Invincible

By Dawn Metcalf

Love must be stronger than fear, stronger than fate. Invincible. The future of two worlds depends on it.

Joy Malone has learned to live between two realities, surviving mortal threats and agonising betrayals. And she's found true love. But the world of the Twixt is in chaos, and the Council wants someone to blame… Facing a danger greater than any she's ever known, Joy must find the strength to rely on herself as her allies fall away, because Joy is no longer sure just who – or what – she is. She knows only that her deepest secret is also her greatest vulnerability and the key to saving them all.

As she fights to protect her friends and family and to unite two disparate worlds, Joy has to trust that some bonds are stronger than magic.

Somewhere between reality and myth lies...

THE TWIXT

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Aug 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781489210913

Dawn Metcalf

Dawn Metcalf writes about fairy tales, myths and sharp, pointy objects. She has yet to be whisked away to Fairyland, but also has yet to be stabbed in the eye. You can find her and her family buried somewhere beneath piles of costuming, crayons, karate pads and board games masquerading as a normal Victorian house in northern Connecticut. If they had a sign, it would be: Confounding the Neighbor Children Since 1999. Visit Dawn and the Twixt at www.dawnmetcalf.com.

Book preview

INVINCIBLE_Pheonix.tif

ONE

JOY MALONE STOOD inside the Bailiwick and stared out the newly opened door between worlds. Her bare feet tingled on the illusion of grass, and Indelible Ink’s hand hung loosely in hers. Her boyfriend’s black, fathomless eyes were wondrous-wide as they absorbed the unbelievable sight.

Yellow banners snapped over bivouac camps spread over miles of green, grassy hills. Soldiers gathered around a large central court—elves and sprites, demons and gargoyles, gryphons and centaurs and fairies garbed for battle, all staring back at them, dumbstruck with awe. In the middle of the courtyard, nine princesses were laughing and sobbing hysterically, reunited after centuries apart. And beyond them, two crowned figures stood before their thrones, their long hair lifting like angel’s wings in the wind; the Royal Majesties, the King and Queen of the Folk.

The King turned to his Queen, his words, crisp and clean, crossing the miles, slicing through sound.

It is as you foretold, he said. Behold the Destroyer of Worlds.

Joy swallowed. Her heart might have skipped a beat, but as Joy was only half human, her heart was still.

Ink turned to her, his voice uncertain. Joy?

She shook her head, not daring to look away. I don’t know, she whispered. She had no idea what they were talking about, but their words chilled her. She shivered. Her leotard stuck awkwardly to her skin. As a former gymnast, Joy was used to wearing next to nothing in public, but right now she wished she’d kept on the elaborate ball gown. The layers of silk and crinoline might have been some small protection from the otherworldly glares, but she’d shed it while making her escape from Under the Hill. The costume was likely trampled by angry Folk searching for her back at the gala, including the rampaging dragon, the Head of the Council, Bùxiŭ de Zhēnzhū. She could almost hear the distant howling as the mob swarmed the Grand Hall.

But that was back in the real world, her world—a strange mix of the human world and the Twixt—not this pocket dimension, the Bailiwick, hidden inside Graus Claude, which held the secret doorway to the lost King and Queen of the Folk.

The world beyond the doorway sparkled, muted like honey, motes of pollen flashing with lazy golds and greens. Purple clouds hung above jeweled fruit trees and tall waterfalls tumbled over sharp, blue-veined cliffs. There were castles in the distance with rainbow lakes and silver springs bubbling under bridges that looked spun from diamond glass. It looked like every fairy tale, every fantasy made real. This was the world of magic where the Folk had gone to hide.

Joy swallowed, forcing herself to relax, and lifted her chest and chin.

Your Majesties. Joy raised her voice. Your people await your Imminent Return!

She thought that would do it, she really did. All heads turned to look at the Queen, whose face was as beautiful and terrible as the alien sky. Her skin was the color of morning glories and her eyes were as bright as stars.

The wind picked up, blowing her long hair back from her face. Her crown winked gold in a sea of amber curls. The lost Folk gathered nearer to their monarchs with a low, buzzing mumble, the curious murmur of bees.

