Indelible

by Dawn Metcalf

  People were crowding into the small antechamber. Joy stayed in the doorway until she saw him.

  Ink.

  Filly carried a double armload of what looked like an empty wetsuit. Joy seized his arm, slack and boneless. She whimpered deep in her throat.

  “Hey, now, move,” Filly said and marched into the ultrafeminine toilet, depositing Ink’s body on the available settee. Joy sank next to him on the ottoman, staring blankly at his ragged skin, his torn throat, his empty eyes. Ink.

  Filly knelt next to Joy, a sharp-eyed raven perched on her shoulder. It hopped from leg to leg as she leaned forward.

  “It was a good battle,” Filly whispered encouragingly. “But I’ll not be claiming him yet.” She winked at Joy, patted her arm and stood in the center of the floor. “Tell Skögul and Hildr that I’ll return shortly.” The blonde horsewoman lifted her chin to the ceiling and raised one bright vambrace in salute. Joy’s hair billowed out in static currents. Ionic crackles smelled like Ink.

  Filly spoke a sharp word. Lightning crashed. Gone.

  Joy sat alone with Ink’s body.

  She turned his face toward hers, feeling no resistance. He puddled under her fingers, his neck attached by barely a hand’s width of skin. She brushed the hair out of his face, oddly thankful that his eyes were closed. She touched his thin lips lightly. They were cold. Her eyes spilled over.

  “He’ll be okay,” Inq whispered over her shoulder.

  Joy shook her head. “I saw him die.”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” Kurt said as he entered the room looking whole and at ease next to Inq. His Kevlar vest was nothing but tattered, wet shreds, but his voice was a smooth tenor, totally at odds with his bulky body.

  “You...?” Joy rested her hand on Ink’s chest. It seemed impossible, hopeful, a trick. She grasped for something to say. “You can talk?”

  “I can now,” Kurt said simply. Inq gazed up at him like a kitten with cream. He knelt by Ink’s body. “Let me,” he offered, holding the edges of Ink’s wound closed. “I’ve had some experience with this.”

  “I know,” Joy said. “Thank you.” And she bent to work.

  She tried not to think of the thing in front of her as Ink—the Ink she knew or how she’d last seen him: in pain and, with his last breaths, giving her hope. His skin had been mutilated, his body broken, the edges of his wound gouged by sharp, splintered teeth. Joy’s pulse pummeled in her temples, making her squint. She could do this. She could fix this. She could make it untrue.

  She carefully followed the ragged line with shaking fingers gripping the scalpel’s hilt. Ink’s pale skin sparkled with negative stars. She passed the halfway point, rolling over the Adam’s apple—or, at least, where one should be—willing the seal to stay closed, to hold him together, to bring him back.

  Leaning over his face—almost kissing-close—the smell of him filled her head, tears dripping straight from her eyes onto his. Embarrassed, she tried to shrug them away.

  Joy sniffed. “I thought you were dead.”

  “I thought so, too,” Kurt said. “But I couldn’t die yet.”

  “You had to kill Aniseed first?”

  Kurt’s face hardened into a mask of scars and memories. “No,” he said. “But that was all that I lived for.” Joy spied Inq’s fingers stroking Kurt’s neck. He raised his head slightly and his voice softened several degrees. “Everything else is now an added benefit.”

  Joy tried to smile, but she felt sick. Ink looked so empty. She’d never seen him so helpless, vulnerable. She’d never even seen him asleep because he never slept. Or aged. Or died. He didn’t die. He won’t die. He was never born; ergo, he can’t die. She slid the scalpel over his throat, and with his skin snagging the blade, her fingers slick and hot-pink-black, Joy closed the last inch with tears in her eyes.

  The scalpel fell from her fingers and clattered against the tile. Ink’s head rested in profile: she was looking straight at his ear. Her ear. Joy felt his touch on her face like a ghost.

  “Nicely done,” said Kurt.

  Joy stared. Ink didn’t move.

