by Dawn Metcalf
“That’s a Wendigo on your left,” Avery whispered. “Best bare your teeth.”
She did. The man showed throat as he swept his partner clockwise.
“Thanks,” she muttered.
“Do not thank me, or anyone,” Avery sighed, steering her deftly to one side. “You must stop thinking like a human—these are your rules now.”
Joy bit the side of her cheek to avoid saying something cheeky. She kept her voice down and her eyes straight ahead. “You want me to think like them? Fine. How’s this—the Scribes are down,” she whispered past his ear. “Filly’s gone to tell Kurt, but no humans can come in here, and likely Briarhook will bail. Graus Claude is warded against any who are his friends, so I cannot go find him, and Ink and Inq will be out for several days, which will be far too late since the Bailiwick is set to be condemned after the gala, and I’m stuck playing politics in a party dress under the watchful eye of everyone in the Twixt!” They separated in a formalized bow and switched directions, circling together like petals in a pool. She quietly seethed until they matched up again.
“Well, then,” Avery said. “What will you do?”
“I’m thinking,” she said, although she wasn’t managing to do a very good job. Even with the double strand of pearls, she had to concentrate on concentrating. She could not access the dance as well as stored etiquette and manage to think her own thoughts, too. “It has to be now,” she muttered. “Once Graus Claude has been tried and convicted, who knows where he might end up? No one will be able to access the Bailiwick if he’s lost. This is our one chance to get him before it’s too late.”
Avery’s mouth twitched beneath the swan beak. “You sound so dramatic.”
Her skirts brushed as she turned. “You make that sound like a good thing.”
“It is a good thing,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder if you were more like the furniture than the Folk.” Joy frowned, wondering if he was slighting Ink again. “I am not the only one who hopes that your true nature will become evident tonight.” He paused, bowing over her knuckles. “In fact, many are counting on it. People are curious. The girl with the Sight? The ex-lehman? The third Scribe? The Red Knight’s bane?” He listed her faults as if they were titles. “They came to see you—the true you. You must demonstrate that, if you truly are one of us.”
“You mean whether I am an arrogant, malicious, double-talking cheat loyal only to fulfilling my own, personal agenda?” she asked while turning inside the curve of his arm. She smiled at his wintry gaze. “Well, then, I guess I am.”
His lips thinned. His feathered cloak swirled as he turned. Facing her, he gripped her firmly, slamming her against him on the major chord.
“Prove it,” he said.
Joy gasped. “You’re too close.”
His elbows straightened an inch, putting a breath between them.
“What are you doing?” she whispered through clenched teeth.
“Raising the stakes,” he said roughly. “If you’re going to play this game, then play it to win.”
Heat flushed her cheeks, pinking her chest and neck. “Stop it,” she said, angry, flustered, uncertain if he was being helpful or rude. “You’re in this, too. You’ve been following me in order to report to the Tide, right? Anything I do right now might reflect badly on you.”
“I didn’t think you noticed,” he said drily. That was when she realized how much he’d been risking following her, informing her, aiding her long before he’d sat with her circle of conspirators in the brownstone foyer. Avery had placed his loyalty to the Twixt above that of the Tide or his master. She refused to feel guilty, but couldn’t help being impressed.
“Will you get in trouble?” she asked.
“I can honestly report that my observations did not indicate any evidence of what may yet happen this evening, since, by your own admission, you do not know what you will do next. Your indecision is to my advantage, and I plan to exploit it,” he said. “I am certain you understand.” The dance was limping to a close. “As far as my intercession earlier, I plan to excuse myself by claiming I’d been willing to sacrifice my honor by placing myself in your dubious presence in order to free my master of obligation on his behalf, which is true.” Avery said. “I might even be rewarded.”
“Wonderful. Glad I could help,” Joy said as they twirled, Avery lifting her body by the waist as she hopped to assist. She came down lightly, but overly conscious of her shoes. She was unused to wearing heels while moving to music. It was jarring in the small way that real things were.
“Honestly, it was no great sacrifice,” Avery said, snapping her back to the moment. He avoided her gaze as he glanced over the crowd. “Any ideas yet?”
Find Ink. Find Graus Claude. Find the door. Break the rules.
Joy sighed, thinking fast. “I’m going to cause a distraction.”
“I see.”
“It will likely get you in trouble.”
Avery leaned forward and whispered in her ear, the one with the eelet and the drop water opal. The one Ink had first touched with wonder.
“Better make it good, then,” he said.
Joy pulled away, disrupting the dance, and smacked him hard across the face.
It was weak and silly, but it had the desired effect. Avery’s head snapped to the side, and he backed away stiffly, dropping her hands like lead weights. He stood rigid, flushed, his lips a hard slash. Bowing tightly, Avery glared at her through the swan mask’s frosted lashes, although she could have sworn he looked impressed with a reddening cheek. The other dancers stared, the nearby onlookers tittering with horrified delight.
“I probably should say something like ‘unhand my sister’!” came a voice from the back. “But I believe that she can take care of herself.”
