Insidious Read online

  He took the lead as they crossed the aisle to the ticket booth at the Carousel’s entryway. Behind it was an old trailer covered in pressboard, painted black. The DJ opened the door and pushed inside, flipping on a bare light. Sound was smothered dead as he closed the door behind them. The walls of the tiny office had been covered with squares of egg carton foam staple-gunned and duct taped into place, cheap soundproofing against the outside din. The satyr fell into a swivel chair by a secondhand desk buried in security screens and flipped his massive headphones to hang like a necklace on his chest. His tufted ears ruffled, and he stuck a pen in his mass of curls.

  “Nice to spy you again,” he said to Joy. “And with the eye candy. Very nice.” He kicked a foot up on a plastic egg carton. Joy was surprised that he was wearing shoes. The DJ eyed Ink and Joy, his gaze lingering on their entwined hands. Joy hadn’t realized that they threaded their fingers together automatically nowadays. The satyr withdrew the pen and pointed it at each of them. “I heard you two kissed and made up. Good to see love conquers all now and again,” he said. “But I wish you hadn’t put the bee in everyone’s bonnet. You see the mess out there? It’s like every pix and nix is trying to get in on some of that action.”

  Joy squeezed Ink’s hand. “Some of us are just lucky, I guess.”

  The DJ stopped smirking. “Yeah. And then some.” He curled the tip of his half beard over the pen. “So what can I do ‘for’ you as opposed to ‘to’ you?”

  Joy took a deep breath. This was why she’d come. “I need your help.”

  “My help?” he said. “Really, now.”

  “Yes. With a spell.”

  “Whoa!” The satyr sat up and hit a few keys under the security monitors. A mute icon popped up on-screen. “Will you keep it down, natch? What do you want to come in here and say a thing like that for?” He cursed under his breath in some tangled language. “Do I look like a segulah to you?”

  “The last segulah was an elder dryad bent on destroying the human race,” Ink said matter-of-factly. “I am not interested in meeting another.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re barking up the wrong tree spirit.” The DJ sniffed. “We might both be Forest Folk, but I can’t help you out. Sorry.” He swiveled in place, then stood up. “You want a slick mix, I’m your guy, but spells aren’t my scene. Now if you’ll excuse me, I got a set with my name on the clock.”

  “I don’t need you to cast a spell,” Joy said, blocking the door. “I need help figuring out how to track one down.” She swallowed. “The Forest Folk are the guardians of the Glen, this part of the Twixt, right?”

  The DJ stopped, his interest piqued. “Yeah?”

  “And this is your post—the entrance Under the Hill?” Joy said. “If a spell had borders, it’d be here.” She swallowed back some of her anxiety. “All spells have a trademark, a way to identify who designed them,” she said. “I’m looking for a Class Ten spell, at least. I want to know if there’s any way to trace a spell by following the trademark back to its origin.”

  Twisting his curly head like an owl’s, the satyr stepped back, considering it. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “You could do that. Why?”

  “I need to find out who cast the spell.” Joy twisted her finger into the hem of her shirt. This was where things got risky. “I think there’s a blanket spell over the Twixt.”

  “Probably more than one,” the DJ said, crossing his arms, legs splayed in baggy jeans. “Gotta shore up the borders, such as they are. It’s a 24/7 hazard. You don’t have to tell me twice.”

  “This is different,” Joy said. She debated saying everything aloud—from the King and Queen and the princess and the coup to the Bailiwick and the hidden door somewhere inside; maybe he’d remember? Maybe the spell was weaker here? But Ink stood next to her, and she’d agreed that he’d learn all of this from Inq. She tried another tactic. “I think someone did something...bad. Really bad. It goes against all the Folk and the Council. And if I can find out who did it, I can stop it.”

  “Oh, really?” he said. “You gonna kill ’em?”

  Joy felt Ink’s eyes on her. “No,” she said. “No killing.” What she could do was infinitely worse. “And you know I’m not lying.”

