Invincible

by Dawn Metcalf

“The last courier died,” Ink said with a diplomatic bow. Joy marveled how that was both true and not. “We come to you as representatives of the Bailiwick.”

  “Who now bears Ironshod’s title?” asked the King, surprised.

  “Graus Claude,” Joy said. “He is the current Bailiwick of the Twixt.”

  The King and Queen exchanged the barest nod. “You speak true.”

  “Then the Council’s proposal was successful?” the King asked. “Our True Names are protected by sworn sigils?”

  Ink bowed again. “Indeed. I am one of the Scribes crafted by the hands of one of your own,” he said. “My sister and I were created to inscribe the True Names, the signaturae of the Folk, upon those humans and places that fall under their auspice, preserving the magic and safeguarding them from harm, thus securing our world in safety as well as upholding the honor of the Twixt.” Ink’s words slowed a fraction as he watched the monarchs, but those who did not know him might have missed it. The hairs on Joy’s arms prickled. “We have kept the magic alive, as per your Decree.”

  There was a short, calculated pause. “What of the Council?” asked the King. “Those left to rule in our stead?”

  “The Council still stands,” Joy said. “Some of the faces may have changed, but those who serve await your Return.”

  There was more than a murmur now, a rising hubbub through the crowds, the collective mutterings of an entire nation of exiles, looking to their leaders for hope. Joy could just imagine them talking among themselves, wondering whether their long wait was over and that today might be the day when they finally Returned.

  Ink dared not move his hands, but he gestured with a slight rise of his chin. “Cross the Bailiwick, Your Majesties. Come and lead your people.”

  The King and Queen rose, formal and foreboding. Their long hair lifted behind them like unfurled wings.

  “No,” the Queen said simply.

  The King continued without pause. “We shall not return until we are assured that the world is safe for our people,” he said with a look directed straight at Joy. “What assurance is there that we may have safe passage through the Bailiwick into the wider world and that, once returned, the Folk may live in peace?”

  Joy glanced at Ink. What could they say? There was no such assurance. And with Aniseed, the original courier and traitor to their throne currently reborn as a graftling clone, Joy doubted she could reassure them without gagging on the truth. But the system of signaturae was in place and the Folk were dwindling without their monarchs and kin. Shouldn’t that be enough? Ink’s lips creased in a thin, tight line. One of the young ladies whispered into her mother’s ear. That must be the princess.

  The Queen raised a single palm, a gesture that reminded Joy of Inq.

  “We charge you with this, couriers of the Twixt—bring us proof that it is safe to return. Prove to us that the humans will not abuse our favor and that we may live among one another as we did in ages of old. Show us that magic is still our purview and that our bonds remain unbroken.” The Queen’s words settled like a blanket over the crowd. “These are your tasks, Scribe and Sundered. If you succeed in this, then we shall Return and reunite the world as one.”

  The vague musings and mutterings changed to a chorus of approval, everyone marveling at her wisdom. Joy watched the subtle ripple course through the gathered crowd. Of course, who would side against their King and Queen? Joy felt herself uncomfortably siding with Aniseed against their forced loyalty. What was it like to live without choices? To blindly follow and put faith in whatever they said? And now these monarchs had given her an impossible task—to prove the world was safe or else there’d be no Return. Joy felt hope dying like a burned matchstick.

  The King called to Ink. “To you, my daughter’s creation, I charge you with our safe passage.” His galactic gaze turned to Joy. “And to you, the foretold Destroyer of Worlds, I charge you with devastation.”

  Ink stiffened. Joy paled.

  “Go,” the King and Queen said in unison, and the door slammed shut.

  Joy let out a shaky breath as feeling tingled back into her fingers and toes.

  Ink blinked at the door. His voice was matter-of-fact.

  “That went well.”

  * * *

  “That did not go as well as I’d hoped,” Graus Claude admitted.

  Joy paced the den, arms crossed. “You think?”

  “Impertinence does not suit you, Miss Malone,” the Bailiwick reprimanded her gently. Ink glanced at her sideways. Respect him. Always.

