Invisible Page 4

  “The Rakshasa’s fore-teeth turn blue as they age,” Ink said. “So an old soldier came out of retirement for you. Why?” Ink leaned back in his seat. “Perhaps he fought for honor or revenge, yet he fled rather than face the two of us.” He tapped the wallet again. “Honor and revenge are both strong motivators, and I doubt an old soldier’s pride would be weak, so the more believable incentive would be money or madness. If he were mad, he would have not retreated. Therefore, I think it most likely that he was paid to frighten you. His retreat was not out of fear, but prudence. Did you notice when he decided to flee?”

  “When you showed up,” Joy said, sliding her thumb against his. “When you stood by me.”

  “Yes—when he saw that I was there and had no intention of leaving,” Ink said. “I think he was paid only to deal with you, not me, as well, and either the odds were no longer worth the asking price or he left to get further instruction, knowing that he could always try again later.”

  Joy withdrew her hand. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  “A little,” he said. Joy glared. “Very little,” he amended. “However, you might take comfort in the fact that if your attacker is motivated by money, then he will not be interested in harming anyone else in your family. And since his heart is not bound to it, the task may be easily abandoned.”

  “How?”

  Ink gestured offhandedly. “He can be outbid.”

  Joy stared at Ink in surprise, laughter coloring her words. “You’d buy him off?”

  “If necessary,” Ink said. “Working for the Bailiwick has many rewards, few of which have interested me as I have found them unnecessary. But, should it become necessary, I am confident that I could offer enough wealth to sway anyone motivated merely by greed.”

  “Really?” Joy said, tracing the grain of the table. “So you’re both handsome and rich?” She smiled. “My hero.”

  Ink’s face melted into a true smile. With dimples. “And Graus Claude wonders where I learned flattery.” He reached out a hand—one of his own Joy-like hands—and touched the edge of her eyebrow, tucking her lengthening bangs behind her ear. The touch brought back memories that made her shiver. “I cannot ask you to stay in this house,” he said. “But I would prefer if you did. For tonight, at least. It is one of the few ways I know that you are truly safe.”

  “Okay,” Joy said. “But I can’t stay home forever. Aside from going stir-crazy, I can’t lose my job—with cutbacks going on at Dad’s office, he’s working overtime and I agreed to help out.”

  “I could help you,” Ink said.

  “Thanks, but that’d be tough to explain.” She tried to laugh, but it came out strained. She had been used to her father spending most of his time at work or with his girlfriend, Shelley, but he’d been making the extra effort to be around Joy and would likely notice if she was suddenly freewheeling with lots of time and spending cash. Although the idea of quitting Antoine’s was tempting, her father would ask too many questions she couldn’t answer. She’d never been good at lying.

  Ink brushed her skin lightly and he seemed to come to a decision.

  “Then let me do this,” he said, unwinding a length of string from his neck. He lifted it over his head and held it up for her to see. It was a necklace with a single metal pendant, a rune like a bisected Y etched into its surface. She touched the unfamiliar symbol; the metal was still warm from his skin.

  “What is it?”

  “It is a glyph,” he said, looping it over her neck so that the symbol rested against her breastbone. “A futhark. It can protect you against an unexpected attack. A second chance is sometimes all that you need.” He pressed the tiny symbol against her skin. “I had it made after I confronted Aniseed. If I had worn this, she would not have...” His voice faltered and his expression changed as he recalled the strange sensation of death. “Would not have caught me unawares,” he said. His eyes flicked from Joy to the wallet, and she could see the cascade of thoughts that skittered like a stone skipped across a pond: then he wouldn’t have needed to give Joy his scalpel, she wouldn’t have discovered that she could erase signatura, she would not have been captured by Aniseed and held as ransom for his mark and he wouldn’t have bled to death during the battle on the warehouse floor. Of course, then Aniseed might have killed most of humanity, taking the bulk of the Twixt with it. Joy might have died. Ink might have stayed dead. Aniseed might have lived.

  There was no telling what might have happened. What might have been.

  That one thought scared her most of all.

