Insidious

by Dawn Metcalf

  The dryad’s touch was a relief, rough and warm as cork, and something in it felt welcoming, like the promise of spring. She imagined Graus Claude’s hand, his olive-gray skin surprisingly soft along with the prickle of his manicured claws...but he wasn’t here. She knew who was next.

  Joy tensed, half expecting a knife between her spinal bones, stabbing into her dead heart. She braced for it, wondering if there was something she could do—something she should do—or if any of the Councilex would stop him if he tried. But Sol Leander’s touch felt no different, perhaps more human than the others, leaving a not-unpleasant tingle behind like mint. He withdrew, leaving her still and statuesque, to all appearances completely unfazed.

  She missed her heart’s hammer. It would tell her what to feel.

  “It is done,” Bùxiŭ de Zhēnzhū announced behind her ear. “Walk forward, Joy Malone, and greet your people.”

  Her feet moved automatically as if performing the opening steps of routine; Joy gently placed one foot in front of the other, imagining an arrow between her feet and up her spine at ninety degrees to emerge unerringly out the top of her head. It gave her a regal bearing, a surety of purpose. At least she wouldn’t have to do a split leap in this getup. But thinking of it that way, Joy could relax, safe inside her performance mask. She owned this. She did it. This was easy!

  The veil was whisked off her head between one step and the next with a suddenness that almost made her trip over her skirt. Between blinks, the empty seats were filled to bursting—the entire Hall crowded with Folk, which had been filtered from her Sight, hidden behind the golden veil. The entirety of the amphitheater stood as one and bowed, silent witness to her moment as she continued up the aisle, leading the Council like a train.

  Well, she hadn’t fainted from fright. Bonus points!

  Joy entered the Grand Ballroom like a queen. Not a hint of doubt or surprise creased her face as she took in the jumble of creatures who stood awaiting her arrival. The room had grown to massive proportions that ballooned and bowed the walls as the Hill swelled to compensate for the number of guests present. The lights moved as colorful sprites and will-o-the-wisps zipped through the air, reflected in the mirrors and crystal and golden gilt. An enormous chandelier dominated the ceiling, dwarfing the hodgepodge collection at Enrique’s funeral; the crystal constellation was made up entirely of perfectly round glowing globes that radiated happiness like sunshine on her skin. The gala was impossibly huge and impossibly beautiful, brimming like a wineglass full of diamonds and pearls.

  She touched her necklace and said a prayer.

  All eyes turned to her. All conversation hushed. Joy felt the Council behind her and stopped when they did, poised on the precipice, as if they’d rehearsed this introduction a dozen times before. Their voices chorused as one.

  “As representatives of our most noble Houses, whose collective oaths constitute this, the Council of the Twixt, we invite all those gathered here to witness the ascension of Joy Malone as a member of our esteem and welcome her to take her place amongst us; which, in accordance to our laws, ascribes and mandates our Decree that she be counted as one of those chosen to uphold the last vestiges of our stronghold and honor as a caretaker of this world onto the next.”

  Councilex Maia slid forward and held up a glass globe the size of a softball. She placed it in Joy’s hand and pressed it between hers. Her fingers squished.

  “Place this to your brow,” she said. Joy dutifully lifted the orb to her forehead, feeling the cool kiss of glass. “Remember this moment.” Joy was unsure what to do. The Earth spirit squeezed tighter and whispered, “Close your eyes, feel this moment, and join us forever.”

  Her brain balked at forever, but Joy closed her eyes, picturing herself in the Hall, the colors, the lights, the alien touches, her fear and fierce resolve—she poured all of the memories into this one moment. Light glowed against her eyelids. She opened her eyes and was blinded by the small sun in her hand. Maia peeled back her fingers. The glowing star rose slowly, climbing to join the thousands of its kin.

  Then Joy understood.

  She stood beneath the gathered memories of all the Folk who had undergone this ritual, becoming part of the Twixt. It touched something deep inside her that had no name. I am one of them, she thought with an unexpected sense of pride and belonging. Now and always.