You are not our people, the Queen said slowly. Come forward if you come in peace.

Ink tugged her hand gently. Joy hesitated. It was true—as a homunculus and a halfling, neither Ink nor Joy was truly one of the Folk, but, however unlikely, they were the ambassadors of the Twixt. Joy could hear Graus Claude’s advice whispering in her head, Etiquette and decorum.

The rampaging mob Under the Hill weren’t half as frightening as the King and Queen of the Folk. Theirs was power, old and absolute, serene and inviolate. They had literally spoken a world into being, gathering all the nonhuman creatures together to safeguard the last vestiges of magic on Earth in a place they called the Twixt, bound by the rules that all Folk must obey. These were the two who had done everything in their power to protect their people and their magic from human harm.

It was like looking into infinite space and having it stare back.

Joy leaned forward, but her feet refused to move. The soap-bubble barrier that stretched over the length of the doorway bowed and wobbled, rainbow reflections dancing on its surface. This was different from walking into the Bailiwick, to the safe room down the stairs under Graus Claude’s tongue—this was an actual door to another world, and to step through it was to leave everything she knew behind.

The King raised his arm. He was the color of earth and wore a cape of velvet leaves; his voice was warm and rich with hope.

Come, he beckoned. Tell us of our people.

Joy squared her shoulders and held her breath as the ward bowed gently to allow her passage. The barrier peeled away with a popping sound, jellyfish-slow. She felt the sudden warmth of the sun on her cheek and the cool, dewy ground under her toes. The air was heavy and humid and sweet on her lips, tasting of lavender and moss and cinnamon.

Joy drank a deep breath. She was in another world.

Ink stood in the doorway, still holding Joy’s hand. She smiled back at him, radiant.

The ground cracked open.

Jagged fissures of superheated rock ripped through the grass, bleeding hot lava and billows of steam. A blast hit her full in the face. Joy reeled back. The air became dark and acrid and choked with ash. Liquid stone churned. Grass blackened. Smoke boiled. Joy stumbled forward, each step cracking and shattering beneath her like glass.

There was an inhaled gasp, then silence, then noise.

Volume blurred it into a visceral sound—the collective outraged battle cry and the collective thunder of weapons and claws charging full speed down the hill. Joy stepped back, tearing another wound in the earth. A gout of wet fire spewed behind her, orange-hot spatters smoking in the grass. The hillside tilted on a sea of molten rock. Joy pitched forward, using Ink’s hand for balance. Winged things crested over the front line, talons bared.

Joy shouted, Ink!

His hand fastened over her wrist, his face a mask of terror.

Joy!

The ground crumbled underneath her. She jumped, grabbing his biceps, suspended over a glowing chasm. Heat baked her heels. Joy screamed, Don’t let go!

I’ll not let go, he assured her.

Don’t let go!

Never.

He twisted sharply, pulling her up with impossible strength, her body arcing through the air with a familiar feeling of weightlessness before piercing the fine membrane of the doorway and crashing against Ink. His arms wrapped around to catch her as they landed in the Bailiwick’s hazy meadow with a punch of breath. They both turned to look back at the army hurtling toward the open door.

Joy opened her mouth to shout and nearly gagged on the taste of limes as Ink snapped open his straight razor and slashed a door through space, whirling them through the flap of nothing hanging in midair.

They reappeared on the edge of the Bailiwick, at the base of the stairway to their own world.

Ink urged her upward. Go!

They ran up the stairs in a blur of slapping feet, heavy boots and heavy breathing, racing toward the muted light. Ink flipped his straight razor as Joy cleared the top stair, the back teeth, and the line of red fire as she sprinted out of the Bailiwick—the magical entryway’s wards flaring blue as Ink ran close behind her.

They landed on the floor of the Atrium in the Forest wing of the Council Hall.

Joy spun around, gasping. I formally withdraw from the Bailiwick!

