Insidious

by Dawn Metcalf

  “I have been carrying this secret around like a poison snowflake on my tongue, trying to quietly discover whoever led the coup, disguising a long and arduous hunt in outrageous antics and elaborate charades to keep the focus off of you and off of her and on me,” Inq sneered. “I’ve had to plot in the spotlight, deflecting suspicions and staying silent because I had to survive in order to be her eyes and ears.” She stabbed a finger at herself. “I am her only conduit to the world outside the Bailiwick, the only immortal keeper of the secret, and what have you been doing all this time?”

  Her voice shattered like mirrors reflecting Ink’s dumbfounded expression. Inq stabbed an accusatory finger at him as she stalked closer, eyes flaring like firestorms. “I have been waiting for the day when I could unburden half of this responsibility on to you—you who have flitted through the years like a child’s windup toy, leaving such matters as knowledge and politics and responsibility to the grown-ups while all along I’ve been waiting for you to grow up!” Her gaze sharpened like a knife. “But I couldn’t risk her faith in me, and I wouldn’t risk handing her fate over to you when you hadn’t yet learned to value your own life, let alone someone else’s.” She stopped inches from her brother, trembling in fury. “You cannot judge me!” she said. “If I kept her heart to myself, I deserved that love for all my hard work and sacrifice.” Inq’s lips quirked in a sneer. “Didn’t you ever wonder how I got to be the one to feel first? Did you ever ask me when I first felt love?” She splayed her sparkling fingers wider, fanning them like a magician’s trick. “It was her! It was always her. I learned to love and be loved ages ago, but you were always too blind to see it!” She cocked her head slyly to one side, spying Joy. “Until you found the Sight.”

  Joy shook her head, not wanting to be part of this. Inq turned back to Ink, patting him twice on the top of his head.

  “Well, Ink, welcome to the world!” she said. “It’s time to grow up now that you’re a Real Boy.”

  Ink stood still, a statue of marble smeared in oily blood—a Gothic angel without mercy. Joy could barely breathe.

  “I am sorry,” he said.

  Inq goggled at him, off balance and confused. “What?”

  “I am sorry,” he said again, pocketing his razor and slipping the wallet chain through his fingers. “You were correct—I did not understand. And I think you were also correct that I could not have understood,” he said slowly. “Until recently.” He glanced at his sister through shaded lashes, looking like a small boy and an old man all at once. “Now I do.”

  Inq took his hands, shaking the right free of the shining silver chain. She squeezed their arms together and rested her forehead against his. Both of their eyes slipped closed, and they stood still for a long moment. Joy watched Inq’s eyes flutter open as she whispered with paper-cut clarity, “We are not enemies, Ink, and I love you dearly.” She chucked his chin with her fist. “And together we can hunt down the traitor to the Twixt.”

  “He’s here,” Joy said, the words popping out of her mouth.

  Inq dropped Ink’s hands. “Who’s here?”

  Joy shook the dowsing rod in her hand. “The one who cast the spell of forgetting, the blanket spell over the Twixt,” she said. “We tracked it here.”

  “Here?” Inq stepped away, her words heavy with scorn. “No. You cannot be suggesting Graus Claude?” She almost laughed. Almost. “The toad doesn’t cast spells. He can’t even move while anyone is inside the Bailiwick.” Inq shook her head. “He conspired with me to keep her safe.”

  “Or conveniently out of the way,” Ink said.

  Joy rounded on Kurt. “Is anyone else here? In the gallery? The archives? The back suite? Anywhere?”

  “No,” Kurt said plainly.

  Inq’s voice rose to a dangerous pitch. “Then who else could it be?”

  “It could be you,” Ink said logically. “Or you.” He nodded at Kurt.

  Kurt shrugged. “It could be any one of us.”

  “No,” Ink said. “The rod tracked the spell here before we arrived. And it would have been cast long before either of you were born.”

  “I thought the coup happened shortly after the King and Queen left,” Joy said. “How long have you been alive, Kurt?”

  “Too long,” he said quietly and glanced at Inq, who looked stricken. “And yet not long enough,” he amended. She gave a tight smile.

