Invisible

by Dawn Metcalf

  Expect you at this address tomorrow at eight a.m.

  Stef stepped around the counter. Joy killed the screen.

  “Love note from the boyfriend?”

  Joy thought of Kurt. “God, no!” she said too quickly. “I mean, it’s from work.”

  Not technically a lie.

  “They text you from work?” Stef said as he grabbed a Mountain Dew from the fridge. “That’s harsh.” He popped the top and gestured at the door. “Delivery’ll be here in twenty minutes. Money’s in the drawer. I’m going to online chat until then, so try not to set anything on fire, okay?”

  Joy twisted her finger in her shirt hem. “Yeah, okay.”

  Stef disappeared into his room as Joy reached into the drawer and started counting out tens before realizing that while she’d successfully evaded any sticky-subject conversations, maybe Stef had, too.

  * * *

  Joy was only mildly surprised the next morning when she pulled up to Dover Mill. The address in Kurt’s text matched her phone’s GPS. The sight of the worn building curdled her stomach. It was as if the past few days had been filled with old ghosts. She shut off the engine and listened to the wind rattle the shutters. The sound off the river was a faceless moan. It was part of the reason that kids whispered that this place was haunted. Joy knew that the truth was much stranger than that.

  She got out of her car, shouldered her purse and slammed the door; the sound was all but swallowed by the wailing, hollow breeze. Stray seeds rushed past, buoyed like skipping stones off the river, dipping over and down the man-made falls. The peeling green paint and weather-beaten stone were somehow even less welcoming than the riverbank’s red warning signs about mercury levels and hazardous waste. There was no fishing in this river and the mill’s wheel never turned, but that wasn’t the reason for Joy’s sense of dread.

  Whatever wards had been in place when she’d first been to Aniseed’s secret cache were gone; Joy could see the overhang clearly—wide, jutting beams full of sharp, thorny brambles curtained railway steps that led down into darkness.

  She stepped one foot over the dangling chain marking the edge of the property, shoes crunching through the layers of dead and stubborn crabgrass. Kurt emerged from the sublevel wearing a faded work shirt and pants and wiping his hands on a rag. He looked entirely too large for ordinary clothes.

  “I’ve just finished cleaning up,” he said, his mild tenor carrying over the wind. “I think you will be pleased.”

  Joy kept her hands deep in her pockets to hide her growing panic. Even the smell of the place set her teeth on “grind.”

  “Great,” she said, glancing above her head at the thicket, unseen and unknown by most human and Folk. Thorns as long as her pinky curled from the black branches like ominous fangs. “Couldn’t Graus Claude have found somewhere less...horrific?”

  Kurt flipped the rag onto his shoulder and crossed his massive arms. “Personal history aside, this happened to be a vacant, cloaked location within a reasonable distance of your warded household and was already familiar to you. Once the Council confiscated Aniseed’s belongings, what remained was a perfectly usable space.”

  Joy pushed back her curtain of windblown hair. “All right,” she said, swallowing some of her jitters. “Let’s see what you’ve done with the place.”

  There was already a huge difference, Joy noted as she and Kurt descended the stairs; the steps had been scrubbed clean and plucked of errant shoots growing through the grain. The walls were plastered smooth and painted a cheery yellow-gold. The makeshift table that had dominated the center room—a sagging wooden door propped on dingy cinderblocks—was gone and had been replaced with a sleek leather massage table and a matching padded stool. A mounted dental tray set on a swivel arm stood next to an adjustable shaving mirror and a sharpening block. Tiny LED track lights ran across the ceiling, and the rickety shelves once full of rune-labeled, wax-stoppered bottles had been replaced with slick suspension units sporting a small collection of nature photographs, a digital clock and miniature speakers. The only thing that remained in the cache was the giant slate wall, wiped clean. Joy ran her fingers over the slightly uneven surface, remembering how it had once been riddled with the True Names of those who had traded their signaturae for whatever potions or promises Aniseed had offered. Inq’s had been one of them; the Scribe’s signatura had paved the way for the Grand Plan: to unleash a magic-borne pandemic and cull humanity from the earth. The massive map of death had been sketched here, the evidence that the aether sprites—who had led them on a merry chase, smashing windows and windshields—had wanted Ink and Joy to see. Touching the bare slate, Joy thought about how much had changed between that day and this.