Graus Claude’s jaw closed with agonizing slowness. She pictured the army of lost Folk pushing their way through the door and up his throat. Joy prayed for a speedy transformation as the Bailiwick’s skin lost its stony pallor, his mouth shrank to merely wide and his eyes changed from cataract-white to their normal icy blue. Reanimated, Graus Claude slumped forward, tired, weak, but looking more like the hunchbacked, four-armed frog she knew. She grabbed one of his elbows.

Up! she commanded.

He stumbled to his feet. Where is the princess? he murmured, blinking around the greenhouse room. Where are the King and Queen?

Don’t talk! she snapped in panic. Keep your mouth shut!

Shocked, he did. She could hear the sharp click of his teeth.

Joy glanced up at the skylights above the treetops, the Atrium’s ceiling filled with colorful butterflies and exotic birds spooked by their arrival. There was one way out, into the long hallway flanked by open stairwells, obvious to everyone searching on several floors. She glanced at the shadows between the trees, wondering if Briarhook still lingered there. Her skin crawled. Joy had bribed the giant hedgehog to help rescue the Bailiwick, but the deal hadn’t included anything about him not turning them all in afterward. Knowing how much Briarhook hated her, Joy wouldn’t be surprised if he’d betrayed them to the Council in order to gain the last piece of his heart.

Joy ground her teeth. Focus! She grabbed her scalpel and purse from the floor. Shattering the Amanya spell had let the Folk access their lost memories of their forgotten King and Queen, but now there was an angry mob of Twixt socialites and a deposed Council likely looking for answers or, even more likely, Joy’s head on a stick. Invisible Inq was out of action, Joy’s brother, Stef, was with his satyr boyfriend, Dmitri, and she’d have to trust that Filly and Avery and Ysabel and Kurt would get themselves out.

Right now, the three of them had to escape.

Ink? She reached for him.

He flinched away. She dropped her hand. Joy tried to empathize—he’d just found his mother, the princess, lost his sister, Inq, freed his monarchs, the King and Queen, and was currently running from a vengeful army who had been trapped for more than a millennium in another dimension. It was enough to spin anyone’s head, but they didn’t have time for an existential crisis right now.

Listen, getting to the Atrium was the fallback plan to get Graus Claude out in case anything went wrong, she said. "And ever since we found out that Aniseed made a graftling clone of herself, everything’s gone wrong! She dropped her voice, wondering if saying the dryad’s name aloud might somehow alert the Forest Folk. How do we get out?"

Miss Mal—

Not you! Joy shushed the Bailiwick, who glared at her from beneath his deep postorbital ridge. How far are we from the East entrance? That’s where the car’s parked. How far outside the Hill do you need to be before you can slice a door home? She squeezed her clutch purse full of keys. Indelible Ink looked unfocused, lost. Joy’s feet still burned. Ink?

He turned to her, blank, all-black eyes drowning.

I—I’m— he stammered. He was in shock.

A manicured claw tapped the flagstone path and Joy looked down. Graus Claude had drawn a large E in the dirt and pointed over his shoulder. Joy ran to the thick glass windows that warped the light outside. She couldn’t see a thing. They could be four feet from the ground or four hundred—it was impossible to tell. Flowering trees and vine-wrapped branches nearly obscured the skylights on this side of the room. Her panicked reflection stared back at her.

There was a rustling in the Atrium. It shivered the hairs on the back of Joy’s neck.

The door opened. Everyone spun around.

Filly poked her head in, her ornamental horse mask from the gala still perched on her head like a hat.

Ah, she said, grinning. Everyone together now? Good! I’ll just hold them off, then.

Wait! Joy cried. How do we get out?

The Valkyrie shrugged and licked the blue spot under her bottom lip. Haven’t a clue, she said. This is Forest floor and I only know Air. She flicked the mask’s trailing horsehair mane over her shoulder. The plan’s gone sideways, in case you haven’t noticed. I lost Kurt in the hubbub, but that’ll serve as cover for your retreat. There’s many keen to speak with you, Joy Malone, and double that for our noble toad, so you’d both best be off.

Joy cringed. But what about you?

