Invisible. Dawn Metcalf
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“The Rakshasa’s fore-teeth turn blue as they age,” Ink said. “So an old soldier came out of retirement for you. Why?” Ink leaned back in his seat. “Perhaps he fought for honor or revenge, yet he fled rather than face the two of us.” He tapped the wallet again. “Honor and revenge are both strong motivators, and I doubt an old soldier’s pride would be weak, so the more believable incentive would be money or madness. If he were mad, he would have not retreated. Therefore, I think it most likely that he was paid to frighten you. His retreat was not out of fear, but prudence. Did you notice when he decided to flee?”
“When you showed up,” Joy said, sliding her thumb against his. “When you stood by me.”
“Yes—when he saw that I was there and had no intention of leaving,” Ink said. “I think he was paid only to deal with you, not me, as well, and either the odds were no longer worth the asking price or he left to get further instruction, knowing that he could always try again later.”
Joy withdrew her hand. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“A little,” he said. Joy glared. “Very little,” he amended. “However, you might take comfort in the fact that if your attacker is motivated by money, then he will not be interested in harming anyone else in your family. And since his heart is not bound to it, the task may be easily abandoned.”
“How?”
Ink gestured offhandedly. “He can be outbid.”
Joy stared at Ink in surprise, laughter coloring her words. “You’d buy him off?”
“If necessary,” Ink said. “Working for the Bailiwick has many rewards, few of which have interested me as I have found them unnecessary. But, should it become necessary, I am confident that I could offer enough wealth to sway anyone motivated merely by greed.”
“Really?” Joy said, tracing the grain of the table. “So you’re both handsome and rich?” She smiled. “My hero.”
Ink’s face melted into a true smile. With dimples. “And Graus Claude wonders where I learned flattery.” He reached out a hand—one of his own Joy-like hands—and touched the edge of her eyebrow, tucking her lengthening bangs behind her ear. The touch brought back memories that made her shiver. “I cannot ask you to stay in this house,” he said. “But I would prefer if you did. For tonight, at least. It is one of the few ways I know that you are truly safe.”
“Okay,” Joy said. “But I can’t stay home forever. Aside from going stir-crazy, I can’t lose my job—with cutbacks going on at Dad’s office, he’s working overtime and I agreed to help out.”
“I could help you,” Ink said.
“Thanks, but that’d be tough to explain.” She tried to laugh, but it came out strained. She had been used to her father spending most of his time at work or with his girlfriend, Shelley, but he’d been making the extra effort to be around Joy and would likely notice if she was suddenly freewheeling with lots of time and spending cash. Although the idea of quitting Antoine’s was tempting, her father would ask too many questions she couldn’t answer. She’d never been good at lying.
Ink brushed her skin lightly and he seemed to come to a decision.
“Then let me do this,” he said, unwinding a length of string from his neck. He lifted it over his head and held it up for her to see. It was a necklace with a single metal pendant, a rune like a bisected Y etched into its surface. She touched the unfamiliar symbol; the metal was still warm from his skin.
“What is it?”
“It is a glyph,” he said, looping it over her neck so that the symbol rested against her breastbone. “A futhark. It can protect you against an unexpected attack. A second chance is sometimes all that you need.” He pressed the tiny symbol against her skin. “I had it made after I confronted Aniseed. If I had worn this, she would not have...” His voice faltered and his expression changed as he recalled the strange sensation of death. “Would not have caught me unawares,” he said. His eyes flicked from Joy to the wallet, and she could see the cascade of thoughts that skittered like a stone skipped across a pond: then he wouldn’t have needed to give Joy his scalpel, she wouldn’t have discovered that she could erase signatura, she would not have been captured by Aniseed and held as ransom for his mark and he wouldn’t have bled to death during the battle on the warehouse floor. Of course, then Aniseed might have killed most of humanity, taking the bulk of the Twixt with it. Joy might have died. Ink might have stayed dead. Aniseed might have lived.
There was no telling what might have happened. What might have been.
That one thought scared her most of all.
“You should keep it...” Joy said, knowing how much that brush with death had shaken him, even if it had been only temporary. The memory of his eyes spilling black as his body collapsed, gushing ink onto the floor, haunted her still. But he tucked the necklace beneath her collar, his fingers lingering at the base of her throat. She felt her pulse jump as his thumb trailed over the smooth silk of her skin.
“No,” he said almost hypnotically. “This can keep you safe if I am not with you.” Ink drew his fingers along the chain at his hip. “I must go mark a new lama in Tibet, but I will return shortly.” He tilted his face to one side. “I will always come for you, Joy.”
She nodded, nearly speechless. “I know.”
Ink touched his lips to hers. She felt him hover, his breath in hers, their mouths closing with delicate symmetry—withdrawing, returning, testing how they fit together—like a welcoming home, soft and warm. She felt a slow heat grow inside her, radiating out.
“I need you,” he whispered, breaking their kiss. His eyes blinked open, dark wells of forever. “I need you to be safe,” he said. “I need you to be free. If nothing else, and for no other reason, I need you to be free.”
Joy paused still tasting his breath on her lips. “I don’t understand.”
“No, you don’t. You can’t. And that is good,” Ink said. “There is an innocence in not knowing what you can lose.” His voice grew stern. “Do not allow anyone to place their signatura on you and claim you as theirs. Your body, your skin, your blood, your tears, your wishes, your dreams—they are yours and yours alone. Do not let anyone take them from you.”
Joy was taken aback, wondering what he meant and wondering again what she did not know.
“I won’t,” she said. “I promise.”
Ink looked at her strangely, almost sadly, drawing his fingers down her cheek. “You cannot promise such a thing,” he said. “You are only human.”
It was true, she was not bound like the Folk to never tell a lie, but his correction stung nonetheless. Before she could say more, the doorbell chimed. Joy glanced at the clock, disbelieving.
“Monica,” Joy said.
Ink stood up, folding his wallet and fitting the chain.
“I will return to Graus Claude and follow the answers,” he said. “In the meanwhile, please do not take undue risks. Remember, my theory is just a theory, and I would not welcome any opportunities to be proven wrong.”
Joy