  “Don’t worry,” Inq said. “He just needs a little more juice.” Joy blinked, uncomprehending, at the vacant flesh under her hands. Inq brushed back a lick of black hair and sighed. “I know my brother’s one for theatrics, but I’m not too keen on hacking off my manicure.” She waggled her fingers, still unblemished with nails or knuckles or fingerprints. “Besides, there isn’t enough to split between us right now. Don’t fret, it only takes a little patience. You’ll both learn. In time.” Inq grinned. “In the meanwhile, I’d best get ready to grovel.”

  “To who?” Joy blurted.

  “Our creator,” Inq said and shrugged off Joy’s shock. “Ink doesn’t know. To be fair, I was made first.” She held up a finger and shushed. “Don’t tell him, okay? It’ll be our little secret.”

  “But...he’ll be alive?” Joy asked. “Safe?”

  Inq grinned. “I’d bet my life on it.”

  She offered to help Joy stand. Joy needed it. Inq swung their hands together like little girls at play.

  “You know what this means, don’t you?” Inq asked impishly.

  Joy shook her head, still dazed, “Humanity’s safe?”

  “Well, yes, that, too—” Inq said. “But, better than that, this proves that I was right!” She winked. “Even Graus Claude thought it was a bad plan, us bringing you on board, but without you we might have lost...” her eyes sought Kurt “...everything.” Her face lost some of its merriment. “And nothing’s worth that.”

  She widened her left hand and a small ripple appeared by the sink. Rummaging inside, she withdrew a plastic saline bottle riddled with Sharpie hieroglyphs. She handed it to Joy.

  Joy inspected the bottle. “What is it?”

  “A bad trade,” Inq said. “Not worth the price. But still...” A drop clung to the inside. It sizzled with color. “It had its uses.” Inq smiled ruefully. “I suppose, in the future, I’ll have to choose only those with the Sight,” she sighed. “They’d better be ripped.”

  Joy held the bottle as several things slid into place.

  “The Cabana Boys?” Joy asked.

  “Every one of them,” Inq said. “Without it, they couldn’t see me.” She made air quotes with her fingers. “‘Invisible Inq.’ That’s why I went to the segulah centuries ago—to get this on tap. It’s rare and, generally speaking, the Twixt doesn’t approve of cross-border bondings. In the past, it’s led to all sorts of trouble—” she sidled up against Kurt “—but, then again, they weren’t big on using proper protection.”

  Kurt coughed. Inq dimpled. Joy reddened and held up one limp hand.

  “But Ink...”

  “He’ll be fine,” Inq insisted. “Trust me.” Her expression grew vulnerable. “Please, Joy. Trust me.” Joy felt herself nod, and Kurt lifted the limp body from her grasp. Joy’s hand lingered on Ink’s—her hand, now his, their hands—until the butler moved sideways, breaking the touch. She felt its sad echo on her skin. Numbness followed.

  “Thanks again, Joy,” Inq said. “It was nice being your mistress for a while.” She squinched her nose playfully and pulled Joy into a hug. But she didn’t feel real, Joy realized. None of it did. It was as if the world was peeling at the edges, collapsing, folding her outside. The colors looked thinner, dimmer somehow.

  “What’s happening?” Joy whispered.

  “No one has claims on you anymore,” Inq whispered back. “When you drew the signatura, you erased our marks on everyone, everywhere.” She pulled away, eyes shining, and tapped the tip of Joy’s nose. “You’ve given me a lot of work to redo!” Inq spoke a little louder. “What Aniseed did—it tore at the Twixt. It’s dangerous for you here. Without a signatura, without protections, you cannot stay. The Twixt isn’t a part of you any longer.
You have to go home.”

  Joy didn’t know what to say. Inq tugged her arm, pulling her close. Joy worried that she might kiss her again. Instead, Inq breathed something softly into her ear.

  “Just remember—you caught his eye before he cut yours,” she whispered through a smile. “And that was no mistake.”

  With that, she let Joy go, stumbling to understand. Joy tried to form words, but the black-lace figure retreated as Graus Claude stepped between them.

  “Do not worry yourself about Master Ink, Miss Malone,” the Bailiwick assured her in a drowsy sort of voice. He wore a comfortable set of clothes under his expensive smoking jacket. There was a neat bandage taped around his neck like a gauze ascot. “Miss Invisible and Kurt have him well in hand.”

