Invisible

by Dawn Metcalf

  “I sincerely apologize,” she said. “For any upset I may have caused.” Her words were carefully phrased. Joy could no longer tell a direct lie, but she knew how she could bend the truth—and even this little falsehood hurt her with a tiny niggling ache. The pains she’d experienced these past few weeks were just the beginning, and she knew, instinctively, that a lie could kill her now. Joy glanced around the Council seats, noting what they’d said and left unsaid, feeling like she already had friends and allies forming around her, tied with invisible strings. “I did not know who I was or what I was, only that I had to live to see this day,” she said, grateful for Ink’s closeness and his soothing scent of rain. “But I no longer need protections from my own people.”

  The silence was as thick as night. Green firefly twinkles hung in the air.

  “We once had practices in place for acclimating changelings,” Graus Claude said with lazy grace. “For inducting those born outside back into our world, even before the advent of the Twixt. Could these not be applied in such a case as this?”

  “An acclimation?” the vine-faced man said, his berries swinging.

  “Preposterous,” Sol Leander scoffed. “It’s archaic.”

  The mushroom woman raised her head, black hair brushing the chair back. “Who’re you callin’ ‘archaic,’ boyo?” she said with mock surprise. “Yer new to that chair an’ those of us who’ve been warmin’ them longer than you know ’tis the Old Ways we’ve been holdin’ dear till the glory days of the Imminent Return.” She sniffed. “So if’n this be ‘archaic,’ then I says ’twere most assuredly the right thing to do!” She banged the edge of her chair with a knobbly stick and grinned at Joy like a wise baby.

  The old man’s moustaches drifted, smoke still seeping from his flaring nostrils. His eyes were mellower gold. He stroked his beard with overlong nails.

  “And do any claim her?” he said.

  “I claim her,” said Ink.

  “Denied,” Sol Leander said with a wave of his hand. “She has already repudiated the Scribe. Was once not enough?”

  The head of the Council said nothing, but it was clear he thought the same thing.

  “I volunteer to be her sponsor,” Graus Claude said, surprising the squat woman beside him. “As I am most familiar with the Scribes and their positions in the Twixt, it seems only fitting that I oversee the training of the third Scribe.”

  “The third Scribe?” The treelike man wove himself around his seat, tendrils hugging the post with a sound similar to creaking wood—it was a sound that still gave Joy chills. “I see no Scribe!” he said, gesturing at her with a cluster of vines. “I see a small girl with a signatura and a scalpel and a Grimson’s mark.”

  Panic slithered up Joy’s spine and plugged her ears.

  “Nevertheless, she completes the set,” Graus Claude said with a conciliatory smile. “One whose marks can be seen, one whose marks cannot be seen and one who can remove obsolete marks.” He smiled wider, exposing pointed teeth. “She is undoubtedly one of the Scribes.”

  “Hold,” the elderly man said, his voice receding into the thin, reedy trill that he had demonstrated when they’d first assembled; his neck contracted, his smoke all but gone. “We shall consider the motion to formally acknowledge the one known as Joy Malone as one of the Folk, deserving equal rights and protections as any in the Twixt.” He noticed the gazes and glowers all around him. “But first I propose a short, but necessary, recess.”

  The motion was quickly seconded, and the gavel snapped down. Chaos descended, funneling down stairs and rows of benches on stampeding feet.

  Officiates fled their seats, spinning into waiting chambers or swiftly addressing their delegates in the stands. Sol Leander swept into a back chamber, his feather-cloaked assistant casting a black look over his shoulder as he shut the door behind them. Crowds swarmed, awkwardly and eagerly, but Joy was quickly escorted through the alcove where the curtains had been drawn, nearly tripping over her heels in the hurry to escape. Stumbling, Ink pulled Joy against him and kissed her forehead.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I should have been there.”

  She hugged him closer. “You’re here now.”

  “Quite a spectacular show, Miss Malone,” Graus Claude said as he ambled into the alcove, shiny silk shoes poking out from beneath his embroidered hem. Two hands rolled up a scroll as the third gestured toward the dais. “I do not believe I have ever seen such a display of equal magnitude and gravity. I pray you know what you’re doing.”