I don’t mind staying—you’re missing a beautiful row! Filly beamed as tumultuous noise gathered behind her, approaching fast. Must go. Call me when you need me. She raised a fist. Victory!

Victory... Joy answered, but the door had already shut. Both Ink and Graus Claude stared at her. Joy glowered back. Okay, I’m thinking!

There was only one door from the room—one obvious door—but Joy couldn’t believe there would be only one way out. They were in the Grand Hall Under the Hill, the hub of the Twixt, the central government stronghold of the Folk, and the Folk always had a loophole, another way out. She made her way around the perimeter of the Atrium, feeling along the trees, along the glass, tracing the sills with her fingertips. What she wouldn’t give for one of Dmitri’s glow stick beacons, or, for that matter, the glyph preventing Ink from cutting a door out. If she could find it with her Sight, she would erase it with the scalpel. If she couldn’t bend the rules, she’d break them.

There was a great slam! slam! slam! as the Atrium door buckled and smashed in. Filly bowled backward, curled around a Minotaur. A scrabble of Folk in ball gowns and feathered masks streamed in after them, pushing and shouting in outrage. Butterflies scattered in haphazard clouds. Kestrel appeared, straining against her leash. She hissed, her long tongue snaking out to taste their scent. The tracker’s eyes dilated. Her stiff eyelashes blinked with a scraped-metal shing!

Joy flattened against the wall as a group of bird-masked guards rushed the Bailiwick. Graus Claude roared a battle challenge—halfhearted at best, but enough to stall the horde and push them, stumbling, back. He clambered to his feet, propping himself up on his knuckles like some great silverback beast. Filly grabbed the Minotaur’s nose ring and yanked down sharply, kneeing him in the face once, twice, then wrenching him sideways, bowling over two fairies with a shout of triumph. Ink skipped out of reach, lithe and limber as a swallow, dancing along the edges of the mob, dodging his way between the trees toward Joy.

She watched the attack with a strange, distant awareness. A tingle crawled up her arches and the backs of her calves, deliciously burning up her thighs, warming her vitals, boiling her blood. Her head felt heavy and she turned her chin to one side, considering the masked faces of those rushing nearer. Her neck cracked. A smile came easily to her lips. The voice in her head—the one that seemed to resonate from deep within the earth, pitched ten times louder and surer than her own—thrummed in her rib cage and echoed in her brain.

THEY CANNOT DESTROY US NOW.

Filly staggered as an antlered man materialized out of the foliage and fastened his arms around her chest. She gave a grunt and smashed the back of her skull into his pointed chin. The horse head mask split, the mane flung wild.

A face appeared in front of Joy, hanging upside-down from a low tree branch.

Got you! Hasp hissed, his impossibly long fingers wrapping around her wrists and yanking her arms above her head. The aether sprite laughed from his perch, drawing her face closer to his. His breath smelled of exhaust and malice.

But her feet still touched the ground.

She could feel the tingling afterburn of the world beyond the Bailiwick and beneath that, the tempting whispers of land and stone, rock and soil, metal and dirt and old, old ice. The voice inside her snarled as Joy latched on to Hasp’s knuckles and pulled.

She felt his hands crack in her palms. He howled a high-pitched scream and let go.

Joy dropped to the ground as giant stick-like creatures snapped their wrists, shooting barbed splinters through the air, slicing birds sideways. Ink torqued his body, evading the shower of darts. Filly twisted, using a Green Man for a shield. Joy drove her arms into the ground, grabbing something sharper than the scalpel, older than stone, hotter than hell; the taste in her mouth was copper and blood.

A wave of darkness fell around her, muffling the cacophonous roar inside her head. A voice hissed at her from under a fluffy shield of white feathers. Avery, she thought dimly. The Tide’s courtier and Councilman Sol Leander’s spy.

Go! he said. Go now, Joy Malone!

The world slowed to a crawl. Avery’s voice dulled to a hum and the screams blurred into a distant din. Faces turned comical as lips curled, cheeks stretched, brows furrowed and mouths formed words. Butterflies waved lazily by like water weeds and Ink soared between two trees, suspended midleap, ballet-like and beautiful, his naked blade sweeping in one hand like a scythe. Joy watched another bird explode, its soft blue and pink feathers puffing in a burst of arterial red.

