Invincible

by Dawn Metcalf

  Joy lifted her bag from the C&P. “Maia sent Avery to speak with me—he had a formula for an elixir to adjust the change. We took it to the wizard. He mixed up a batch.” Joy rattled the baggie and went to fill a mug with water. “Mr. Vinh says it ought to slow down the effects until he can come up with something better.”

  The Bailiwick frowned, which was no small thing—his mouth was as wide as her arm. “That is not as promising as I’d hoped.”

  “It’s all I’ve got,” Joy said, pressing buttons on the microwave. “Which is better than giving up.”

  “Indeed,” Graus Claude said. “What did it cost?”

  The microwave beeped. Joy dropped in a tablespoon of dried herbs and started stirring. “He said he’d bill me once he figured out a cure.”

  The giant frog pressed three hands against his chest in alarm. “You opened a tab with a wizard?” he squawked. “Without any prior binding agreement? Did you make a contract? Was it witnessed? Notarized?”

  “It was more like a verbal handshake.” Joy stirred the powder into a vile-colored mush. She added more water. “Why? Is that bad?”

  “Look at his face,” Filly snickered as she reentered the kitchen. “You’re doomed.”

  “What else is new?” Joy said, and took a gulp of the stuff—it tasted like crushed mustard, wasabi, charcoal and Freon. Her mouth flooded with saliva. Her throat burned. Her nose stung. The glob dodged her tongue and stuck to the roof of her mouth. She slammed her palm into the counter and blinked back tears. She made a fist and swallowed, gasping for air.

  “Gah!” She unscrewed her bottle of Gatorade and drank half of it down. She wiped her mouth with her wrist. “Ugh! That’s awful!”

  “Well,” Graus Claude said, relaxing slightly. “At least that sounds like it will work.” He filled a large glass of water in each of his hands. “If he’d wanted to poison you, it would likely taste better. The foulest concoctions are the trademark of proper witches, wizards, herbalists and midwives and are widely considered to be ruthlessly effective.”

  Joy swallowed again, testing her teeth to make certain they hadn’t dissolved. “Fabulous.”

  “Consider yourself fortunate. I had to contend with your brother’s abominable behavior in your absence,” he said. “It is a wonder that you weren’t in worse shape when we began your tutelage. Disgraceful.” He downed each glass in quick succession. “It is good to see that at least one good thing came out of your efforts.”

  “A proper wizard’s brew,” Filly smirked. “And we had to fight to get it!”

  “Two good things, then,” Graus Claude said, approvingly. “May the Council see your escape as a show of strength! I dare say they should not underestimate you or your resources. They would be wise to grant you a wide berth.”

  Joy scraped her tongue against her teeth. “Really?” she said. “Is that what you think they’ll do? If you were sitting on the Council and I had just escaped, having not only the key to the Imminent Return, but also the door, would you just let me go?”

  The Bailiwick gave an affronted sniff. “Don’t be ridiculous. I would have you killed in your sleep.”

  Ink froze in the doorway, casting a black look at his employer. Graus Claude had the decency to look embarrassed.

  “That is, of course, speaking purely hypothetically and is completely irrelevant,” the Bailiwick hastened to add. “They will be looking to skew their decision in view of the Twixt’s reaction to the gala.”

  “Great,” Joy said, and finished off the last of her Gatorade. She still couldn’t get the vile taste out of her mouth. The idea of doing this once a day was nauseating and the best motivation she could have for wanting to get the King and Queen back as soon as possible. She opened the fridge looking for something that might help kill the taste. Salami? Pickles? Blue cheese? Nothing. What a time for Dad to be on a diet! She closed the door. “I think the Council’s had it in for me ever since I removed my mark, and certainly since I took on my True Name. Screwing up the gala was just the icing on the cake,” she said, glancing at Graus Claude. “I’m really very sorry about that. You worked so hard. I tried, but...”