  “I have no idea,” Joy said, arms about Ink. “But I’m learning.”

  There might have been a quirk in the Bailiwick’s cheek. “Well, that is all anyone could hope for.”

  “Do you think they will acknowledge her?” Ink asked. “Formally accept her as one of the Twixt?”

  Graus Claude spared a glance over his hump at the glittering chamber doors. “I imagine that they will have to—there is clear precedent for halflings coming forward to claim their birthright, but none quite so dramatic as this.” He eyed Joy critically, his four arms tucked behind him. “And yet you remain remarkably tidy, despite your recent mishaps, even going so far as to be properly dressed for the occasion. Perhaps there is some justification of you remaining under my influence and tutelage, since the results are proving favorable and you are unusually apt at heeding my advice.” He smiled then, displaying his wide range of pointed teeth. “If you would deign to have me as your sponsor, that is?”

  Joy beamed. “Gladly!” She could ask for no better benefactor than the Bailiwick of the Twixt. Lucky me! The great toad shook his head a little as he assessed the kicked-anthill antics of his fellows.

  “You have given them much to debate, for this night and for ages to come; a welcome distraction from outmoded matters such as the Tide’s Golden Age, wouldn’t you agree?” He sighed contentedly. “And I find that things are rarely boring where you are concerned, Miss Malone.” His ice-blue eyes took on a delighted gleam. “I look forward to watching this situation develop.”

  Joy rested her head against Ink in her arms and smiled. “Me, too.”

  “Very well, Miss Malone, Master Ink.” Graus Claude stepped back and gestured with two hands to the waiting chambers. “I believe I am needed for a lengthy discussion behind closed doors. Perhaps it is best if you are returned home, Miss Malone. Few of my colleagues take notice of mortal time passing, and I suspect that this will take quite a while. I will contact you when a verdict is reached.” He nodded to Joy with deep sincerity. “Please accept my apologies for my earlier conduct and know that all channels are open to you once again.”

  Joy bowed a little. “Thank you, Bailiwick.”

  He inclined his great head, his twenty fingers pausing along the curtain’s edge. “A last bit of advice concerning members of the esteemed Council and your fellow associates in the Twixt,” he said. “You might want to ruminate on how you shall conduct yourself among the Folk in the future as you are now permanently without protections, by your own word and deed.” His eyes flashed. “Remember that and heed it well, for the Folk are known to have long memories and are very, very patient.”

  The massive shape turned, a mountain swathed in silk and pearls, lumbering past packs of gibbering Folk shouting for his attention. Joy watched his tread with a mixture of admiration, pride and awe. Above the chamber doors, high in the stands, Joy saw a pale figure in a black motorcycle jacket and a length of pearls wave her hand and mime applause. Joy couldn’t quite make out Inq’s eyes twinkling in mischief, but she could easily imagine it.

  Ink placed his hand gently on her back where her signatura lay burning bright.

  Joy traced her thumb over his heart line; her breathing came easier, but her voice was still too loud in her ears.

  “Ink?”

  “Yes?”

  “I love you.”
>
  He smiled. “And I love you.”

  “No matter what?” she whispered.

  “No matter what. Nonnegotiable.”

  “Good,” Joy said and squeezed his hand. “Take me home.”

  EPILOGUE

  “CAN YOU PASS the mustard down here?” Dad called from the adult’s picnic table. He waved a hand over Shelley’s head as she talked about local politics with Mrs. Weitzenhoffer and Mrs. Reid. Stef picked up the yellow squeeze bottle and handed it to Joy.

  “You’re the waitress,” he said around a mouthful of hot dog. “You’ve had practice.”

  She pushed it back at him. “I’m retired,” she said. “Now I’m a happy wage slave at Nordstrom Rack.” Stef poked the mustard across the table in her direction, millimeter by millimeter. She pretended not to notice. Stef sang the Jaws theme under his breath. Monica laughed. Joy rolled her eyes.

