Insidious Page 5

  Joy wandered into the kitchen with a head full of thoughts. Stef was still snoring in his room. She debated waking him with a glassful of ice water, but Dad was already at the table, so her best-served-cold revenge would have to be served sometime later.

  “Morning,” she said sleepily.

  Dad looked up from his laptop. “Morning,” he said. “I didn’t hear you come home last night.”

  “It was late,” she said as she poured herself some cereal and sliced a banana into the bowl.

  “I didn’t realize funerals ran late on Monday nights.” Her father tried to sound nonchalant but only got as far as “parentally concerned” with a dash of “gently warning his daughter that he’d noticed the time.”

  “Yeah, well,” Joy said, fishing the milk out of the fridge. “This wasn’t your average funeral.” Massive understatement. “And Ink and I went out afterward.” Massive understatement squared. She grabbed a spoon and sat down, quite pleased with her almost-deceptions. She was getting better at this. Maybe it ran in the genes.

  “Well, we’ve got two days to pack, load up and head out to Lake James,” he said around his last mouthful of eggs. Joy saw that the buttered toast was absent. Twelve more pounds to goal weight—he kept a total on the fridge. “We have this one last hurrah before Stef’s back at U Penn, and I want to make the most of it, so I don’t want to spend a lot of time on Friday dithering.”

  Joy chewed and swallowed, still thinking about bonfires and chandeliers.

  Her father frowned. “Joy?”

  “Check,” she said. “No dithering.”

  “I’m serious, Joy. Stef’s already packed.”

  “Of course he’s already packed. He’s going back to college next week.” Joy’s flippant comment fell flat in her lap. She hadn’t fully realized the truth until she’d said it aloud. Only a few more days with Stef, and then it was back to just her and Dad. And Shelley. Joy liked her father’s girlfriend, but her dad had been spending a lot more time out with Shelley and less time around the house—which was good—but with Stef gone, the condo would fast become dark and lonely again with Joy home all by herself. She didn’t want a repeat of the Year of Hell, the one following her parents’ divorce when her father had become a smelly zombie hermit and she’d quit the gymnastics team to match. She poked a bit of banana into the milk with her spoon. It had been nice having her big brother home—cold showers aside—and it had been handy to have him save her life with wizard’s magic once in a while. She mumbled into her cereal bowl, “I’ll be ready, don’t worry.”

  “Being a father, I worry,” he said. “Being the father of two teenagers, I’ve learned to take precautions.” He wiped his mouth and balled up the napkin. “Be fully packed by 5:00 a.m. Friday, or I’m taking your phone for two weeks. Got it?”

  He was pulling out the big guns. Joy swallowed. “Got it.”

  “Okay, then. I’m off to work,” he said. “When do you have to punch in?”

  “Nine o’clock.”

  “Don’t be late.” Joy rolled her eyes. Her father prided himself on being punctual, reliable, loyal and hardworking—to be in all ways indispensable. It was the one thing he’d held on to throughout the rough years, and it had finally paid off. He’d gotten a promotion, which came with a decent raise and had done worlds for his confidence. Her father slipped on his jacket and grabbed his new leather briefcase. “And see if you can’t get Stef out of bed before you leave. He’s been staying up nights and sleeping half the day.”

  “Sounds like college,” she said around her last spoonful of cereal.

  “Sounds like lazy,” her father said and paused at the door. He was staring at her feet. “Wait—no mismatched socks?”

  Joy shrugged. “It’s against the dress code.”

  He frowned a mock-sad-clown face. “Is the big, bad capitalistic corporation squishing the individuality out of my baby girl?”

  She grinned over her spoon. “I wear mismatched earrings.”

  He pumped his fist. “Stick it to the Man, sweetheart! I’ll see you tonight.”

  “I’m meeting Monica after work,” she reminded him.

  “Okay, but tonight’s Stef’s special smorgasbord send-off. Don’t forget.” He checked his watch. “Got to go.”

