Insidious

by Dawn Metcalf

  For now.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Breaking away from his touch, she went to the sink and cranked the hot water, letting the heat crawl up her fingers and the steam brush her face. She held her hands under until they hurt. Then she turned off the taps and dried her hands, rubbing them hot white and pink. An old feeling flared—the one that tingled under her palms, an echo of clapping chalk. Some called it a “competitive streak,” but those who lived on the mats called it “the winning edge.” Joy had been training for competition since she was five. Now that the stakes were higher, there was no way she was going to let Aniseed win.

  “If we can get to Graus Claude, we can find the door,” she said calmly. “We can stop Aniseed, and we can bring back the King and Queen.” Her eyes were clearer now, focused, intent. “Your mother can return. Graus Claude will be cleared. And the Council will have to listen, because they must obey their King and Queen, and...” Her voice faltered, suddenly off track and unsure. “They can change the rules,” Joy said, her hopes bared. “Do you think they could change me back, if I asked?”

  Ink stood up in a single, sweeping motion, proud and tall in his silvery shirt and black jeans, the wallet chain swaying at his hip. “The King and Queen spoke the Twixt into being out of the elemental chaos of the world,” he said gravely. “I imagine that they can do anything they wish.”

  “Except come home,” Joy said, wiping her face.

  “Yes,” Ink said carefully. “Except that.”

  “Well.” Joy swallowed, drying the last of her tears on a towel. She tossed it into the sink with a slap. “Not for long.”

  NINETEEN

  JOY AND INK returned to the group huddled around a low table in the foyer, maps and schematics spread out over laps and floor. Trusted with the knowledge of secrets he could keep, Kurt had gathered intel from the far corners of his employer’s impressive vaults hidden somewhere inside the brownstone. Filly’s eyes devoured every scrap in naked delight, and Avery pored over thick volumes with studious interest. Inq and Kurt argued tactics. Joy sat close to Ink, overwhelmed by more than just the sheer mass of information, concentrating on breathing evenly and slow. She understood that Graus Claude was being held under some sort of house arrest, having yet to be formally charged, yet stowed suspiciously close to where her formal presentation was about to take place. She sensed a trap.

  “The Folk are nothing if not dramatic,” Inq said. “And they do love to gloat.” She pointed to the set of hallways and stairs that led to Graus Claude’s holding chamber. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Sol Leander had specifically placed the Bailiwick within earshot of the gala in order that he might overhear your every stroke of social suicide.” She glanced across the table. “No offense.”

  Both Joy and Avery said, “None taken.” They exchanged a quick glance and went silent.

  Joy glared at Sol Leander’s assistant, who busied himself consulting a roll of papers. He had been both politic and apologetic, offering insight and advice, but she wasn’t sure how she felt about his being there. Had he earned his place among them or was it simply too convenient for a spy of the Tide? She kept flicking glances at him as if she could catch him in the act of sabotage, oddly disappointed when she still couldn’t pinpoint his tell. Being deceptive was not the same as lying. Joy knew that better than most.

  Filly and Inq outlined strategies while Ink reviewed the gala itinerary—he had no mind or interest in politics and was the least prepared to master them, but he was determined to keep Joy safe within the gala’s complex system of Court rules and etiquette. He rolled the pearl cuff links between his fingers, listening to the wise whispers the Bailiwick had wrought. Avery glanced at them curiously as he switched books. Joy frowned. She felt as if she was the only one with the Sight, the only one who could truly see things for what they were and the only one who noticed that Avery was still there.

  “Are you sure you want to be in on this?” she asked aloud. Avery stopped examining a labyrinthine map to glance at Joy. She smiled without warmth. “I mean, call me crazy, but I’m not entirely certain we’re fighting on the same team, here.”

  His smile was more relaxed, more genuine, looking much as he had when he’d met her while awaiting her trial Under the Hill. Of course, he’d had no idea who she was back then. It was odd to see him acting friendly now.

