Insidious

by Dawn Metcalf

  The room erupted.

  It was a free-for-all punctuated with barks and laughter and mayhem. Dodging behind a column, Joy rifled under her hairpiece for the scalpel, feeling both silly and clever as she slid the weapon out of her curls. There was a scuffle by the harp stand. Someone flew backward, sending dancers sprawling. A table upended. A chair hit the pool. A towering ice sculpture shattered against the floor. There were screams and bellows and a squeaky garble of angry porpoise protests. Joy saw a sheepish-looking girl with woolly hair grab the boy next to her and kiss him. A handsome stag-man with green eyes landed a sucker punch on a basilisk, who bent double, gnashed its black fangs and shrieked. A feathered boarhound, taking offense, charged.

  Hugging the column, Joy checked the doors. Everyone was moving to either join or contain the damage; she recognized a few of the Council members darting through the melee and several bird-masked figures acting as guards. She caught the baleful look on Sol Leander’s face as he pointed at her and shouted something wordless. She was glad she couldn’t hear him and darted quickly around the fountain. Someone thrust a fist of pearls in her face, but it was knocked sideways, spraying the loot like scattershot. Joy ducked and changed direction, getting a splash of something across her back. She was tempted to pull her rip cords, but had to get clear of the hall. There was a horribly familiar cackle, and Joy glanced back, spying Ladybird applauding her with arrogant glee. He spied her across the room and doffed his plumed hat in wry salute. Frowning, she hid behind the next column. The drug lord’s approval was not a good sign.

  Holding her breath, Joy ran for the nearest table, untouched save for a few missing trays and its linens stained with wine. At least, she hoped it was wine. Ducking quickly, she avoided a tangle of bodies hitting the floor just beyond the table’s edge. She was about to bolt when she felt a hand close over her ankle. Joy yelped and kicked the knuckles with her heel. A tray whanged down hard, and the grip turned boneless. A pair of stalk-eyes appeared under the edge of the tablecloth, winked at her and disappeared. Joy was grateful to keep moving.

  The floorboards trembled, jostling her feet. A swelling shape roiled past, smelling of baked air and fear. Joy didn’t have the breath to scream—she was too surprised to do much but gawk as Bùxiŭ de Zhēnzhū transformed, his face flattening, neck lengthening, spine undulating as his clothes billowed out as if carried by the winds that had tugged his moustaches into ropy tendrils, and smoke wreathed his head like fur. His smile zippered wide. His nostrils flared. Scales glittered to the surface. Fire churned in his throat. A rosy glow lit his chest from the inside, outlining ribs the size of railroad ties. His massive tail curled. His breathing sounded like distant thunder—the promise of roars.

  Joy slammed her back against the wall and reconsidered dashing past the dragon.

  The rising volume of voices pressed down, urging her out. The air crackled with tension and madness. The room grew increasingly angry and loud. She squeezed her scalpel in her sweaty fist. How was she going to get out?

  A howl split the air, becoming a chorus. Joy chanced a look, shocked to see a willowy woman with a sunburst mask and a familiar squiggle on her jaw lift a ceremonial staff as she sang out a long, throaty wail. The men beside her were built like glaciers, wide and hard, wearing all the colors of winter, their male voices combining with hers into a chilling challenge. One man wore a half-moon mask and dark furs, his one arm ended at the elbow, his long hair speckled with stars.

  Ysabel. Joy stared. And that must be Lucius.

  Ysabel LaCombe, her first client, the one whose plea had exposed her power to Graus Claude, had come to repay her debt. The French Canadian water sprite and her werewolf lover were willing to fight for Joy’s freedom.

  The wolf pack shifted form, split and circled, driving masqueraders together in squealing herds, snapping at their heels. Folk scattered with renewed fury and fear. The dragon’s front claws came down like an avalanche. Mirrors shattered. Musicians fled. The chandelier globes tinkled against one another, a sound almost lost in the bedlam...but not completely. Joy stared up at the ceiling while laughter rang from the rafters and complicated curses echoed off the walls. Folk were shouting at one another to Let go! Settle down! Come quietly! Find Joy!