  The satyr stroked his chin hairs and stared at the screen, gently bobbing to the muted beat outside. He glanced back at Joy and Ink, weighing something in his eyes. “What’s it worth to you?”

  Joy frowned. “Excuse me?”

  “This is your post,” Ink said. “If it has been compromised, it is within your rights and duty to act in order to protect the Glen.”

  “So says Miss Joy Malone?”

  Joy flinched a little at the sound of her full name, although she knew that it hadn’t the power to control her anymore. Filly was right—she’d been vulnerable—but Joy was now protected by her signatura. She felt it like an itch between her shoulder blades, the sigil of her True Name linking her to the Twixt.

  “Yes,” she said. “I say so. This is my world, too.”

  Joy looked into his cherry-brown eyes under his mop of curls—he was remembering something else, somewhen else, when he looked at her.

  “Yeah, okay,” he said. “I think I can help you out.” He snatched a business card from an open envelope and clicked his pen. “But if I’m going to go out on a limb for you, I’m going to want something special in return.”

  Ink spoke first. “How much?”

  “Oh, I don’t need money,” the DJ said while scribbling. “I’m not interested in material suffering.” He leaned forward, the headphones swinging from his neck like a yoke, his grin almost feral. “You said a Class Ten? So you know your brother’s a wizard, right? I want you to arrange a meeting for me,” he said slowly. “I want a meeting with your brother, Stef.”

  “What?” Joy said. She remembered Stef guessing that this guy from the club was probably one of his old clients—freelancing wizardry being one of the things that had been forbidden to him since he’d become an apprentice to Mr. Vinh.

  The satyr looked smug. “That’s my price.”

  “I can’t do that,” Joy said. “Class Ten is way beyond him.”

  “I don’t care,” the DJ said. “Arrange a meeting for me, and I’ll make things happen.”

  “I can arrange things all I want, but I can’t make him show up,” Joy said. “I can’t make my brother do anything! I can’t even get him to get out of bed in the morning!”

  The DJ held up the business card and shook his head sadly. “Let’s try this again,” he said. “You are asking me to risk something for the chance to help you test out this shiny conspiracy theory of yours, and, in return, I am asking you to make Stefan Malone show up and talk to me.” He shook his head as he wrote something down on the card. “You can stay with him the whole time if you’d like, you can hold his hand, you can lay down any condition you want, but I have one—and only one—request for my cooperative and complicit participation and that is—” he violently scribbled out whatever he’d written and turned to her, resolute “—your brother will be there. End sentence.”

  Joy was surprised as she looked at the card. She couldn’t make out what the DJ had originally written, it was obliterated under pressure and ink, but he sounded desperate. She wondered if her brother had been like Ladybird, some kind of magic drug dealer, and this guy was now jonesing for a long-forgotten fix? Doubt rippled inside her. She thought about Inq and the princess and the hidden door, the King and Queen, the ever-present rules and the inevitable change percolating under her skin. She rubbed her arms, smoothing down the memory of that driving heat on the dance floor above the Wild. Her own heartbeat scared her. But she couldn’t risk what he was asking—she couldn’t risk Stef.

  She handed the card back. “No,” she said. “No deal.”

  The satyr growled in frustration. “I’m not going to do anything to him, Miss Par
anoid,” he said. “I just want to talk.”

  Ink frowned. “Just talk?”

  The DJ scratched his fingernails against the surface of his jeans. “Yeah, ‘just talk.’” He sounded defensive, uncomfortable without his swagger and smirk. “I want him to show up, and I want words to come out of his mouth and words to come out of my mouth and for there to be a mutual exchanging of words,” he said. “Talk. And, in exchange, I’ll get you what you need to track down a spell.”

  Joy twisted her fists. “And you’re not going to hurt him,” she said.

  The satyr paused and scratched his beard. “I can’t promise not to hurt him,” he said. “Words can hurt, sometimes.”

  “But you won’t touch him, or come anywhere near him,” she said, wavering.

