Invincible

by Dawn Metcalf

  Joy blinked, unbelieving. Her breath chugged in her chest, coughing through puffs of dust. “Is—is he dead?”

  Ink staggered on unsteady legs, pale as a shadow, eyes flat. “He is dead.”

  “Aha!” Aniseed cackled with mad relief. The light from the Bailiwick etched her face in stark shadow. “I win!”

  Kurt’s head lolled sideways. His body flickered. His mouth moved.

  “Not exactly,” he said.

  The glamour died, revealing Filly laughing, coughing blood across her cheek.

  “Victory!” she said and spat at the witch.

  Kurt stepped out of the Bailiwick, hale and hearty, both swords held high as he broke into a run, racing purposefully, joyously, malevolently toward his fate. Aniseed lunged back, her mouth a snarl of horror. Joy let go, the stone slabs of the dryad’s prison parted, falling, as Kurt ran through the breach, undaunted, slashing both swords in unison and plunging them deep into her back. It was the crack of an ax. A clap of thunder. With a guttural scream, he wrenched them lengthwise, scissors slicing, severing her spine.

  The great tree witch toppled, broken, slapping heavily against the ground. Joy felt the impact through the soil and in the roots of her teeth. Aniseed’s body crumpled in stages, her broken limbs shuddering death whispers, her blood slowly soaking into the grass—to Joy, it tasted like honey. Disgusted, Joy withdrew from Earth...and what remained behind was human. Part-human. Part-Twixt. Part-Earth. Me.

  Joy’s stony carapace crumbled, flaking off great scabs of dirt. Ink appeared beside her, holding her, helping her out, running his fingers over her hair and face and arms and back, convincing himself that she was whole. Joy leaned on his forearm and managed a smile.

  “I am here,” she said with shaky breaths. “I am very, very here.”

  Aniseed’s fading gaze slid over them as if slipping off a far horizon. Her mahogany lips creaked as she spoke her last.

  “How?” she whispered.

  Ink glared down at her, stone-faced. “I lied.”

  Her eyes rolled slowly in their sockets, a one-quarter turn. The air seemed to leave her lungs as she sagged against the ground, her torso collapsing, sprouting moss and mushrooms that bloomed and blackened, withered and died, as her body dissolved, emptying, joining the earth from which all things come and go and come again—but this time, in this life, it was Aniseed’s final Return.

  “Wait,” Joy mumbled, wetting her lips and staring at Ink. “What did you say?”

  Ink brushed her shoulders, lingering a moment on Grimson’s mark. “I lied,” he said. “Remember, I was made, not born. So, technically, I am not one of the Folk, and therefore I am not bound by their rules. It is what the princess intended and the Folk required—that Inq and I would be loyal and yet have the freedom to choose to whom we give our loyalty.”

  Joy gaped at him. The words took longer than they should have to come out. “You lied?”

  He nodded. “Often.”

  “But...you said you never lied.”

  He cocked his head, smiling. One dimple. “Also a lie.”

  Joy stepped closer. He caught her arm as she swayed. “Have you lied to me?”

  “Not intentionally,” he said, black eyes demure behind long lashes. Two dimples.

  “Liar,” she said, and kissed him.

  THIRTY

  THE HONEYED LIGHT from the Bailiwick swelled and burst into golden radiance as the King and Queen emerged and everyone dropped to their knees. Joy knelt, head bent, because she chose to—not because she had to—she was not Folk, she was a part-human changeling, and she was mourning what it was to be mortal.

  Their entrance preceded a sudden flood of Folk; soldiers and courtiers and wide-eyed children walked disbelievingly onto the grassy field, squinting up at their long-lost sun. Their awed murmurs transformed into screams of joy, a clamor of names as the Twixt raised their eyes.

  “Mama!” A tiny antlered girl ran toward the line of flame.

  “Drop the ward,” the King commanded. “We are not separate any longer.”