  She knew she should run, but she watched the glowing orbs wobble like champagne bubbles hugging the underside of the glass. Her memory was now up among them, the memory of this night—her being welcomed as one of the Twixt—but hers was different, not just because she was once-human, but because she was the first to be presented in a thousand years. To the Council. To the Folk. Not all the Folk, only those left behind. Joy stared out over the swollen ballroom knowing it should be impossibly bigger, grander; she knew what was missing. There were thousands of bubbles hanging in that chandelier, all the memories of those moments when everyone in the Twixt had been presented just like this. Not like this, she realized. They had been presented to the King and Queen!

  Glowing moments, memories, all of them, preserved for all time.

  A time before the Council.

  Before the Amanya spell.

  Joy knew what to do.

  She looked for the nearest possible object, but nothing seemed within reach. She glanced about desperately, but then touched her own hair, feeling the crystal comb—the one Maia had given her in protest of Graus Claude. Joy’s fingers closed over the sharp stones.

  She hesitated. Maia said it didn’t do anything. No—she hadn’t said that. She’d dodged the question, saying it looked pretty in her hair. Joy thought about what Maia hadn’t said—she’d given her favor, wrapped it with care and whispered a warning: Wouldn’t want t’ break it by accident, she’d said.

  What about on purpose?

  Joy snatched the comb and threw it hard into the low-hanging lights.

  Crystals collided. Light exploded. Glass shattered. Shooting stars cascaded like fireworks, careening off every reflective surface, setting off a flashing chain reaction punctuated by high-pitched whistles and brightly colored sparks. The chandelier collapsed, imploding in a symphony of nova light. Pieces rained down like burning ash, like stardust, like snow. Everywhere they touched glowed a little brighter. Everyone they touched grew quiet and still. Memories flashed in their eyes, mirror-bright, fading in a matchstick instant. The ballroom dimmed, a hushed twilight, the chaos ebbed into silence.

  Joy wondered if she’d done it, if they remembered...

  “For the Imminent Return!” Her lone voice echoed off the walls.

  The entirety of the Twixt turned and stared at her, stunned.

  ...

  “FOR THE IMMINENT RETURN!”

  Folk took up the battle cry—the sound of an awakening. They cheered, embraced, fell to their knees, many screamed, joyous, many more cried. There were shouts of outrage, pointing fingers and claws, bickering, swearing, recrimination, supplication, despair, hope and blame. The Twixt exploded in a mob of rapture and fury. If Joy hadn’t been so adrenalized, she’d have stopped to admire her handiwork. Instead, she squinted against the light and bolted out the door.

  Now! She grabbed the ribbons at her ribs and pulled.

  The dress collapsed in half, folding outward like a flower that she stepped out of with ease. Joy kicked off her shoes, tore the feet off her hose and wriggled out of the crinoline, shedding the fabric like a cocoon. She rolled her long, glove-like sleeves inside-out and threw them on top of the discarded half wig, picked up her scalpel and her purse with the keys and left the rest behind like a melted Cinderella corpse.

  Raina was right to have had her practice. She was right about a lot of things, but what Joy needed right now wasn’t Raina—she needed to find Ink! And then Graus Claude, Kurt, Filly, Briarhook...

  One conniption fit at a time. You’ve just changed the world!

  Joy raced down the hall in her GK leotard and bare feet.

 
Marble changed to hardwood changed to carpeting and stone floor. She remembered the map as if she’d snapped a pic with her phone, but no one had mentioned a coatroom. She hadn’t worn a coat. Joy squeezed the handle of the scalpel, hoping she could erase the snooze button when she found them. She sprinted down the hall leading back to the Council chamber and ran up the stairs. There were so many doors, so many winding corridors, she’d be hopelessly lost if she picked a random direction. She needed a map. She needed a plan. But what she wanted was Ink.

  Joy crouched in the alcove, panting to catch her breath, amazed and disturbed that her heart wasn’t slamming in her chest like it should. It made her feel hollow, like something not-quite-real. She strained to hear the lumber of footsteps or the clatter of the ballroom crowd in pursuit. Joy ducked beneath the stairwell and took stock. How long could she search Under the Hill? How long could she last before being found? She wondered if Kestrel would be here, tracking her down. The idea of the alien-faced tracker sniffing her out made Joy press deeper into shadow.