  The Council intoned, “Until the Imminent Return.”

  “Until the Imminent Return!” the room chorused back.

  Joy smiled her Olympic-class smile.

  Until the Imminent Return—which may be sooner than you think!

  The room exploded into babble, and music stirred into song as the crowd surged forward. Joy was careful not to step back. Retreat was not an option—she had to be a show of strength. She raised her mask and braced herself for impact.

  A dark figure intervened, insinuating himself smoothly at her side. The crowd parted around them, still chattering politely at a distance. Joy turned to her rescuer.

  His hair was longer, thicker, swirling over his forehead and tucked softly behind his ear, tied with a black ribbon like some French aristocrat. He wore a long, high-necked jacket, sleek and tidy and made entirely of black feathers, clasped with silver chains over his chest. His pants were buckled with bone, ribbed along his thighs and calves, a parody of bird’s legs that ended in wicked claw-toed boots. He wore silver finger talons on both forefingers, attached to thick bracelets by thin chains. He straightened his waistcoat of fitted black-on-black jacquard, touched the beaked half-mask and smiled.

  Two dimples, which completely undid her.

  Joy took Ink’s arm.

  “You look nice,” she said. She’d meant to say Thank you, but she was still recovering.

  “You are stunning,” he said. “See how they are stunned?”

  She blushed, disarmed—Ink was no longer boyish, but handsome. No longer shy, but bold. Confident. Clever. Rakish. Sexy.

  “Did I say ‘nice’?” Joy said. “I meant stunning.”

  “Are you stunned?”

  “A little.”

  Ink tugged a lock of his hair into place and grinned. “Good.”

  She curtsied as Folk approached her, matching gestures and pleasantries, veiled invites and jibes. The pearls fed her appropriate responses as fast as thought. She pursed her lips, tilted her head and offered her left wrist to a feathered snake that burbled in approval, flicked its tongue and slithered off. Joy was once again obscenely grateful to Graus Claude.

  She wished that she’d given Kurt and Briarhook her four-leaf clover for luck.

  Ink guided her through the masses. There were many faces that she recognized; some, like the snail woman or the young-faced harpy, were Folk she’d seen in the cache at Dover Mill; others, like Filly, stood out in the crowd. The blonde warrior wore her hair loose, resplendent in a long, embroidered dress, a bronze-colored horse mask sitting squarely atop her head—its mane looked like real horsehair and ran like a sheet down her back. It took a moment to find Inq, wrapped in a stiff cape like a jeweled carapace, shining like some exotic beetle that could only be a queen. She caught Joy’s gaze, raised her glass and smiled. The Scribe was in her element, but clearly not in the Bailiwick yet.

  “How soon?” she asked after bowing to sniff a kitsune’s paw.

  “We shall know when someone gives the signal,” he said. “Which may be somewhat challenging, considering the number of guests.” He scanned the room with his fathomless black eyes. “I had not realized that there were so many—I knew their marks, but I had forgotten that each one represents a person, a face.”

  “Imagine how many more might be behind a locked door,” Joy said quietly.

  “Do not let it distract you,” he said. “This time, we are the bait. You must concentrate on being unforgettable.” He smiled again. “Have a care for your poor subject
s—they have not had an excuse to gather like this for nearly a thousand years.”

  Joy squeezed his arm. “Don’t leave me for a second.”

  He stroked her hand gently. “If that.”

  Joy slid her fingers along the double strand of pearls, adjusting the clasp, accessing their wisdom. She hoped that Graus Claude could hear her small successes and know that she was playing her part and more. Hang on. She sent the thought like a prayer. We’re coming!

  “Excuse me, Miss Malone.” The voice came from her left as a hand gestured to her right. “A small matter.”

  There was a popping noise, and Joy felt Ink stiffen and fall. She whirled around, staring at the crumpled pile of feathers and chains wearing Ink’s face caught in a moment of surprise. Across the room, Inq collapsed into a boneless heap. There were shouts of disgust, gasps of horror and titters of amusement. Joy’s thoughts scattered, angry and afraid, but the Tide’s representative held no weapon, his empty hands parting the air in a deferential shrug.

