Insidious

by Dawn Metcalf

  “Your eyes are creepy,” Monica said.

  He smiled. One dimple. “I got them from my mother.”

  Joy laughed. Monica shook her head, her earrings swinging. “No. I still don’t—” she started, her tone growing angry, helpless, as she turned to face Joy. She picked up her purse. “I don’t buy it. I’m sorry.”

  Joy wilted. No! She was losing her. Her best friend.

  “Do you want to see a trick?”

  Monica turned and stared at Ink. The question was so ludicrous, it surprised her.

  “Sure.”

  Ink opened his hand, and Joy tossed him the plastic bottle. Ink weighed the thing in his grip as his other hand reached back, tucking the wallet chain to one side and removing the straight razor in one deadly, fluid motion. Monica stiffened, squeezing her purse. Joy leaned closer.

  “Watch this hand,” he said. “Don’t blink.”

  Ink tossed the plastic bottle high into the air, sliced a rent through the world and stepped through. He disappeared instantly as another hole zipped open a few feet away and Ink appeared, walking smoothly through the fresh door, catching the tumbling bottle in his hand before it hit the ground.

  He smiled, both dimples.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Monica breathed.

  “Show-off,” Joy muttered as she accepted the bottle back. “And you say Inq’s the exhibitionist.”

  “It is a new sensation,” he said. “Being seen as I am.”

  Joy turned to her friend, holding the elixir close to where her heart should be. She wanted to give Monica time to process, but she needed more than anything for her friend to be okay. For them to be okay.

  “Do you believe me?” Joy asked. There was no turning back.

  “I believe I may have a heart attack,” Monica said. “You’re sure you’re not a street magician? I half expect there to be a flash mob any minute.”

  “Cameras cannot see me,” Ink said. “You can try taking a picture. Inq did. That was what ultimately convinced Joy.”

  Monica pointed at him. “That’s your sister, right? The one dating the Russian hottie with the sweet ride?”

  Ink cocked his head. “‘Hottie’?” The word sounded ridiculous in his mouth.

  “That was Nikolai,” Joy said. “He’s with Inq. I’m with Ink.”

  Monica pressed both her hands to her forehead and whistled out a low note. “God, help me, I think this is actually making sense.”

  “You get why I couldn’t tell you, right?” Joy said. “I didn’t want to keep secrets from you, but I wanted to keep you safe. Now it’s too dangerous for you not to know, but it still had to be your choice.”

  Leaning back against the park bench, Monica scraped her shoes in the dirt. “Right. So now I know.” She fanned her face with both hands. “Okay. What now?”

  “First, don’t tell anybody,” Joy said. “The last thing I ever wanted was to be locked up for being crazy, but a close second is having anything like that happen to you. You’ll probably see a lot of strange things that you hadn’t noticed before, but they ought to leave you alone. You’ve been protected under the Edict for over six months, so they should know better.”

  Monica frowned. “If that was the case, why would I be in danger now?”

  “You shouldn’t. But there are some who seem to get away with not playing by the rules,” Ink said with an irony aimed at both Joy and the Tide.

  “We’re only really worried about a couple of the Folk. One is called Sol Leander, the leader of an antihuman movement called the Tide. The other is called Aniseed. She’s—” Joy hesitated “—bad.” Evil.

  “We do not have to concern ourselves with Aniseed,” Ink said.

  Joy scowled. “Not yet,” she said. “Sol Leander looks like a tall Egyptian guy, older, gaunt, long face with a widow’s peak, sunken eyes and a flair for the dramatic,” she said, pocketing her vial and fumbling for her keys. “He usually wears a sparkly blue cloak.”

  Monica frowned. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “If you see him, remind him that you are under his auspice,” Ink said. “He is under an obligation to protect you.”

  “What?” Monica said, eyes snapping. “Me? Why?”

  “You wear his signatura,” Ink said simply and pointed above his eye. “There.” Monica reached up and touched her scar. “Sol Leander watches over those who have survived an unprovoked attack. When the Red Knight came for Joy and wounded you, it placed you under his auspice.”

  The look of horror on Monica’s face made Joy cringe. Joy was at least glad Ink hadn’t mentioned that he’d been the one to put it there.

