Insidious Page 2

  The creature pointed emphatically at them.

  Under the table, Ink pointed to himself and raised his eyebrows like a question.

  The tiny creature shook its head and pointed again, tapping the glass.

  Shelley glanced at the window. “Do you hear pecking?”

  “It’s the birds,” Mr. Malone said without turning around. “There’s one of them trying to build a nest in the window box. I keep meaning to install a mesh lid.”

  Joy lifted her napkin to hide her hand and pointed at herself. The little creature nodded, wagging its tail. Joy dabbed her lips. Great. Now what?

  The winged Folk hooked its tiny toes into the sill, licked one of its long fingers and drew a word reversed on the glass. Its saliva was brown and sticky-looking, the letters gooey and smeared.

  It made a big show of licking its finger again, a dribble of drool stuck to the hairs on its chin.

  Joy felt light-headed. This was how it had all started: strange messages left on her window and phone for a mysterious someone called “Ink.” She glanced at him across the table. He kept his eyes down and nodded as if in thought. It was enough confirmation for the little creature, who flipped backward, wings unfolding, and hovered in the air. Stef rolled up his sleeve, and Joy wondered if he was going to draw wizards’ symbols on his forearms with the butter knife. She shook her head. Her brother glared at her and picked up his unused spoon.

  “You need to wash it off,” Stef said, shoving it at her, pointedly not looking at the window. Joy swallowed. He was right—even if Dad and Shelley didn’t have the Sight, there was a chance they’d see the words written on the glass in ooze.

  “Stef—” Mr. Malone said tiredly.

  “No, he’s right,” Joy said, grabbing the spoon and standing up. “It was my turn to do the dishes. My bad.” She hurried over to the sink, blocking the view of the kitchen window with her body. She turned on the water and scrubbed the spoon, mouthing to the creature, Wash it off! She made a scrubbing motion with the sponge and lifted the water nozzle. The little face scrunched up in confusion. Joy pointed at the letters. Wash. It. Off, she overemphasized with her lips.

  The creature suddenly smiled and nodded, its big eyes glinting merrily through its bristly mane.

  Joy gave it a wave of thanks and returned to her seat, handing back the spoon to her brother. “There,” she said. “Better?”

  There was a drizzling, trickling sound like rain against the window. Joy peeked over her shoulder. The incriminating words dribbled down the glass as the little creature flew around, peeing on them. Stef changed his snort into a cough, and Joy pushed her plate aside, having suddenly lost her appetite.

  Ink looked at Joy’s father. “More potatoes?”

  Mr. Malone shook his head and patted his stomach. “Portion control,” he said. “Don’t tempt me.”

  Shelley shook her head. Stef did, too. “Pass.”

  Ink lowered the bowl slowly. He touched his chest, rubbing the dip at his breastbone, the space above his heart where he now felt things like love and pain and fear. He looked disoriented, confused.

  Joy touched his arm, “You okay?”

  Ink didn’t say anything. He turned around in his chair and stared at the door.

  Someone knocked.

  Joy went cold.

  “That’s odd,” Mr. Malone said, standing up. “Who could that be?”

  Joy couldn’t decide whether to stop him or not, wondering if he’d even see anything should he look through the peephole. Stef and Joy exchanged glances. Joy reached for Ink’s hand. Stef picked up a steak knife and the salt.

  Mr. Malone opened the door...and there was Invisible Inq.

  The resemblance between the two Scribes was unmistakable. Even wearing their glamours, they both had the same spiky black hair, the same long, lean bodies and the same youthful faces with liquid eyes that wobbled when wet. Mr. Malone didn’t need to ask who she was, but it was eerie having her stand there so still.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and Joy was startled to hear that she really sounded sorry—no snark, no sly wit, no smoky insincerity. Inq glanced at the table. “Sorry to interrupt. I see you’re having dinner. With my brother—” she looked at Ink, eyes pleading “—I need to talk to him. And Joy.”

  “It must be a twin thing,” Shelley whispered.