  Ink obeyed, slicing through the ouroboros, which collapsed in a shower of sparks as the crowd of Folk converged in a laughing, crying, hugging, keening, jumping, flying, barking, cawing, roaring, singing, breathing, glorious mass of family, kith and kin.

  The Council bowed before their monarchs, begging forgiveness and offering fealty; many of the Folk lay prostrate as others kissed the hems of their gowns, crying grateful tears. Children yelped and laughed and cried and squealed the way that only small children do, and Joy searched the crowd for a certain sapphire nixie she’d know upon Sight.

  Strange music radiated in every direction, like Inq’s ripples through the world. Wherever it touched, the world looked brighter, fuller, more saturated with color and light.

  Something was changing and everything had changed.

  The Folk crowded Abbot’s Field. Ink held her arm. Joy hung on to him, looking for her brother and Dmitri, Inq and the Cabana Boys—she needed to know who was safe and alive. Ink’s hand was on her back, steadying her against the warring tides of hope and sadness, relief and dread, knowing and not. She didn’t know what to feel until she could see them all again. Joy turned, trying to find their faces in the crowd, when the Queen appeared suddenly within a hand’s breadth.

  “Release him,” she commanded, pointing at Graus Claude.

  “I formally withdraw from the Bailiwick,” Joy said, tripping over the words. His features began to color, his mouth retracting, shrinking, as bloody patches bloomed over his skin. Aniseed’s wooden talons had broken off during the change—but what would happen when he started breathing, bleeding? How much time had Joy stolen? Had it been enough?

  But as his eyes changed from white to ice blue, the Bailiwick stretched languorously, all traces of wounds and damage gone. Joy would have run and hugged him if not for their formal audience and the grisly state of his armor. Etiquette and decorum.

  Graus Claude tugged his bloodied armor and bowed before his Queen.

  “Your Majesty,” he rumbled. “I humbly beg your forgiveness for my lapses, for my failure to act, for my weakness and willful ignorance that brought us to this brink, but I would have you know that I remained loyal and in your devoted service in the hopes of realizing this glorious day.”

  “Nonsense,” the Queen said. “You are our chosen vessel and the best of all those maintaining the Twixt in our stead. Ironshod could not have chosen wiser. He always spoke highly of you and with the utmost respect. You honor us with your loyalty and the love you’ve shown our people.” She turned her terrible, beautiful face to Joy with the barest hint of a smile. “You have done well by us, courier, although your predecessor had little to offer as praise. Yet you fulfilled your role admirably, Joy Malone.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “And thus, you are absolved of any wrongdoings concerning the oak.” Joy swallowed audibly as Graus Claude shot her an icy glare.

  “Was that your proof?” Joy blurted. Graus Claude coughed with a scandalized scowl. “Your Majesty?”

  The Queen did not deign to acknowledge the lapse. “Our proof was this.” She gestured to Monica. “We witnessed a human willingly and knowingly decline to claim ownership over one of the Folk, bequeathing onto him his own freedom, his own life, rather than abusing that power to save herself.” She fanned her fingers as if caressing Monica’s cheek through the air between them. “To you, who granted us our safe Return, you have our et
ernal gratitude.”

  Monica blinked as the Queen herself inclined her chin and everyone around them, including Joy, bowed before Monica—the most powerful human in the world—the girl who saved the world simply by being human.

  Satisfied, the Queen withdrew. The crowds stood. Monica swooned on her feet.

  “Miss Reid.” The Bailiwick addressed her formally with every ounce of dignity. “To you I must also offer my humblest apologies,” he said, bowing again. “May I extend our gratitude to you, as members of the Council of the Twixt, as well as my own, personal, appreciation that you are a person of wisdom, integrity, honor, compassion and enlightenment.” He glanced up at Joy from beneath his postorbital ridge. “Best take notes, Miss Malone.”

  He took a hand from each of them and pressed a sincere kiss across their knuckles in turn. He hung on to Joy’s a moment longer, covering her hand with his own.

