by Dawn Metcalf
“I’m going to my room,” she announced loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Okay.” Her father shrugged. “We’ll be watching C-SPAN.” He pointed to the counter. “Want a slice of cake? Shelley brought it.”
Joy glanced at the pristine coffee cake in horror. “Um, no thanks,” she said. “I’m...not hungry.” She brushed past Ink, hooking his pants chain through a hole in the afghan, and tugged him quickly down the hall and into her room.
She shut the door with her butt and sucked air through her teeth. “Ow ow ow...” Joy sat on the edge of her bed, her body jostling on springs. Ink settled himself beside her as they unwrapped her hand. She shivered. The blood on her clothes and the blanket had to belong to someone else. It was everywhere. She couldn’t quite feel it. She didn’t understand how any of it could be real. She wanted Ink to stay with her and make it better, and also for him to go away and leave her alone.
He examined the clean cut under the blood with a look of regret.
“You need stitches,” he said.
“No, I don’t,” Joy insisted.
“I am fairly certain that you do.”
She shook her head. No more hospitals.
“Give me that,” she said, pointing to his scalpel.
Ink hesitated, a question not quite formed on his lips, but he obeyed, placing the shining blade on her palm, handle first.
Joy took it and adjusted her grip, placing the sharp edge lightly against her own torn skin. The flesh had peeled back, exposing pink muscle and stringy things. The blood in the center of her palm pooled sluggish and dark.
Holding her breath, she drew the razor through the red—steady and clear—not a bit surprised that the wound sealed as she erased the mark Ink had cut. She slowly zipped the flayed skin together, ignoring the way her fingers shook. When she finished, she spat on her palm, wiped away the blood and blew on the blade. She handed the razor back to Ink.
“There,” Joy said, voice quivering, daring him to say that what she’d done was impossible, deny that anything could happen right here, right now. She tested her fingers against her palm, tacky with blood. She felt remarkably whole and smug.
Ink looked unused to being surprised.
“Well done,” he said, wiping his blade clean.
She became conscious of his eyes and her blood. Her stomach rolled. “Thanks.”
“You are safe now.”
“You said that when you placed the wards.”
“That was in your house,” he said, “your windows, your doors. You had crossed over into illusion before you even entered the room. Probably at the outer door, possibly at the gate.” Ink bowed his head. “But you are right—no excuse is forgivable. I said that I would keep you safe, and I failed.”
“Safe,” Joy muttered. She tried wiping her hands on her stained hoodie, gave up and grabbed a fistful of tissues. Adding several squirts of hand sanitizer, she started scrubbing at the red. “I want to be safe, but I don’t want...this. Illusion, monsters, blood keys? It’s horrible.” She opened her hands smeared with red and black. Pulling her sweatshirt angrily over her head, she rolled it and the afghan into a ball and tossed them to the floor. She examined her V-neck for stains.
“What do you want, Joy?”
The question struck her like a slap. Joy blinked back unexpected tears. What did she want? She shook her head violently, thinking of the tongue on the window, the brand on her arm, the drawer with its envelopes and a 323 phone number that she’d never had the guts to use.
Her breath trembled. What do I want? To leave. To stay. To change. To go back. To take it all back. Undo it. Move on.
Joy massaged her hand.
“Joy?” Ink brushed the hair from her eyes just as tenderly as Inq had taught him. “Please tell me what you want.”
A tear slipped free. Joy tried to shrug.
“Why do you have such difficulty answering that question?” he asked.
“I guess...” Joy’s voice shivered as she exhaled. “I’m scared.”
“Scared?” Ink sounded surprised as he moved nearer. “Of what?”
Joy struggled to put it into words. “Of...asking...and not getting it,” she said around the knot in her throat. “Of you saying no.” She choked on the last confession. “And then leaving me.”
“Joy...” Ink’s voice warmed, a sound that was growing familiar. “Joy, I already chose you. It cannot be undone.” He traced a line from the corner of her eye to the tip of her ear, tucking some stray hairs behind it. “Not even I can go back in time to erase that, nor would I want to.” He turned her face to his. “I am not going away. It is an easy thing to accept once you choose to believe it.” Ink smiled and touched her heart line in her unmarked palm. Joy leaned against his shoulder. He rested his cheek against her forehead and drew his finger along her wrist, following the vein that pulsed there.
He had no veins. No pulse. No blood. He wasn’t human. He would never be human. He would never age or die. Somewhere in the silence, that truth surfaced like a mountain between them. Joy tried to ignore it, but she knew that if she chose this, nothing could ever be the same. Ink’s whisper was crisp and clean and carried a world of sighs.
“Do not make things any harder than they must be.”
* * *
Her father knocked on the door.
“Come in,” she said.
He stood in the doorframe looking ragged. Joy was glad that she’d stowed all the evidence of the attack in her hamper, out of sight. The hall was strangely dark, the house completely quiet. It was an everyday sort of ominous, the kind that was horribly familiar. She checked his feet for telltale slippers, a sure sign that something was wrong.
Had he broken up with Shelley? Joy surprised herself that she hoped not.
“Hey, Dad,” Joy said uncomfortably.
