Indelible

by Dawn Metcalf

  Ink spread his hand over the photograph. “But if she has legitimate claim...?”

  “These humans are not legitimate,” the Bailiwick roared. “They did not fall under her auspice—she took them like the parasite that she is! If these were her legitimate claims, they would have been marked by region at the very least. No, she has collected this mass by insinuating herself into others’ claims. She could never have amassed this group all at once on her own,” he muttered, “but only because her ties are tenuous. By her very nature, her claims die.”

  Joy paled. “Die?” She waved her hands to whoa. “Wait a minute. What are we talking about? I thought we were talking about Aniseed and signatura.”

  “Yes, signatura,” Graus Claude grumbled as he trudged down the hall toward the guest toilette. “Your people do not have signatura of your own, but you bear ours, which makes you our responsibility. They are the ties that tether us together, preserving the balance, keeping magic extant. Aniseed has been insinuating her own signatura upon others’ legitimate claims, upsetting that balance? It is unimaginable!” His four hands became fists. “She has concocted diseases for centuries, but they have always been contained within the parameters of her auspice.”

  “What?!” Joy shrieked.

  “Aniseed’s auspice is disease. Death is within her purview,” the Bailiwick confessed. “That is her native responsibility—balance, preserving nature’s cycle, purging stressors like overpopulation. Bubonic plague, scarlet fever, influenza, AIDS...” He grunted as they rounded the corner. “However, if she has changed her strategy from natural vectors to signatura, well, it’s unconscionable, but she would most likely succeed in what I can only assume is her ultimate objective.”

  “To end the Age of Man,” Ink concluded.

  “Precisely.” Graus Claude opened the door. “And most elegantly, I’ll admit. Disease takes time to gestate and spread. It can take years—decades—before affected numbers attain critical mass, before causes are identified, cures discovered and disseminated. All this time slowly unraveling the skein of Man. I can only imagine her patience. And now you and Mistress Inq can provide a much-sought shortcut.”

  He cast his bobbing head toward Inq spread on the couch. “Aniseed’s efforts have always been maddeningly brilliant, yet never to this scale. The numbers we are talking about... I doubt humanity would survive,” he admitted. “The Twixt would be forced to bear witness to her coup de grâce, unable to uphold the promises that bind their True Names to their charges. It would be...catastrophic. Epidemic. Pandemic! Magic would fail. Our bonds, collapse. The paradox alone would drive a knife between our peoples and sever our worlds.”

  His four hands opened and closed, failing to express the magnitude of what he was saying. He stammered in disbelief. “The Council was created as a safeguard for both worlds—one cannot exist without the other. Balance is paramount. Aniseed has been a bulwark against humanity’s intercession with a fair hand for years. While her past involvements have been detrimental, to say the least, all have required a natural vector—airborne particles, tainted water, fluid exchange.... But all that is unnecessary when the assault can be instantaneous, the culprit lying undetected—” his claw dimpled the back of one hand “—beneath the skin.”

  “Joy...” Ink whispered.

  Understanding bloomed in the great toad’s eyes. “She bears Aniseed’s mark,” he said.

  “Impossible,” Ink insisted. “I have not granted Aniseed my signatura.”

  “No,” the Bailiwick said softly. “But Briarhook has.”

  Joy’s insides iced over. Her legs loosened. She stumbled. He caught her. “Ink?”

  “I am here,” Ink said, although all his attention was fixed on the couch where Inq lay. Her eyes were closed and if she breathed, it was just barely. His sister lay naked, tucked beneath a clean sheet, her face washed, her hair pushed back—a gesture that Inq thought of as gentleness. Had she learned that from Kurt’s hands?

  The butler knelt next to her, the silver tray with its bottles, syringes and matted, black-stained gauze sat forgotten on the floor. He stared, intense and intent, on Inq’s face. His arms moved carefully, with barely contained tension, the muscles bulging like the veins on the back of his hands—it was as if any moment he might tear through the wall with his fists. Joy stayed by the door.

  “Is the seal intact?” Graus Claude rumbled. Kurt nodded and massaged the meat of Inq’s left hand. “Good,” he said, gesturing to Ink. “Then I leave you to your business. Miss Malone, I will arrange for you to be safely housed until such time as the Council has addressed this assault.”