  “Fine.” She snatched up the mustard and walked through the grill smoke thick with onions and kielbasa and sweet potato fries. The sun shone warm and wonderful across Abbott’s Field and the sky was picture-perfect robin’s-egg blue. They couldn’t have asked for better weather for a Welcome Home picnic to celebrate Dad and Shelley returning the same weekend Monica got to go home.

  Joy traded the mustard bottle for a basket of butter rolls. Mr. Reid handed it forward while Mrs. Reid looked for something in her purse. Joy smiled stiffly and hurried back to the kids’ table; she was still uncomfortable around Mrs. Reid despite Monica’s reassurance that everything was fine.

  “I told her that I made you promise to take a lock of my hair and wrap it in a poppet if ever I was hospitalized,” Monica had said with a shrug. “Aunt Meredith was old-school Creole—she basically put the ‘super’ in superstitious—Mom bought it because she wanted to. She loves you, Joy. She knows you’d never hurt me. She just needed an excuse.” Her friend’s voice was as firm as ever, despite the last vestiges of bruises and tape. “But one day, I expect to hear the story of what really went down or I swear I’ll raise my aunt’s ghost to haunt your marriage bed. Remember that.”

  Joy nodded and poured more Sweet Baby Ray’s sauce on her fries. She knew that she’d always remember this summer. Even now, it was hard to look at Monica and not be reminded of it every day. Although Joy’s first attempt had removed a lot of the scarring and the plastic surgeons had done a great job on her nose, there was still a permanent chip in Monica’s right eyebrow, a thin line of skin bisecting the black that stood out like an accusation every time Joy saw it. This was what she had done. This was what was at stake: a reminder never to forget that Joy had to protect others as well as herself and her world from the unseen dangers of the Twixt.

  And while she could undo the scar, even now, she knew she never would. There was far more to consider than just her, just love, just Ink—there were the laws of her people, both people in both worlds. Somehow, she was one of the Folk, and yet she was still human, too. She had to be very careful, more careful than ever before, because Graus Claude was right: the Folk had long memories and time meant nothing to them.

  Stef speared another sausage and Joy let him have it with only nominal fighting with the tongs. He laughed and took a bite. Despite everything that had happened, she hadn’t told her brother yet. She didn’t know how he would take knowing that he, too, was part Other Than. She decided to keep that a secret...for now.

  Monica smiled up from the cradle of Gordon’s arms. Three of Gordon’s sisters hooted a chorus in the grass as they played with a red kickball and a giant Wiffle bat. Mr. Weitzenhoffer moved over to make room for Joy. She placed the rolls in front of him and he smiled—the man was an identical older version of his youngest son. Joy wondered if he’d been the one to introduce Gordon to Nordic bubblegum punk. Scary thought.

  “Thank you, Joy,” he said and offered the basket to Gordon, who took two and offered one to Monica. “So are you still planning to go back for another round of laser treatments?” he asked her politely.

  “I don’t know,” Monica said, breaking one of the rolls in half. “It seemed to be really working when they started, but now the results have gone way down. The doctors say it broke up a lot of the scar tissue, but this last bit’s being stubborn.” She slathered some of Mrs. Weitzenhoffer’s homemade sour cherry jam on the crust. “Mom says I shouldn’t be surprised since the rest of me is stubborn, too.”

  Gordon ran his finger along the thin line of stitches disappearing into her weave. “I kind of like it,” he said. “I think it gives you character.”

  Monica elbowed his gut. “You’re a character!”

  And they were at it again—poking and giggling in front of their parents, cute as ever, which made it twice as nice.

  Joy tried not to be too jealous.

  She picked up her lemon water, still beading cold against the glass, listening to the birds, the adult chatter and the distant kids at play. The sunshine was warm where her signatura burned. Stef had seen it but didn’t yet know what it meant. How long could she keep that safe? She had Grimson’s mark, too, her own little reminder that sometimes keeping “safe” had a high price.

  An invisible tickle, an imagined tug, made her turn around. She swiveled on her elbows and leaned against the table, watching Ink come toward them from across the field. He smiled at her, the sun fading the shoulders of his black, formfitting T-shirt and sparkling off the ever-present wallet chain swinging at his hip. He brushed his fingers through his hair nervously as both dimples appeared.