  “How can Kurt be alive?” Joy said. “I saw him fall. Aniseed’s body crushed him.”

  “Yes, well, Kurt is an unusually hardy specimen, but even stubborn human determination fueled by revenge can only go so far. Kurt is...not merely mortal any longer,” Graus Claude said with bare honesty. “He came from a line who knew the Old Ways, and knew me and my kind for what we are.” Graus Claude’s bright blue eyes unfocused as if remembering. Nostalgia looked weird on him—like finding her grandfather drunk.

  “When his mother came to me invoking the True Names, I said that I would save her son from the sickness that ravished their village. How could I refuse?” he asked rhetorically. “I said that when he came of age, he could work off his debt to me.”

  “So you healed him?”

  “I? No. I did what I could. I removed the affected organs and bound him to me. But it was Aniseed’s blood that was the panacea, Fate’s reversal, erasing all injuries that were, at root, her cause. So, bathed in blood, Kurt emerged as good as new, by his own hand, no less. It is what he has always wanted.” He made a small adjustment of his lapel. “They are scouring the floor with it as we speak, soaking the glyphs, thus eliminating whatever devastating thing she’d designed for this night.” Graus Claude added conversationally, “She was the originator of the Great Pestilence that killed his family and millions more, after all.” Joy stared. He sighed, disappointed. “Modern references call it the Black Plague.”

  Joy shook her head. “But the Black Plague was hundreds of years ago!”

  “Naturally, I extended his life,” Graus Claude said with twin shrugs. “It was a very large debt.”

  Joy tried to move past him. “But Ink...”

  It is very hard to sidestep a six-foot, four-armed amphibian.

  “It is time to take you home,” Graus Claude said with a spark of his old self as he tugged a bellpull, “the way I should have originally.”

  “Mr. Thomas...” Joy said.

  “...is dead,” Graus Claude finished. It clearly cost him to say it, to know treachery in a friend. The Bailiwick wiped two hands against his chest. “As I said, loyal friends are rare for one such as I.” He placed a mottled hand upon her shoulder and smiled wanly. “Very rare, indeed.”

  Inq reappeared in the hallway.

  “You rang?”

  The Bailiwick raised an eye ridge. “Yes. Very well,” Graus Claude said. “It was an honor and a pleasure to know you, Miss Malone.” He said it with a finality that Joy found both frightening and sincere. “I promise that you and your patrons will come to no further harm. The Council will assure it. Consider yourself and your family under a new Edict.”

  She felt herself nodding.

  “Okay,” she said.

  Taking Joy’s hand gently in his shellacked claws, he lifted her knuckles to his lips and pressed a kiss there. He glanced at the scalpel she still held in her right hand.

  “I will return this to Master Ink.” It was a gentle command she did not want to obey. Joy tightened her grip on the scalpel. Graus Claude’s deep voice purred over her knuckles. “It does not belong to you, Miss Malone,” he prompted. “Let it go.”

  Joy relaxed, rotating the handle between her fingers before awkwardly placing it in Graus Claude’s waiting palm. She kept her hand there, holding on to its realness, its powerful link to Ink, hesitant to...

  “Let it go,” Graus Claude whispered.

  Joy let go.

  “Good,” he said with a gentle squeeze. “And goodbye.”

  He lumbered aside, head swinging low.

  She let him go. She let it go. She felt like she was letting it all go. Joy stood in a downy, careless fog, watching the world origami away.

  “Ready?” Inq asked.

  Ready? Ready to go? Now? But there’s so much...

  Let it go.

  Sometimes, she thought to herself, that’s how it ends.

  “I’m ready,” she said.

  Inq took her hand. They slid through sudden ripples, stepping into Joy’s room.

  “Joy!”

  She nearly jumped out of her skin as her father flung open the door. Inq lifted her hand like the flat of a sword. He looked about ready to shout again.

  “Dad...?” Joy said stupidly, her brain rushing to adjust.