  “On the contrary,” he said, reaching around her and opening the fridge. He removed various containers and condiments and placed them on the counter in a steady stream. “You gave an excellent performance—quite beyond my wildest hopes, truth be told. You handled yourself with poise and decorum, showing wit and favor, humor and grace and completely damning those who tried to force their wills upon you, quelling any and all attempts to maneuver you into a less-than-strategically advantageous position.” He took a knife from one of the drawers. “You proved that you are no one to be underestimated, Miss Malone, and that does us both credit. That nimble knot with Sol Leander? Beatific. Striking his aide on the dance floor? Sublime. And your answer to Hasp and the broken pearls? Well, I could not have dreamed better.” He chuckled. Ink stared at Joy—this was all news to him. Joy prayed the Bailiwick would stop talking even as he smacked his lips. “It was, I must say, most rewarding.” His hands began a complicated dance, assembling a massive sandwich with the dexterity of shuffling cards. “And though I may humbly take most of the credit for your transformation into a passable debutante, I was pleased to hear that most of the unexpected improvisation was uniquely yours.” He nodded approvingly at her and his towering lunch. “To which I say, brava, Miss Malone! Masterfully done.”

  Joy gaped at his snack. He’d put half the fridge between an entire loaf of bread.

  “Thanks,” she muttered as he took the plate to the kitchen table and sat on the floor—no chair could possibly hold his weight. “You could hear all of that from your holding cell?”

  “Most of it, certainly,” he said, tucking his sheet underneath him. “But there were many eager to pass me news about some of the highlights before Briarhook arrived.”

  Joy frowned. “I thought that none who were your friend could get close to you,” she said.

  “I did not say that it was friendly commentary,” Graus Claude said, plucking a long steak knife from the block. “I think it might be more accurately described as gloating.” He grinned a mouthful of teeth. “Look who is laughing now!” He lifted the knife like a jeweled dagger. “Well done employing the Forest Guardian, by the way,” he added, sawing the massive sandwich in half. “He was hardly friendly in the least. Brutish, but effective. I am only sorry what it cost you.” He placed half the sandwich into his mouth and started chewing. Joy didn’t want to think too much about the iron box that held the last slivers of Briarhook’s heart. The filthy Forest Guardian had kidnapped Joy and branded her as a message meant for Ink, which the Scribe had returned with bloody vengeance. Ink had bequeathed the heart he’d cut from the giant hedgehog’s chest to Joy, ensuring Briarhook would keep his distance. Joy had reluctantly been returning his heart, piece by piece, buying off Briarhook’s debt with favors like helping them free Graus Claude, knowing that the moment Briarhook earned back the last scraps, he’d promised to kill her. Slowly.

  Stef reappeared with Ink, eyes widening at the impressive spread. Dmitri followed, admiring the layout of the condo. Stef leaned an elbow on the counter. “Anything else we can get you?” he asked. “A roast pig, perhaps? Maybe a keg?”

  “A hogshead of wine would be delightful,” the Bailiwick said out of the corner of his mouth. “A Greek white or a bold rosé.” He chewed thoughtfully and gazed at the sandwich. “Needs more olives.”

  “Olives!” Joy shouted and dived for the jar on the counter. It was empty. She drank some of the oily brine. It helped scour away the aftertaste of Mr. Vinh’s tea.

  “Really, Joy?” Stef said. “Stop acting like you’re half-animal.”

  Dmitri slapped his arm. “Hey!”

  “In a not-nice way,” Stef amended.

  Dmitri tsked. “You’re going to have to do better than that.” />
  Stef grabbed a hank of Dmitri’s shirt. Laughing, the DJ grabbed a bottle of wine. The two of them left the kitchen wearing identical smirks.

  Ink waited for the bedroom door to close and glanced at Filly. “Guard them,” he said. Joy opened her mouth to protest, but Ink shook his head. “We have little knowledge of the satyr’s loyalties outside of his love for your brother and the Grove. His troop are still the keepers of the Glen who are guarding Aniseed’s graftling clone.” He checked the wards by the doors and the air vents. “You may trust him with your life, but I do not.”

  Filly clapped her hands together with a bang. “Finally someone who thinks like a warrior and not a politician!” She raised a fist in salute and bounded happily down the hall.