  “Well, I am certain my master would agree,” he said easily. “I am supposed to follow you and report back to him, and I imagine this is exactly the sort of information that he would most prize if he were able to remember any of it.” Avery tugged at his collar. “But I believe I understand what is at stake, even if I cannot retain the particulars, so, yes, I believe I can be helpful to you.” He tapped the map with his finger. “You may not believe that we are on the same side, Joy Malone, but we are both trying to protect those in the Twixt—which has always been my highest priority—so in this, we are aligned.” He glanced at Inq. “If you do not take my word for it, consider it a favor due a friend.”

  Joy remembered Avery solemnly watching a molten star climb toward the ceiling full of memories. Enrique. She frowned, uncertain whether he was being honest or coy. Could one make friends out of enemies instead of enemies out of friends?

  “All right,” she said. “But how can we trust you if you can’t remember any of this?”

  Avery rubbed a finger over his brow. “You keep explaining it to me, but the story evaporates as soon as it’s told,” he said. “Still, I know something about memory spells, and therefore, these symptoms make sense. And I know that whatever is said by one of the Folk must—to the best of their knowledge—be true.” He shared a glance with Kurt, another expert on saying things without words. “Although I cannot retain the details, I know that you are working to correct a great injustice and undo the harm that has been done. Therefore, I am with you.”

  “Be sure that you are,” Ink said. His voice sliced through silence.

  Avery paused, perhaps surprised that “the chair” could speak. He nodded in acknowledgment and went back to his maps.

  Joy leaned closer to Ink, who gestured at a painting of the Grand Ballroom from an ancient portfolio. Kurt had said it was by “an old artist in residence.”

  “You are scheduled to arrive and enter here, at the East entrance.” He pointed to a wide entryway down a very long path to a central bower that looked like an amphitheater. “You will stand before the Council, who will formally acknowledge you, and then you will be introduced to the whole of the Folk gathered here, in the Grand Ballroom.” He touched the back of her hand in a gesture that was almost human. “I will then be permitted to join you as your escort.” Joy glared at Avery, who said nothing. His voice pinched at the admission of their need to be apart. Ink didn’t put much stake in propriety and liked it even less when Joy’s safety was concerned. Joy tried to think about Graus Claude’s hard-taught lessons about the importance of maintaining etiquette and decorum, but it just made her want to punch something. She would have made a terrible debutante.

  “And that’s when the fun begins,” Inq chirped with glee.

  “Why wait?” Joy asked. “Why not go in guns blazing? Why hang around waiting for trouble to come to me?” The more she thought about it, the more the whole gala seemed like a bad setup—walking into a gilded trap in a heavy, many-layered gown. “What if I don’t get presented to the Twixt? What if I just skip it?”

  Everyone shot her dark looks, which surprised her.

  “Be grateful that we have such an opportunity,” Filly said. “They would not normally admit you Under the Hill, let alone so close to your target.”

  “I’ve been Under the Hill before,” Joy said.

  Inq folded a map into thirds. “Yes, but then, somebody died.”

  Joy twisted her fingers into her shirt and shut up.

  “Besides,” Avery said, “the last thing you w
ant to do is offend the Folk and make the Council look foolish.” His simple words carried a weight of warning.

  Kurt unconsciously checked his weapon in its holster. The simple motion spoke more than words.

  “It’s a mockery, anyway,” Inq murmured. “Folk used to be formally presented to the King and Queen. Now it’s just the Council.”

  Joy held her breath and glanced around—she could almost imagine the tickle of magic as the Amanya spell wiped Filly and Avery’s slate clean. Neither of them showed any reaction to Inq’s statement whatsoever. It was a chilling reminder of what they were up against.

  Ink silently took her hand. Joy squeezed it. Hard.

  “The Bailiwick is on the Council,” Avery said as if the conversation hadn’t strayed. “Imagine how he would react to such a slight.” Joy balked at the thought of those ice-blue eyes boring down on her, stern and severe.

  Kurt noted her expression. “Now multiply that by six.”