  “You should keep it...” Joy said, knowing how much that brush with death had shaken him, even if it had been only temporary. The memory of his eyes spilling black as his body collapsed, gushing ink onto the floor, haunted her still. But he tucked the necklace beneath her collar, his fingers lingering at the base of her throat. She felt her pulse jump as his thumb trailed over the smooth silk of her skin.

  “No,” he said almost hypnotically. “This can keep you safe if I am not with you.” Ink drew his fingers along the chain at his hip. “I must go mark a new lama in Tibet, but I will return shortly.” He tilted his face to one side. “I will always come for you, Joy.”

  She nodded, nearly speechless. “I know.”

  Ink touched his lips to hers. She felt him hover, his breath in hers, their mouths closing with delicate symmetry—withdrawing, returning, testing how they fit together—like a welcoming home, soft and warm. She felt a slow heat grow inside her, radiating out.

  “I need you,” he whispered, breaking their kiss. His eyes blinked open, dark wells of forever. “I need you to be safe,” he said. “I need you to be free. If nothing else, and for no other reason, I need you to be free.”

  Joy paused still tasting his breath on her lips. “I don’t understand.”

  “No, you don’t. You can’t. And that is good,” Ink said. “There is an innocence in not knowing what you can lose.” His voice grew stern. “Do not allow anyone to place their signatura on you and claim you as theirs. Your body, your skin, your blood, your tears, your wishes, your dreams—they are yours and yours alone. Do not let anyone take them from you.”

  Joy was taken aback, wondering what he meant and wondering again what she did not know.

  “I won’t,” she said. “I promise.”

  Ink looked at her strangely, almost sadly, drawing his fingers down her cheek. “You cannot promise such a thing,” he said. “You are only human.”

  It was true, she was not bound like the Folk to never tell a lie, but his correction stung nonetheless. Before she could say more, the doorbell chimed. Joy glanced at the clock, disbelieving.

  “Monica,” Joy said.

  Ink stood up, folding his wallet and fitting the chain.

  “I will return to Graus Claude and follow the answers,” he said. “In the meanwhile, please do not take undue risks. Remember, my theory is just a theory, and I would not welcome any opportunities to be proven wrong.”

  Joy touched the glyph under her shirt. “I’ll do my best.”

  Ink half smiled. One dimple only. A hand on her arm. “Thank you,” he said and let his hand trail, a lingering touch on her skin. He stepped back, palmed his razor and opened a neat door with a wave of his hand.

  “Wait,” she said. “One kiss.”

  “One kiss?”

  “One kiss,” Joy said. “Nonnegotiable.”

  His lips were warm and welcome and sweet, holding a promise of their own.

  He rested his head against hers. His voice softened.

  “I love you, Joy Malone.”

  She smiled. “I love you, too.”

  It was all she could say as he disappeared, since she realized in that moment that she no longer had his True Name.

  THREE

  JOY ANSWERED THE door holding up two mailer
s.

  “Dino’s or Pizza Pi?”

  Monica snickered as she walked in. “And hello to you, too.” Gordon propped the door open with his shoulder and offered one of two lidded paper cups.

  “I come bearing caffeine,” he said. “One of these iced lattes is for you.” He glanced down. “Nice socks.”

  Joy was wearing mismatched tennies, one green, one pink with daisies; it made her feel more like herself. She accepted a cup and took a sip, bowing. “You are a god.”

  Gordon grinned and shut the door. “It’s nice to be worshipped.”

  “Don’t let the humility fool you,” Monica said, dropping her purse and giving her boyfriend a kiss. In Joy’s head, she still called him “Mr. Wide” due to his quarterback shoulders and the size of his grin. Monica smoothed back her bob. “I vote Pizza Pi.”

  Gordon shrugged. “I’m up for anything with extra cheese.”