  “I still don’t believe it,” Inq said. “It’s too sloppy to be Graus Claude.”

  “There was no one else in the office,” Ink said. “No one else in the building.”

  “The Folk are, at their core, true to their Names,” Kurt said, his voice as smooth as an oiled sword slipped into its sheath. “They are who they are, a fixed point of their auspice, and no amount of forgetting can erase that fact. They remain true to themselves because they have no other choice.” The muscles of his arms bulged at his sleeves. “Aniseed could not change who she was despite her many false fronts, and that is what made it possible to defeat her, exposing her by her True Name. The Red Knight may have had many incarnations, but all adopted the same base True Name in order to share the auspice of the unstoppable mercenary. Hasp remains chained to his crimes by his True Name, which is why he’d been seeking to alter it.” He glanced at Joy. “Your power over Briarhook is much the same, holding his heart in your hands.” Joy didn’t like the way he said it, as if that were something evil, something wrong. She pressed her purse against her stomach like a shield between them. “Therefore, I do not believe it could be the Bailiwick,” he said. “Who is many things, but nothing if not loyal to the Twixt.”

  Inq nodded. Ink hesitated, tense and uncertain.

  “What about inside the Bailiwick?” Joy asked. There was a long pause where no one said anything, unwilling to voice the next logical thought, but she had to ask. “What if it was her? What if she’s the traitor?”

  Ink and Inq were quick to pounce.

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “How could she—?”

  “Why would—?”

  “No,” Ink said with a swift, slicing hand. “I could invent a hundred theories, but the truth is that spells cannot penetrate into the Bailiwick, else she would have forgotten like the rest of them under the Amanya. The rod cannot trace anything or anyone beyond the confines of the Twixt,” he said to Joy. “The Bailiwick was designed to be the safe space between worlds, a place to hide the door until the Imminent Return.” His eyes hardened like marbles. “It cannot be her.”

  “I think we are pursuing the wrong question,” Kurt said. “What we should be asking is, who can cast an Amanya spell?”

  “My brother says that human magic and Folk magic aren’t the same thing—Folk work with glyph magic, not spell magic, unless they are druids or something, and a blanket spell like this one is dangerous. Even the Wizard Vinh’s son didn’t want to talk to me about it.”

  Inq cocked her head. “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not a wizard,” Joy said. “Or a witch or whatever. Mortals pass down their knowledge from generation to generation as a closely guarded secret that can be traced back through lineage. Each wizard has its trademark,” she said. “Like a True Name, that marks the spell as theirs. The Amanya’s like that. If we can find the originator of the spell, we can prove what happened. We can find the traitor and get answers.” She felt the weight of the collective stares on her. She felt weak and frayed thin. She hadn’t eaten in far too long. She felt dizzy, halfway between a headache and floating on air. What time is it? she wondered. What day is it? She took a deep breath through her nose and unwrapped her fingers from the purse strap.

  “So it’s a wizard,” Inq said. “Or a druid.”

  “Or a segulah,” Ink added.

  Kurt crossed his arms. “She’s dead.”

  In
q tossed her arms wildly. “Well, if it was a human or Aniseed, they would be long dead, and then the spell can never be broken!” She spun on her brother. “If we cannot break the spell, we cannot find the door. And without the traitor, we cannot force anyone to reveal its location, let alone open it.” Inq’s crystal-crisp voice was zinging. “If that option is closed to us, then there is only one option left—”

  “No!” Joy snapped. “No killing! Not if we can help it, remember?” She was sick of this. They were so close and Graus Claude was right downstairs. She could all but feel his icy blue gaze through the floorboards. “The dowsing rod can follow the spell to its source,” she said calmly in even-measured words, like counting out change. “We have to be absolutely sure.”

  “And what will you do when you find it?” Inq asked, deadly curious.

  “It depends,” Joy hedged.

  “You say this because Graus Claude is your friend,” Inq said. “Would you feel the same way if he’d plotted to kill your mother?”

  The idea so stunned her, Joy was unable to speak.

  “Give it to me,” Inq said, opening her hand for the rod. “I’ll do it.”

