Invisible

by Dawn Metcalf

  She touched his face, wanting to kiss him again. He kissed her palm on her heart line and stepped into nothingness. Gone.

  Joy’s breath fluttered in her chest for a long, lingering moment before she stomped over to the door, twisted the knob and flung it open.

  “Do you mind?” She sneered into Stef’s face. He stared at her, openmouthed.

  “Holy...” He reeled back and bumped into the opposite wall, surprise derailing his tirade. “Joy?” His voice sounded scared, broken. “What have they done to you?”

  Joy’s anger one-eightied into chagrin. “It’s nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Stef gestured to her in the hall. “You look like a walking Christmas tree!” He snatched her wrist and pushed up her sleeve. “It’s all over you, isn’t it? What did you do? Roll naked down the Hill through everyone’s domain?”

  She yanked her arm back. “I asked them to.”

  “Asked them? Are you insane?” Stef said. “I thought we talked about keeping a low profile, not making ourselves out to be any more of a target than we already are.”

  “I am taking precautions,” Joy said. “That’s what this is.”

  “By being a banner ad in Times Square?”

  “I know what I’m doing!”

  Stef fumed. “You haven’t a clue what you’re doing!” He paced the tight width of the hall. “Let me ask you something—did you come up with this clever plan all by yourself or did one of them bring it up?” Stef’s sarcasm was a living thing scuttling over her spine. “A simple suggestion? A tiny precaution? Maybe wondering how things could be better if only they had this one thing that only you could provide?”

  Joy’s attitude flipped instantly—suspicion curling into embarrassment thinking about Inq’s uncharacteristically generous offering and the pic of Aniseed’s wall. Did I just do something incredibly stupid? She wanted to rail at Inq, but her brother was closer.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about! You don’t know them! You don’t know him!” Joy shot back, although it sounded like he did. In fact, it sounded too close for comfort. “Ink and Inq are helping protect me against whatever it is that’s out there...” Joy winced as she felt a hot twinge on her back, like a burning mosquito bite where the splotch of light burned. The non-signatura, or whatever it was—something was happening. She tried to feel over her shoulder, but it was just out of reach.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if your ‘attacker’ was one of those two in disguise to pressure you into doing this,” Stef said. “Using a mask or a glamour to throw you off.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Joy said as she pushed past him in the hall.

  “I’m not being— Joy!” Stef shouted her name as she grabbed her keys, her glyphs flaring, throwing sparkles across the ruined door. Her brother looked desperate, as if he were trying to talk her down off a ledge. The golden shimmer bounced off his glasses, outlining the tiny sigils scratched there. “Have you ever seen the guy’s face, the one who attacked you?” he asked quietly. “Do you know for sure that it wasn’t one of them?” Joy bit her inner cheek and said nothing. She remembered seeing the knight’s exposed throat after Ink struck him down, knowing that he was no longer breathing, seeing no pulse beating there. She remembered a flash of blue teeth and gray stubble and how the knight later struggled past Briarhook’s briars on the stairs. She’d thought that he was dead, but she wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

  Stef pressed her arm, bringing her back to the present. “Take a minute,” he said. “Think about it. You know I’m right.”

  Joy grabbed her purse and the doorknob, blinking back tears.

  “You’re wrong,” she said. “And I’ll prove it.”

  She slammed the door, which wobbled on the ruined jamb.

  Anger felt a lot better than doubt.

  * * *

  Joy stormed into the C&P, whipping open the door, which utterly failed to give a satisfying slam as it eased gently closed, greeting her with its two-tone hello.

  She grabbed a diet bar and a chocolate bar, figuring they’d cancel each other out, and snatched a sports drink, craving its chemical salty-sweetness. Joy deliberately waited for the last customer to leave before adding the pack of clove gum.

  Vinh’s son, Hai, glanced up when he saw the gum. “You’re the one from before? Back room?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “One moment,” he said as he dialed the phone. He hit the keys on the register. “Total comes to six thirty-two.”