  But beneath the paint and plaster, she could still smell a whiff of licorice.

  “The Bailiwick said that you would work weekdays, noon to four, with a suggested minimum of four clients per week. A client list will be available here.” Kurt tapped a mounted filing pocket on the wall. It held several colorful file folders. “You may reject any client at any time, at your discretion. Drop-ins are discouraged for security reasons and can be directed back to the Bailiwick.” He touched the three hanging file cubbies. “Completed transactions go in the second file, rejections in the third. Collections will take place every Friday, and payment will accrue biweekly. Do you have any questions?”

  Joy shook her head while running a finger along the shelves. The edges were sharp and left an indent on her skin.

  “The Bailiwick also advises against withdrawing large amounts of cash at any one time to avoid raising red flags and making your family suspicious. You are, of course, welcome to keep any tips as is customary amongst the Twixt, but try to exercise caution. The Bailiwick expects that the Folk will pay handsomely for your skill as well as your silence, so be circumspect,” Kurt said with a gentlemanly bow. “I believe his exact words were, ‘Don’t let it go to your head.’”

  Joy sat on the stool and adjusted its height to the table. It didn’t make so much as a squeak. She rested her elbows comfortably on the cushion. “No swimming in cash, no raising suspicions, no going to head,” she said. “Check.”

  “There is both electronic and transcribed security at the mouth of the entrance and the steps themselves. A polite ‘etiquette cloak’ is in place for when there are already two people inside the room, and it can be lifted by your hand, although I’m certain that Ink will want to add his own protections.”

  A slippery chill settled in Joy’s stomach. She didn’t know how she was going to explain this new arrangement to Ink. How long would he be tied up in Belgrade? “That won’t be necessary,” she said and glanced at Kurt. “I mean, I trust the Bailiwick.”

  Kurt simply folded his hands behind him. “Very good, then,” he said. “I trust you have your scalpel with you?”

  She took the blade from its pocket and hung her purse on a convenient hook. The light sliced off the scalpel as sharp as the blade itself. Joy was suddenly very nervous. This wasn’t just some crazy idea she’d cooked up with the Bailiwick, some theoretical loophole; this was real—she was about to begin an underground side business removing signaturae in order to keep her toehold in the Twixt as well as remain a free human being in order to keep Ink. This was all to keep Ink. He’d have to understand, know that this was the best option, but Joy had the sinking feeling that she’d have to be pretty convincing. If she could pull this off, the Council would leave them alone. She could have a place, a job, in this world and the Twixt—it could let her have the life she wanted. She could have it all.

  But all of a sudden, it didn’t seem like a very good idea.

  Kurt wiped an imagined smudge off the wall with his rag. “Well, then, if everything is satisfactory, I’ll leave you to your work.”

  Joy blinked. “That’s it?”

  “The Bailiwick has agreed to your terms—you will not h
ave to remove any signaturae performed either by Ink or Inq, solely the Folk’s marks upon one another,” he said. “That was your one stipulation, correct?”

  Joy nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Then that’s it.” Kurt placed a foot on the lowest step.

  “Aren’t you going to stay with me?” Fear pricked her voice higher. She wasn’t thrilled about being out there alone. This place still gave her nightmares.

  Kurt flashed a disapproving glare. “No.” He sounded annoyed, so she didn’t push it, but her fingers twisted into the edge of her shirt. He pointed to the wall. “If you have any concerns, press the glyph here—” he indicated a carved sigil, nearly camouflaged, beneath the corner of the second shelf “—and the Bailiwick will be alerted immediately. Tap it twice to disengage. The glyph on the opposite corner will trip a basic warding across the entryway. That ought to keep anything disgruntled at bay.” Kurt circled the familiar-looking squiggle. “Tap it once to activate, twice to disengage. Simple enough?”

  Joy stared at him helplessly as she cut off the circulation at her knuckles. Disgruntled? She didn’t like the sound of that. “Um...”

  Kurt shook his head and sighed.