  “No,” Joy squeezed the dowsing rod. She’d paid a heavy price for it, and she was going to see this through. “It’s mine. I started this. I’ll do it.”

  “I will go with her,” Ink said, staring down Inq. “I know what must be done.” He said it with a dark weight, a challenge all but spoken. “We will find the source and regroup here.” Inq opened her mouth to protest, but he turned to Kurt. “You must stay here. If we fail, all hope of the King and Queen’s return will fall to you. This is your task even in defiance of your debt to the Bailiwick. Are we agreed?”

  Kurt’s lips tightened, but he nodded. “Agreed.”

  Joy took the rod and Ink’s hand with a certainty she didn’t feel.

  “If it’s Graus Claude, he’ll kill you,” Inq said. “He’ll have no choice.”

  Joy wanted to say He wouldn’t! as well as He didn’t do it! but since she didn’t know if either of these things were true, all she could say was “We’ll see.”

  Kurt, ever the butler, opened the elevator door, allowing Ink and Joy to step inside. He entered the conveyance himself to man the controls. Joy’s last look of Inq was of her deep, thoughtful scowl.

  “Good luck,” she said softly.

  Joy remembered Ink’s warning that one could never win against Graus Claude’s luck; he was Fortune’s favorite.

  The door closed, and they slid downward, the dowsing rod hanging loosely in her grip.

  The elevator opened into the sconce-lit hall. Ink stepped out first, razor in hand, while Joy held on tightly to the dowsing rod. It was slippery in her sweaty hands. She glanced back at Kurt, almost pleading. He spoke quietly under the hum of the lift.

  “Trust that they are who they are,” he said. “No spell can change that.”

  “I know,” she said.

  He nodded as the elevator door slipped closed.

  Joy and Ink exchanged glances before she pointed the Y-shaped stick down the hall and whispered over its crux, “Amanya.” The low bee buzzing drew her forward, down the hall, passing the old gilt mirrors and oil paintings with growing dread. The spell shivered up her bones, rippling along her insides, pulling her inexorably toward the office doors. Joy hoped that there was a secret visitor, an assassin behind the curtains or another hidden waiting room tucked behind the walls. Anyone—anything—could be the source of the spell, but doubt chewed inside her. She couldn’t help but wonder. What if it is Graus Claude? she thought. What then? Her steps slowed as she considered the letter opener in her purse. If Stef was right and the spell was like a wizard’s, did she trust that Mr. Vinh had placed the right spell on the blade? Had his son, Hai, given her the right name of the spell or merely the one to implicate the Bailiwick? Was she doing the right thing, or was she an instrument—like the Scribes—forged to do someone else’s bidding? Mr. Vinh made it no secret what he thought of the tien, and yet he coveted their power. Suspicion curdled like milk. Who did she trust? She glanced at Ink beside her. How many things hadn’t she told him? How could she claim to trust him when she hadn’t trusted him with her secrets?

  Twelve tears paid to Wizard Vinh. Three drops of blood for Ladybird. Filly’s pouch. Inq’s secret sigils. The Red Knight’s death.

  “Ink,” she whispered past the chattering hum in her teeth. “I have to tell you—”

  “You may as well enter,” Graus Claude’s booming voice came through the ironwood doors. “I can hear you there.”

  Joy swallowed her confession as well as a thick lump of fear. The Bailiwick’s deep bass rumble joined the tremor in her chest. Ink tucked the open blade into his back pocket but not into its wallet; he was keeping the weapon in easy reach. Her stomach lurched as he opened the doors.

  The Bailiwick sat at his desk, all evidence of his armaments gone. He looked slightly puzzled as he removed his gold-rimmed spectacles and placed them in their case with a snap.

  “Where is Kurt?” he said as he pressed the call button. “And where have you been?” he asked with equal gravity as he steepled two hands. “I was informed that you had been called elsewhere, which accounted for your rather abrupt departure, but not the why of it.” He looked at the rod shaking in Joy’s hands, dragging her almost bodily into the room. His eye ridge rose. “Care to explain?” he asked. She was no longer sure if he meant her absence or the jerking thing in her hands pointed unerringly at his chest.