Joy turned her head. Graus Claude extricated himself from his size-thirty shoes, his giant webbed feet unfurling and slapping wetly across the floor. Joy watched in fascinated horror as he drew claws down the seams of his trousers, slicing them lengthwise, freeing long, bowed legs from their tailored confinement. His knees bent outward, exposing striped limbs banded in black. His sharp toes gripped the dirt as the long muscles bunched beneath him.

One arm shot out, grabbing Joy, and clamped her to his chest. A second hand gripped Ink’s forearm and yanked him out of his arc. The Bailiwick folded his upper arms over their heads, shielding them under a helm of rubbery flesh. His jowls trembled. His body tensed.

He sprang, leaping hard and fast through the eastern window, shattering the glass with the force of his skull. The crash was deafening. The cold was a slap. The impact was enough to choke out all breath. Joy gagged as they soared upward through a cloud of spliced light and broken glass, the wind whistling in her ears and flattening her hair across her face. Gravity tossed her stomach as they crested and fell, time rushing up to greet them at fast-forward speed.

WHUMPH!

Graus Claude’s massive legs absorbed the landing, bobbing them up and down like a spring. Releasing his grip, he dropped Joy and Ink and then staggered, his six limbs trembling, his torn clothes hanging off him like rags. The Bailiwick blinked watery blood from long scratches above his eyes.

It’s been a while... he muttered, glancing back at the gaping hole in the Hall. His flat frog feet slapped the ground uncertainly. His empty hands shook.

I guess that answers the question of how it went.

Raina emerged from behind Ilhami’s shiny black Lamborghini. Luiz and Ilhami stared past them, up at the broken windows in the Atrium wall. The three lehman—Joy’s friends and Inq’s human lovers—slowly lowered their bottle of champagne and thin glass flutes.

Luiz frowned. Where’s Inq?

She’s still inside, Joy gasped, peeling her purse from her skin—the beading’s imprint would leave an interesting bruise. She—

Tell us later, Raina said. Now you go. She grabbed her thigh holster and aimed her gun into the air. Ilhami and Luiz popped the trunk and pulled out more guns to follow suit.

What are you doing? said Graus Claude, alarmed.

Providing a distraction, Raina said, shooting six times in quick succession. Thick clouds boiled out of nowhere, coating the underside of the world. Iron triggers the Hall’s defenses, she said. It’s attempting to cloak.

The Avalon mists, Graus Claude stammered. Brilliant.

Raina smiled, flipping back her Pantene hair.

Time to go! Joy said. She fumbled with the clutch, dug out her keys and punched the fob’s blue button. The Ferrari materialized right where she’d left it.

Ilhami cackled. "I knew you’d love that car!"

Raina slapped him good-naturedly upside the head. Circle around in formation, punctuate fire every five, rendezvous at high noon. Go! The Cabana Boys split up, diving into the mist. Raina waved at Joy before the clouds swallowed her up. Good luck!

Bailiwick! Ink urged the great frog forward as Folk began pouring out the hole in the Atrium windows, leaping, running and flying through the misty sky Under the Hill. We must leave.

Graus Claude’s head shook with more than its usual palsy quiver. I cannot.

Not arguing, Joy said as she popped the locks and flung open the door. Get in.

The Bailiwick sighed. His voice a thin baritone compared to his normal rumbling bass as he spoke carefully through clamped shark’s teeth.

"I cannot fit, Miss Malone."

Joy groaned. He was right—the Ferrari couldn’t accommodate the massive, four-armed frog. She fell into the driver’s seat and wrenched at the seat belt, swearing and trying to think. Ink dropped into the seat beside her and cracked the windows.

Get on, he called out as something ricocheted off the hood.

Graus Claude leaped, belly flopping onto the roof and splaying across the back windshield. Four sets of claws sank into the plastic molding through the partially opened windows and his toes gripped the trim above the back wheels. A thin trickle of blood dripped down the windshield.