  “Sorry,” Joy mumbled, taking a seat. “But I don’t see how we’re going to coax them out if it’s contingent on some sort of proof that it’s safe to come back.” She gestured around the kitchen that had been an illusion for one of Aniseed’s traps, including a blood-soaked coffee cake and monsters in the dark. “How can anyone prove that the world is safe? Nothing’s safe! Life isn’t safe!” The truth was that even when you thought everything was fine, life had a way of ripping the rug out from under you. She’d learned that all too well after the Year of Hell when Mom moved to Los Angeles with her boyfriend, Doug, leaving Joy and Dad to pick up the shattered pieces of their lives. Now, post trauma and past depression, Joy had figured out life was many things—surprising, scary and wonderful—but rarely was it safe.

  Filly nodded curtly. “Well said! Safety is for buckles and pins.” She licked the blue spot beneath her lower lip and took another bite out of her peeled apple. “Which makes me wonder why your wizardling brother isn’t in here clucking over you like a mother hen.”

  Joy and Ink had found the Valkyrie banished to the main rooms, listening to music through earbuds and attempting to turn on the TV. Graus Claude had reanimated and downed several more glasses of water. His eyelids sank to a half-mast glaze. “Prudence forbears me from mentioning specifics, but I believe we can safely assume he is abed,” he said mildly. “If there is any mercy left in the world, he and the satyr lad are sleeping. It has no doubt been an exhausting affair, thumbing their noses at authority and adventure. Let them rest.”

  Joy rubbed her eyes, which had become bleary and unfocused, painting everything in watercolor wash. The very mention of sleep made her head spin, and her proximity to the kitchen made her stomach grumble.

  “I need to eat something. It’s been...” Hours? Days? Slicing through time messed with her internal clock. She didn’t even bother excusing herself as she plodded toward the fridge. Hunger made her grumpy. She couldn’t afford to be grumpy.

  “Well, you’re hungry—that is a good sign,” said Graus Claude.

  Joy paused with a handful of green grapes. “Why?”

  The Bailiwick pushed himself out of the couch. “Because Earth Elementals gather sustenance from the ground. Eating and drinking are an autonomic system—food and water are leeched from nutrients in the soil. Elementals feel no hunger as they can ingest and expel while moving or at rest, making them formidable, tireless foes. Therefore, the fact that you feel hungry and tired means that you are still more human than not.”

  Joy swallowed the sour juice on her tongue. “Lovely.”

  “Do not fret,” he said. “Once I am back within my offices, I will endeavor to construct a worthwhile argument for you to deliver to the King and Queen.” He sniffed. “Pity that I cannot join you, as my role seems to be limited to that of a convenient conveyance, but I have the utmost confidence in your ability to be both capable and prudent.” He arched one side of his browridge. “Don’t tempt me to doubt my veracity.” Joy stuffed a slice of cheese into her mouth and shook her head. “Indeed. Fortunate, then, that it is my time to depart as I have arranged to meet the Bentley at the appointed hour.” He cast a baleful look at Stef’s closed door. “I believe that I have overstayed my welcome and must confess that I am eager to be elsewhere. Not that I have not appreciated the accommodations, Miss Malone, a
nd for that I thank you, but I have duties that require alternate arrangements—” he plucked at his sheet with distaste “—which include sufficient clothing and assorted amenities.” He winced at his chipped manicure and hid the offending hand in a fold of his improvised toga. “I will dispose of these drapes at such time and will make due compensation.” He breezed past Joy’s fledgling protest and turned to the blond warrior leaning against the couch. She removed the earbuds with a yank of the cord. “Would you be so good as to escort me to my rendezvous point? It would be remiss of me to take my leave without taking the necessary precautions to see it through. I do pride myself on keeping my person as well as my personal integrity intact.” He straightened the sheet unnecessarily as he regarded Joy and Ink. “Do see that you are like-minded, with yourselves and one another. Our side can ill afford further fracture.” His icy gaze swept over them both. “See to it.”

  “Yes, Bailiwick,” they chorused.

