Indelible

by Dawn Metcalf

  She’d gone through stages, like the ones in Monica’s pamphlets. She’d passed denial and went straight to prayer, circling angry several times, before feeling hopeful, then helpless, then numb.

  Stupid things kept reminding her of him, and it was a fresh hurt every time. Butter knives reminded her of him. Notebook paper reminded her of him. A milk jug in the refrigerator. Rain and loud music. Glow sticks and her pillow...

  Her own hands reminded her of him.

  It was a slow recovery.

  Ink had infused her. It was excruciating. And when she blinked, there was no longer any answering flash in her eye. Nothing to prove that he’d ever been there. Nothing to prove that they had ever been real.

  She pushed a little on the burn scars, trying to eke out a pinprick, a dull needle of pain. But it had been too long. She’d healed without meaning to. Time was unkind—it healed things without permission.

  Joy was seventeen, and tomorrow she was headed to L.A.

  The phone rang.

  “Are you coming?” Monica said. “We’ve got a whole Birthday Girl send-off planned, but can’t start without the Guest of Honor!”

  “I’m coming,” Joy said, fastening her bracelet. “Be there soon.”

  “Look for the giant Over the Hill balloons.”

  Joy groaned, “You didn’t!”

  “Didn’t I?” Monica said archly, “Just wait’ll you see the cake! Totally NC-17!” Monica was a firm believer that the quickest way to get over heartbreak involved lots of smarm.

  Joy chuckled despite herself. “You’re evil.”

  “And you’re welcome,” Monica said. “Now get moving.” She hung up and Joy thumbed off the phone, looking around for her knit sweater.

  “Joy.”

  Ink stood inside the closet door, the mirror ignoring his reflection.

  Her heart stopped. Joy wanted to launch at him, but something in the way he stood told her No. He was paler, weaker—not just how he stood, but him, a faded sort of outline, a ghostly presence not quite in this world. Joy hadn’t seen him since Graus Claude’s, but she’d pictured him, how he looked, trying to keep him fresh in her mind, trying not to forget how he held himself, how he smiled, how he smelled. And now he was here. Really here.

  Ink.

  It crushed her, holding back, sitting still. Only her mouth moved.

  “You’re okay.”

  “I am,” Ink said with a nod. “Thanks to you.”

  Their pause stretched—a silent, wrenching thing.

  “Ink—”

  “I was uncertain whether or not to come,” he said quickly. “I thought, perhaps, it would be best to let you be, let you live your own life, free of me and my kind. But then I thought that you would want to know what had happened. That we owed you that much.”

  Joy shook her head. That didn’t sound right. He didn’t owe her. What had happened? What was wrong? Didn’t he remember? Didn’t he remember her? Or had he let it go? She hadn’t considered the possibility that he might not want to come back.

  Her hands hadn’t budged from their nest in her lap, hot with sweat and nerves and wanting. Why couldn’t she move?

  “I came to tell you that I am well. Inq is well. The Council renounced Aniseed’s followers and reaffirmed their position preserving our ties with your world. Aniseed’s work is destroyed. Her network abolished. Her poisons neutralized. She is dead,” Ink said. “Your family is protected under the Edict and I have formally and publicly renounced our association, so no one from the Twixt should ever contact you again.” He spoke flat and businesslike. “Kurt sends his regards, and Graus Claude his regrets.” He paused, blinking owlishly. “That should be everything.”

  Ink’s eyes were open and empty as a starless night. He sounded bored, tired.

  “Our ‘association’...?” Joy said.

  “Was a mistake.”

  Joy stood up. He looked curious, and maybe a little afraid.

  “It was not a mistake,” she insisted. “That first night, the night at the Carousel, before you tried to take my Sight...that was no mistake. And don’t you dare say that it was.” It was as if he wanted to look away, but was frozen, unblinking. “I was born with the Sight, Ink,” she said, voice trembling. “So tell me, why were you the first person I’d ever seen from the Twixt?”

  They stared at each other. His answer slipped through his lips.

  “Because I saw you,” he confessed. “And I couldn’t look away.”

  Ink snapped into sharp focus, his eyes digging deep. He was here. And when he spoke, his voice shot to her core.

  “It hurts everywhere,” he said, sounding surprised.

  She was in his arms and he was holding her, squeezing hard.

  “It hurts everywhere,” he said again against her skin. “I can’t pull you close enough.”

  Joy wrapped her hands around his neck.

  “Try.”

  He buried himself in her, filling the empty nooks with more of himself, burrowing into the spaces between her neck and her hair, drinking in Joy like a drowning man. She turned her head and kissed him. He kissed her back, worshipping her closeness with soft lips and warm skin, his hands kneading her back and clenching her hair.

  “Joy,” Ink whispered. “I miss you. I miss that part of you,” he pressed her to his chest, “here.”

  “I’ve missed you,” Joy whispered back, “everywhere.”

  “But this is your life.” Ink struggled to say it, pushing back an inch that felt like miles. “I was never meant to be part of it.”