  “Come in,” said Mr. Malone. “Would you like to sit down?”

  Ink stood up. “What is it?” he said, but everyone heard What’s wrong?

  A smile warred with a frown on Inq’s face as if she couldn’t quite decide which was which. Her eyes swam, pools of fathomless black.

  “It’s Enrique,” she said.

  And Joy knew even before Inq could say the words.

  TWO

  WANDERING THROUGH THE funeral parlor, Joy examined the photos on display—Enrique sailing ships, climbing mountains, posing with friends laughing, clinking glasses at a bar, windsurfing at Cape Hatteras, showing off an octopus in both hands, hiking somewhere in the rain forests, riding a camel through the desert, snorkeling in the Great Barrier Reef and haloed against a gorgeous sunrise at the top of Machu Picchu—Enrique’s life had been one amazing adventure after the next. It was hard to believe that he was dead.

  People milled about in black dresses and crisp suits, talking in low voices and hugging one another in tissue-soft arms. Joy could hear the whispers between them, words like aneurysm, what a shame and really knew how to live. Joy inhaled the sweet scent of lilies. The flowers crowded the reception tables and flanked the heavy-looking urn. Inq welcomed guests, looking glamorous in a little black dress and a choker of pearls. She smiled and nodded and thanked them all for coming. Luiz had saved Joy a seat with the rest of the Cabana Boys, who looked unusually somber in the front row. Joy remembered that Enrique had said that he had no family, so she figured that these were his friends, his business colleagues and a few dozen invisible people.

  Joy sat down gingerly, self-conscious about joining the row of beautiful men who had known Enrique best, but she didn’t know anyone else here. The murmurings and gentle noises slid around her, not touching, not comforting, barely real. Unlike Inq, she didn’t know what to say, and the silence felt as black as her dress. Beside her, Ilhami took her hand and squeezed. She squeezed back. With all that was unsaid between them, they understood each other perfectly.

  “Sorry, Cabana Girl,” he whispered. “No booby doll today.”

  He’d surprised a smile out of her. “That’s okay.”

  He shrugged, looking uncomfortable in his expensive suit. “Where’s Ink?”

  “In some hospital in Darfur,” Joy said. “He said he’d be here soon.”

  Ilhami tugged his cuffs over his tattoos. “Better save him a seat.”

  She placed her purse on the empty seat to her right and tried to remember the sound of Enrique’s voice, the way his eyes twinkled when he was being clever, or her first impression of him—a South American James Bond. She tried to hold on to the things that he’d told her, that family was important and that they were both very lucky and how sorry he was for bringing her deeper into their world of danger and politics. He’d tucked her into a coat and kissed her forehead and given her coffee before he’d sent her into a drug lord’s den on the edge of the Twixt in order to rescue Ilhami. Later he’d driven the getaway car at high speeds and ensured she’d made it back home in one piece. A tightness welled in her throat, and Tuan offered her a box of tissues. She took one and twisted it around her fingertip.

  She didn’t remember calling in to work. She didn’t remember what excuses she’d given. She had told her father that she was going to the funeral of her boyfriend’s sister’s boyfriend, which was close enough to the truth that it hadn’t hurt to say it except for the usual hurt of having to say such things aloud.

  That morning,
Nikolai had picked her up in Enrique’s customized Ferrari and handed her a cup of coffee as they’d driven together in silence. His full lips had pinched as he’d hit the hidden switch, slipping them instantly through time and space to arrive just south of the funeral home.

  Joy glanced out the window. She had no idea where they were—probably New York City, which was where Enrique had worked when he was in the States. It was green and leafy outside, unfamiliar, with an open, airy sky that didn’t feel like New York, but they could be anywhere. It didn’t really matter. Enrique, the eldest Cabana Boy, was gone, leaving behind friends and tears and photos and ashes. Joy stroked the inside of her palm, tracing the damp lifeline.

  This was where all adventures ended. This was what it meant to be mortal.

  Even with Folk blood in her veins and her own signatura, Joy Malone was not immortal.