Go! ordered Graus Claude.

Joy floored it. The wheels spun beneath her. Zero to sixty—gone.

She shifted quickly, flying through three gears, the heavy chunk-thunk almost lost in the roar of the wind by her ears. A howl chased them just behind the exhaust. Joy didn’t bother checking the mirror; she pressed her foot firmly to the floor. Graus Claude’s claws tightened. His nails popped through the metal. She winced and gritted her teeth. Enrique would never forgive her for wrecking his car. Then she remembered—Enrique was dead. Inq was unconscious. Kurt and Filly and Stef were back at the gala. Ink was in the passenger seat, and Graus Claude was on the roof.

I imagine that’s not the way a traditional Welcome Gala is supposed to go? Joy’s voice, high and hysterical, sounded alien to her ears.

Ink glanced at her as if weighing her sanity against his. He gripped the seat cushion as if unwilling to let go.

Joy caught a glimpse of movement in the rearview mirror—a lot of movements, too many to count. They’re coming after us, she said, turning deeper into the mists. I’m starting to lose track of exactly who wants us dead.

The Tide, Hasp, Briarhook, Ink began. Sol Leander, possibly the Council, probably the whole of the Twixt now that you’ve broken the Amanya spell and they’ve realized that you’ve kidnapped the only means to reach their King and Queen...

Yes. Thank you. Very helpful. Joy interrupted him, slamming into fifth gear. A red dragon curled the mists under the mighty beats of his wings. It seemed to spy her through the mirror, its reptilian eyes glinting. A chill ripped down her spine. She yanked the car to the right, plunging them into the frosty fog. Silence enveloped them as they sped through the soft blanket of white. Only the car’s engine purred.

I need a little distance, she said more to herself than Ink. She remembered that terrifying ride with Enrique after they’d rescued Ilhami from Ladybird’s drug den. This was worse. She thought about the tiny switch that lay just under the dashboard lights. She didn’t know what it would do to the Bailiwick clinging to the roof of the car, but it was the only way they were getting out from Under the Hill.

Ink, Joy said to the dashboard. She didn’t dare take her eyes off the lack of road. The eerie fog parted around them like ghosts. I need you to flip the switch next to my knee when I say so. She tried to keep the squeezing panic out of her voice, but she couldn’t pry her death grip off the steering wheel. She could all but feel the dragon breathing down her neck. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the tips of Ink’s hair barely move as he shook his head. His hands stayed locked. He’d stiffened, immobile and silent.

Ink, you have to hit the slip drive!

Ink didn’t move.

The fog parted. Pointed teeth filled her rearview mirror.

Ink! she cried. Hit it!

His hand darted forward and flipped the switch. The indicator light blinked. The back of the car ignited with a roar.

Joy’s shoulders tensed. Her ears popped. The windows went dark, then everything went white.

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TWO

JOY SCREAMED AS THEY swerved into the parking lot of her apartment complex. Her legs locked as she hit the brakes, the back of her head slamming into the headrest and turf flying into the windshield as the car’s buffer field engaged, bouncing them off the nearest Honda and spiraling to a stop. The engine rumbled threateningly.

Out! Joy barked. She hit the cloaking shield. Off!

There was a creaking snap as Graus Claude pried his claws out of the molding, leaving deep, pointed gouges in the padding and frame. He groaned from where he appeared to be hovering several feet above the ground, flattened against the roof of the now-invisible car. Joy stumbled onto the asphalt, knees shaking, still wondering what was real.

There was a sound in the bushes.

Joy froze.

Ink appeared beside her, grabbing hold of the Bailiwick’s elbow and flicking his straight razor free.

Come, he said.

Ink grabbed Joy’s hand. The Bailiwick grunted. There was a flash of spliced light, the scent of limes, and the three of them appeared inside the condo’s foyer, the house alarm set, the wards sparking gold and Joy’s head spinning.

Ink marched quickly around the kitchen, checking the wards he had placed to keep Joy safe inside her home. His face was stern, gaze piercing, tense and intense.