  Joy waved as he closed the door, then washed her bowl in the sink and watched as he hopped into his Accord and drove away. She inspected the kitchen window for monsters or message pee and did a double-take when she saw the white sports car drive around the corner. Joy leaned over the sink, trying to follow it with her eyes, trying to convince herself that she’d imagined it—it couldn’t be!—but hope caught in her throat. She almost dropped the bowl when it pulled up to the gate: a white Ferrari 458.

  There was a buzz from the intercom. Stef groaned in protest. Joy ran over to the call box and hit the button.

  “Yes?”

  “Joy?”

  She didn’t recognize the male voice, husky with sleep. Could it be...?

  “Yes? Who is this?”

  He’s alive!

  “It’s Ilhami.” Joy’s heart stuttered. Not Enrique—just his car. She started breathing again, but the air felt too thin. She almost missed the next words. “You left something behind last night.”

  Disappointment colored her voice. “I did?”

  “Yes,” Ilhami said. “I brought it over. Want to come down and get it?”

  She hesitated, her finger on Call. “Hang on,” she said. Joy released the button, checked the call box for glyphs and dug inside her purse. Grabbing her scalpel, Joy opened the door and marched outside into the moist August heat.

  She kept her hand on the blade as she walked down the stairs. She couldn’t remember leaving anything behind at the funeral or the celebration. Her senses were on orange alert. She remembered Inq’s bizarre request, and she didn’t trust Ilhami. Enrique had once called the young Turkish artist a “tortured genius,” but Joy hadn’t forgotten what had happened in East New York, fleeing the cops at high speed and making an enemy of Ilhami’s drug dealer, Ladybird. She’d had to pay three drops of blood for a dose of Ladybird’s powerful Sunset Dust in order to take down the Red Knight. Joy had no idea why Ladybird had wanted her blood and was fairly certain she didn’t want to find out. So the question now was whether Ilhami was up to something, obeying orders from Inq or Ladybird, or if he was being used as bait to flush her out of her house and its protective wards. Either way, between Ink’s scalpel and Inq’s gift—a little push glyph on her palm—Joy wasn’t going anywhere unprepared.

  When she crossed the parking lot, she saw Ilhami leaning casually against the gleaming Ferrari parked on the grass. His head was freshly buzzed to a millimeter fuzz, his tattooed arms bare in a muscleman shirt, and his thumbs tucked into the belt loops of his jeans. He gave an easy smile.

  “‘Morning, Cabana Girl,” he said.

  “Good morning,” she said warily. “I didn’t see you at the celebration last night.”

  “Oh, I was there.” He smirked. “I hooked up with some pixie chick with a wicked sense of gravity. Talk about a head-rush!” Joy rolled her eyes. Ilhami shrugged. “What? Honor the spirit. Enrique loved hooking up!”

  “Anyway...?” she prompted. “What did I forget? Is it bigger than a bread box?”

  “I’d say so,” he tapped the car door and threw her something. She caught it, heavy in her hand. Keys. He winked slyly. “It’s all yours.”

  Joy gaped. “What?”

  Ilhami wiped an imaginary speck of dust off the hood with his thumb. “Enrique wanted you to have it,” he said. “He felt bad about you losing your wheels. Said you needed your own way to get around. I had it detailed and everything. Nik may be pretty, but he smells like beans.”

  Joy looked at the keys, the car and her second-floor kitchen window, praying that nobody could
see her. This was the last thing she’d expected.

  “I can’t have a car like that!” she said under her breath. “Seriously. I’m a senior in high school. People would ask questions...people like my dad! I can’t say I got it from some nice older gentleman who died and left me his car.” Joy shook the keys in her fist. “Cuz that sounds really, really bad!”

  “Whatever. I haven’t even told you about the special features, yet,” Ilhami said, opening the driver’s door, dropping into the seat and pointing at the dash. “You already saw how the slip-drive works. I changed the GPS coordinates to this spot so you can park it without blocking the driveway. It’s got a short-range auto-drive feature—like Cruise Control for Dummies—treated windows, voice-activated phone, glyphs on the safeties and securities, and a warded buffer field.” He tapped the door again. “Enrique hated getting it dinged. It’s not like he could take it into the shop. Oh, and press the blue button on the fob.”