  The service washed over her in a buzz of condolences, Bible quotes and expensive cologne. Words wafted through her ears, unremarkable and unimportant. Joy fixed her gaze on the dark metal container in the center of the dais. She had a hard time reconciling how anything so small could possibly contain Enrique, who had lived so large. It was too small, too ordinary, too quiet to be him. Without seeing a body, Joy found it hard to believe that he was dead.

  He could be faking it—staging his own death. Living under the radar, off the grid, leaving his old life behind in order to live in the Twixt. Maybe Inq helps him do it. Maybe he’s older than he looked and has to make a new life somewhere every sixty years to throw people off the scent. There are movies like that, right? It makes sense. It could happen. It could be a bluff...

  But she knew, in her heart, it wasn’t.

  It had taken Inq several tries to convince Joy that her lehman’s death had been due to natural causes, a sudden burst in the brain, and not some kind of mistake, and even more convincing to assure her that he hadn’t been a victim of Ladybird or Briarhook, Sol Leander or any one of their other enemies in the Twixt. Enrique’s death hadn’t been murder or revenge—it had just been time.

  “He was mortal,” Inq had said. “Mortals die.”

  It had happened. It was real. And there was nothing Joy could do. Humans were mortal. There were some things not even her magical scalpel could erase.

  Sometimes there are no mistakes.

  Joy shuddered and pulled her shrug closer.

  She didn’t have a lot of experience with death, having been six or seven when her last grandparent died. She didn’t know how her Folk blood might affect how long she’d live and what would happen to her afterward. She knew what she was supposed to believe, but her brief stint in Sunday School had never prepared her for being part-Twixt. Did Folk go to Heaven? Did their half-human descendants, those with the Sight? Or did they go somewhere else? Where was Great-Grandmother Caroline now? Had she died young, for one of the Folk, or had she been old for a human? Joy glanced at Inq, dry-eyed and poised, knowing few could see the pale glyphs flying over her skin in silent fury.

  A dark, long-haired woman offered Inq a tissue, which she politely refused. Joy stared at the Scribe. Would Ink be this calm when Joy was the one in a box?

  The scent of lilies became cloying, and Joy pressed the tissue to her face.

  When her eyes cleared, Ink was beside her.

  She didn’t know when he had arrived, whether he’d walked through the door or if he had appeared out of thin air, but she quickly took his hand in hers, twining their fingers together. He’s here. We’re both alive. We’re together. I love you.

  Ink was handsome in his black suit; only the silver wallet chain hanging by his leg looked slightly out of place. She leaned closer, breathing in the fresh rain scent of him. He sat comfortably, open-faced, listening to the speeches, taking cues from her and those around him, immersing himself in what it meant to be mortal, to experience loss, to be part of her world, even as his sister walked up to the podium to say a few words.

  She ignored the microphone and stood straight in her heels. “Thank you for coming,” she said in her crisp, clear voice. She didn’t need an amplifier—even her whispers sliced through sound. “I loved Enrique, as did all of you.” She tipped her head to the side. “Well, maybe I loved him a little bit more.” There were some appreciative chuckles, Joy’s among them. Ink ran his thumb gently over her wrist. “And while I loved his beautiful body—” a few eyebrows rose, Joy’s included “—I mostly loved his soul—his funny, warm, incredibly generous, fiercely competitive, adventurous, wondrous soul.” As she smiled, her black eyes grew bigger, shining with bright flashes of hot pink and green. Joy wondered what those without the Sight could see in them. “And I will miss him, as do all of you.” Inq lowered her chin, taking a moment to breathe. “But I might miss him a little bit more.” Her smile was wreathed in sadness; her voice wilted as she gestured toward the urn. “This was just his body. His soul will live on—that funny, warm, incredibly generous, fiercely competitive, adventurous, wondrous soul. We all knew him once, and therefore, when we live life to its fullest, strip it naked and pour it to the brim, rich and overflowing, then he will live on in each of us, until we meet again.”

  The priest stumbled on the “Amen,” but Inq was already leaving the podium.