  “Wh-what?” Joy stammered, staring at Ink, who had pulled his smoke-silver shirt over his head. Back bared, his signatura pulsed as it spun. The room filled with the scent of him: the rain of a coming storm.

  “We should go,” Graus Claude said.

  “No. I have to go home!” Joy insisted.

  “I understand your wish, but that is no longer an option,” Graus Claude murmured. “Regretfully, as is often the way of these things, to be of two worlds, one can rarely have both. There comes a time when you must choose.”

  “Ink,” Joy called to him as he rubbed his forearms with strong hands. “I have to go home. Dad... Stef...” They were on the phone. Right now! Her mind stalled. “It was only supposed to be a moment!”

  “Graus Claude, please, take her home,” Ink said dully as he withdrew his wallet.

  The Bailiwick sighed deep disapproval. “Booking the flight, aside from the costs, will take time and explanation that we cannot afford,” he said reasonably. Kurt repositioned himself and forced Inq’s head back at a tilt. Ink turned and looked at his sister, determination on his face.

  Joy stammered, “B-but I thought...”

  “Come,” Graus Claude urged.

  “Joy...” Ink began, but Kurt snapped his fingers once, the sound cracking like a whip against tile. Ink dropped his head and flicked his straight razor open, quickly severing the tips of his first three fingers, holding his hand up like a brimming champagne flute. Kurt slid a finger into Inq’s mouth.

  Joy gagged. “What are you doing?”

  Ink lifted his half hand and tipped his own substance into Inq’s mouth. Kneading his biceps, he watched her jaw. Kurt pushed her throat in and down. Ink’s cheeks hollowed. Inq’s bulged, then emptied. Ink and Kurt shared a rhythm, feeding Ink into Inq.

  “No...” Joy whispered.

  “Come,” Graus Claude said, resigned. “Now.”

  “NO!” Joy cried, scrabbling forward, but Graus Claude’s four arms were faster, stronger. “NO!”

  “Calm yourself,” the old toad advised. “He’s only lending her substance, the life that they share. Onto one, so, too, the other. It will not drain him completely—you shall have your master back.”

  She couldn’t hear him—not really. She screamed as Ink’s eyes drained.

  Graus Claude seized Joy and ushered her down the hallway, guided by two of the Bailiwick’s sweeping hands. Her screams eventually broke into whimpers and hot tears cooled by the time she sat in his office, weary and defeated. Her bathrobe felt damp and heavy. Hysteria ran on centipede legs under her skin. Her hands and feet tingled. She drank a glass of water without noticing.

  “Miss Malone?” The Bailiwick’s tone implied that he’d repeated himself more than once already.

  “He’ll be okay?” she asked weakly. “Both of them? You’re sure?”

  “They will be weakened, yes, but eventually whole—in no small part thanks to you.” He tossed her a handkerchief and waddled around the desk. “It is you who are of present concern.”

  Graus Claude settled into his massive, thronelike chair. It creaked and groaned as it took his weight. “I will do my best by you, Miss Malone. On that, you have my word. The Edict has not been kind thus far and so I am taking it
into my own...capable hands.” He tried for a smile and clicked his monitor to life as she wiped at her face. “Let me tell you something, Miss Malone,” he said. “I have known Master Ink for many, many years—too many to bother recounting—but suffice it to say that in all that time, I have considered him more of a service than a servant. A tool rather than an individual. He has expressed no motives, no desires, no wants or interests outside of his work, and for one such as I, I assure you that this constitutes an ideal business associate, although not one that I would invite to my dinner parties.

  “Since your association, Master Ink has become both stubborn and distracted, moody, insistent, alternately ruthless, passionate and pathetically idealistic, rushing off at the least provocation and into quite a variety of reckless pursuits. In all ways he has become an abysmal worker.” Joy tensed inwardly as Graus Claude exhaled through his nose. “However, he is now a person, one whom I can respect and admire, even if his manners are deplorably absent of late. I accept this as a fair price for having discovered there lies a soul within that perfect shell. Someone whom I would consider a loyal friend. There are not many afforded to someone in my position, and I value it beyond worldly riches.”