Ink? Joy tried to follow, but she felt dizzy, her thoughts whirling. Graus Claude?

The Bailiwick sagged against the closet door. His glistening frog’s feet were red and weeping, blisters standing out against the thin webbing between his swollen toes. Joy ran to grab towels as the giant amphibian sat heavily on the floor, half in the foyer, half in the kitchen. Her brain took quick inventory: it was barely Monday morning, Stef was supposed to be driving to U Penn, Dad was visiting his girlfriend, Shelley, and therefore they were alone in the house, protected by Ink’s wards. Safe, for now.

She hoped that her brother was somewhere safe, too.

She dropped the pile of towels and knelt before the Bailiwick, wrapping his feet gently in layers of fluffy cotton. He’d gone from pale to ashen.

Water, he croaked through cracked lips. Joy ran to the fridge and shoved a tall glass under the spigot, filling it with water. She filled another glass with ice.

Graus Claude drained the first in a shot and grimaced, but healthy patches of olive gray bloomed on his cheeks. He opened his hands for another three glasses. Joy kept filling them, exchanging the empties, and tried not to think about the smears of blood on the floor.

He drank six more glasses of water in quick succession, two of his arms alternating glasses and the other two hands fastening towels over his feet. Joy couldn’t believe he’d ever squashed them into human-shaped shoes. No wonder he limped.

Keep drinking, Joy said. You shouldn’t talk.

He swallowed. Miss Malone, I assure you that if the King and Queen were to make their appearance, the strength of my jaw would do little to stop them. I can only assume from our current circumstances that they are not yet able to make their Return. He rubbed his jaw near the crux of his eardrum. Therefore, my being mute serves no overt purpose and there is much that needs to be said.

Ink entered the kitchen, the claw-toed boots of his gala costume clicking against the tile. There was no smile in his black, fathomless eyes. He stalked like a predator and Joy felt like prey.

Master Ink, Graus Claude rumbled. I trust the wards are in place?

Yes, Bailiwick, Ink said. He was as tense as a bowstring, nearly quivering in place.

Very well, then, the noble toad said, attempting to gain his feet and wincing with the effort. I would ask that you return me to my domicile so I might make necessary arrangements. I shudder to imagine what things have been like since my incarceration, not to mention after tonight’s festivities. He cast a glance at Joy. As your mentor, I feel that I ought to scold you for your actions, Miss Malone—from the debacle of your Welcome Gala to aiding and abetting a known prisoner of the Court. He sighed and his demeanor relaxed around the pain. However, I find myself quite at a loss to do so and confess that I am rather proud of your efforts on both of our behalves. Subtlety was never your strong suit and humility was never mine. His wide head dipped perceptively. I owe you many thanks, Joy Malone. He repeated the gesture to his associate. And to you as well, Master Ink.

Joy went to stand next to Ink, but he shrugged away, cutting off her touch. She hesitated, hurt and confused, but he purposefully ignored her as he addressed Graus Claude.

Then permit me to ask a boon of you, Ink said with a tightly added, sir.

Graus Claude slowed his ministrations. His browridge quirked. Indeed?

You must swear upon your honor and the honor of the King and Queen that you will not harm Joy Malone in any way. You will neither hinder or hamper her efforts nor will you aid any other party in their intent to do her harm, by word or by deed, else your True Name be forfeit, Ink said all at once. Do you so swear?

Joy and the Bailiwick both gaped at him.

What—?

Master Ink, Graus Claude said, his voice punctuated with his usual ire. Why would you suspect that I would do anything that would necessitate such a terrible oath?

Ink remained resolute, as solid as a wall. That was not a ‘yes.’

The great frog’s face darkened to a steely mottled gray. Your ears appear to be in fine working order, although your sense of humor—not to mention propriety—may have suffered since our last meeting, he replied. Joy might have imagined a twitch by Ink’s eye at the rebuke. She remembered his warning when she first met the Bailiwick: Humor me. Respect him. Always. Joy shook her head, wondering what Ink was doing.