  Antony and the long-haired woman helped escort her to her seat as the priest gave instructions about where the reception would be held. The other guests rose and gathered their things. More kisses. More talking. More handshakes and hugs. Joy was surprised to see that many of the Cabana Boys had brought someone with them, often female, but then again, she knew that Inq wasn’t big into monogamy. There was lots of comforting. Joy squeezed Ink’s hand again, and he pressed a gentle kiss to her temple.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “No,” Joy said and dabbed her eyes. “But I will be.” Ilhami offered her a last tissue. She took it. “Thanks.”

  Ilhami nodded, eyes red-rimmed, and Joy wondered if he was crying or high. He sniffed and straightened his lapels.

  “I’ll see you at the funeral,” he said.

  Joy frowned. Definitely high. She tried not to be angry with the young Turkish artist. Enrique had loved his brother lehman, despite his habits, but Joy still hadn’t forgiven him for the terrifying trip to Ladybird’s. “We’re at the funeral,” she said quietly.

  Ilhami sniffed again with a little laugh. “This? For Enrique? I don’t think so.” He nodded politely to Ink and tapped Joy’s shoulder. “See you there.”

  He walked down the row only to be grabbed by Nikolai, who hugged him so fiercely, he nearly lifted the smaller man off the floor. They pounded on each other’s backs as Ink helped Joy to stand.

  “Thirty-seven,” Ink said.

  “What?” Joy looked up.

  “Types of hugs,” he explained as the Cabana Boys embraced. “I have been counting subtle differences as separate variations.” He tilted his head to one side. “Why do they hit each other?”

  “I don’t know,” Joy said, wiping her eyes. “But don’t try that one with me.”

  “How about this one?” Ink gathered her around the shoulders. Her arms circled his body, and she leaned against him, warm and solid. She took several deep breaths of him and calm, life-giving air. She was alive. Ink was alive. He was here, holding her.

  She rocked in his arms for a long moment before whispering, “Which one is this?”

  “Number sixteen,” he said. Joy smiled.

  “It’s perfect.”

  He breathed into her hair. “I am learning,” he said, drawing her closer, sounding sad and lost. “But I wish I did not have to learn this lesson so soon.”

  Joy said nothing as they slowly broke apart, and she picked up her purse. “Come on,” she said and made her way toward Inq, who was accepting a hug from an older couple, the last stragglers in the room. As they left, Joy stepped forward and gave Inq a hug
, too.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, because that was what people said at funerals.

  Inq nodded. “I’m sorry, too.” Her smile seemed to wobble as she tucked a stray bit of brown hair behind Joy’s ear. “Stupid fragile humans.” She laughed a little and slid her fingers along her string of pearls. Her gaze switched to Ink. He gave his sister a kiss on the cheek, and they rested their foreheads together for a long, quiet moment. Inq blinked and raised her head.

  “Thank you,” she said, although Ink hadn’t said anything at all.

  “Ink?”

  The long-haired woman crossed the room and took Ink into her arms like an old friend. He hugged her politely, not at all like he’d held Joy. He was learning, but his hand lingered on the small of the woman’s back. Joy figured they still had to work on exits.

  “Joy, this is Raina,” he said. “Raina, I would like you to meet Joy.”

  Raina was stunning—all long limbs and shining black hair and deeply tanned skin. Her smile was winning, radiant, haloed in shimmering gold lipstick.

  Joy smiled timidly and held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Raina ignored the hand and hugged her, comfortably and sincerely. Her copious hair smelled warm and tropical, as if she’d just flown in from someplace exotic. It parted over her shoulder in a long, glossy sheet, like in a Pantene commercial.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Joy,” she said, pulling back, yet still holding both of Joy’s hands. “I am only sorry that it is under such sad circumstances.”

  Joy’s brain struggled to remember where she’d heard the woman’s name before while politely trying to extricate her fingers from the strong, lingering touch. Raina seemed to sense her discomfort and let go as she reached out to stroke Inq’s shoulder. Raina stood very close, as if oblivious to personal boundaries.