  “Very well,” he said. “Then I shall bid you good day. I will contact you when appropriate.” The Valkyrie fell into step beside the Bailiwick and began checking the front door with a warrior’s expertise. The great amphibian paused on the lip of tile between the kitchen and the door. He turned back to Joy, his wide face a mask of solemn humility. “I must thank you again for your part in these affairs—for bringing me my truth, honoring my word and then breaking it in order to serve the greater good to free our people, reuniting the Folk at last,” he said. “I have considered you a student, a collaborator and friend, and in all ways you have far exceeded my expectations. It has been an honor and pleasure assisting your efforts and I will do everything in my power to be worthy of your association.” He bowed a fraction. “Until next we meet, Miss Malone.”

  Joy was speechless, the taste of air drying on her tongue as the Bailiwick swept majestically out the door.

  TWELVE

  JOY STOOD IN HER kitchen as the front door closed behind Filly and Graus Claude with a final click. She frowned at Ink.

  “So...what are we supposed to do now?”

  Ink tested the edge of his blade on his thumb. “We are supposed to wait here until we receive word from the Bailiwick,” he said mildly. “He will come up with a solution of proof, which we can present to the King and Queen, convincing them to allow the Folk to Return. Then our obligations will be over, the Folk will be free, you will have your boon and we shall all live happily ever after.”

  Joy couldn’t help smiling. “Is that what you think is going to happen?”

  Ink tucked the blade back into his trifold wallet. “I think that is what is supposed to happen,” he said with a grin. “But there are those who may have other ideas.”

  The house phone rang. Joy jolted, half expecting Filly to reappear in a chime of bells. She jogged into the kitchen and snagged the receiver, not even checking the caller ID.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “It’s me,” said Dad. “Look, I’m going to be working late tonight and I thought I’d stay over at Shelley’s.”

  Joy blinked. She’d almost forgotten about Dad. “Oh. Um. Okay.”

  Ink glanced at her across the counter and smiled.

  There was a slight pause, as if her father didn’t know what to say—the rehearsed part of their conversation exhausted, he’d come to a complete standstill. “I didn’t want to ditch you for a second night in a row,” he said. “I know how you hate being left alone in the house and I didn’t want you worrying or thinking I didn’t care...”

  “No no no. It’s fine. I’m fine!” Joy said a little too loudly. Left alone with Ink? That was probably the best news she’d heard all day. “No problem, Dad. Really. I’ll just be home—” she wandered next to Ink and slid a hand down his arm “—keeping myself occupied.” Ink smiled wider. “But thanks for calling.” Ink cupped her hips in his hands, placing a kiss at the spot above her clavicle, and she shivered at the sudden tingle. She felt his breath on her skin, smelling of spring rain. “Have fun,” she said weakly as Ink kissed the side of her neck.

  “You, too, honey. See you tomorrow. Good night.”

  “G’night,” she murmured and hung up as Ink’s lips closed over hers.

  * * *

  She dropped the phone on the counter and raked her fingers through his hair, pulling his face closer so that she could taste his mouth on hers. This wasn’t a kiss—just a kiss—it was more. Much more. This moment was their moment, and it felt like they had been waiting a lifetime for it to arrive.

  She made a small sound in the back of her throat as he gripped the pockets of her shorts. He answered with something deep in his chest, pressing closer as if they could meld through their clothes. She slid her hands down his back, running her fingers over familiar muscles and runnels, bones, hair and skin, the canvas where they’d carved one another’s marks, craved one another’s touch. She could feel spicy tingles straining under her skin. Her nerves were on fire. She burned for him.

  A tiny voice nagged in the back of her brain. It had a name: Stef.

  “My brother’s home,” she whispered into his mouth. He didn’t need to breathe between kisses, his words slipped into the spaces between her tongue and teeth.

  “He’s sleeping,” Ink said.

  Joy moaned. “It’s too risky.”

  “Some risks are worth taking.”

  She smiled, pulling him closer. True.