  “Thank you,” said Monica. “And may I suggest you do likewise.”

  The Bailiwick stiffened. Joy felt a sick stab in her gut. The icy blue eyes blinked once.

  “Pardon?”

  “You said how much you appreciate my granting you your freedom,” she said. “How about paying it forward?” Monica turned pointedly to look at Kurt, who stood with Inq and the remaining Cabana Boys in a quiet huddle. Joy had told her Kurt’s story, but Monica, being Monica, pushed it one step further. “I’m certain your King and Queen would approve.”

  Graus Claude’s stillness cracked along the edges. All four hands twitched. Even freed, he could deny her nothing—she’d just been honored by royalty.

  “Indeed,” he croaked. “You are quite correct.” The Bailiwick placed his hands across his belly and, with a double-slashing motion, crossed an X through where his signatura burned. Across the field, Kurt jerked—a hand pressed hard against his abs—and his eyes cut to his master, who was his master no more. Graus Claude gestured, a soldier’s salute, and Kurt returned it, placing a hand on Inq’s shoulder.

  “There, now, doesn’t that feel better?” Monica said with a self-satisfied smirk.

  Graus Claude grumbled, shifting his enormous feet. “You could have commanded me to do so before you released me.”

  “Yes, but then what would have been the point?” Monica said. “You have to have the choice to do what’s right—that’s the point.”

  The Bailiwick nodded and then took Joy by the arm, steering her quickly aside as if to forestall her getting any new ideas from her best friend.

  “I expect I will be seeing you again shortly,” he said, his authoritative tone returning. “Now that my theory about your change has proven out, we must invent an entirely new category of Folk and establish the proper protocols—if the Return is any evidence, the magic has already adjusted to suit and now our work can truly begin.”

  Ink slid into step alongside them. “And what theory is this?”

  “Why, that there was no possibility of Joy completing the transformation,” the Bailiwick said as if this were obvious, which it wasn’t. Not by a long shot. Joy stopped walking. Graus Claude raised a manicured claw. “Miss Malone foreswore all armor in exchange for accepting a True Name. Did I not explain that in order to become an Earth Elemental, you must be entirely subsumed within your element—in a cocoon, if you will—until the change can complete?” He spread his four arms wide. “Well, there you have it. Without ability to suit yourself in Earth’s embrace, no transformation is possible. Thus you are now as you always shall be—wholly and completely ‘incomplete’ until we all Return, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” He smiled knowingly. “I am afraid this condemns you to remain part-Twixt and part-human, after all.”

  Joy could have kissed him and did. As she pressed her lips against his jowly cheek, he blushed a brilliant emerald green. He smiled and patted her arm as she let go.

  “Now I know that you must have many questions and decisions to make concerning your upcoming future, but you are the first human-Elemental changeling we’ve identified since the purge and, as such, you are granted certain responsibilities that must be formally included within our governance in order for your status to be sanctioned.” He paused, considering. “I am thinking ‘ambassador’ has a fine ring to it. Ambassador to the Twixt. Of course, this will elevate the Scribes accordingly—given their ties to both the princess and yourself. Mistress Inq, in particular, should be quite pleased with that!” The Bailiwick draped an arm casually over Joy’s shoulders. “Have you ever considered majoring in Political Science?” His eyes fairly glinted with imagined opportunities. “Yes, Miss Malone. We have much to do!”

  “As do we all, good sir Bailiwick,” Ink said, gesturing toward Bùxiŭ de Zhēnzhū, a dragon no longer, and his Council of loyalists speaking to the King.

  “Ah yes,” Graus Claude said, straightening his spine to his impressive height. “I must go present myself formally to my colleagues on the Council.” His grin was full of shark teeth. His pink tongue flicked with a snap. “I shall deeply relish watching them squirm.”