TWENTY-ONE
STEF AND DMITRI stood together as they entered the Hall—an odd match with the satyr in ornate split-robes and her brother in a trim Armani tux. The Twixt’s collective gaze absorbed the spectacle, completely and utterly unable to blink.
Joy would have liked to believe that her heart started beating the next moment, but it didn’t. The crowd parted as the pair drew closer, Stef nodding to Joy. Dmitri, neatly combed and curried, grinned like the devil as he fiddled with his tie.
“Well spoken,” he said and tipped his horned head at Joy. “And well met, Joy Malone.”
It was as if he’d given the room permission to speak, and the Folk began to oblige him all at once. Joy could only tease out some of the words, but she got the basic gist.
“Outrageous!”
“Inexcusable!”
“Abominable whelp!”
“Get rid of them—”
“He cannot be here!”
“Where’s the troop buck?”
“Mortals cannot—”
“—strictly forbidden!”
A gargoyle pushed forward and snarled around its snout. “No human—”
Stef raised a hand. The rings on his fingers looked new.
“I am not human,” he said. He looked impossibly calm. Happy. His voice carried. His eyes twinkled. “Am I, Joy?”
She shook her head, eyes teary. “No,” she said softly as she crossed the floor to him. “You are my brother,” she said, adding extra emphasis. “And I am glad to see you here.” She smiled with slightly less wattage than her Olympic-class standards, hooking his other elbow and gesturing to the crowd. “You are welcome to the gala as my honored guests!”
And just like that, the room reawakened as if paused and reset—the music swelled, the dancing followed, the food and the wine and the gossip flowed freely, but now pushed to the edges instead of commanding center stage. She had done it. Her gala. Her rules. It wasn’t magic, but it might as well have been. Now everyone had to welcome them, whether they wanted to or not. And Stef was rig
ht—he wasn’t human, he was part-Twixt, so he was allowed to be here, as per the rules. Take that, Sol Leander! She felt an obscene satisfaction at sticking it to the Man.
Joy led the way as Folk parted before her, continuing to bow and kneel, discreetly avoiding her gaze as she passed. She squeezed Stef’s arm, trying to convince herself that this was really him and not some sort of doppelganger phantom—or maybe to convince herself that it was. Dmitri snagged a glass of something and tossed it back like a shot.
“Who was that guy?” Stef said.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered.
“Are you really going to ask me that?” he said, grabbing a cream puff.
He certainly sounded like Stef.
“I love you,” she said anxiously, propelling them toward the door. “I’m glad to see you—you don’t know how glad I am, really. You both look awesome. Very posh. Very happy. I love you. Did I say that? Thank you for coming. Really. Now leave.”
Stef exchanged a glance with Dmitri, who was biting into some magenta-skinned fruit with speckled white flesh in obvious delight. The satyr shrugged. Her brother laughed.
“Well, that was quite a mouthful,” he said. Joy wasn’t sure if he meant Dmitri or her. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I just got here.” He was one of the few not wearing a mask, as if he wanted to be seen—as if her brother was tired of being hidden. His eyes behind his glyphed glasses were steely and strong. “And I’m not leaving you.”
Joy snatched a couple of grapes, then, having a quick flashback, put them down.
“I could have you thrown out,” she said.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Dmitri said after he’d swallowed. “Not that I could, mind you, I don’t have the clout, but that’s the sort of play that, once witnessed, has long legs, fast tongues and breeds words. I don’t think you really want to do that to your brother—or me—since you’ve only recently gone from persona non grata to Belle of the Ball, and I wager no one will forget the trip anytime soon.” He gestured with another glass of wine, freshly emptied. “Tonight is the dry run for how the Twixt might receive those born with the Sight in future days, and you wouldn’t want to sully the delicate negotiations that are no doubt taking place, whispered in ears both here and now. Especially since your brother also happens to be a wizard—”
“Apprentice wizard,” Stef corrected. Dmitri bumped his shoulder.
“Details.” He sniggered. “Wizards already have a fragile peace with the Folk, so you might not want to rock that particular canoe by staging an adolescent snit fit. And, FYI, you wouldn’t want to cross me—I’m much too pretty.” The satyr peeled another squiggle of fruit. “Especially since I’ve brought you a present.”
Joy paused. “A present?” Somehow the satyr made it sound naughty.
“A little birdie told me you might need a little something now and a little something later,” he said, adding a little bow. Dmitri was currying her favor and doing it in full view of the assembled Twixt. She had to admire his moxie. “Unfortunately, security being what it is, I had to leave them in your glove compartment.”
Joy frowned. “My glove compartment?”
“In your car,” Dmitri said, dropping the rind on a plate and wiping his fingers. “The one parked outside.”
“In my car? You mean in my invisible car?” She glared at Stef, who failed to look guilty. “That thing’s warded against all kinds of stuff!”
“I know,” Stef said, plucking a blackberry from Dmitri’s dish. “Last week, while you were sleeping, I copied your keys.” He popped the fruit into his mouth and pursed his lips at the taste. “A Ferrari, Joy? Really?”
While Joy wanted to be mad at her brother, she actually welcomed the snarky normalcy. “I am not having this conversation right now.”