  “Give me your phone,” he said. She took it out and handed it over. He opened her contacts file. “Here is my number, my personal number,” he emphasized while typing it in. “Don’t abuse it.”

  “I won’t,” Joy said. “Thank you.” She listed him as Cabana6. She hit Done and flashed him a grin, but the butler-bodyguard wasn’t smiling. He turned scathing eyes on Joy.

  “Remember, Joy, I am not somebody’s lehman. And neither are you.” His voice simmered with scorn. “Don’t forget that.”

  Taken aback, Joy pressed her phone against her leg.

  “I won’t,” she said. “Sorry.”

  He snapped the rag between his hands and mounted the stairs, but stopped—his body poised halfway up the steps as if he debated whether to say something else. Joy waited, wishing he wouldn’t go, wondering how she could do this alone, if she was really making things right or worse. Kurt lowered his voice and the edge of his chin.

  “Good luck, Joy Malone.”

  She remembered the four-leaf clover still in her wallet with a little flutter of confidence. “Thanks,” she said. It was the wrong thing to say. The almost-question snapped shut like shutters behind his eyes and he left without speaking. She wondered if she should have asked him what he thought about this and whether Inq knew about it or if she would tell Ink. Joy had the unsettling feeling that there was something more to this arrangement that she should know, but now it was too late to ask. She was alone in the strange office room with whispers of Aniseed sunk deep in the walls.

  She slid her hands over the leather table cushion, feeling the flawless surface whisper under her fingers. It reminded her of Ink—the touch of his skin, unmarked, slick and without blemish until they carved the details together, a swirl of an earlobe, the whorl of a fingerprint. She missed him. Even in the quiet moments, especially in the frightening ones, she missed him. She looked at her own hands—his hands—moving as she daydreamed. This is worth it, isn’t it? To keep us together? It’s a way that we can have everything: love, freedom, each other. Joy’s hands stopped, resting on the table’s edge. What if it isn’t? What if what I think will keep us together only breaks us apart? Fear grabbed her heart and squeezed. She stood up, knocking the chair back, uncertain whether she was about to bolt out the door or slap her hand on the glyph, tell the Bailiwick that she’d changed her mind...

  The shush of feet made Joy turn, hoping that Kurt had come back, but the feet that gripped the steps had talons for toes. The legs bent backward at sharp angles like a bird’s. A woman’s torso balanced with eagle’s wings, her hair a mess of speckled feathers framing a quizzical face. The harpy looked impossibly young with a thin smear of oil on her cheek. A livid signatura blazed like a lash across her back.

  “Is this the place?” she asked, descending the stairs awkwardly. “Graus Claude sent me here.”

  Joy took one look at her, smiled and patted the table cushion.

  “Yes,” she said. “Please come in.”

  * * *

  The edge of the blade completed its circle and the sigil dissolved into nothing. Joy blew on the tip of the scalpel out of habit.

  “That’s it,” she said, patting the bumpy shell. “You’re done.”

  The old woman slid slowly off the table; her enormous ridged shell lumbered lower as she drooped to touch the floor. The elderly creature moved like the snail she resembled. Both her face and the nacre of her shell were yellowed with age. Baubles and trinkets hung in ropes around her neck and long, wispy braids decorated either side of her head. The two bulbous antennae stretched as she worked out a kink in her neck. She looked up at Joy with watery eyes.

  “Thank...you...” Her smile spread over her soft wrinkles like honey, slow and gold and sweet. “It’s...been...such...a burden.”

  “It’s over now,” Joy said kindly. She’d read the client file and knew the mollusk woman’s story; claimed as property of a taskmaster who was now years dead, his signatura still bound her to return to the cells beneath his storeroom each night, condemning her to a dank place where she’d been lost and forgotten, an elderly servant tethered to a long-dead master’s whim.

  “Wasn’t...a...bad...sort,” the shelled woman muttered as she made her way toward the stairs. “Just...lonely,” she said, smiling again as she passed, her shellacked back throwing off a fresh, pearly light. Fumbling behind her neck, her thick fingers counted the knots of her various charms. She removed one beaded strand riddled with tiny stone birds.

  “For...you...” she said. “For...youth.”