  Curious, Joy did. The car disappeared. Ilhami smiled from the half-open door suspended in nothing.

  “Cloaked parking feature,” he said. “Very slick.”

  Joy shook her head. “You have got to be kidding.”

  Ilhami climbed out of the invisible car and shut the door. “The engine’s tricked out—runs on pure water. Filtered, not tap,” he warned. “The Folk seriously frown on fossil fuels.”

  “But...” Joy stammered. It was a dream car—an impossible, invisible, luxury dream car. “I can’t drive it!”

  Ilhami snorted. “So what? Give it to Ink—it’ll be his excuse for wheels,” he said. “If he’s going to start coming over for family dinners, he can’t keep ripping his way through thin air, right?” He leaned forward, grinning ear to ear. “Right?”

  “Right,” Joy said weakly. Enrique had given her his car. She couldn’t refuse it. “Um...thanks.”

  Ilhami shouldered his backpack, which had been behind the bumper and was fully visible now that the car was not. “Hey, I’m just the messenger,” he said. “No thanks necessary. And besides, you shouldn’t thank me—you still have to wait until you’re twenty-one to get your part of the inheritance.” He laughed at the look on her face.

  “Inheritance?” she squeaked.

  “Oh, yeah. Enrique had bank, but he had no parents, no children,” he said, spreading his arms to embrace the summer sky. “We’re his family, Cabana Girl, and for some people, family is everything.”

  Joy shook her head. She stammered, “I can’t...”

  Ilhami waved her off. “Pfft. Whatever. Luiz got the yacht, but I’m not complaining.” He climbed into a sharp-angled Lamborghini parked on the curb. It looked like an enameled shark. Joy squinted down the street. How did it get here? He kissed his fingers and waved, a gesture she recognized from Nikolai. “Arrivederci, Cabana Girl! Remember, life’s short—have fun!” he howled out the window, gunned the engine and roared unapologetically down the street.

  Joy stared after him, feeling silly and stupid as she tucked the keys into her purse. His visit had nothing to do with Ladybird or with Inq’s weird request. She had no idea what to think. She checked her phone for the time. Swearing, she turned her back on her magic sports car, running at top speed to catch the bus.

  She was ten minutes late for work.

  * * *

  “Hey, wage slave!” Monica chirped. “You almost done?”

  Joy stopped folding the light sweaters and sighed in relief. Just seeing her best friend brought a wave of much-needed sanity after a long day of stock work.

  She dropped her tag gun. “If there is a God, then, yes.”

  Monica adjusted her shoulder strap. “As a churchgoing girl, I’d say you’re free and clear, but you might want to check with your boss first.” She stroked her dark hand over the autumn-colored cashmere. “Ooo. Pretty. Do you think I’d look good in orange?”

  Joy collapsed a cardboard box with a practiced snap. “Honestly, I’m not a big fan of orange.” The color reminded her of fox fur, mahogany eyes and malice. Joy still had nightmares and scars on her skin, both gifts from Aniseed. “I vote red.”

  “Mmm. Gordon says red is my color,” Monica said. “Passionate, vibrant, smoldering hot...”

  Joy gathered up the extra security tags, smiling. “Whatever happened to him bringing out your softer side?”

  Monica shrugged and smoothed her slicked bangs. “I got over it.”

  They laughed as Joy punched out, swapping directions to the closest decent restaurant they could find via GPS. Once they’d nabbed some chips and salsa at the nearby cantina, Joy started feeling half human again.

  “Remember to breathe,” Monica said. “Aren’t you having another family dinner thing in a couple of hours?”

  “It’s just Stef’s last excuse to pig out on Dad’s tab,” Joy said and pointed to herself as she chewed. “And, hello? Hypoglycemic, remember?” She slurped a chunk of tomato off her chip. “My metabolism needs food every four hours. The doctors say I have to keep up a base caloric intake or I’ll turn into a stick.”

  Monica snapped a chip in half. “I think I speak for all dieters everywhere when I say pfbthth!”