  “Whoa whoa whoa!” Monica said. “Is this Red Knight still out there?”

  “No,” Joy said quickly. “Not anymore.” She was very aware that Ink still didn’t know what she’d done, but this was not the time, now that Monica was safely in the know. “There’s a lot to explain, and I will, but I have to go. Really. I took a big chance coming here, but I had to see you first.” Joy smiled, projecting every bit of love and thanks and trust she had into her friend’s confused stare. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

  “Get back?” she said weakly. “But you just got back!”

  “If you can believe it, I have to get ready for my ball at midnight.” Joy shook her head and grabbed Ink’s arm. “I love you, lady!”

  Monica opened her mouth to say something, but then decided against it. She brushed her hair from her face. “Love you, too,” she said, her eyes wet with more than runoff elixir. “Just remember—No Stupid.”

  “No Stupid.” Joy nodded and hit the button on the key fob. A white Ferrari 458 appeared parked on the peewee baseball diamond, halfway between first base and home plate. Leave it to Ink to miss the parking lot by a mile.

  Monica shrieked. “What is that?!”

  “That,” Joy said, unlocking the doors with a click, “is a killer first impression.”

  TWENTY

  “NICE,” RAINA PURRED in approval as the car slowed to a halt. Joy was just glad that her feet could still touch the pedals. She’d set the driver’s seat on the farthest setting in order to accommodate the dress. Even with all the carefully placed safeguards, silk ties and padded pillows, Idmona had fretted over Joy’s ride, evidently expecting a coach of some kind and not a modern sports car. Joy was conscious of every crinkle as she parked the Ferrari in front of the East entrance, flanked by milling crowds of Folk.

  Light speared the entryway, surrounded by sparkles and twinkles and fast-flying things that swept over the throng. Bodies pressed close and conversations were loud as people jockeyed for position, clamoring closer to the gate. The sound was overwhelming, a garble of music and noise.

  It was like the Macy’s parade on Oscar Night.

  Joy could feel the push of a thousand eyes staring through the windows.

  Raina unbuckled her seat belt. “Better let me help you out,” she said. Joy was completely willing to let the woman play bodyguard—besides the fact that Raina was clearly both competent and fearless, Joy doubted she could stand up on her own.

  Raina’s Pantene hair shone in the headlights as she crossed in front of the car. The press of Folk backed away, either respectful or repulsed. Raina was calm, composed, professional, mature and obviously had no problem ignoring the weird and wild assemblage. Joy, being Joy, felt like she was going to puke.

  The taller woman opened the door and offered Joy her hand. Joy braced herself and tried not to grunt as she leveraged herself forward. Her face felt pinched, powdered in crushed pearls and glitter, and she squeezed Raina’s fingers in white-knuckled panic. She wished that Ink could be here but knew he was in position, waiting for her in the Grand Ballroom like Gatorade at the end of the finish line.

  “Just breathe,” Raina whispered. “You own this.”

&
nbsp; Raina slipped the silk ties loose and tossed the satin pillows aside. Joy stretched out a toe to get a foothold, feeling completely unlike herself, as the hugging pressure of the crinoline eased off her legs. She remembered Idmona’s coaching. Keeeeep your head up. Loooook confident. Truuuuust your instincts.

  Joy had to trust her instincts—she couldn’t see her feet.

  Once Joy managed to get upright, Raina circled her with stately grace, lifting the hem of her skirts and fluffing them full of life; the delicate beaded trim tinkled against the ground. Joy stood very still. Clutching the elaborately beaded purse in a death grip, she tried to act like she did something like this all the time.

  Joy marveled again at her ever-widening definition of “something like this.”

  Winks of colors and wings and scales and jewels sparkled like rainbow stars against the dark. Joy tried not to get distracted by the enormity of the place, picturing the map in her head as she walked down the aisle, Folk pressing along the sidelines, fighting for room. The Grand Ballroom must be to her left, down the long entryway that connected the main chambers to one another. She would have to walk down that hall after her presentation in the amphitheater, escorted by the Council into Twixt high society. Ink would be there, waiting for her. She clutched her clutch purse closer. She could do this. She would make it until then.