  Joy shook her head. No. No. No.

  “We apologize,” Ink said smoothly. Joy watched his hand slide toward the shining razor blade. “But recent circumstances required our attention—”

  Graus Claude stood up, looking slightly alarmed.

  “Is that a dowsing rod?” he demanded.

  “Yes,” Joy said quickly, trying to still it. “No, Ink! Don’t—”

  But Ink was already drawing the razor at the same moment two of Graus Claude’s arms lifted a broadsword and a heavy shotgun out from under the desk. The giant frog smoothly brought both weapons to bear with expert reach, the massive desk yawning between them like a fortress. Two hands curled around the wide, wooden throne, flipping it around to act as his shield.

  It happened too fast for Joy to believe it.

  Ink sprang onto the desk, slicing a line of time and jagged light. A ward sparked and died. A reverberation shook the room, rattling the books on their shelves.

  “Yield!” Ink barked with a rage Joy had never heard before.

  Graus Claude lowered his head, his many rows of sharks’ teeth bared. “I think not,” he said. His mouth opened wide. Joy knew his tongue could strike out and yank prey back into his crushing maw. She opened her mouth to scream, but the Bailiwick’s battle cry cut her off with a thunderous roar. The sound slammed Joy back, the dowsing rod jerked to follow the Bailiwick’s every move.

  Ink spun, folding on a knife-edge, and winked out of sight.

  Ink. Joy mouthed the word. Graus Claude’s eyes shifted minutely as his four arms took up a defensive cone around the chair. When the world shuddered open, the old toad was ready. Sweeping the broadsword level, he cut Ink’s pounce short. The black-eyed Scribe shifted against gravity, turning his midsection, evading the blade, feet dancing spryly along the wall. Grabbing the curtains, Ink flung himself forward, using the heavy material as handholds, cloaking his movements, slashing bits of fabric free to toss like soaring birds into the air. They fell in ragged patches, obscuring vision, wrapping weapons, blurring his escape. Joy turned her head, trying to follow, but Ink slid behind the edge of the fountain, out of the line of sight.

  Graus Claude’s shotgun followed Ink’s progress as the broadsword circled behind, two hands still gripping the throne back, covering himself a full three hundred and-sixty degrees. Another flicker peele
d away from nothing, and Ink rolled out, narrowly dodging the barrel of the gun. With a sweeping arc, Ink severed the end of the shotgun as he slipped swiftly into another neat sliver of light. Hollow metal tubes clanged off the floor.

  “I imagine that there is something you wish to discuss,” Graus Claude said. Joy could not tell if he spoke with humor or malice. He trained his sawed-off gun along the edge of the desk, changing hands as he circled. Joy was being pulled inexorably closer, dragged across the Persian rug, her arms vibrating in her shoulder sockets. She wanted to let go, but her fingers wouldn’t obey. She wanted everything to stop, she wanted to explain, but she couldn’t speak through her chattering teeth and neither Ink nor the Bailiwick seemed inclined to notice.

  Joy was nearly at the desk, the grip of the spell dragging her into the line of fire. She had to let go! She had to get out! Her mind was a jumble of panic. Her hands weren’t her own. Her whole body shook. This isn’t happening! This can’t be true!

  There was a rip and a flash as Ink dropped from the ceiling. The Bailiwick shifted his grip and swung the broadsword, forcing Ink back, gaining a few inches. Ink quickly recovered and wove his blade in a furious motion. A ward glistened in place. Graus Claude’s hand shot out from behind the throne and slapped upward, under the desk. There was the decisive sound of breaking glass. The new ward winked out.

  “Now, then—” the Bailiwick said reasonably.

  Ink charged. Leaping high into the air—a diving falcon, talons raised—but Graus Claude calmly lifted his massive throne above his head, slamming the solid wood between them. The straight razor shinged, scything six inches into the hardwood, biting deep, but the giant amphibian snapped the chair sideways, momentum throwing Ink along the rest of the curve. He landed crouched behind the podium, black eyes hard and intent. Graus Claude lowered the chair. The cleft was barely an inch from his hand. There was a moment of wary quiet.