  “Only for the moment,” Ink said. “For soon we must think like diplomats.”

  Graus Claude finished the second half of his sandwich and dabbed at his lips with a folded napkin. “Fortunately, that is a particular arena in which I excel.”

  Ink paused. “Unfortunately, you cannot come with us,” he said, taking Joy’s hand. “We demand entrance to the Bailiwick of the Twixt.”

  * * *

  They descended into the Bailiwick, Joy’s stomach clenched as tight as Ink’s hand in hers.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asked.

  “No.”

  Joy stopped on the stone steps. “What?” She hadn’t wanted to come back down here, back into the pocket universe embedded in Graus Claude—not until they were ready, not until the chaos on both sides of the world had died down. She’d half expected there to be an army waiting for them under the Bailiwick’s tongue. Had it only been a day since they’d fled?

  Ink tugged her forward. “Come,” he said gently. “We bring the courier of the Twixt—they are waiting for us. It would be impolite to tarry.” He tried to project a smile through the dark, crossing the median where the light from the kitchen faded to black and the artificial sunlight had not yet leaked up from the base of the stairs. “There were once a great many things I felt with certainty that I now know was merely blind obedience, programmed loyalty, empty thoughts that were barely my own. I have grown to question much of what once I considered true, which left me with very few things I would consider ‘certain.’” He squeezed her fingers as they approached the bottom of the stair. “But I am certain that I love you and therefore it is imperative to bring the King and Queen back, not just for the Folk, but also for you.”

  Joy loved him so much, heart or no heart. It filled her completely. “Thank you.”

  Ink stepped into the clearing, boot heel crunching on the grass. “You do not have cause to thank me yet,” he said. It seemed strange to hear him quote his employer while they were traveling down the giant frog’s throat.

  The clearing was as they’d left it, the small copse of woods, the trickling stream, the muted play of light and dappled shadows, the meadow of wildflowers and tall waving grass. Every inch of it, every detail, had been created by the forgotten princess while she’d been trapped inside this pocket between worlds. Joy tried not to step on anything, hyperaware that the princess, as a Maker, had written this world into being just as her parents, the King and Queen, had spoken the rules that created the Twixt. Joy prayed if they could make the rules, they could break them as well, or at least rewrite the ones responsible for her change.

  She was counting on it.

  Joy squinted at the hazy horizon whose edges seemed to blur, the images of the forest and field tucking under themselves like bedsheets. “Is the door still open?”

  Ink searched the sky, an optical illusion that was no space at all. “The fact that the army hasn’t moved to occupy the Bailiwick could be considered a good sign,” he said. “It means that the King and Queen have not decided to declare war on the humans and have chosen to remain within the confines of Faeland for now.”

  “Is that what they’ve been doing all this time?” Joy asked with a hitch in her voice. “Just waiting to attack?”

  Ink walked into the meadow. The grasses parted before him. “I imagine after a long time passed without word from the Council, the King and Queen might have concluded that the Twixt had fallen, the remaining Folk besieged or enslaved by humans. Once the last member of the Council died, the door between worlds would open, allowing those in Faeland to avenge their kith and kin. They swore an oath of vengeance should that ever happen,” Ink said, walking unerringly toward the hole in the sky. “It is quite possible that they have been waiting to strike first and fast for hundreds of years.”

  “So maybe they didn’t mean what they said?” Joy said hopefully. “That no one is really a Destroyer of Worlds? They saw a human—or what they thought was a human—and jumped to the wrong conclusion?” Then Graus Claude might be mistaken and there was no need to worry about Elementals or being hunted down by Folk...or anything.

  “Perhaps,” he said. Although the way he said it did not make it sound all that likely.

  Ink raised his straight razor, drawing a series of lines that glowed in the air like sparklers, cutting through his mother’s illusion of what looked like earth and grass and sky. In the distance, a circle flared. Joy’s breath caught. There it is.