  There was a sound—a whisper of a sound—directly behind her.

  She whirled, scalpel out.

  “Joy.”

  Ink was there, hands raised, eyes open, whole. Gone was his elaborate coat; he stood in his black shirt, buckled pants and silver-clawed boots, the ever-present wallet chain swinging at his hip. Joy stared, hardly daring to believe it. She didn’t believe it.

  “They shut you off.”

  He smiled impishly. “Never again.” Ink tapped the spot above his left breast. “I created a blockage—you showed me where.” He punched his chest. Nothing happened. Two dimples appeared.

  Joy shook her head. “I saw you fall—”

  “I fell,” he admitted. “But deception is not the same as lying.”

  Biting back a laugh, Joy flung herself into his arms, and he hugged her hard, pressing her to him, smelling of sea and storm. She kissed him, and his hands slid down her bare back, catching on the seam. His thumb hooked into the Lycra and tugged her closer. “I liked the dress,” he confessed. His breathing changed, pressing against her. “I like this more.” His mouth opened under hers. She clutched his shirt. There was a flare deep in her belly. Ink blinked twice and swallowed.

  “This is not the time,” he said.

  Peeling apart, Joy took his hand, still feeling sparks. “Definitely not,” she said and tapped his arm. “Come on. We’ve got to go.”

  Ink flicked open his straight razor. The wallet chain bounced at his hip. “We are still within the wards,” he said. “I cannot cut a doorway, and we cannot leave without the Bailiwick.”

  “But they remember now! They can open the door—”

  Ink shook his head. “Not without the courier,” he said. “Aniseed was to locate the door and open it by Council decree. They cannot find it without her.”

  “Then we’ll get Aniseed to tell us,” Joy said grimly. “The graftling knows where it is.”

  Ink checked the hallway. “Perhaps so,” he said. “But not soon enough.”

  He tugged her forward, taking the lead. Joy followed him, leaving the ballroom far behind. “But isn’t Inq—”

  “They shut her down,” he said flatly. “She was stored with me, but I had not told her—” Ink sighed, lips tight. “I should have told her about the fail-safe, and now it is too late.” Joy squeezed his hand. She knew exactly how he felt. Siblings were hard. Secrets were hard. Ink tugged her around a corner. “She is safer there than she would be being carried out by us. We will have to assume her role.” He nodded back behind them. “You may have made things more difficult—if they remember, they will seek out Graus Claude, but will they be looking for a savior or a scapegoat?” Ink glanced at her curiously. “How did you do it? How did you break the spell?”

  “The Folk’s memories of their own galas predated the Amanya spell,” Joy said, matching his pace. “In a paradox, the earlier spell wins out. I took a chance that those stored memories would do the trick, but I didn’t expect that response.”

  Ink led them up a long set of stairs, speaking quickly. “The Folk have just remembered their King and Queen, their lost kin, their broken promises—they feel guilty and overwhelmed, violated and confused. I imagine they are feeling many things at once,” he said. “I am beginning to understand that now.”

  “Really?” she said to cover her worry. “What are you feeling?”

  “Joy,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Relief, empathy, anger, resolve, compassion, possessiveness, excitement, hope, love.” Ink’s voice trailed off as he avoided her gaze. “Lust.”

  Joy felt herself blush.

  He stopped to check the next rise, then ducked to the left, leading them on some path with purpose. Joy followed, feeling more unease. She was hopelessly lost—all the upper hallways looked the same, lined with wooden doors framed in gilt and heavy curtains. Joy shifted her grip on the scalpel, expecting one of the Twixt to jump out at every turn. If they couldn’t get into the Bailiwick to open the door, they would have to get him out until everything calmed down. Hiding him on the way out was going to be tricky, but once they cleared the hill, they could disappear. Joy would have to leave the car...

  Ink stopped and chose a different corridor. “Here,” he said and pulled her through a door.

  It was a greenhouse. A fractal glass dome arced overhead with massive trees crowded together along a stone path. The air hot and stuffy, perfumed in flowers and mulch. Moisture clung like sweat and beaded on their lashes. Joy watched the silk ribbon in Ink’s hair droop. Things danced among the branches. Joy tensed, but they were only enormous-winged butterflies, dancing motes of blue and orange, white and speckled brown. It was like yet another world than the two they’d left behind.

