Monica and Joy clinked spoons. “It’s a date.”
Their server apologized for the wait and took their order. Joy felt a twinge of sympathy for the woman bussing her own tables and the two families with toddlers who were making a huge mess. She made a mental note to leave an extra-large tip. She’d been on the other side of the napkin, and it wasn’t pretty.
Monica handed back their menus as their server disappeared into the kitchen. “Can I ask you something?”
Joy chewed more ice. “You look beautiful.”
“No,” Monica said and leaned forward. “Are you ever going to tell me what went down at the hospital? Because, FYI, I would really like to know.”
Joy glanced at her friend’s face, the bald scar in Monica’s eyebrow a telltale remnant of their encounter with the Red Knight, the invincible, invisible assassin who had been sent to kill Joy. While Joy had been protected by Inq’s glyph-wrought armor, Monica had not, and she’d suffered a glancing blow from his massive sword. Joy’s attempts to erase the scar, and her guilt, had nearly cost her Ink and her place in the Twixt. Now every time she looked at Monica, that scar was a reminder of what was at stake, what really mattered and what she’d almost lost forever. And, if Joy looked more closely, she could still see the signatura etched there—the angled arrow of Sol Leander’s True Name like a gruesome slash on Monica’s face. Her best friend lived under the auspice of Joy’s greatest enemy in the Twixt.
Monica misunderstood Joy’s silence. “You have to tell me eventually, you know.”
“I know,” Joy said.
“I covered for you,” Monica said. “I lied to my parents.”
“I know.”
“You know,” Monica repeated back at her. “You’re just lucky that my mom believed that crazy story about Aunt Meredith. Her sister was seriously into some weird voodoo.” Monica shook her head, setting her gold hoops swaying. “I mean, what am I supposed to do when the woman sends me an ox-bone knife for Confirmation? I mean, seriously? But she’s family, right? I couldn’t just throw it away.” She brushed the edges of her razor-cut bob. “I use the thing for a letter opener.”
Joy laughed. Monica’s eyes grew serious. “Joy, you’ve got to tell me what really happened—Mom said you had a knife over my head, and the police said that no one saw anybody attack us at the mall.”
Joy’s insides burned hot, then cold. She held her breath and concentrated on Monica’s chin as she kept talking. “There was a whole lot of weird reports that day—things flying around, stuff breaking, lights smashed—but no one could explain it, not even the security tapes, not even the shrinks.” Monica’s ebony fingers curled over one another, turning her knuckles pale. “I know you’d never hurt me, and you know you can tell me anything,” she said earnestly. “Anything, right? So why don’t you?”
Joy squirmed, staring at Monica’s burgundy nail polish. Monica was her best friend—Joy owed her the truth—but she couldn’t tell her the truth, and she couldn’t lie. The risks were bigger than both of them, and she refused to place Monica in danger again.
“It’s...hard to explain,” Joy ventured. She couldn’t say that she couldn’t tell Monica, because, physically, she could—she just knew that she shouldn’t, for both of their sakes. Joy squinted up at the overhead lights. “I’ll tell you once I can wrap my brain around it.” Which could easily be never. She tried to act brave as she made eye contact, ignoring the accusing welt in her friend’s arched eyebrow. “But I’m not ready,” Joy said. “Not yet.”
Monica could’ve been angry, but she wasn’t, although her eyes were cool and distant. Monica would accept that there was a reason, and that it was important, and that what Joy needed was time. Joy loved her for it—but it made her feel worse for not telling her outright: Joy was the reason that Monica had gotten hurt. The guilt burned hotter than jalapeños and brought a flush to her face.
Monica might not understand why Joy wouldn’t talk, but they weren’t best friends for nothing. She simply said, “Why not?”
Joy smiled weakly. “Because, remember—No Stupid.”
Monica took a deep breath, wide nose flaring. Joy tried to look earnest. It felt fake even though it was true.
“Okay,” Monica said finally. “Okay. I can deal with that. But someday?”
Joy’s breath was tight in her chest. “Yeah,” she said, “someday.”
“Promise?”
Joy shook her head. “No.”
Monica jerked like she’d been slapped. Joy twisted her napkin and tried to explain.
“Look,” she said. “I won’t promise you something that I can’t guarantee.” Joy leaned over the tabletop, voice low. “If I promise you something, I will always mean it, because you deserve that,” she said. “I won’t lie to you. Ever.”
Their server appeared with impeccable Waitress Timing, dispersing the tension of too much truth with a double order of large veggie quesadillas. Monica wordlessly spread her napkin in her lap and tapped her fingernails on the table before picking up her knife.
“But you will tell me,” she said slowly. “When you’re ready?”
Joy sighed, caught. Monica was right—that was what she’d said. Joy could easily understand how the Folk—tricked by countless centuries of humans who could twist their words against them—had needed to develop better protections against mortals. Using signaturae, unspoken True Names, now made more sense to Joy—it was hard to get tangled up in words when the most important things couldn’t be said.
“Okay, yes,” Joy said. “I’ll tell you when I’m ready.”
Monica nodded. “I’ll hold you to that. Pass me the hot sauce.”
“Hot sauce? On quesadillas?”
Monica waved a manicured hand. “I have sophisticated taste.”
Joy gave her the small orange bottle and welcomed the silence of eating good food. She didn’t know how she was going to settle things with Monica and the Twixt, but for now she could enjoy a quesadilla grande with her best friend and pretend that things were normal, the way they used to be before everything went crazy.
Joy folded a triangle of cheese and peppers in half and wondered when, exactly, crazy had started feeling normal.
Your presence is required at 9am EST. Training will begin promptly. I will send the car to collect you. Prepare to take notes. —GC
JOY DELETED THE text and kissed her dad goodbye as she prepared to meet the Bentley. She’d woken up Stef with an ice cube in his ear and sprinted out the door when he’d screamed. She hoped that her manager