  Neither spoke as they stepped forward, the scenery sliding beneath their feet like a zoom lens. A crackling glow sketched the edges of the unlocked door into Faeland, behind which an army awaited along with hundreds if not thousands of Folk itching to come home. Joy shifted nervously, her feet crunching on the illusion of roots.

  Standing on the precipice, Joy didn’t know what she wanted, what she hoped for, what she was doing here; she knew only that she did not want to go in. For the first time, she felt that returning to Folk Paradise might be very, very wrong; something she should never do. It was a new sensation, a new word for her: sacrilege.

  Ink stepped onto the edge of the doorway, the fractal light playing off the shiny, black leather of his boots. He pressed her hand close to his side. “We will remain on this side of the doorway,” he said. “There will be no cause for you to fear.”

  Joy stared at the portal, which flared like a solar eclipse. “What if the King calls me again?” She knew in her bones that she’d have to obey.

  “I will be here,” Ink said, squeezing her hand and turning to face the light. “I will be very, very here.”

  Joy took a deep breath. “Okay,” she said, and gently opened the door to Folk Heaven.

  ELEVEN

  ARMED GUARDS STOOD on the threshold, stern-faced and solid. Joy jerked back but Ink held her hand firm, and so she remained where she stood, dwarfed by two towering soldiers haloed in a corona of alien sunlight.

  “We wish to parlay with the King and Queen,” Ink said with a confidence Joy envied. The sound of it sliced through the air, crisp and clear.

  The guards did not move or acknowledge their presence. Their armor did not so much as creak. Joy had a very close-up view of the elaborate breastplates and polished helms, the ornate clasps and jeweled hilts. She could smell the scents of summer and spring—pollen-thick with honeycomb and berries from the one on her right and more delicate scents of buttercups and eggshells from the elf on her left. Their eyes were multifaceted and sparkled darkly. Joy tried not to look like a Destroyer of Worlds.

  The guards parted, swinging open like saloon doors, and a centaur—armored from neck to tail—glowered at them as he crested the hill. This was unmistakably their general. He stopped, the breeze teasing the grass underfoot and the stiff hairs on his head that trailed down his spine. He glared at them as tiny will-o’-the-wisps danced around his mane. Something about him reminded Joy of the eldest satyr in the Glen.

  “Stay where you are,” he said. “In accordance with the rules of parlay, you may speak your piece and they will hear you.” He gestured to the bivouac camp where the royal family had gathered once again on
that familiar stretch of land on the hill. The King and Queen sat in the two tall thrones flanked by attendants and banners and nine young women wearing matching gowns. Joy knew that the princess, Ink’s Maker—his mother—was among them, but it was impossible to make out which of the King and Queen’s daughters was her. The centaur’s voice was a command, accustomed to being followed without question. “Any false word or move will be your last.”

  Joy didn’t doubt it for an instant.

  Onlookers gathered on either side of the rolling hills, creating a long, open aisle from the royal family to the door. Armored soldiers lined the perimeter like a police brigade, a living wall between Ink and Joy and Faeland’s civilians, many of whom craned their necks, lifting small ones above their heads, trying to get a better view. The crowd was a calliope of feathers and furs, wings and horns, claws and paws and snouts, as all eyes stared—their faces hopeful, fearful, earnest—the lost look of refugees imploring for home.

  Joy faltered under their collective gaze. Something about them nagged at her, but she couldn’t place why. She kept her attention face-forward so as not to appear rude. She doubted the King and Queen tolerated rudeness any better than the Bailiwick did. Graus Claude’s advice whispered to her, Etiquette and decorum.

  “We have returned as couriers of the Council to welcome your Imminent Return and to apologize for how long it has been,” Joy said, using as many Folk terms as she could think of. “The Twixt has suffered under a terrible curse that stripped them of the memory of your exile and the door inside the Bailiwick. We have come to tell you—” Joy gagged. She couldn’t say it. She didn’t believe that it was safe to return. She panicked, words tripping off her tongue “—to welcome you to take your place once again as rulers of the Folk.”

  There was a murmur among the crowd like a rustling forest.

  “You are not our courier,” the Queen said. “Where is she?”