  “Seven,” Avery said, a reminder that the Tide now held a Council seat. Joy could imagine Sol Leander’s cold, righteous smirk and how very much she’d like to wipe it off his face. The winning edge came back with a vengeance.

  “Fine,” Joy said. “I get it. I’m going. So, what do we do?”

  “We—” Ink enunciated the word “—will remain in the ballroom and play politics with nods and curtseys and small talk and pearls.” He squeezed the cuff links in his hand. “The others will use the advantage of our being the focus of attention in order to make their way to Graus Claude, remove him to a place of safety, then enter the Bailiwick and locate the door. Once that is done, then...” He paused. Avery attempted to find a page in a book, pretending not to overhear. “It is no longer our concern. Our goal is to survive the evening with your reputation intact. Filly and I will intervene on your behalf should it become necessary.”

  “That’s the plan?” Joy said.

  Inq nodded. “That’s the plan.”

  Joy glanced around, feeling helpless. “I hate this plan.”

  “What’s the complaint?” Inq asked. “You will play Princess Tea Party with all the high-and-mightys and we’ll spring the old frog and run backup in case there’s trouble. You have nothing to worry about—you won’t even spoil your pretty dress.”

  Filly snorted. “You have a pretty dress?”

  Inq waved a hand airily. “It is vitally important that she makes a killer first impression.”

  Joy ignored the underlying threat/pun. “I may need more than backup. I thought you said everyone in the Twixt would be at this thing,” she said. “Without Graus Claude, I could immortally offend everyone!”

  “That’s right,” Filly said, eyes gleaming. “It ought to be glorious fun!”

  Of course Filly’s brand of “fun” tended toward mayhem and carnage.

  “Do not concern yourself with the Bailiwick,” Kurt said. “We will free him.”

  “You can’t.”

  Everyone stared at Avery. He kept his eyes on the pages in front of him, his snowy-white hair shading his face as if embarrassed.

  “Is that a fact?” Filly snapped with a smile plastered across her teeth.

  “Yes,” Avery said, closing the book with a snap. “It’s a fact.”

  “Really?” Inq said. “I’d like to see what can stop us.” Her fingers took on a slight blur.

  Avery leaned forward. “You won’t get past the door.”

  Joy wasn’t confident about this plan, but she was confident in her friends. “Walls and doors mean nothing to them,” she said. “They will rescue the Bailiwick.”

  The young gentleman turned to Joy, and his look of disappointment reminded her of Graus Claude. “You are thinking like a human,” he said. “But remember—these are the chambers Under the Hill, the heart of the Twixt. Doors are not ordinary doors, and walls are not made of wood and stone. Your mentor’s cage is a magical one. The spell holding him extends down the hall,” he said, dragging his finger down the long corridor to the base of the stairs. “It is intended for specific prisoners—those who threaten the Accords, political assassins, suspects of treason—those whom the Council wish to make certain that no one would grant quarter, mercy or aid.” He tapped the book cover meaningfully. “None who are his friend may enter the stairwell. That’s why even the Council members cannot fetch him—they have been his friends and colleagues for too long. Guards must be changed daily in order to prevent friendliness forming.” Avery sat back in his chair. “Despair is his door, and the walls guard themselves. The ward is merely window dressing for propriety’s sake.”

  There was a long pause. Joy broke it.

  “Is that exactly how it’s phrased?” she said. “‘None who are his friend?’”

  “Why? What of it?” Avery glanced around the assembled crew. “If any of you wish him success, you will not succeed, by definition.”

  “That’s not what I asked,” Joy said. “I may not know much about the Twixt, but I’ve learned a thing or two about loopholes. No friend of his can break him out? Fine. We can work with that.” Now it was the young gentleman’s turn to frown.

  “I am not his friend,” Avery said carefully. “But I am not interested in defying the Council, whose tenets I respect. If Councilex Claude is innocent, as you claim, then you can trust in the law to prove it and not look for ways around it.” He knocked on the arm of his chair. “The law is the law. Rules are rules.”

  Joy flashed her Olympic-class smile. “Some rules are meant to be broken,” she said. “Kurt?”