  “Don’t say ‘extra cheese’ around me for the rest of the day,” Joy said, snagging a phone and checking the number on the flyer. “If I hear one more order for anything involving extra cheese, I will seriously lose whatever is left of my mind.” She flumped on the bare couch. Joy missed the old afghan, but even after several covert washings, the yarn had snarled itself around the crusted stains of Twixt and human blood. She’d had to throw it out and tell her father that she’d accidentally left it at the beach. It had been her grandmother’s and she’d been grounded for two weeks. Lying sucked.

  She dialed with her thumbs and kicked her feet over the back of the pillows. Monica made a face.

  “Rough day?”

  Joy groaned. “If this day went to the spa, it would need exfoliation treatments.”

  “Hey, there’s an idea!” Monica said. “Spa day!”

  “I wish,” Joy said. “I have to earn enough to pay for my plan or Dad said he’s taking my phone.”

  Gordon whistled. “Harsh.”

  Joy shrugged. “A couple of shifts a week should cover it,” she said as the phone rang. “Orders, please?”

  Half an hour later, there was pizza cut into long, thin strips, three empty coffee cups and a half-eaten bag of Smartfood as they chatted about the latest in Nordic bubblegum punk.

  “Crushed Tomato isn’t a band name,” Joy said, tossing her crust in the box. “It’s a pizza ingredient.”

  “Actually, there’s a song off their new album that I think you might like,” Monica said from the opposite end of the couch. Her dark legs draped over Gordon’s lap and his hand rested on her knee as she stroked his blond crew cut. They looked entirely too adorable. Joy debated throwing a pillow at them.

  “Oh no!” Joy said. “You’ve corrupted her ears! The only things she had left were her virgin ears. What will she save for marriage?”

  Monica threw a pillow at her. “Well, they’re a lot better than Last Dog Standing.”

  “Agreed,” Joy said, tucking the pillow behind her head. “And twice as good as that Der Franzen CD.”

  Gordon placed a hand on his chest. “You wound me. I love that band!”

  Monica patted his shoulder. “Sorry, sweetie, but I’m with Joy on this one. Your boys are into some seriously weird noise.” She placed her elbow on the armrest and tugged her knees free. “Speaking of boys, when, exactly, do you expect Stef home?”

  Joy shrugged. “I dunno. Sometime in the next two days.”

  Monica winked as the front door clicked. “How about now?”

  Joy spun around to look over the back of the couch. Her brother walked in under a giant duffel bag, his face scruffy with two days of beard. He beamed at her through his rectangle lenses.

  “Honey, I’m home!”

  Joy squealed and flung herself at him in a full-body tackle, wrapping him in a tight squeeze. He hugged her back, smelling of open road and barbecue chips. His stubble scratched her ear, and she’d poked his glasses askew, but she didn’t care. She could feel his laugh in her chest and his voice in her ear. Stefan was back! Her big brother was home! It felt like she was the one returning after being away for far too long.

  “Hey, you,” Joy said, letting him breathe. “Had a good trip?”

  “Driving from U Penn to Columbus to Glendale? Never again. I pulled an all-nighter just to get off the road.” Stef waved at their guests. “Hi, Monica.” He offered a hand to Gordon. “Hi, blond stranger. I’m Stefan.”

  “The infamous Stef! Nice to meet you. I’m Gordon.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Stef said. “And you brought pizza.”

  “S’all yours,” Monica chirped.

  Stef dropped his duffel bag on the floor with a thud. “You are now officially my new favorite people.” He pulled himself a double slice, and Joy beamed. Monica and Gordon held hands. Stef adjusted his glasses and took a bite. It was a perfect moment.

  Stef spoke around a mouthful. “So where’s Dad?”

  “Out with Shelley,” Joy said. “Where else? And he’s going to seriously kill you for showing up before he got home. I think he was planning on there being cake.”

  Stef folded the second slice over the first and took another bite. “I wouldn’t say no to cake.”

  “Yeesh. Where do you put it all?” Monica asked enviously. “Aren’t you supposed to get all freshman-fifteen?”