“Whatever. Not important,” Dmitri said. “Bottom line—it’ll be there when you need it. You find an opening, get gone—take whomever you’ve got with you, and we’ll cover your hasty retreat.”
“Easy for you to say,” Joy mumbled behind the safety of her mask.
“Easy for you to do,” Dmitri said. “You were well on your way to making a scene before your dear brother upstaged the moment.” The faun slid a skewer of melon balls and dark berries into his mouth and chewed. “Just do what you do best,” he said. “Cause a little chaos.” He winked slyly. “You know you want to.”
Something stirred in the hollow of what once was her heart, a tiny flicker like heartburn or hope. She had allies. They were with her. Here. Now. She was standing among the Twixt in the heart of their world, Under the Hill. If she was going to play the game, she was going to play to win. And if the rules were stacked against her?
She’d cheat.
Joy smiled. “I can do that,” she said.
“Not a doubt about it,” Dmitri said, casually grabbing Stef by the wrist. “We’ll be watching from a safe distance, preferably near a door.”
“Stef,” Joy said quickly, bringing them both up short. He stared at her, and she felt suddenly small in fairy-princess dress-up clothes and grown-up shoes. She was six all over again, their parents screaming downstairs, looking to her older brother to see if it was okay to be scared. But the truth was that she wasn’t six, and she wasn’t scared—she was about to take charge, and he was the one who looked unsure.
“I wanted to tell you,” she said.
“I know,” he answered. “And I know why you didn’t.”
Joy shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. I understand a lot more now—a lot more—and I get it.” Stef threaded his fingers through Dmitri’s curls, a familiar gesture as unconscious as breathing. “I’m here for you.” He chucked his chin at the crowd. “You can do this.”
She glanced at the hundreds of masked faces, sweeping cloaks and gowns, the horns and hooves, the whiskers and wings, the eyes bright as glass, the unseen daggers half-drawn, the sharp smiles full of forked tongues and whispered laughter—a kaleidoscope of creatures waiting to see what the infamous Joy Malone might do. Front-page news. Film at eleven.
They had no idea what she could do.
“I know I can,” she said.
“Aaaaand that’s our cue,” Dmitri said as he snagged a silver tray of truffles as well as Stef’s arm. “Don’t disappoint me, little lady. I came to see a show!”
The crowd flowered open. Stef and Dmitri hurried past a clique of angry mutterings and accusing glares. It was as if a small circle cleared itself in anticipation of something, thrilled by the expectation of what she might do next. They wanted to witness the next scandal, yearned to weigh and condemn.
We dare you, they seethed.
She turned, sans escort, and found herself face-to-face with Hasp.
She inhaled sharply. The crippled aether sprite leered, his football-shaped head tilted and his bulging yellow eyes wide as a smile spread across his face like syrup.
“Greetings, ex-lehman to Ink,” Hasp said in his sibilant whisper. The sound of it shivered down her bare back. “You look different than when we last met. Do you remember?” Joy flashed on her body slapping into the slush beneath the overpass, Hasp holding her down in the icy puddles as Briarhook twisted her arm. She went cold, clammy, uncertain how to respond. Her renewed confidence fizzled. Wasn’t he in exile? Was he supposed to be here? Her skin crawled as she watched his extra-long fingers unfurl, remembering how they’d wrapped around her throat. She touched her pearl necklace like a ward. Hasp followed the gesture with growing glee. He bowed, exposing the long pink scars on his back where his wings had been removed, his locqus stripped from him by Council decree. His forefinger snaked forward and snagged the loop of pearls. Hasp grinned up at her.
“Pretty,” he said, then pulled.
She felt the snap before she heard it as a fortune of perfect pearls spilled over the floor, skiddi
ng under tables and bouncing off hooves. There were shrieks as a few dancers stumbled and fell, and more than a few spectators roared in unkind laughter. Guests slipped. Bystanders pounced. Platters capsized. Glasses broke. Folk hunkered down, eager to snatch up the rolling, golden treasure, pushing neighbors out of the way and knocking others prone. Joy staggered back, feeling the pearls spill through her fingers. When she looked up, Hasp had disappeared, leaving her fumbling without CliffsNotes or protections, humiliated, undone.
No. She gritted her teeth. I got this.
Joy spun around and pointed at the nearest gawker.
“You!” she shouted. The lanky harlequin froze. She held a single pearl above her head. “Whomever fetches me every single lost pearl will earn a boon! Is it witnessed?” Joy felt a little thrill as many eyes widened behind their lace and leather masks. She’d done this before—she knew the right words. They were impressed! The jester nodded. She waved her hand imperiously. “Go!”
And he did. Dozens followed, scattering to the corners of the ballroom.
Joy grabbed her skirts and hurried toward the door, knowing that the inevitable wouldn’t take long. She was a teenage veteran of competitive sports and impromptu raves—screw the waltz, this was a dance she knew well!
Behind her there were shouts, curses, squeals of victory and protest, raised voices, a single push and then the unmistakable sound of a punch hitting home.
It was like a gong went off, shattering the facade of genteel society.
One of Filly’s stouter sisters raised a fist and shouted, “Victory!”