  The muscleman bodyguard didn’t pretend not to know what she was asking.

  Ink hesitated. “Joy—”

  “It’s mine, right? My call?” Her voice had tightened to a squeak. She was afraid, but worse, she knew that she was responsible for this. This is my fault. I can fix this. “He’s not a friend, and he wishes us nothing but harm.” Joy unclenched her fingers with effort. “And that’s exactly what we need. We have what he wants, and he will do what we ask.” She twisted her hands together. “It’s perfect. It fits.”

  Avery blinked. “Who?”

  “Briarhook,” Kurt said.

  “Briarhook?” Avery echoed. “The Wood Guardian?”

  “Ah!” Filly grinned and slapped her thigh. “An excellent plan! Let the hog fetch the frog. Well planned and well played!”

  Joy glanced at Ink, his boyish face hardened to tight lines and sharp planes. His fingers worked at his own nails as if picking at crusts of half-remembered blood.

  “Well,” she said. “It’s a plan, anyway.” She looked across the table at the mess of papers and plans. “Kurt, can you do the exchange? I have no idea what time it is, but I have to get back. My brother can’t keep Dad fishing forever.” Kurt nodded once, no words needed. They’d done this before. Joy sighed nervously. “Start at a fifth, you can go to a fourth. A third is too much.” She was flirting with death. Briarhook would be eager to bargain, but when he got his whole heart back, he would kill her. She understood that a little better now.

  Her fingers traced the single exit from Graus Claude’s chamber to the public hallways branching out from Under the Hill, including the route she’d taken to the Council Hall that first time. She recognized the spiral stair and the archway where she’d waited in the wings. She frowned at the schematic. There were too many halls, too many doors and far too many things that could go wrong.

  “We need more help,” she said. “Kurt, do you still have my work files?”

  Inq frowned. “Your work files?”

  “Yes,” Joy said. “Happy clients, all. I know the Bailiwick must have kept records, and I think there might be one or two who might be willing to help us out.”

  Kurt glared at Joy. Filly snickered and tossed her head in approval.

  “If, like me, they cannot remember, then they do not know w
hat is at stake.” Avery said. “Do you believe that they will join your cause for the love of you, Joy Malone?”

  Ink shot him a look, open and pure. “Yes.”

  Avery looked unconvinced.

  “Either that or use blackmail,” Filly said. “That’s likely what the Bailiwick was keeping their records for, anyway.” Kurt gathered up papers, neither admitting nor denying the claim. Knowledge was influence, influence was power and the Bailiwick was a powerful force in the Twixt. Filly tossed a book down, smug.

  “You won’t have to do either,” Inq said. “You don’t realize what this gala means—none of the others would have told you.” Her black eyes sparkled. “This celebration is all about you, Joy. This is your presentation, your gala, and in the world of the Folk, this is one of the only times where they are free to make choices—do you understand what that means?” She gestured grandly, her black lacquered nails winking in the low light. “Everyone attending is bound to obey—it’s not magic, but it is part of the rules. Whoever presides over the gala is sacrosanct. That is why the Folk work so hard to protect themselves behind proper etiquette and codes of conduct; otherwise, it could be an orgy or a slaughter! Your word reigns supreme for this one night,” she said. “It is a delicate balance, and your skill at manipulating the line between timid caution and reckless abuse is what everyone’s eager to see.” Inq flung up her hands in excitement. “You can throw somebody out a window or invite people to kiss your feet. You get to bestow favors or slight advances, make friends and enemies, humiliate your rivals or your suitors or yourself. Every choice you make will have consequences, of course, but that’s half the fun! The Folk will be watching your every move, following your lead, worried what you might do to them and be very thankful when you do it to someone else. This is where you, as one of the Twixt, will be tested among your people, establishing your True Name and what it means—either praised, whispered in terror or shouted with contempt. But, remember, Joy—this is your party. This is where the butterfly first beats its wings,” she said with a wink. “It will be up to you to bring on the storm.”