  And with that, the hunchbacked Councilex lumbered resolutely toward the gathering Courts. Ink and Joy exchanged a glance at the pomp in his step.

  “Will you look at the Frog Prince strut,” Monica muttered over Joy’s shoulder.

  “Monica!” Joy grabbed her best friend, squeezing her in her arms. “Oh my God! You did it!” she crowed. “You are the best! You’re amazing! You saved the world!”

  Monica laughed. “I did! You did! We so totally did!”

  They clung to each other, laughing with effervescent glee. This was it—what Joy had always wanted, but never hoped could happen—friends, family, kindness, forgiveness, happy endings, new beginnings, all together. This!

  “Joy!”

  Stef pushed past a knot of sasquatch and grabbed her bodily, smashing her against his chest.

  “Stef!” she cried, her eyes tearing.

  “Oh my God,” he whispered, squeezing her tight. “You did it, Joy! I knew you could!”

  Burly arms wrapped around them both, knocking them sideways. Curly horns butted against her head.

  “Hey,” Dmitri said, scratching his beard against her cheek. “Did I hear something about someone saving the world?”

  “Not me—it was Monica,” Joy said, pointing at Monica, who joined the group hug. Joy felt Ink’s arms come around her and he tucked his chin on her shoulder.

  “You deserve some credit,” he said.

  She wrapped her arm around him. “I’m just happy to be me!”

  As they turned in their huddle, Joy spied Sol Leander staring at them over a young lady’s sparkling shoulder. She might have imagined his nod, but she did not imagine the kiss he pressed against the maiden’s starlight hair. He held her tenderly as they walked off together, exposing the snow-haired figure standing behind him.

  Joy shouted, “Avery!”

  He turned, stumbling slightly under his thick cloak of feathers. Even wounded, he looked happy. He kept glancing around at all the Folk dancing and laughing, kissing and clasping hands, embracing one another lovingly in their wings. The courtier smiled, looking lighter despite the heavy weight on his shoulders.

  “Well met, Joy Malone,” he said. “And an honor, Miss Reid.”

  Joy asked, “Do you have family here?”

  “No. All my family were human,” Avery said. “They died long ago.” He didn’t sound sad when he said it. It must have been years, decades, centuries. “Sometimes, when we find ourselves alone
, we will cling to any kindness.” It was almost a story—betrayed by family, joining the Tide, condemnation, redemption—it showed on his face. “Do you see now why I wanted to save you?”

  It seemed too public a place, too private a question, too unsaid a secret, especially with Ink standing by.

  Because you love me? she guessed. Instead she said, “No.”

  Avery gave a rueful smile, a gentle chiding as if he’d heard her thoughts. So human. “Because of what you represent,” he said. “That magic chooses justly, that right will win out, that we can be kind as well as cruel and that there are no mistakes.” His wing shifted, curled protectively against his side. “And that if you belong, well, then, so do I.”

  “Avery,” Joy said. “I know it’s a curse, but you’ve given me your signatura—if you want, I can negate the spell by erasing its mark on you.” She glanced at Ink and her brother. “But it may mark you as one of mine.”

  “Really?” Avery said. “Have you discovered your auspice?”

  She nodded. “I can erase the mistakes of the past.”

  Avery blinked, and a flush of pink rose to his cheeks. “Well,” he said. “That is something to consider. And I will consider it most seriously.” He bowed to each of them, pressing a bandaged hand to his heart as he left. “Many thanks to all of you and very well met.”

  “Hey, Cabana Girl,” Luiz whispered timidly behind her, and then Joy was in his arms, holding him, grateful and sorry and mournful and alive. It felt like Enrique’s funeral all over again, and she knew that Ilhami and Raina were dead without even having to ask. Her eyes filled with tears as she squeezed him harder. Knowing wasn’t better than not knowing for sure.

  “Inq?” she said.

  “She’s mourning,” Luiz said past her ear. “But we’ll light fires and have a party and paint ourselves gold.”