cutting school, but you get a free pass, just this once, for being good about Shelley. You’re starting to act more like the Joy I know. You think I haven’t noticed, but I have. You’re smiling. You’re happy. I like that, and I want you to keep it up. But the acting-out stuff? I don’t like that. So no more broken windows, no more skipping school, no more being stupid. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Joy agreed, crossing the book over her heart and smiling. “No more stupid.”

  * * *

  Friday was full of sunshine offering the promise of spring and a warm-weather weekend. Joy sat in the cafeteria admiring her shiny red apple on its yellow plastic plate. All the colors looked a little brighter today.

  “You look perky,” Monica said.

  “I am,” she said. “Perky. Life is good.”

  “So everything’s okay with Dad? With Stef?” Monica asked as Joy scooped yogurt into her mouth. Even the garish pink of her Super Strawberry looked more like Easter Sunday than toxic waste. Joy nodded and swallowed.

  “Yep. All good.”

  Monica raised her eyebrows and stirred her own cup. “You tell him about your artiste yet?”

  Joy wrinkled her nose. “I said all was good, not stupid. I have solemnly sworn, No Stupid.”

  Monica snorted, stirring morosely.

  “You, however, are looking not so perky.”

  “Distinct lack of perk,” Monica said. “Gordon’s away for the weekend and I think I may pine.”

  “Pine?” Joy laughed. “As in ‘pining’? You?”

  Monica stuck out her generous lip and pouted. “Sad, but true.”

  “Hmm.” Joy considered this as she magnanimously waved her spoon. “Then I believe I shall celebrate my escape from near-grounding by distracting you with bright, shiny objects on sale.”

  Monica sat up, alert. “Don’t tease me, girl,” she said. “I’m extremely vulnerable right now.”

  Joy looked smug. “I suggest we go Saturday. Evergreen Walk?”

  Monica’s eyes sparkled and Joy couldn’t help but grin.

  “Shop-ping!” they chorused and clinked their plastic spoons. Joy grinned as Monica bounced in her seat. Sometimes, it took so little to make her happy.

  So what made Ink happy?

  Joy didn’t know, but she decided that she was going to find out. She felt the little note he’d left on her nightstand this morning crinkle in her pocket.

  Tonight, it said.

  Joy smiled.

  Tonight.

  * * *

  Ink sat at the kitchen table, carving his own fingers. It wasn’t exactly what Joy had had in mind, but she sat fascinated, mesmerized by his hands.

  With an artist’s concentration, he traced the edges of cuticles, tugging and tapping the skin into harder surfaces, making nails. Switching instruments, he cut tiny lines into his skin, tugging extra folds loose at the knuckles. He turned his hands over to inspect the result.

  “They are ugly,” he said, flexing his fingers.

  “They are not.”

  “Imperfections are ugly by nature.”

  Joy asked, “Then why do it?”

  He grinned at her. “Sometimes I like ugly things.
”

  “Hey!”

  Joy pretended to swipe him and he caught her fingertips. “But mostly,” he amended, “I like beautiful things.” He touched her cheek with a newly indented thumb. “Do you like them?”

  Joy took his hand in hers. His skin was still preternaturally smooth, without ridges or creases or veins. She traced his palm where lines ought to be, unblemished except where the knuckles bent.

  “They’re beautiful,” she said.

  He took back his hand and appraised it himself. “They are a work in progress,” he said, which might have meant “Like us.” The words warmed her inside.

  He switched hands and began carving his right.

  “Is that hard?” she asked.

  Ink didn’t look up as he teased some skin into place. “No. I am ambidextrous. I work equally well with both hands.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  He picked up the leaf blade and cut a smooth, crescent thumbnail base. “Do you mean, ‘Do I find it difficult to cut my own flesh?’ The answer is no.”

  “Really?” Joy said. “Why not?”

  “Because it is not really flesh,” he said, “not like yours.” He began expertly slicing squiggles into the nubs of knuckle as if he remembered precisely how the left had been done. “This form is...fluid. It’s an embodiment more than a body. Shaping it, I find, makes it more my own.” He paused as if considering the words he had just said aloud, then continued. “While the Bailiwick claims that the Folk are more than human, I believe we are—in many ways—less.”

  Joy slipped off her seat and leaned next to him at the table, resting her shoulder lightly against his. She watched him fashioning his hands for her, from her, creating himself more in her image because he wanted her to like them and he wanted to better understand humans...and her. She watched him mold calluses as if sculpting soft clay. It was true—the little details made him look far more human, but no amount of craftsmanship could erase his unnatural eyes. Or his smell—a delicate whisper of clouds and rain.

  She whispered near his ear. “I like your embodiment.”