  Raina checked the bustle once more, straightened Joy’s pearls, handed her the dragonfly mask and tweaked the hair comb into place, anchoring her real hair to the tumble of false curls attached to the back of her head. Joy was infinitely glad she hadn’t needed to sit for the impossible hairstyle—the hairpiece had fit nicely over her scraped-back ponytail and the makeup job had been grueling enough. She twirled the stick attached to the damselfly half-mask, watching it sparkle like the eyes of the crowd. She didn’t need a mask, the solid layer of paint on her face was like porcelain, but Joy felt absurdly grateful for the added wall over her features. Like a shield. Like armor. Ready for war.

  “Ready?” Raina asked.

  “Yes,” Joy said. She caught the woman’s gaze as she tucked Joy’s hand into the crook of her arm. “And, thanks. Really, thanks.” She meant it, for a lot more than just this. She meant it for Enrique and Ink and the dress and herself.

  Inq’s lehman smiled. “My pleasure,” she said, and it sounded as true as if she were one of the Folk. “Now let’s get you inside.” She winked. “It’s showtime.”

  Joy killed the lights and locked the automatic doors behind her. She was about to drop her keys inside her purse when she remembered first impressions and hit the fob’s blue button. The car vanished. There was a chorus of “oohs” and gasps and a smattering of appreciative applause. Joy closed her purse with a snap and allowed herself to be led Under the Hill.

  The scenery changed from dark to sparkling; the outdoor concert cacophony faded into the quiet hush of the Council chambers. It felt old and rich and sacred indoors. A chattering of busy voices buzzed in the background, along with the delicate clattering of china and glass. Those, too, faded away as she was led up the stairs to a familiar lobby. Raina removed her arm and Joy felt the loss as she self-consciously rearranged the objects in her hands.

  Raina lifted a thin scarf from a podium to the left of the door. She unfolded the sheer material and draped it artfully over Joy’s head like a veil, screening everything in shimmery gold. Raina fussed needlessly with the corners, checking the hidden scalpel and the crystal comb as she tugged it into place.

  “I must leave you here,” Raina said, sounding truly sorry. “Only the Folk are welcome tonight. But you can always call me, if you need anything.” She patted Joy’s arm. “I texted you my number. Anytime, day or night.”

  “How about five minutes from now?” Joy said.

  Raina smiled. “You’ll be fine. You’re one of them, remember?”

  Yes. I’m one of them, Joy reminded herself. For now.

  Joy squared her shoulders, and Raina opened the door.

  The Council Hall was exactly as she remembered when she’d last stood in its wings—it was different walking through its central doors instead of the side entrance; the floor dipped gradually down toward the enormous tree trunk worn smooth in its center, and her dress was wide enough to brush both rows of seats. The walls of the amphitheater curved overhead like the petals of a giant flower bud, sloping lines drawing the eye upward to the central, star-shaped skylight, reminding her of Enrique’s funeral and its floating chandelier of memories. What did this room remember? Would it remember this? The Council Hall looked more somber, less like a natural Christmas tree and more like a government building. The stone mosaics did not so much twinkle as loom. She walked toward the Council like a bride.

  The natural dais was surrounded by a low wall, which framed a semicircle of white chairs sprouting up from the floor. Five Council members stood, awaiting her arrival—a sixth hung suspended in a large droplet from the ceiling, and a seventh was notably absent. The High Water seat. Graus Claude.

  She tried not to think about him in a locked cell overhearing this.

  Joy steeled her face to appear as neutral as possible, praying the veil and layers of foundation would hide any telling blush. She debated placing her mask over her face, but she didn’t need her double strand of pearls to tell her that that would be considered rude. Her hem rustled against the edge of the stump and her shoes knocked against its surface, muffled under the dress. The glass beads chimed, and Joy caught sight of tiny motes of light climbing through the gallery seats, reflected shimmers off her bejeweled gown.

  The pearls whispered instructions. She curtsied. The Council bowed. The black crystal figure with molten veins and fiery eyes gave off a series of pings and cracks as it moved. Whatever was in the water curled itself in a circle over its tail.

  The Council Head—Bùxiŭ de Zhēnzhū—gazed down at her with his old, old eyes, the scales on either side of his neck expanding and settling like slow, reptilian breathing; the tips of his long moustache danced in a nonexistent breeze.