You took an oath, Ink said by way of explanation.

Graus Claude lifted his head, the jowls at his throat stretching around his collar. I have taken a number of oaths, he said. To which are you referring?

First this one, Ink said fervently. To me. Do you so swear?

I cannot—

"You must, Ink insisted, his fingers curled into fists. I will answer your questions when you grant me my boon. Or is your blind loyalty stronger than your word? Ink was nearly shaking, his voice cut like a blade. Swear it."

Graus Claude’s gaze slid between Ink and Joy through shaded eyes. I do so swear. The Bailiwick sniffed. Ink relaxed an inch, if that. Now, he said icily. Which oath have I now countermanded by agreeing to this tidy charade?

Ink recited, ‘Sampo ei da Counsallierai emantanti der dictuunuim, es payanciim, es emonim der teriminatuum ou da cloite sei grachenscuta pandeimaenous delvanessi.’

Graus Claude’s expressive glower went slack. Veins pulsed along his eardrums as his teeth ground together with the sound of scraping saws. His surprise bloomed into a deep, red outrage.

YOU—! he roared, forcing Joy to step back. The blood rushed from his face and colored the towels with spots of red. "That CANNOT—! All four hands grasped the air, fisting open and closed in impotent fury. His massive head swung back and forth. It is simply imp—" The words gagged him. He swallowed gulps of fury. Joy knew what was happening—he could not say that which he knew was untrue. She touched the wall behind her cautiously, carefully, making no sudden moves.

His breathing slowly settled into a low, bellows thrum. His bloodshot gaze flicked between Joy and Ink. His voice was a deep accusation, You are certain of this?

Ink nodded. Joy barely moved. She had no idea what was going on, but it didn’t sound good.

Graus Claude leaned back on his haunches and crashed to the floor, his legs splayed beneath him.

By the Swells... Graus Claude murmured, discreetly translated by the eelet in Joy’s ear. Her strange gift from the Siren’s widower, Dennis Thomas, had proven to be more than just a pretty shell—the tiny creature inside it could translate Water Folk Tongue into English. She’d learned quite a few of the Bailiwick’s favorite curses.

Joy reached for Ink again, but he flipped the straight razor like a shield between them. She stopped, stunned. The silver chain swung gently at his hip like a warning.

Ink—?

Don’t! Ink snapped. Do not come near me. Do not... His anger cooled as his arms sagged. His voice softened. Do not come closer. Please.

Tears welled in her eyes. The Tide’s betrayal, the gala, their harrowing escape—something had happened to Ink and she’d missed it. He looked torn, pained, ready to bolt. Joy wanted to touch him but feared his reaction.

She spread empty hands. Ink, please—

I cannot stay here, Ink said.

Graus Claude rumbled. Of course. Mistress Inq is missing. I quite under—

I cannot stay, he said again without lifting his eyes. He swept a line of fire through the air, peeling back a flap of nothing at all. I have no oath to bind me, he said to Joy. And you have foresworn all armor. He turned and stepped one foot through the breach. Bailiwick, he murmured. You are bound by your word, your claim and your Name.

The frog inclined his head. I have foresworn it.

Wait! No! Ink! Joy cried. Stop!

He didn’t turn, but paused on the edge of the void, the lip of this world flapping in a foreign breeze. His crisp, clear voice slipped over his shoulder. Find the loophole, Joy, he whispered. Do it soon.

The door zipped closed behind him.

Joy stumbled forward, touching empty air. Hot tears dripped off her cheeks.

"He can’t—he can’t just le—!" She gagged on the word leave. He could and had. She desperately fumbled to hold on to their last words like a frayed thread. She spun on Graus Claude. What’s going on? Why did he—? She could barely put words to the look on Ink’s face. She’d never seen him look at her that way—not when he’d caught her in an act of betrayal, not when she’d stood between him and revenge. He’d been holding himself back, warring with himself, warding her off for safety’s sake, but she wasn’t sure whom he’d been trying to protect: her or him. He’d left her without an explanation, leaving behind only riddles and an injured frog. Anger