  The woman placed it in Joy’s hand, her skin preternaturally soft and boneless. A bulbed feeler brushed Joy’s cheek. She tried not to flinch.

  “Thank you,” Joy said, ignoring the cool kiss of slime. “I hope you like your new home.”

  The woman began crawling up the stairs, a smooth, escalator climb, but turned her head enough to give a toothless laugh.

  “I’m...always...home,” she said. “Now...I’m...free.”

  Joy smiled self-consciously and scribbled a note in the file to hide her flush of pride. Sliding it into the outbox, she considered the time. It had been a good day, but it was getting pretty late.

  She dropped the necklace onto the small pile at her left. She’d converted the dental tray into a tip jar, spreading out a cloth napkin onto which she’d placed her haul. There was some crumpled paper money, a handful of raw amethyst chunks, a polished gold coin that looked like it was pirate’s treasure, a beaded bag of shiny pinfeathers, a long droplet of milky glass and several gift cards good at local stores and for online shopping. Joy wondered if they’d been activated. It had been a good week, overall. She picked up a set of earrings that may or may not have been real pearls and admired them against her ears in the mirror. Maybe she’d wear them when she saw Ink tonight?

  “You,” a voice croaked. “Lehman to Ink!”

  Her heart stopped. She whirled around.

  No! Graus Claude would have known better, but the smell of rotting leaves left no doubt; the stench burned her throat and stung her eyes.

  A giant hedgehog squatted at the base of the stairs, fleshy cheeks sagging and piggy eyes beetle-bright. Its quills stood out at all angles, speared with last season’s leaves, the tips blackened, sharp and caked in mud. Its clawed fingers picked absently at the thick metal plate set into the center of its chest; the skin around it was puckered with scars and scratched-open sores.

  Briarhook dipped his head in a subservient gesture. His obscene earthworm tail waggled, smearing pollen on the stairs.

  “Get out,” Joy said, barely above a whisper. She squeezed the scalpel in her hand. “Get out now.”

  He was a
lready in the cache room. The ward trigger was useless. How had he gotten in here? How had he known?

  “You. My heart,” he said, shuffling forward. His fetid stink filled the air. “Have it, you?”

  She raised the scalpel, and Briarhook stopped. She had to swallow three times before she trusted her voice to work.

  “No,” Joy said, which was not altogether true. It wasn’t here, in this room, yet Ink had bequeathed it to her—how did Briarhook know that? She backed against the table, nearly tipping it over in her haste to get away from the thing that had tortured her on the ravine floor. She was shaking so badly, the scalpel vibrated. “Get out. Get out or I’ll burn it to ashes, I swear it!”

  “No, no.” Briarhook halted and raised his claws. He pointed to the dental tray. “Client, I.”

  Joy squeezed the handle of the scalpel. “No,” she said. “Never.”

  He plucked at his mealy shirt. “Freedom want,” he said. “Free as you. No?” His piggy eyes squinted into menacing slits. “You know, you, freedom. Ex-lehman to Ink.” He pounded a fist on the plate in his chest. “Want my heart! Want it, you!”

  She experienced a full-body shudder, from the hairs on her arms to the marrow of her bones, with all the soft things trembling in between. She couldn’t forget what he’d done to her. How Hasp had kidnapped her and held her down in the freezing slush, how Briarhook had threatened her and tortured her, taking his revenge on Ink by burning his mark into her arm. She couldn’t forget how the smell of her own skin mixed with her pajamas melting as they burned. She felt that helpless, sick, red rage all over again.

  “GET OUT!” she screamed.

  In the silence, they stared at one another. Briarhook sneezed in annoyance, a fine mist of pollen scattering from his quills. He plucked a tiny cloth satchel from between his toes and tossed it on the tray. It was tied with a clean pink ribbon that curled.

  “Briar seeds,” he said with a growl. “Grow quick.” He clicked his claws in a scissorlike snap. “Thick. Sharp. Touch soil, then—” another snap “—grown!” His voice was low, grudging. “A gift, you.” He held up a single claw as he turned away. “You think, freedom this? Know this, you—” He tapped the metal pointedly. “Want my heart, girl. Message mine, you—want my heart. Will earn it, you.”