  “Lehman!”

  Joy stumbled. Fetid breath hit her face, rocking her back and making her gag. The taste of rotten meat clung to her tongue, and she retched, bile burning the back of her throat. Joy swallowed, eyes watering, and held on to Ink. The quilled monster resolved out of the forest patterns. Her arm stung with memory. Her eyes stung with tears.

  “Here. Bailiwick.” Briarhook spat. “Deal!” Reaching behind him, Briarhook shoved Graus Claude forward. Joy stared. The grandiose toad was a pale, sickly yellow instead of his normal olive hue; his four arms hung loose at his sides, and his eyes looked bloodshot, a bizarre mix of red and ice-blue. The nightmarish hedgehog sneered, his mealy rags replaced with a bizarre sort of uniform, dark and patchy, with spines sticking out in all directions. The edge of the metal plate peeked out from the low collar. Joy saw one of the crusted rivets up close. “Say you, ‘break out’ but not ‘how far.’” Briarhook spat at her feet, a globule of spittle clinging to his lip. “Know you why? Heart mine—not in it. No.” He chortled. Graus Claude shuddered. Briarhook’s tail struck him with a fat earthworm thump. “Bailiwick is, yes. Drugged. Drained. Bled. Broke.” The hedgehog raised a single claw. “But free. Yes.” His piggy eyes glittered in his shuddery flesh. He sniffed as if he could scent bloodhounds coming. “For now.”

  Joy grabbed one of Graus Claude’s hands in hers. It was dry and chapped and quivering. She tried to get his eyes to focus on her from under his post-orbital ridge, but she couldn’t make herself move his head. The indignity of it was worse than the possibility of losing him.

  “Where is Kurt?” Ink asked.

  Briarhook shrugged. “Not know. Not here. Work mine, done.” He sneered with his mealy, broken teeth. “Go. Enjoy hunt, you. Know you—take message, eh? Make message you take!” Joy tried to ignore the hate that frothed behind her, bristling with black, barbarous quills. Pain stabbed her shoulder, quick enough to make her gasp. She glared up at him. He’d poked her with a claw. “No die, you,” Briarhook warned, poking her again. “Not yet! Not till my heart mine—” he squeezed the word through rotted teeth as he slithered toward the stairs on the opposite side of
the mezzanine. “Then—promise you, I—you die,” he said softly. “You die slow.” His voice dropped low as his face faded into shadow, whispering a private threat, bubbling out of the darkness. “So. Very. Slow.”

  Ink’s razor shone a stab of light like a warning, but the hedgehog was gone.

  Joy counted to five. Then five again. She forced the sick tremble out of her limbs by squeezing the giant frog’s hand. She shook it with force.

  “Graus Claude?” she squeaked urgently. “Graus Claude? It’s Joy.”

  There was an answering rumble in the back of his throat, too far away to do much good.

  “Mmm,” he said. It was a noncommittal sound.

  She crossed her mental fingers. “Bailiwick?”

  “Miss—Malone?”

  “Yes,” Joy said desperately. “Yes. You need to get up. We need get out of here.” She glanced at Ink, adding somewhat unnecessarily, “Right now.”

  Three of his hands started to move, arms flexing, fingers twitching, the massive curve of his spine arcing upward, reminding her of the dragon who was somewhere Under the Hill. The leader of a defunct Council? The one who would no doubt be blamed for what had happened? She could just imagine his desire to find her.

  The Bailiwick’s low-slung head moved to one side, his eyes sparkled dully, jade instead of sapphire. Ink supported much of his unsteady bulk.

  “Where are we?” Graus Claude muttered.

  “In the Atrium,” Ink said. “Briarhook was instructed to use this part of the forest wing as a fallback should the plan go awry.”

  Graus Claude creaked, “I imagine this means that things have gone awry.”

  Ink nodded. “Quite.”

  The Bailiwick frowned at the Scribe. “What have you done to your hair?” he asked. “It looks ghastly.”

  “Never mind that,” Joy said, not wanting to get into the details right now. “Just tell us how to get back to the East entrance, and we can get you out of here.”

  Comprehension lit a fire behind his eyes full of defiance and rebuke.