  And Joy knew even before he could say the words.

  He’d shut down the Scribes.

  “The gala is exclusive to the Folk, you understand,” he said, accepting a wax mask from a liveried dwarf. “And, unfortunately, your escort is not—strictly speaking—one of our ilk, and therefore unsuitable to attend this event.” Sol Leander gestured magnanimously to the rest of the crowd. “However, I believe that there are many who would be honored to serve as your escort for the remainder of the evening.” He stepped back with a supercilious bow, slipping the boxy mask over his face, his voice curled up from beneath the lip. “It is, of course, your choice.”

  Joy watched as two masked Folk quickly gathered Ink’s unconscious body and carried him swiftly from the room with well-rehearsed speed. They’d been expecting this. They’d known. They’d planned this all along.

  “Ink—”

  “I’d been informed of the Scribes’ safeguards once I’d joined the Council,” he confided softly. “But discovering the precise location was a small matter of persuasion.” Sol Leander straightened and readjusted his cape. “They will be stored in the coatroom for the interim, along with the other accessories,” he added. “Would you like them to check your handbag, as well?”

  Joy was speechless. He’s not dead. He’s just been...disabled. In public. In the most despicable and humiliating way possible. She knew it had been done to flaunt her helplessness, her foolishness and the Tide’s superiority, pushing the Scribes aside like so many chairs. She could not protest without incident, she could not lash out without consequence, she’d been disgraced, disarmed and neatly played—she didn’t even need Pearls of Wisdom to tell her that.

  A flick of wild horse mane, and Filly was running, weaving through the crowd, out the door, disappearing down a hall, off to tell the others that the plan was over before it had begun. Inq could not go into the Bailiwick. Ink could not provide escape. No one would be able to find the hidden door, rescue the princess and break the spell. Joy was on her own, outmaneuvered and alone.

  Sol Leander and the surrounding crowd waited like expectant vultures, eagerly anticipating her response.

  She had to play along. Stall for time. Look for the loophole.

  Lifting her mask to her face, Joy raised her chin and her voice.

  “Indeed,” Joy said haughtily. “I accept.”

  She offered her arm to Sol Leander.

  The leader of the Tide hesitated only a second in surprise. He could refuse her and be the first to publically snub the newest addition to the Twixt in over a thousand years, a changeling that he had personally verified only moments before, or acknowledge that he’d inadvertently included himself as one of the gala hopefuls who curried her favor—and bear the public implications that he did or did not wish her alliance. She almost smiled watching him squirm, thinking of Graus Claude’s rumbling approval.

  Sol Leander lifted his hand under hers and led her into the gala.

  Joy could barely breathe. This was a dangerous game.

  The crowd parted with squeals and knowing murmurs, and there was an undercurrent of what Joy suspected was Maia’s sly laughter. She concentrated on keeping her hand steady. Sol Leaner, too, kept the back of his glove hovering just under her palm—likely both found the idea of actually touching one another physically repulsive, but the question was: Who would flinch first?

  Circling the breadth of the room under the strange, lilting music, Joy and her escort carved a path through the dance. Gossipy cliques followed, eager to catch a telling glimpse or a noxious bite. Joy tried to keep her eyes on everything but Councilex Leander and her mind on anything besides Ink. There was plenty to tempt the senses, and she drank in distractions like wine. Fairies flew overhead, perching in rafters or cushioned shelves, sprites stood straight as arrows, their wings folded tight against their backs. The Fire Folk gathered in corners, glowing like cauldrons or flaring across the room like comets, leaving streaks of orange sparks in their wake. Towering Forest Folk preened as they gossiped—tall dryads, short satyrs, smirking brownies, wild-eyed elves and what looked like a bunch of particularly well-tended shrubs rustling with mirth by the ale. Earth Folk gathered together like bouquets of every color; faces bright as bluebells, russet-skinned and monarch-winged, gray and gritty goblins, noble ogres, bent-backed trolls—they all paused and bowed, acknowledging Joy as she drifted past. Strangely, they were all smiling at her, warm and welcoming, unlike the sky-cold thing by her side. She could catch only snippets of conversation except when they passed the fountains, the Water Folk’s burbles whispering secrets into her eelet ear.