  Remember Graus Claude. Respect him. Always.

  The Council looked grim. Even Maia, squat and rubbery, looked uncommonly grave, and the towering dryad’s crown of rustling leaves stilled. The dark-skinned, redheaded pixie wore her twin ornamental spears crisscrossed and peace-tied behind her back—their trailing crimson ribbons ran over her shoulders like blood.

  Joy didn’t trust herself to look at Sol Leander, although his star-dusted cloak teased the edge of her Sight. She could feel his glare—cold and dripping—as it oozed down the side of her face.

  There’s nothing he can do. He is powerless to prevent this.

  “Joy Malone, you are to be presented as one of the Twixt,” the elderly Council Head said in his thin, reedy voice. His hands were folded together, hidden under embroidered sleeves. He didn’t need a gavel to command attention—his eyes and his tone held authority like a fist. “Your sponsor should have been the one to formally present you, but as that is regrettably not possible, we shall forgo that customary procedure.” He bowed from the waist, and the others nodded politely in return. Even Sol Leander dipped his head in acquiescence. The very idea of his kowtowing to anyone raised Joy’s hackles. What’s he up to?

  The fact that Graus Claude wasn’t here should have been an outrage to his constituents, and, as far as she knew, tradition was everything to the Folk. Joy sensed that there were many long histories playing out before her eyes, and without Graus Claude, she was ignorant and defenseless against them. Should she protest? Defend him? Would this make the ritual illegitimate, incomplete? She touched her pearls discreetly behind her purse. They whispered wordless reassurance—this was still within the rules. Graus Claude’s wisdom was still with her. Not completely ignorant, she thought. Or completely defenseless. She was, as Graus Claude said, a wildflower with bite.

  Bùxiŭ de Zhēnzhū focused his sli
t-pupil eyes on her.

  “Turn around.”

  Joy hesitated for the barest instant, thinking, I really don’t want to...but she did, gradually turning her back to the Council, her heels echoing off the high walls as she stared out into the gallery of empty seats. She was absurdly grateful that they hadn’t silently filled up behind her. Unfortunately, now she was thinking about the Council behind her back, including some who hated her and some who were armed.

  She tried not to fidget despite feeling exposed, practically naked in her damselfly dress with its plunging back, her signatura laid bare to those with the Sight.

  Joy heard the shuffle of many feet, the shush of robes, the clomp of shoes, the ping and crack of crystalline limbs, a woody creak of shifting twigs and the rapid-hummingbird-flurry of wings. It took everything inside her not to turn around. She clutched her things, her elbows squeezing the hidden zippers and clasps along her sides. She felt surrounded, circled, scrutinized...

  It struck her that she was being judged.

  Wait. I know how to do this!

  Joy fixed her jaw, lifted her chin, breathed in from her diaphragm and out through her nose. This was a performance, just like any other—something she’d done hundreds of times since she was six—graded on appearance, showmanship, aptitude, skill. Competing in Level Nine gymnastics meant that she had kept her eye on the ultimate goal, the Olympics, to be the best of the best. Joy was trained as a performer who had no illusions—she knew her strengths and her weaknesses, and her strength was this. She knew how to perform. Better still, she knew how to win.

  So as the Council approached, Joy was still as a statue, and when the first touch happened, she did not so much as twitch.

  The sensation took a split second to register: a hand, papery and chapped, pressed flat against her signatura, bathing her veins in warm, wispy light. She did not close her eyes, but let the colors of magic swirl before her eyes. Then it was gone. A slimy-soft touch, boneless and wide, sluiced over the same spot on her spine. Joy imagined Maia stretching upward in a single, taffylike motion and blobbing back down in Jell-O-y jiggles. A delicate pop and crackle preceded a ham-fisted block of stone that pressed against her sigil with all the tenderness of a shove. Her bones filled with a momentary punch of fire; Joy held her breath to keep from gasping and waited for the lava Councilex to move on. A tiny hand tapped once, then disappeared, leaving behind a vague impression like music. A cold, cold wetness pressed against her, trickling down her back like a soaked sponge, impossibly alien, dark and distant, strangely pliant, like a flipper or fin. She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth to keep herself from screaming.