  Joy grinned. Even if he was a secret, even if no one else knew, it meant a lot to her that he’d come—that in some small way, everyone who mattered to her most was here, together...with a little room left over for Mom. And Doug? Joy heard laughter from the grown-up table. Maybe someday.

  Ink came closer. Joy paused. There was something different about him. Joy couldn’t put her finger on it until she saw the mark on his bicep, like a signatura—like her signatura—but drawn in dull matte black, like an ordinary tattoo. Stef stopped chewing. Of course, Stefan could see him, but he should know enough not to let it show. She smirked a little to herself, wondering how her brother would handle any invisible PDA shenanigans.

  “Um...Joy?” Monica sat up straight and Gordon wiped the crumbs off his lap. Even Mr. Weitzenhoffer turned around, looking mildly interested. Joy followed their stares and felt her pulse thud inside her chest. She glanced at her father, who was getting up from the table, a hand tapping on Shelley’s shoulder to get her attention.

  And still Ink came closer, black eyes dancing, stopping to stand next to the bunch of Welcome Home balloons.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said. Joy gaped up at him, absolutely unable to speak. Ink turned to Monica and offered his hand across the table. “Hi. You must be Monica. I’m glad to hear you’re feeling better,” he said in his smooth, slicing voice. Monica shook his hand with the widest grin ever and actually giggled at Joy. Gordon offered the next handshake: two sets of hands met with knuckles, fingernails, fingers, all of it. Joy felt herself smiling and tried not to cry.

  “I’m Gordon,” the giant blond said. “Gordon Weitzenhoffer.”

  Joy put a hand around her boyfriend’s glamoured waist. He curled an arm around her, natural as anything, and shook Gordon’s hand again.

  “I’m Mark Carver,” he said with a dimpled smile. “But most Folk call me Ink.”

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from INDELIBLE by Dawn Metcalf.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  THIS IS BOOK Two of the Twixt, a book that I promised would be made after Indelible sold in 2011. It was my first sale of a book that didn’t yet exist, so in a very real sense, it was Invisible. I want to sincerely thank my editor, Natashya Wilson, my agent, Michael Bourret, and my critique partners, Angie Frazier, Maurissa Guibord and Susan Van Hecke, for helping me keep my promise. Thanks to Mark and K
ris Apgar, Angie Moore and Matt and Jenny Bannock for friendship and patience above and beyond the call of sanity, with shout-outs to Tessa Gratton, Kim Harrington, Georgia McBride, Diana Peterfreund and Carrie Ryan for sharing professional savvy on this side of the keys. Heartfelt thanks to Jim Wheeler for gruesome details and medical expertise, and special thanks to Coe Booth, who made me take a stand for Monica, and Holly Black for her advice about sequels—this was exactly what I needed to hear!

  The story itself would not be visible if not for many people behind the scenes and between these pages, namely, the Harlequin TEEN Dream Team—Melissa Anthony, Jenny Bullough, Fiona Cunningham, Jean Delaney, T. S. Ferguson, Natasa Hatsios, Amy Jones, Gigi Lau, Fion Ngan, Kathleen Oudit, Michelle Renaud, Mary Sheldon, Annie Stone, Larissa Walker, Lisa Wray, and also Anna Baggaley of the U.K. Mira Ink team. And this would be absolutely nothing without the support of my family, whose love is the theme for every book I ever wrote. Thanks to my parents, Holly and Barry, my other parents, Marilyn and Harold, my siblings and sibling-spouses Corrie, Richard, Adam, Michelle, David and Shari and my beloved husband, Jonathan, whom I love more and more every day (where will I ever keep it all?!) and to my children, S.L. and A.J.—I love you more than all the words.

  And if I forgot anyone, I deeply apologize. Blame it on yetis.

  Escape into a world of unforgettable characters and extraordinary stories with compelling Harlequin TEEN titles from bestselling authors and new voices alike, ranging from contemporary fiction to paranormal romance…and everything in between!