  Joy dug out a twenty from her last stint at the café. This was petty cash now. She wondered if she might go straight to Dover Mill and get some work done. What day is it? Enrique was right: time worked differently. While she might be hours in the Twixt, she was only gone moments here, and it threw her off her schedule. She needed to get out, go out, go do something—get away from the house. And Stef. And everyone. She’d have to get someone to fix the broken door before Dad came home.

  Mr. Vinh emerged wearing his usual blue shirt and loose black pants, but he was holding the multiple-lensed contraption in his hand. He adjusted it as he walked, glancing through a ring of three lenses as she accepted change from Hai. The wizard frowned.

  “You look different, busy girl,” he said. “You look like one of them.”

  Joy took that as a compliment. Hai squeezed by them and opened the freezer, facing the ice-cream labels forward. She tapped the counter with her pack of gum.

  “Remember the thing I asked about last time?” She saw him remember. Saw him frown. “I’m curious—how much?”

  Mr. Vinh slid behind the counter and removed a notepad. He scribbled a number on the page, tore it off and handed it to her. She read it. It was clearly not a discount.

  “Done,” she said, folding it up again. “I should have it in a week.”

  The wizard’s expression didn’t change. “Will that be cash or trade?” His tone wasn’t judgmental, merely curious. He had no doubt that she could pay, which was a compliment of sorts. Her new glyphs flared and spun.

  “Cash,” she said, tucking the slip of paper in the pocket behind the scalpel.

  “Very well,” he said. “I will see you in one week.” He handed her the plastic bag of snacks. “Have a nice day.”

  * * *

  She worked for hours at Dover Mill, but she didn’t feel caring and generous; she felt ruthlessly efficient, angry and defiant. Joy nearly crackled with energy as she poured her frustration onto her table and into Folks’ skin. As if sensing her mood, her clients were quiet and polite, no excess words, no life stories or elaborate thanks; strangers simply came in, sat down, had their glyphs removed and left. Some placed a tip on her tray, but most bowed out wordlessly and climbed the stairs with haste.

  Joy was not in a good mood.

  She methodically ran through her list of files. She texted her status to Graus Claude and punched her earnings into her phone calculator. Three more days like this and Ink’s glamour was in the bag. Add another day for the door and she could have everything in place by the time Dad and Shelley got back. Then, maybe, she could think about detailing her car.

  Or buying a vacation. Or paying for college.

  There was a rumble of thundering boots down the stairs. Joy turned just in time to see blue tattooed eyelids and a wide grin up close. Joy backed into the table.

  “Filly!”

  The woman whooped, “Joy Malone!” She set her hands on her hips and threw back her chin. “I heard that I might find you here.”

  Joy nodded, thoughts spinning. Filly was good friends with Ink. It was hard to imagine two people less alike, but she was sure that they spoke often. Filly was nosy and brash and brassy and altogether too proud to be the first to know gossip.

  “I’m...” Joy struggled to think up an excuse for what she could possibly be doing there that wa
sn’t precisely what she was doing there.

  “You are removing marks,” Filly said. “For payment.”

  Joy’s heart stopped. Too late.

  Filly shrugged back her rattling half cape, the finger bones clacking like bamboo chimes. She twisted her horsehead pendant to hang behind her neck and pointed to a sigil high on her shoulder. “This one,” she said and promptly hopped up on the table. “Remove it.”

  “Um. It’s by appointment...” Joy said weakly.

  Filly glanced around the empty room. “I am here now,” she said. “Remove it.”

  Joy took out her scalpel and blew on the blade, buying seconds even as her scalpel drew nearer, almost against her will. I really shouldn’t be doing this...

  “You should really go through Graus Claude,” Joy said. She’d begun to sweat, her palms hot and moist.

  “The vainglorious frog?” Filly barked a laugh. “He’s had enough of my coin. He can fill his belly elsewhere. Remove it,” she said again. “Please.”

  Joy wiped a smudge of mud off the woman’s shoulder. Her fingers were shaking, nervous and stiff. She was going to get in serious trouble for this.

  Filly kicked her heels impatiently. “Well?”

  Joy still hesitated, resisting the urge to do as she asked. Why was saying no so hard? Why not kick her out? Why not just give in? “Aren’t you going to tell me how it happened?” she asked in a last-ditch attempt to stall for time. “Explain how it was a mistake? Why you shouldn’t have it? Why you need it removed?”