  Joy refused to submit, refused to let go now that she had him there with her. She bunched her hands in his smoke-silver shirt. “I didn’t know what drawing the signaturae would do!”

  “It saved everyone,” Ink said, touching the tiny hairs of her eyebrow as if he’d forgotten what they looked like and was trying to memorize it now. “Erasing our signaturae broke Aniseed’s claim. It freed them. It freed you.”

  “I don’t want to be free of you!”

  There. She’d said it. Joy’s heart slammed under her skin.

  Ink hovered in that moment.

  “You cannot mean that...”

  “I do!” Joy said and tightened her grip on him, afraid to let go. “You asked me what I want, and I am telling you.” Her voice warmed, the words growing surer. “No accident. No mistake. You chose me and I choose you.”

  He wanted this. Badly. It was written on his face.

  “Joy...”

  “Please.” Joy squeezed, reminding him, tangibly, of what they had together. “Please, Ink, choose me.”

  “I did,” he confessed. “I do.” Ink rested his forehead against hers, his black eyes slipping closed. “But you cannot ask me to risk you again.”

  “I’m not,” Joy said. “I’m asking you to give me what I want.”

  The bareness of it hung fragile and tender and wild and frightening. Joy held her breath in that soap-bubble moment.

  Ink’s face lifted, daring and shy.

  “Yes,” he said tenderly. “Yes, Joy Malone. But you don’t need my mark to be mine.”

  Joy almost laughed. Almost. “I ‘don’t’?’”

  “No. You don’t,” he said. “I do not bear your mark, and I am yours.” He touched her face softly. Joy’s senses rose to meet him. Ink wiped a thumb wondrously over her cheek. “It is...a feeling we share that needs only to be named.”

  “Ah,” she said, stroking the back of his neck. “Names are powerful things.” She couldn’t stop smiling. “And what would you call this feeling?”

  Ink smiled. Dimpled.

  “‘Joy.’”

  EPILOGUE

  THERE WAS SOMETHING on the nightstand in her mother’s guest room.

  Joy flung off the
blankets. Hours of jet lag and late-night talking had made her brain woozy and warm, but she came instantly awake when she saw the box. A wide ring spread across its polished wood surface, hand-carved, intricate and deeply detailed. She traced it with her fingers, exploring the grain.

  An ouroboros. Infinity etched in black.

  It felt permanent. Enduring.

  Indelible Ink.

  Lifting the lid, she found a note and a glint of silver tucked inside.

  This is yours.

  Happy birthday, Joy.

  I love you.

  Joy picked up the silver scalpel and smiled.

  * * * * *

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This is where I utterly fail to adequately thank all the amazing people who not only brought this book to life, but helped me become a better writer and not a certifiable lunatic in an off-the-shoulder, floor-length straitjacket. Big, huge helpings of thanks to my agent, Michael Bourret, who saw magic in these pages, and to my editor, Natashya Wilson, for unearthing the true world of the Twixt. Thanks to the Harlequin TEEN Dream Team: Jenny Bullough, T. S. Ferguson, Amy Jones, Nicki Kommit, Jane Ludlam, Sandra Latini, Gigi Lau, Fion Ngan, Michelle Renaud, Mary Sheldon, Annie Stone, Larissa Walker, Lisa Wray and also Anna Baggaley of the U.K. Mira Ink team for their shared brilliance in making this dream a reality. Particular thanks goes to Mario Sánchez Nevado who created the stunning cover art.

  Thanks to my critique partners, beta readers and many good friends who humored/challenged/cajoled/comforted/cheered/harangued me out of love and deep commitment to my sanity and success; especially Deva Fagan, Angie Frazier, Maurissa Guibord, Susan Van Hecke, Mark Apgar, Jenny and Matt Bannock and Michael Owen Miller. Special acknowledgments go to Brigid McCarthy for sharing her expertise on Olympic-level gymnastics and the folks at USA Gymnastics for helpful tips and tricks. To my online communities including the Tenners, the Elevensies, Fangs, Fur & Fey, The Enchanted Inkpot, SCBWI and Verla Kay’s Blueboarders: I couldn’t have done any of this without you along the way!

  Finally, I can’t thank my family enough for everything they are to me—you are my magic! Love to my parents, Holly and Barry, Harold and Marilyn, my siblings, Corrie, Rich, Adam, Michelle, Shari and David, my incredible kids, Maestro & The Pigtailed Overlord (yes, Mommy’s talking to you!) and, of course, to Jonathan: all of this (and more) is thanks to you. I love you more than chocolate mousse!

  Now can someone please loosen these straps?

  We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin ebook. Connect with us for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!

  Subscribe to our newsletter: Harlequin.com/newsletters

  Visit Harlequin.com

  We like you—why not like us on Facebook: Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks

  Follow us on Twitter: Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks

  Read our blog for all the latest news on our authors and books: HarlequinBlog.com

  ISBN: 9781460316535

  Copyright © 2013 by Dawn Metcalf

  All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  ® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

  www.Harlequin.com