  Joy waited for some cue, but none came.

  “You’re welcome?” she tried.

  “Yes, well, praises will be earned if we muddle through this alive,” Graus Claude muttered as two of his hands began furiously composing electronic mail. “If our theory is correct, Aniseed may trigger her epidemic without the additional insurance of Master Ink’s signatura, possibly achieving her critical mass on Mistress Inq’s alone if she fears discovery.” He shook his bobbing head in dismay. “And it may be all for naught—as I said, disease is well within Aniseed’s jurisdiction, and that is what makes her a most valuable member of the Council.”

  “She kills millions of people and she’s on the Council?” Joy snapped.

  “Well, yes,” Graus Claude said. “She has a great deal of status and a great many supporters within the Twixt, many of whom would like nothing more than to see Man’s supremacy fall. However, we on the Council are charged with maintaining a balance between our worlds and she holds a position that is responsible for that equilibrium more so than most. Her crime is compounded by the additional abuse and trafficking of signatura as undeniable evidence of conspiracy to commit worldwide genocide, the likes of which the Edict protecting our human counterparts cannot abide.” The Bailiwick paused from his typing. “At least, let us hope that remains the case.”

  “And what about me?”

  The Bailiwick frowned. “What about you?”

  “I have Aniseed’s signatura because it’s linked through Briarhook’s, right? If she starts a plague or whatever, it’ll happen to me, too!”

  Graus Claude stared at Joy for an uncomfortably long time. “We have time,” he assured her. “Fortune is on our side.” He smiled mysteriously. “And I understand that you’ve been granted a Sir John Melton’s boon.”

  Joy blinked. “A what?”

  “A four-leaf clover,” Graus Claude said, smiling, and Joy remembered it tucked in her wallet.

  “Does that really work?” she said skeptically.

  Graus Claude arched his brow ridge. “You tell me.” His third hand swept the mouse and made a few expert clicks. “Now, I can get you on a first flight back to your local airport by 5:15 a.m. I’m not certain I could do better, even with a chartered plane. That will simply have to do....”

  “I can’t take a plane home!” Joy said. “My father would kill me! He’s expecting me to be in my bedroom right now—he’s waiting for me to join him on a phone call to my brother.”

  Graus Claude pursed his lips. “Tricky,” he admitted. “How does your father deal with disappointment?”

  Joy grimaced. “The word badly comes to mind,” she said. “Followed by cardiac arrest. Can’t I wait for Ink to poof me back?”

  “Master Ink will not be ‘poofing’ anyone anywhere any time soon,” Graus Claude retorted. “Might I remind you the word I politely chose was weakened and that should be considered a gross understatement. However, as time is of the essence, I believe I have other avenues at my disposal,” he said conspiratorially. “The Scribes are not the only ones who can slip the stream, so to speak.”

  Graus Claude’s two hands typed furiously while his third opened a thin drawer and a fourth extracted a small, stained-glass box. Joy watched hands three and four dance a magician’s wave, lifting the soldered lid and removing a small blue-velvet satchel. Unwinding its tasseled drawstring, he spilled a handful of soft, yellowed cubes into his hand, all while ticking and clicking behind his monitor.

  “Knucklebones,” he said quietly. “Originals.” And he tossed them with a flourish upon the floor. Joy watched the dice wobble and land with chalky sounds. In the spill-off light of the computer, Graus Claude right-clicked the mouse and a laser near the floor bounced off the knucklebones like so many mirrors, creating a large geometric pattern that hovered above the rug. Joy stared at Graus Claude, who wore the widest smirk she’d ever seen.

  “Observe,” he said with almost childish glee.

  There was a high-pitched hum on the edge of Joy’s hearing, closing like the sound of an oncoming train. The light intensified, the dice trembled and Joy sat on her fingers to keep from covering her ears. The fractal pattern solidified, pulsed once and incandesced.

  Someone appeared as the lights faded.

  He shook out his umbrella and righted his felt hat, blinking a smile up at Joy.

  “Hello,” Dennis Thomas said, dusting his sleeves. “We meet again.”