  “When I say, ‘Do you want to say hello?’ what I mean is, ‘Pick up the damned phone so we can have this conversation together!’” He thrust one of the wireless receivers into Joy’s right hand and a tall glass of soda with lemon into her left. The ice hadn’t even melted. The cold soothed her raw skin. “I know we don’t usually talk like this, but we do starting now. This is important. This is family,” he said. “Don’t make me go through this alone, Joy.”

  Joy nodded weakly. Inq relaxed.

  “Okay, Dad.”

  Inq hesitated, about to say something, then changed her mind, winked, blew a kiss and disappeared.

  He looked Joy over, searching for something. “And after this, we’re going to keep talking. We’re going to talk about you. And me. And you’re going to talk to your mother. And we’re going to talk about everything. Get it all out there. All right?”

  Joy couldn’t help thinking, Not everything, but somehow managed a genuine smile. “Yeah. All right.”

  “All right.” Her father wrapped her in a squeeze and led her down the hall in a one-armed hug. She hugged him back as he dialed the phone. He pulled away slightly, rubbing her bare left shoulder.

  “What in the world did you do to your shirt?”

  * * *

  The door clicked closed. Joy stared at her room through the eyes of a stranger.

  It was quiet. No noise. No ringing phone. No strange notes. No monsters. No weird ripples. No sounds of battle. No creaking wood. No rumble of Graus Claude. No crisp, clear voices. No Inq. No Ink. No one.

  She was alone.

  It was a trembling quiet. It was the first pause of nothing at all.

  Joy collapsed on her bed, curling into a tight ball of misery. She smashed her pillow to her face, soaking it thoroughly with snot and tears. Dad was fine, Stef was fine, but she was anything but fine. She wanted the power to erase again, to make it untrue, to take the scalpel and cut reality apart: the nightmare of a perfectly normal day in a perfectly normal life.

  One without Ink.

  She cried the rest of the night.

  * * *

  Joy stared at the ceiling. She was wrung dry and hollow. It was dark. It was quiet. It was 4:00 a.m.

  She reached out a hand to touch something invisible, willing fingers to materialize in midair and pull her up and away. She searched for images in the shadows: a flash of silver, a straight razor, a ripple of air, an ouroboros, a gleam of all-black eyes.

  She wanted desperately to pull it back. She wanted desperately to let it go.

  Joy recognized this feeling.

  Getting up, she slid open her top dresser drawer. She took out an envelope from the bottom of the stack and, unfolding its familiar creases, reread the first letter from her m
other. The handwriting spoke in a voice that Joy could still hear in her dreams. The tears flowed freely.

  She hadn’t let it go. She’d never let it go. And, she suddenly realized, she didn’t have to.

  Joy sat on her bed with the letter and the ticket in her hand and sent a text message since it was three hours earlier in L.A. Joy didn’t trust her voice just yet, but she could hit the keys.

  i love you mom. i miss u. a lot. always—joy

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ON MAY TWENTY-THIRD, Joy sat contemplating her hands. The burns had healed to soft, dark patches beneath her artificial suntan—a gift from Stef for her week-long visit to California. The scars were almost unnoticeable unless she really looked for them. She looked for them often, if only to assure herself that it had all been real and not some crazy dream.

  Joy was seventeen today.

  Life had become so quiet. There had been no strange messages, no texts, no monsters at the window or knocking at her door. She hadn’t missed that part—but she missed Ink. She missed him like an ache, like a bruise coating the inside of her body. She thought the feeling would fade, but it hadn’t. It just sank deeper, becoming more a part of her every day.

  She’d looked for him in every shadow, every doorway, every corner at school, half expecting him to appear at the Carousel or in her kitchen or Hall C. Joy waited for the world to slice open with the scent of rain. It never did. She went to bed empty and fitful and sad. And when she dreamed, she dreamed of Ink, but then she was the one who was invisible—he could not see her for all her screaming and he simply walked away. She woke half expecting to see him there.

  Joy rehearsed what she would say, what she would do, when she finally saw him. But now it had been too long, the words becoming jumbled in her heart and head. Now she just wanted to see him. She felt for the one-armed shirt under her pillow and bunched it against her face, breathing it in, trying to recapture his scent, as if it might somehow invoke him again. It smelled faintly of salt water—of storms and tears.