  Filly thought about it for a moment, licking the tattooed spot under her lip. “No.”

  Joy gave up. “Okay, then. Hold still.”

  She traced the fractal five-pointed star, carefully unwinding it one triangle at a time, almost relieved to be doing it now that she’d begun. When she finished, the sigil collapsed into what looked like crumpled glass before disappearing completely. Filly rotated her shoulder and smiled.

  “Excellent!” she crowed. “Many thanks, Joy Malone!”

  Joy didn’t bother to point out the tip tray or mention payment due. Somehow she was certain it wouldn’t matter in the least. Mentally, she chalked it up to owing Filly big-time. Filly had fought off a dozen of Aniseed’s monsters after having been summoned by Joy autodialing her phone. The young horsewoman had been most upset that the battle was hardly worth the call, but it had undoubtedly saved Joy’s life.

  “Don’t mention it,” Joy said wryly. “I mean that. If Graus Claude found out I was giving away freebies, he’d...well, I have no idea what he’d do, but I’m betting it wouldn’t be pleasant.”

  “Undoubtedly correct,” Filly agreed. “However, you have nothing to fear.” She hopped down off the table and adjusted the ram’s horn at her belt. “Besides, whoever said I would not be paying you? I thought to save you and I a bit of headache and give it back in trade. Take this.”

  She thrust a drawstring bag into Joy’s hand. It had a spiral pictogram stitched on its front and it was filled with tiny rolls of paper, brown and thin and scaly.

  “That’s vellum,” Filly said helpfully. “Draw that there—” she swirled her finger around the tiny bag’s decoration “—on the back. Write a message on the other side and burn it in a fire and it will appear here.” She showed a similar pouch attached to her own belt. “You can send messages to me without risking my wrath by ringing a bell. And I can write you without raising your ire.” She smiled. “I’ve seen your ire. It is most impressive!”

  “Thanks,” Joy said, wondering why the young Nordic warrior was offering to be pen pals. “But why do you want to hear from me?”

  Filly tapped the side of her head with her knuckle. “I hear things, lots of things,” she said. “Lately, lots of things about you. And I like to be the one to hear things first. Especially straight from the horse’s mouth.”

  A creepy chill writhed in Joy’s stomach. “What sort of things?”

  “Nothing you can’t handle,” Filly said and laughed at Joy’s expression. “Relax. You’ve got heart, Joy Malone, as well as Ink’s plums in your pocket. What do you have to fear?”

  Joy hid her blush by wiping the scalpel against her jeans. She didn’t want to think about what she feared. “What sort of things would you expect me to write?”

  Filly leaped onto the stairs like a joyful colt. “Well now, I imagine most often you will write things like ‘Help! Help!’ but if you care to share anything else, I’m always interested in knowing what Folks’re going on about.”

  “You want me to spy for you?”

  Filly whickered a sly raspberry and crossed her arms, vambraces shining under the track lights. “Don’t be daft,” she said. “You’re about as subtle as a stampede. Spying’s sly work and neither of us are good at it. But things happen around you—things are drawn to you, yah?” She winked. “Well consider me to be one of those things, and I like to know the company I keep. You’re a friend of Ink’s and a friend of Inq’s and now ensconced with the likes of the Bailiwick.” She leaned over and took a deep sniff. “And you reek of wizards. That’s quite a package, hmm? So keep me in the loop and I’ll watch your back. Fair enough?”

  “More than fair,” Joy said, relieved and pocketing the pouch. “Thanks.”

  “I’ll be looking forward to your messages,” Filly said and waved. “Good night and good morrow, Joy Malone!” she sang as she vaulted the stairs and jumped out into a characteristic clap of light and thunder, which set off Joy’s phone. Joy switched it off, debating whether or not she should introduce the blonde warrior woman to the wonders of AT&T.

  Her phone buzzed. Glancing down, she read, Sorry, Cabana Girl. Thanks for saving my skin.

  Joy smiled. Ilhami.

  Sokay, Joy typed back. Just don’t do it again.