  Stef looked long and lanky, much the same as he had when he’d left with his inside-out, backward shirt, scratched-up glasses and tight-fitting jeans. “Joy and I share the Malone metabolism,” he said between bites and adjusted his raggedy red friendship bracelet over his wrist. Joy was surprised he hadn’t ditched the thing while at college. It was so summer camp. “Besides—” he swallowed “—I had to keep up. Back in middle school, Joy’s appetite put me to shame.” He glanced at Gordon. “There’s nothing worse than being out-eaten at the school’s pie-eating contest by your pipsqueak little sister.”

  “Ha ha,” Joy said, but she couldn’t help smiling. This was something that phone calls and IM chats couldn’t replace—the feeling of being in the same room, riffing off one another, sharing memories, teasing, being together. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it until just now.

  Stef clapped his hands together as he swallowed the last bite. “Okay, I hate to be incredibly rude, but I need to collapse on my face,” he said. “But before I go catatonic, I want to give you your present.”

  “You brought me something?” Joy asked.

  “Yep! And it’s bigger than a bread box.”

  Joy clapped her hands and squealed at Monica. “I’m getting a present!”

  Gordon laughed. “I think you just turned six,” he said. “I could see pigtails and everything.”

  Joy stuck out her tongue as Stef hooked her elbow, propelling her into the kitchen. “Come over to the window,” he said.

  “The window?” Joy asked nervously as the four of them crowded together and craned over the sink. Joy swallowed back the momentary jitters she experienced every time she came near the kitchen window. Her mind played tricks as her brain mixed a wild concoction of fear and memory, leaving Joy half expecting to find another message written in light or a monster’s giant tongue about to shatter the glass.

  Shaking off her first memories of the Twixt, Joy looked down into the courtyard. It looked completely ordinary with a fat couple sunning in folding lawn chairs as three kids chased each other with Super Soakers near the parking lot.

  “You got me a water gun?” she guessed.

  Stef pointed. “No. There. In the corner.”

  Joy stood on her tiptoes, spying Stef’s used Kia. “Is it in the car?”

  Stef dangled keys from his fingers. “It is the car.”

  Joy screamed. “I get your car?”

  “With a quarter of a zillion miles on it. I was going to trade it in, but Mom and Dad agreed to buy it off me and giv
e it to you.” He dropped the keys into her palm. Joy bounced in her shoes. “I’ll help you clean her up before I pick up my new one at the dealership, but then she’s all yours,” he said. “Be careful with the driver’s side window—it sticks.”

  Joy wrapped her arms around Stef’s chest.

  “Thankyouthankyouthankyou!”

  “You can thank me by giving me oxygen.” He laughed as though pained and ruffled her bangs. “Okay! Now that I have officially won the Best Brother Ever Award, I would like to thank the Academy before I grab another couple slices of pizza and go to bed.” Stef pinched his lip and nodded to everyone. “Nice to see you, Monica. Nice meeting you, Gordon. Nice surprising you, Joy. My pillow awaits.”

  Joy gave Stef a parting kiss on his scruffy cheek.

  “Thanks, Stef! Welcome home!”

  “You’re welcome and good night.” He waved as he dragged his duffel bag into his room, across the hall from hers. The door closed, and they all heard a thump.

  “Well, he seems nice,” Gordon said. “So when do I get a car?”

  “Care to take us for a spin?” Monica asked.

  Joy swallowed some of her excitement. She’d promised Ink she’d stay home.

  “Not until after Stef helps me clean it,” she said. “You know how he is.”

  “He’s a slob,” Monica translated for Gordon.

  “Like you should talk,” Gordon said. “My mother would kill me if my room looked like yours!” Monica poked him in the gut. He poked her back. Monica squealed. Joy tucked the keys in her pocket and sauntered back to the den. She had her own car. Stef was in his room. Her dad was due home soon, and her friends were laughing in the kitchen—it was a perfect ending to an almost-perfect night. Joy smiled as she closed the pizza box.

  All it was missing was Ink.

  * * *

  Joy was late to work. She logged in at the exact moment she realized she’d forgotten to wash her apron. There were splashes of dried coffee and smears of dirt and what smelled like marinara on the pocket. She soaked a dish towel and hurriedly scrubbed at the stains.