  Joy drank her water, ignoring the raspberry. The ice cubes clunked against the glass and her teeth. She speared a piece of ice with her straw and crunched on it as they waited to order—she had picked up the less-than-genteel habit from the normally genteel Graus Claude. She had been surprised not to see the Bailiwick last night, but then again, Filly had been sure that he wouldn’t show. Joy had no idea if the Bailiwick knew the Cabana Boys personally, but she didn’t think he would stay away because of bigotry, like Sol Leander; Graus Claude knew that the Scribes were people. The only difference was that they were made, not born.

  “So,” she said while fishing her straw around for another cube. “What are you going to do while I’m gone?”

  “Pine,” Monica said, scooping more tomatillos onto her plate. “Waste away to nothing without my bestie.” She pressed the back of her wrist to her forehead and swooned dramatically against the seat. “Or, on the other hand, I could curl up with my sweetie and watch a mindless movie marathon. It’s a close second.”

  Joy snickered. “Did you just call Gordon ‘my sweetie’?’”

  Monica snagged the last chip. “Didn’t I just.”

  “I think I feel ill.”

  “That’s the salsa talking,” Monica said. “But I was wondering if I could borrow your MGM Classics collection. I remember you got the set for your birthday.”

  “Sure. I think it’s still shrink-wrapped,” Joy said. It had been a gift from her mother back when Joy wasn’t speaking to her. Things had changed, slowly but surely, but she hadn’t had time to watch late-night movies. Her nights had been filled with secret trips to London, Glasgow, Rome and Belize. She’d gone anywhere and everywhere with Ink and Inq and Inq’s horde of gorgeous guys and felt supremely guilty about not sharing any of it with her best friend. Joy’s mood slipped when she thought about Enrique and veered into extra-nervous when she thought about his invisible car parked on her lawn. Joy poked her straw around the glass, letting the sound mask her silence.

  “Sounds like somebody is becoming a homebody,” Joy teased.

  “As if,” Monica said. “I’m still up for dancing the night away whenever you get your skinny butt in gear—you just say when.”

  Joy smiled, remembering her last dance—the pull and the heat of it. “When.”

  “Seriously?” Monica said, surprised. “Tonight?”

  “No,” Joy admitted. “My feet are killing me. But soon. Maybe when I get back? Last fling of summer?”

  Monica and Joy clinked spoons. “It’s a date.”

  Their server apologized for the wait and took their order. Joy felt a twinge of sympathy for the woman bussing her own tables and the two families with toddlers who were
making a huge mess. She made a mental note to leave an extra-large tip. She’d been on the other side of the napkin, and it wasn’t pretty.

  Monica handed back their menus as their server disappeared into the kitchen. “Can I ask you something?”

  Joy chewed more ice. “You look beautiful.”

  “No,” Monica said and leaned forward. “Are you ever going to tell me what went down at the hospital? Because, FYI, I would really like to know.”

  Joy glanced at her friend’s face, the bald scar in Monica’s eyebrow a telltale remnant of their encounter with the Red Knight, the invincible, invisible assassin who had been sent to kill Joy. While Joy had been protected by Inq’s glyph-wrought armor, Monica had not, and she’d suffered a glancing blow from his massive sword. Joy’s attempts to erase the scar, and her guilt, had nearly cost her Ink and her place in the Twixt. Now every time she looked at Monica, that scar was a reminder of what was at stake, what really mattered and what she’d almost lost forever. And, if Joy looked more closely, she could still see the signatura etched there—the angled arrow of Sol Leander’s True Name like a gruesome slash on Monica’s face. Her best friend lived under the auspice of Joy’s greatest enemy in the Twixt.

  Monica misunderstood Joy’s silence. “You have to tell me eventually, you know.”

  “I know,” Joy said.

  “I covered for you,” Monica said. “I lied to my parents.”

  “I know.”

  “You know,” Monica repeated back at her. “You’re just lucky that my mom believed that crazy story about Aunt Meredith. Her sister was seriously into some weird voodoo.” Monica shook her head, setting her gold hoops swaying. “I mean, what am I supposed to do when the woman sends me an ox-bone knife for Confirmation? I mean, seriously? But she’s family, right? I couldn’t just throw it away.” She brushed the edges of her razor-cut bob. “I use the thing for a letter opener.”