  “Indeed.” Graus Claude closed the box with a click. “Mr. Thomas has generously volunteered to escort you and, I understand, is a previous acquaintance?”

  “Um...yeah,” Joy said, slightly embarrassed that she couldn’t remember whether she’d delivered the old man’s message about his bier of roses to Ink.

  “I thought a familiar face would be of some comfort, Miss Malone,” Graus Claude said. “Fortunately, Mr. Thomas was both available and amenable at such short notice.”

  “Being an old widower often qualifies me as both available and amenable,” Mr. Thomas stage-whispered with a wink. “But it’s a pleasure to be asked to aid a damsel in distress.”

  Graus Claude laughed. “You always had a weakness for the ladies.”

  The man’s eyes twinkled. “When they are both young and pretty, how can I refuse?” He took a couple of steps toward the stone basin, its softly burbling water spinning the lily pads on its surface. He inhaled deeply, relishing the scent. “Smells like her hair,” he said and smiled an apology to Joy. “My wife. She died not long ago. She had the most beautiful hair.”

  There wasn’t much Joy could say, but she was moved. “I’m sorry,” she said, and Mr. Thomas pressed a hand to his heart.

  “I am a proud fisherman,” he said. “And proud to have had a fisherman’s wife.”

  “And how is your daughter?” Graus Claude asked politely.

  The old man shrugged, hand patting his heart. “She mourns. She is young and beautiful and has lost her mother. Even beauty mourns,” he said. “But time is kind.”

  “Mr. Thomas is a fine man, an excellent porter and an old friend,” Graus Claude explained. The rumpled man bowed humbly at the praise. “Miss Malone is in danger and cannot brook delay. I have adjusted your point of arrival to be just outside her domicile in order to avoid any unpleasantness due to the wards placed by Master Ink.” The Bailiwick directed his blue eyes to Joy. “I trust in your singular inventiveness to explain how you were no longer in your room, Miss Malone. It is the best I can do under these circumstances.”

  “I understand,” Joy said. “Thank you.”

  Graus Claude nodded to Mr. Thomas. “I have precise coordinates and the time of departure.” He handed the old ma
n a printout from the printer tray. “Eastern Standard Time,” the Bailiwick said. “And many thanks.”

  “My pleasure, Old Frog,” Mr. Thomas said and turned to face Joy. “If you’d allow me.” The elderly man offered his elbow and Joy took it. He patted her hand in the crook of his arm. “It’s like dancing the fox-trot,” he said wistfully. “I hope you don’t mind if I lead. My dearest Marion—how she loved to dance!”

  Joy glanced uncertainly from Mr. Thomas to Graus Claude. The Bailiwick nodded his great head. “It’s all right, Miss Malone. Dennis will get you home safely and well in good time.”

  “Tell Ink...” she started and didn’t know how to finish. The grim determination as he’d chopped off his fingertips flashed through her mind. “Tell him to come see me soon.”

  Graus Claude patted her shoulder again. “I’ll tell him,” he assured her. “Go now.”

  Joy hooked a second hand over Mr. Thomas’s arm. He placed his paper-soft palm, wrinkled with age, over hers. The hum of the knucklebones began again and the air hissed red.

  “Listen for the song,” Mr. Thomas said.

  Joy frowned. “What?”

  The octagram on the floor flared and rushed to meet her. There was a keen, high-pitched whistle deep in her ear. She shrank against Mr. Thomas and his hand squeezed her close. The sounds and lights died away. They stood on solid ground and his hands still held hers.

  “You can let go now,” she said.

  She tried. He didn’t. Joy frowned in the dark.

  “This isn’t...”

  Mr. Thomas spoke over her shoulder. “Here she is, as agreed.” Twirling her in a mock dance spin, he released her, stumbling, off-balance and confused. Joy spun to a stop, focusing on brown eyes in a brown face framed in orange fur. He kept speaking from somewhere behind her. “I slit the Scribe. I brought the girl. Our deal is done.”

  “Splendid,” said the rich, warm voice. Joy’s insides churned. Polished mahogany eyes flicked over her shoulder. “Your payment.” The dark woman offered him a stoppered classic Coke bottle. An unfamiliar glittery fluid sloshed inside its familiar shape.