“I called Stefan,” her father began, “to see how he was doing at school.” He paused and Joy felt he could read the word Oh on her eyeballs. He knew that she knew and he nodded.
“So,” he said.
“So,” Joy repeated. Were they talking about Stefan or her? Was Dad upset about his son being gay or that his daughter was sneaking around with a guy he’d never met? Joy couldn’t tell. Her father just stood in the doorway and she sat at her desk, a freeze-frame that should have cut to commercial, but didn’t.
An entire conversation was taking place on another frequency. Inside her head, Joy could hear the words that they should be saying: “When did you know?” “Did you know?” “Was I supposed to know or find out?” “How did this happen?” “These things just happen.” “Should I have done something differently?” “No.” “Yes.” “What did I do wrong?” “Nothing.” “Can you believe it?” “Honestly? It threw me, too.” “Was it me?” “Was it Mom?” “Was it something Stef had to do?” “Have you heard about James?” “What? James who?”
A whole heart-to-heart bubbled up between them, if only they could open their mouths—but that had been Mom’s job, not theirs, to say these kinds of things—loudly, repeatedly, to absolutely anyone who would listen. Heart on her sleeve, volume cranked to ten, Mom always spoke enough words for everyone. But with only the two of them, they were left in a plucked-string silence.
Joy couldn’t bear to think that Ink had sat in her room not two hours ago. That he’d wiped her tears and kissed her face and told her that the fear of losing love was foolish. He wouldn’t stop loving her. She wouldn’t stop loving Dad. And they wouldn’t stop loving Stef.
Not like Mom.
But, Joy reminded herself, Mom hadn’t stopped loving Stef. So that meant that she hadn’t stopped loving Joy, either. The cards, the texts, the calls, the plane tickets... Her mother woudn’t stop loving her. No matter what.
“He’s still Stef,” Joy said into the heavy quiet.
; Her father lifted his head without looking at her. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” Joy nodded. “Just because you learn something new doesn’t mean he isn’t Stefan, right?”
A long, tense minute stretched on the rack. An echo pounded like a distant drum, Right...? Right...?
“Right, Dad?” Joy pressed.
He conceded. “Right.”
Joy turned, squeaking in her desk chair.
“What did you say to him?”
He shook his head ever so slightly. “I didn’t say anything,” he admitted. “I just let him...talk.” He caught her eye in a rare moment of intimacy, then stared back at the floor. “I didn’t say anything. Then I said goodbye.” She felt in his voice the weight of those words—the only thing worse than saying too much was not saying enough. She knew that from personal experience.
He placed his hand on the doorknob. Joy waited. Was he going to ask about her? Did he know? Did Stef tell? Was he waiting for her to say something first? Was this a test? A trap? Maybe he knew. Maybe he was waiting for her. Maybe...
“Good night, Joy.”
She’d waited too long. Again.
“Good night, Dad,” she said, then added, “I love you.”
He paused. “I love you, too.” He placed a kiss on her forehead that made her feel guilty, fighting the urge to tell him everything. About Ink. About monsters. About marks and brands and falling in love...
But she couldn’t. It was too dangerous. And sounded totally crazy.
She smiled as he left, her door clicking closed.
Joy opened her email, typing a quick one-liner to her brother, who was probably having his own conversation in Pennsylvania somewhere. Had he told Dad about Ink? Did it matter?
Not really. She wasn’t going to leave him. No matter what.
Keep strong, she typed. I love you.
Joy hit Send with a satisfied smile.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
JOY MET MONICA AT Starbucks after church. Joy and her dad no longer went to services without Mom to harass them, but Joy felt vaguely guilty every time she saw Monica in her Sunday best.
“Are we going to talk about yesterday?” Monica asked, dipping her straw into her low-fat iced coffee. Stoppering the top with her fingertip, she shot the strawful into her mouth.
Joy stirred her caramel latte, feigning interest in the swirls. “Yesterday?”
“At the mall. Rocks smashing? Fragrant candles? Broken windshields? Russian hottie in a sweet ride? Any of this ringing a bell?” Monica’s face grew stormy when Joy smirked at the phrase “ringing a bell.” She’d been particularly proud of summoning Filly. Had that been only yesterday? It was hard to believe.
“Hey!” Monica snapped. Joy refocused. “Is this news to you? Because lately, you’ve been having more than your fair share of weirdness plus some, so if this is how it’s going down nowadays, I have every right to know what’s up and beat you with a reality stick, if necessary.”
Joy sipped and sighed. “I was totally freaked out,” she confessed. “I saw something coming fast and felt like we’d better get out of the way.”
“That’s it?” Monica said.
“That’s it.”
“No Spidey Senses tingling or anything like that?”
“No,” Joy said with another sip. “Nothing like that. Just Murphy’s Law.”
“You have been Murphy’s toy poodle as of late,” Monica said. “Still, what’s with the guy?”
“Which guy? You mean Nikolai?”
“He said you’re dating his girlfriend’s brother.”
Joy nodded. “That’s right,” she said. “We’re Significant Others-in-law.”
Monica tapped herself another strawful of coffee, but let it sluice back into her cup. “Uh-huh.” She looked both expectant and ticked.