  No promises, he texted back. But I’ll be more careful next time. Joy snorted. “Next time,” already? I owe you.

  Joy shook her head and typed back, Put it on my tab.

  She hit Send, feeling that she was getting more tangled in entanglements. In a world of checks and balances, she was digging herself in deeper by the minute. She glanced at her other text message, swore and hit Call Back.

  “I’m sorry!” Joy said as Monica picked up. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

  “That and a packet of peanuts won’t even get me into the circus,” Monica said drily. “Where the heck have you been?”

  “Out. Busy. Dead. Skydiving.” Joy struggled to think of something plausible. Anything but the truth. She felt a stabbing pain that had nothing to do with guilt. “Mostly fighting with Stef.”

  “About?” Monica prompted.

  “I broke the door.”

  “You broke the door? What door?”

  “Our front door,” Joy said around the sudden twinge in her side. “I sort of broke it and Stef wants me to pay to get it fixed before Dad comes home.” She traced her finger against the clean slate wall. It was cold.

  “That sucks,” Monica said. “Waitressing lunches doesn’t even pull minimum wage.”

  “Oh,” Joy said. “Didn’t I tell you? I have a new job. I didn’t even have to wait the two weeks.” Her words were tripping over themselves as if running downhill. Lying made her heart race. “The pay’s great, but it’s still going to take some time to save up.”

  “A new job?” Monica asked. “Doing what?”

  Joy winced. Monica had helped her with her résumé when she’d applied to Antoine’s for the summer. Her best friend knew exactly how unqualified Joy was for any sort of work, let alone anything that could pay well. Joy scoured her mind for something suitably outlandish.

  “Um, remember that guy that picked us up at Evergreen Walk?”

  “The hottie with the accent and the GPS? The one who’s dating the sister of your mysterious tattoo artist boyfriend whom I ha
ve still never met? Your ‘significant-other-in-law’?” Monica said. “No, I can’t say that I recall.”

  “Ha ha,” Joy said, feeling her gut twist. “Well, he got me a job...as a personal shopper.” Joy wanted to throw up. The lie tasted like spoiled sour cream on her tongue.

  “A personal shopper?” Monica said. “For who?”

  “His sister,” Joy said. “Back in Russia.” She grabbed her water bottle to swallow something clean. “She’s got money to burn and likes American things.” The words kept coming as her brain screamed Lies! Lies! Lies! How was she supposed to keep track of them all? She sat on her hand to still its trembling, scrunching her eyes against a sudden panic-attack headache. How many times had her mother lied like this? How did she do it? Was it worth it? Why? Joy rubbed her scalp. “She tells me what she likes and her sizes and I send her links.” It felt like she was about to get a nosebleed—the pressure was like a bubble of phlegm. Joy squeezed the bridge of her nose. “If she likes stuff and buys it...I get a percentage.” The feeling passed. Joy breathed through the tightness easing behind her eyes. She blinked a few times. Ow. At least now she could think clearly.

  “Sweet setup,” Monica said. “Go you.”

  Joy rested her face in her hands, her legs feeling weak. “Yeah,” she said, wiping away her sweaty bangs. “But we’re not supposed to be talking about me, here. We’re supposed to be talking about you.” She took another deep drink to clear her mouth and her head. This was important. This was Monica. “This, here, talking? You wanted to talk, and I know it’s late, but if you still need to talk, I’m here. Or I can just listen. Anything you need.” She paused self-consciously. “I’ll stop talking now.”

  There was a pause, then a stuttering sound like static on the phone. It took a moment for Joy to realize it was Monica breathing through a sob.

  “I think I just broke up with Gordon,” she said.

  Joy rubbed her forehead. “You think you did? Or you did?”

  “I’m not sure,” Monica said. “We went for a drive and said a lot of things and I ended up yelling something awful, but I can’t remember what most of it was. I just remember the look on his face and I said I couldn’t take it, so I left.” Joy was having trouble understanding most of what Monica was saying. The words were coming very fast and squeezed through the phone, choked up and thin. “We’d taken my car.” Monica sniffed. “And I didn’t go back to get him. I left him stranded at the park!”