  Ink touched her arm. “Joy...”

  But she flung his hand off her arm and kept going, hardly believing she was even considering this. Something in the DJ’s face begged her to listen, but she couldn’t quite make out what he wasn’t saying. It looked like Please.

  “You won’t do anything at all that could possibly be considered an attack or a threat or anything intending him harm—just talk. Hands where everyone can see them, no weapons or spells, at least ten feet between you two at all times. And you’ll come unarmed and alone.” Joy tried to think of any way that she could bind it tighter, any loophole she hadn’t considered.

  “Do you swear on rowan, yew and ash and be by ironwood bound?” Ink said.

  The satyr turned pale. Ink’s words meant something to him. Joy nodded. “You agree to that,” she said. “And I’ll see what I can do.”

  The satyr stared at her with wide eyes and scratched his scalp near the nubs of his horns. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah. I can do that. By rowan, yew and ash, I swear, and shall be by ironwood bound.” He dug into his many pockets and pulled out a glow stick. Grabbing a marker from the coffee mug, he drew swirly symbols carefully over the curved plastic sheath. The black Sharpie glyphs reminded Joy of Aniseed and her cache of wax-sealed potions. She flinched.

  “I thought you said you couldn’t do spells,” Joy said.

  “This isn’t a spell, it’s a beacon,” he said. “How do you think half the Folk get in here? Ask your boy—it makes a door from one spot to another. We have to stick ’em up all over the place—on the walls, the ceiling, the doors, the fans. Pops folks in at twice the cover price. Increases turnout up to thirty percent.” He handed her the glow stick and tapped it lightly with the cap. “Snap that and we’re copacetic. Somewhere secluded and near trees would make things easier.” He snickered and shook his head of brown curls. “And wouldn’t it be nice if someone would make things easier for a change?” he said. “You’ll have to be the one to break it since he’s not here—imprint’s for one. If you can do that, I’ll get you what you need.”

  “After I bring you what you need?” she tested.

  His grin tugged at the corner of his lip. “Maybe,” he said.

  He snapped his headphones over his ears, slid the strap over his horns and reached for the door. Joy noticed his knees bent backward in his jeans. “Now get out,” he said amicably. “I got a rave to brave, and you have things to bring.” He yanked the door open, and the sound crashed over them, the reverb nearly blowing Joy backward. Ink barely blinked. The DJ shouted by her cheekbone, “I’m trusting you.”

  She shouted back, “Same here.”

  He hopped out the door, gave a double-gun salute and backed into the throng. Ink took Joy’s hand and slipped into the outer aisle, swallowed back into strobe light and noise. Joy looked around for Monica and Gordon and quietly pocketed another unbroken glow stick that had been taped to the door. Ink watched her make a ring of the black electric tape and thread it through the top. Now she could tell the two sticks apart.

  “You are becoming more and more like the Bailiwick,” Ink said.

  “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

  “In a way,” he said. “You are both cunning and careful with your words.” He looked up at the ceiling full of spinning highlighter swirls, black lights and mirrors. “And you are fast becoming adept at the art of trading favors in order to get what you want.”

  Joy took his hand. “There is only one thing I want right now.”

  He grinned and squeezed her fingers, eyes wide. “Show me.”

  * * *

  They stumbled through the breach and up against her bedroom wall, Ink cupping her face and kissing her mouth, her cheeks, her chin. Joy bounced off the dresser and twisted, grabbing his sleeves to steady them or pull him closer—she couldn’t quite decide.

  Ink stopped them with a hand flat on the wall that quickly slid into her hair as he kissed her again and again, drunk on kisses. She melted and tightened against him in turns. How had they gotten so good at this? She giggled, remembering Ink’s offhanded words, Some things are eagerly taught. Monica had grinned wickedly at them when they’d made their hasty goodbyes.

  He pressed the length of his body against hers. She moaned and pulled him closer, openmouthed, wanting. He slid a leg between hers, gaining another precious inch. She gasped, splayed against him and the wall.