  Joy dragged him past the counter, down the hall, into her room and shut the door. It happened so fast, she surprised herself. She was being pushy, impatient, wanting this, wanting him—embarrassment was an ember flash and then it was gone, because Ink was in her arms and they were kissing again, somewhat slower this time; a lovely dance of lips and limbs, shedding clothing and crawling across her bed, supine in the dark. They tumbled into blankets, folding over and under them like a sea of soft caresses, touching cool fingers where their skin burned on their shoulders, their backs, their arms, their legs. Their bodies slid closer, her bra strap fell off one shoulder, her knee twined tight behind his as they touched—belly button, singular, belly buttons, plural. Such a simple, precious thing shared by two not-quite-humans, perfect as puzzle pieces fitting together.

  “Wait,” Ink’s whisper sliced low. Joy wound her hands through his hair.

  “Don’t you dare,” she said, her lips kiss-swollen and buzzing. “You stay right here.”

  He laughed then, both dimples. “I am not going anywhere,” he said, reaching out into space and clicking on her lamp. She squinted at the sudden colors, the soft bedtime glow etching the outline of his body in white gold. He was shirtless—how did that happen?—his chest rising and falling, his pulse jumping at his throat, his smile laid bare. He reached out a hand and touched her face, warm and heady with a thin dew of sweat. His thumb traced her jawline, trailing fingers down her throat. Her senses rose to meet him. His fathomless eyes drowned in hers.

  I love him. She floated in the thought. I love Ink.

  “I want to see you,” he said. “I want to see you see me. I want this to be ours, together.” His palm stroked her body, memorizing her by touch alone, his gaze simply tagging along for the ride. “Whatever happens, whatever is next, I want to be with you.” She watched him watching her, watching him. He tilted his head to the side, his long bangs drifting over his eyes and the side of his nose. “I am here with you, Joy,” he said softly. “I am very, very here.”

  * * *

  There was a moment when Ink stopped, his arms locked at the elbows, apologetic panic in his voice.

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  It was a quiet confession, open and bare. Joy touched the side of his face and whispered, “It’s okay.”

  And it was.

  * * *

  There was a moment when Joy pushed back.

  “Wait,” she said breathlessly. “Wait.”

/>   Ink stilled, eyes drowsy, lips swollen. He blinked as if under a spell. She snagged her purse from the floor and removed the scalpel. Ink watched with growing concern.

  “Joy—?”

  She sliced a thin line below her belly, breaking the sigil drawn there. The circular glyph of warding flared once and disappeared.

  Ink’s eyes asked a question. Joy’s kiss answered it.

  * * *

  Joy lay against her pillow, tired and replete. Her head rested against Ink’s shoulder, her leg slung across his knee. His hand lay against her thigh, the other twined in her hair, still as a hovering breath. He blinked. She felt it like a butterfly’s wing against the inside of her wrist. She felt the motes of dust in the air like kisses. Everything felt drowsy and woozy and warm.

  “What is it?” Joy whispered.

  “You didn’t,” he said simply.

  She snuggled closer. “Didn’t what?”

  “Didn’t squeak.” Joy sat up and looked at him. He sounded boyish, confused. “The Cabana Boys said if you were happy, you’d squeak.”

  Joy laughed out loud, tugging the blankets over them both. He smiled, both dimples. She rubbed the spot over his heart. Resting her ear there, she could hear its rhythmic thump-thump, thump-thump. She closed her eyes and patted his chest.

  “Maybe next time.”

  * * *

  Joy woke to small noises: shuffling feet and clinking plates. Ink lay next to her—not sleeping, but pleasantly, comfortably still. His eyes opened as her gaze fell on him. His smile spread like sunshine across his lips—inviting her to kiss.

  But she had to pee and brush her teeth.

  Joy lay against the pillows trying to stave off the inevitable, staring into his eyes, yet the sounds from the kitchen made her wonder, was Dmitri still there? Was Stef awake? Was he waiting for Joy to come out of her room? Which one of them was going to acknowledge the other first? It was an unspoken dare, a contest of brotherly/sisterly wills. Joy didn’t want to get up, didn’t want to give in. Ink was smooth and beautiful and warm and here.