  The Bailiwick’s playing coy, mark my words.

  See her pearls? See her nape?

  Why bother, I ask thee? For ’tis all naught but flesh.

  Salt water, he said. Sea salt and blood.

  Still smells human.

  Make her drink.

  Sieve the truth!

  EEE! Look at his face!

  Sol Leander’s hand disappeared, dipping down to pluck a fluted glass from a shallow pool of cold water and white river stones. Moisture dripped off its base, tickling the finned creatures that swirled beneath the surface. He offered it to Joy and chose another for himself. She accepted it—as she must—and he took the first sip—as he must, the pearls slipping proper etiquette into her brain. Joy wanted to break the thin-necked stemware and throw it in his face. She could still see Ink’s body crumpled like a dead bird at her feet, and here she was playing nice with the enemy. She watched him glare through the eyeholes. He hated this charade as much as she did. We are both wearing multiple masks.

  She knew that she would have to take a sip; to do otherwise would be to rebuff him, publicly insinuate that he’d chosen poorly or that she did not trust him, suspecting poison or some other trick. And while a part of her wanted to down the whole glass in one swallow, she remembered that one sip of funeral wine, like a sweet hammer to her palate. Joy needed all her wits tonight.

  As a lifelong athlete, she was used to going without.

  She put down the wineglass, untouched. A dryad adorned in Morning Glories skirted aside as if the glass itself was tainted.

  “I find this is not to my taste,” Joy said simply.

  Sol Leander stood motionless. Had she insulted the wine or him? If he chose to interpret it as a personal slight, he would have just cause to take offense, but if he guessed wrong, she could claim no slight was intended and that the fault lay in the wine—his breach of manners at her own gala would be compounded by his position...or underscore how nimbly he’d been played. Which would he choose? Councilex Leander hovered, holding his now-inferior drink. The closest witnesses practically frothed in delight. Even the pool bubbled in what Joy could hear as tickling, childish laughter.

  “Perhaps a dance, then, if that is more to your taste?” a familiar voice interru
pted as smoothly as Ink. Joy turned, hoping to see him, but knew the voice was wrong, the face was wrong, framed with its frost-colored hair and ocean eyes flinty behind an elaborate swan mask.

  “May I have the honor?” Avery bowed and offered Joy his hand. Stupefied, she took it and let him steer her into the dance.

  This is all wrong! This is not how it goes! Joy’s mind scrambled furiously, but her feet knew the steps as she followed his lead, the pearls instructing her body what to do. She clutched her mask and purse in one hand as his left hand, under his cloak, lay flat as iron against her waist. She turned her head aside, looking properly askance instead of at him.

  “That was daring,” he said.

  “Was it?” Joy quipped. “Are you talking about your master or me?”

  Avery kept his eyes fixed on the crowd, professionally distant, more intent on the gala than on her. “Oh, you both managed to provide quite fine entertainment,” he said casually. “Although I imagine that you have far more to lose than he—his pride is certainly suffering, but he will make you pay for every dram.” He lifted his arm for her to slide beneath in a slow, mincing turn. He reclaimed her as they continued to waltz. “Do try to keep that in mind.”

  Joy let the tilt of their shoulders act as a nod. “I will.”

  “Will you?” Avery said, executing a complicated step. “I’d like to see that.”

  Joy swallowed, trying to ignore the hungry stares swirling by in a multicolored blur. Pixies swooped. Nixies splashed. A horde of minuscule creatures in matching coats tapped ironwood sticks in some ancient rhythm using the butts of their canes and the soles of their feet. Avery propelled Joy expertly along the edge of the waltz under appreciative glances and skeptical stares. He was a good dancer. She clutched her pearls by the clasp. She was on parade for the public, immortal, hungry and bored. She wondered what was the equivalent of a rag mag in the Twixt? She could picture the headlines in splashy, bold font.