  His words fought for space between breaths.

  “Is your brother home?”

  Joy laughed in his mouth. “I don’t know,” she said, still kissing him. “Why?”

  She felt Ink’s lips crease in a smile over hers as he lifted her up by the waist with the strength he’d had Under the Hill. She laughed in delight, cupping her palm over her mouth to smother the sound, aware that anyone could be home—they might not hear Ink, but they would easily hear her. Ink grinned mischievously as he spread her gently across her bed.

  Joy arched into the pillows, hooking a heel behind his knee, pulling him along, urging him closer. Ink stretched forward, his chest hovering over hers, his eyes fathomless and full of stars. It made her smile, his being so happy just looking at her.

  “You know,” she said softly. “Usually guys ask whether a girl’s father is home.”

  “Your father cannot see me,” he said.

  She grinned. “Good point.”

  He hovered, holding himself up on his arms, lowering just enough to kiss her—only their lips touched. Ink gently explored her mouth, planting soft kisses along her lips, tracing their outline as they parted to breathe. She gasped as he touched his tongue very gently between her lips, sealing them closed with a kiss. Joy stopped giggling, stilled in the moment. He broke away, trailing a long, warm breath down the side of her neck, tracing the line of her shirt and back up her throat, encircling her, memorizing her with the touch of his lips. Joy turned her head to one side and twisted her fingers in his shirt.

  He moved closer, the exposed edge of his stomach brushing against hers, a contact high, hot and searing, electric and intense. She gripped his shirt and held fast. He resisted for only a moment before resting on his elbows, melting with a sigh against her, burying his face in her neck.

  She turned and kissed him—his face, his neck, the crux of his jaw until she met his mouth, warm and soft in the dark. Joy forgot all her schemes, all her worries, her choices, her secrets, until there was nothing left but her senses and him. She swam the moment and held on to Ink.

  Urgent sounds whispered under their breath, both of them eager to feel more, fumbling over fabric and catching on buttons. The cool hiss of the wallet chain slid over her belly. She gasped, and he drew back, eyes wonderous-wide.

  “No.” She almost laughed. Almost. “Come back.”

  But he knelt up on the bed, his knees sinking deep into the comforter as he looked down at her as if she were something otherworldly, his face a soft expression of awe. Joy lay sprawled beneath him, disheveled, awkward, hair damp at her neck, lips kiss-swollen—she waited like a question. She barely dared to breathe.

  Ink tou
ched two fingers to his heart and rubbed them there. He gazed at her, unblinking, and laid the palm against his chest.

  “I feel you,” he said. “Here.”

  He’d said it before, but it sounded different now. He tilted his head and let his eyes slip closed, long lashes drawing curtains over his all-black eyes. His hand pressed harder, and he smiled a little bit.

  “I can feel my heart pounding,” he said.

  Joy blinked, some of the tangled muzziness and deep want clearing.

  “Your heart?” she asked slowly. Her tongue felt thick.

  Ink’s eyes opened, bright with tiny flashes. “Yes,” he said. “I made myself a heart,” he admitted almost shyly. “To feel joy.”

  She sat up, drawn forward into his eyes. Joy slid a hand under his shirt, her fingers soft under his. He pressed her there, and she could feel it.

  Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

  Joy smiled, and her eyes shone with sudden tears.

  “I can feel it,” she whispered. “I can feel your heart.”

  Holding her hand against him, his eyes enveloped her.

  “I love you, Joy.”

  He pulled his shirt over his head, revealing Joy’s hand resting on the fissure between his pecs. They had carved his body together with a figure-drawing book; she’d seen him bare-chested before—but not like this. Nothing like this. It was as if she didn’t recognize her own hand, or his skin, or their bodies, together. She spread her fingers, and he let her explore, watching her watching. Her fingertips traced his muscles and ribs, his furrows and edges, returning to the center of him, a dance around the drum call of his heart.

  Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

  Growing faster, louder, calling out to her from under his skin.