“I don’t ask you for intimate details about Gordon, do I?” Joy hedged.
“That’s only because I tell you first,” Monica said. “Did you know he tastes like pineapple?”
Joy stuck out her tongue. She could have made her own confessions about kisses and boys. That she had been kissed by a Goth girl who saved her life and that her boyfriend always smelled like rain. She and Monica could have bonded over it, laughing and sympathizing with tiny, appropriate noises, but it was just too strange, a hairbreadth from a world that was equal parts crazy, dangerous and awfully hard to explain. Joy kept quiet, placing her unsliced palm against the warm cup, and told herself it was better this way.
She watched Monica drip coffee out of the straw into her mug, the liquid bouncing on the surface, making perfect caffeine circles. Joy stared at the pattern. It reminded her of something...
She sat up straight, half expecting to see an identical ripple in the air. She remembered where she’d seen it before. If she could draw it as a picture, she knew exactly how it would look: three concentric circles like a bull’s-eye in space. Or, drawn in chalk, on a giant slate wall.
Whipping out her phone, she shuffled through Contacts.
“Joy?”
She sped through the L’s, clicking madly.
“Joy?” Monica waved her straw, now emptied. “Hello! What’s up?”
“Just remembered something,” Joy mumbled and quick-typed a text to Luiz with her thumbs.
Tell inq i know what she did.
She hit Send.
“Trouble in paradise?” Monica asked nonchalantly. “Mr. Nikolai’s girlfriend’s brother? What’s his name again?” she hinted heavily.
“No,” Joy muttered. “It’s his sister. I think she’s done something stupid.”
Monica squinched her face in sympathy. “Oooh. You should have let her in on our motto—No Stupid.”
Coffee dripped off Joy’s spoon. She watched the drops fall, the ripples rebounding off one another. Action, reaction, consequences. Aniseed, Briarhook, Hasp, Inq. They were all connected. It was there on the wall. Why hadn’t anyone seen it before?
“I gotta go,” Joy said, standing. “I’ll catch you later.” She shouldered her bag, feeling an urgent need to leave. Monica wasn’t safe with her. No one was. The café was too crowded; there were innocent people everywhere.
“This sudden disappearing act is getting stale,” Monica said. “You owe me an explanation and a windshield.” She tapped her straw against the cup. “I’ll take my payment in pizza.”
“Name the date,” Joy said. By then, she’d think up some cover story. Lying was way too hard. How had her mother managed it for so long? “I gotta go.”
Joy rushed out the door, not trusting that Inq wouldn’t simply appear in the coffee shop. She waved goodbye through the window and started walking quickly—anywhere, away—putting as much distance between herself and other people as she could. She felt more anxious with every pedestrian she passed and pushed herself to move faster. She had to get clear, for everybody’s sake.
She sped through the old section of what used to be downtown before the malls moved the foot traffic north. The buildings were small with the dull patina of years of wind and rain scratched into their surfaces. The roofs had real shingles and some of the signs were brass placards. Joy passed a family-owned drugstore and a tiny tailor shop.
“What is with you?” Inq snapped, materializing out of a shimmer of air and falling into angry step alongside Joy. “Luiz is having a macho-snit-fit. He thinks that you just threatened me.”
Having expected it, Joy didn’t slow. Nor did she look at Inq, knowing that no one else could see.
“It wasn’t a threat,” Joy said, looking both ways before crossing the street. “It was a message. For you. I figured it out. I know what you did.”
Inq laughed as she touched a pedestrian walking past. Neither bothered to watch the calligraphic tattoo on the woman’s hand rise and die. “I’ve
done a lot of things over the years, Joy. Care to name my specific offense, or do I have to guess?”
“Names. Exactly,” Joy hissed with a sudden heat. “True Names. Signatura. You gave yours to Aniseed and didn’t tell anybody, not even Ink or Kurt or Graus Claude, and I want to know why.”
Inq’s voice lost its bounce, but not its crisp clarity. “Careful, lehman. You push,” she warned, “someone might push back.”
“Spare me,” Joy said and ducked into an ancient phone booth, a leftover relic from a pre–cell phone era back when coins were worth something. Joy squeaked the folding door closed and held her cell phone to her ear, pretending that her private, one-way conversation was happening via satellite. She glared at Inq through the glass. “I saw your signatura in Aniseed’s hidden workroom at Dover Mill—a circle of ripples—it was right there on the wall!” Inq stopped, startled. “Signatura can’t be forged or stolen. You have to give them willingly.” Joy’s anger sparked. “So I want to know—whose side are you on?”
Inq muttered, “It’s not what you think, Joy.”
Joy laughed and banged her hand against the glass. “Seriously? That’s the best you can do?” she said. “Yesterday was the second time I was used as bait. At first I thought it was just so that they could trick Ink into showing his mark, but then he said that that wouldn’t work. He’d have to give it up. Willingly. Graus Claude said the same thing. So I’m guessing that Aniseed’s after me because she wanted to see if Ink would come to my rescue so she could ransom me back in exchange for his True Name. Maybe she’s even done it before.”
“It’s not like that,” Inq protested.