smile and gestured at her dress.
“I’d hug you,” he said, “but it’d only make things worse.”
“I’ll risk it,” she said, and he squeezed her in his strong arms, swirling her around and laughing—but it was laughter that she understood; it was mortal and tight, and there were tears behind it. Humans grieved differently than Folk. Luiz was drunk with glee and sorrow. He let her go, peeling himself away in primary splotches. She laughed at herself smeared in red, blue and gold. He gestured to the whole of the room.
“Do you like it?” Luiz said, waving all around. “Enrique loved things like Burning Man and Carnival. Honor the spirit, right? Well, trust me, he would’ve loved this!” He turned to Ink, arms wide. “May I?”
“Number four?” Ink said with a shrug. “Of course.”
Luiz swept forward and picked up Ink, twirling and laughing with him just the same, smearing his pristine dress shirt a mottled tie-dye of yellow and purple and a shocking lime green. Luiz dropped him, and Ink staggered back, a rainbow riot. Joy laughed so hard, she cried.
Ink grinned with deep dimples as Luiz patted his back.
“Ditch the shirt,” Luiz advised and glanced at Joy. “And the shoes. Let’s dance!”
He grabbed Joy’s hand as she grabbed Ink’s, and they swung into the circle of rhythmic dancers swirling around the flames. Stomping feet became clapping hands, and whirling contras slid into hand-off marches, grasping forearms, passing partners, smearing paint on arms and cheeks. Beads were looped around strangers’ necks, shells clattered, rattles shook, feathers blurred and fur rippled as trinkets passed from hand to hand to hand. Ink threw his stained shirt into the flames to a collective cheer. Joy kept her dress on, inviting teasing and laughter. Soon she was festooned in ribbons and crystals and mad swirls of paint. Ink matched her, bare-chested, wearing smeared handprints and a lei of teeth. Both of them laughed, running and twirling, spinning and leaping, and it wasn’t long before Joy was lost to the music, her body vibrating with heartbeat and the thunder of sound.
Thump-THUMP. Thump-THUMP. Like a wordless chant, the glow inside her built like a clenched fist, power eking through the cracks, an almost-pleasure-pain...
Too much. Too much!
When it crested, Joy launched, her legs fueled by the sound, the fire and the deep, driving light—Ink caught her, tethering her to this world and the ground. She split-kicked as Ink held her aloft, arms locked, solid and strong. She tilted her head back and spun under the chandelier, its crystal labyrinth filling the ceiling as more and more people poured out their joy and grief.
The strange, wondrous feeling poured through her limbs, shivering down her arms and out the soles of her feet. It might have been grief, but it felt like magic. This was her tribute. This moment. This memory. This.
Joy slowly bent her knees and came down to applause, feeling vulnerable and proud, energized and spent. Ink twirled her around, a wild excitement in his eyes.
“It is you!” he said. “Can you feel it? This is joy!”
Another swing in the music and several drums joined in, tumbling over one another, beating faster and faster, like outrunning death. Joy and Ink became separated as twin circles of dancers raced around the fires. The flames began to lift and swirl into snapping plumes. The mob became a percussive instrument—a living, flashing Kodo drum, a sword dance of flying feet and clapping hands without blades. Scarves and ribbons streamed like banners. Sweat ran through paint. Joy’s hair flew over her shoulders and into her face. Adrenaline coursed through her body, pounding her heart and slamming her feet, smacking her soles against the hard-packed ground, driving the defiant beat harder, faster. The music spun, twirling random partners together and apart in the maelstrom of motion, a rave on fire—this was where she lived: this body, this earth, with Ink and the rhythm of her blood in her ears. This was life. This was living. This was alive. This.
The music stopped abruptly. Panting, Joy beamed, holding a stranger’s hand.
“You?”
She registered the shock of white hair and the gray-green eyes, chest heaving under a familiar feathered cloak. His smile was fading fast.
It was like déjà vu in reverse, the way the strange young man stared at her, exposed on the dance floor, surprised at being seen; but this wasn’t Ink at the Carousel—this was the young courtier who’d stood by Sol Leander, a member of the Tide, the faction that had hired the Red Knight to kill her. She was too surprised to do anything but stare.
His shock turned to revulsion as he yanked his hand out of her grasp and swept away with a dramatic swirl of his cloak.
“Joy?” Ink appeared behind her.
“Ink!” she whispered as they stepped away from the fires. It was colder now—much colder—and fear brought goose bumps to her skin.
“Hoy, Joy Malone!” Filly bounded over, wearing her usual leather vambraces and short cape of bones, as brash and bold as ever despite the scandalous smears of blue paint down her front and the crown of ivy wilting atop her head. The young warrior turned to watch the feathered cloak swirl away between the dancers and licked the blue tattooed spot beneath her lower lip. “Problem with your dance partner?” she quipped.
“I think the problem’s mutual,” Joy said. She was grateful to have the young Valkyrie near—Filly was both a true friend and crazy good in a fight. “What is he doing here?”
Ink curled his arm around Joy and spoke close to her ear. “Perhaps he knew Enrique,” Ink said. “All who knew him are welcome here.” He brushed back a wet curl from her face. “Despite being human, Enrique was well-known for his adventuresome spirit, and that made him quite popular.” He gestured around the room with a pink-and-orange hand. “Normally the Folk do not acknowledge Inq and I or our associates, but Inq has gone out of her way to make herself difficult to ignore.” He lifted his chin toward his sister, who was crowd surfing, carried aloft by many loving hands. She swam in the decadence, a blissful smile on her lips. “The fact her lehman were allowed to attend such an event is a testament to how high the Folk hold her and Enrique in their esteem.”
Or her skill in blackmail, Joy thought as she watched the pale-haired man cross the room. When he glanced back, it was with thinly guarded fury. She looked away, feeling strangely guilty, then angry at herself for feeling anything of the sort. The Tide wanted her dead! They claimed that she was a threat to the Twixt—the most dangerous human in the world: one who had the Sight and could also wield power over their True Names given form. Only the Scribes were allowed to draw others’ signaturae. But once Joy had claimed her birthright, she’d become one of them—one of the Folk, a member of the Twixt, the Third Scribe—protected by the Council and therefore, sacrosanct. The Folk were too few for infighting, but that did not mean that she had been forgiven. Her near-escape and new status did not make her popular—it made her infamous.
And the Folk had long memories for revenge.
“Is his master here?” Joy had trouble even saying the words Sol Leander without feeling sick.
“Ha!” Filly barked. “I doubt you’ll see any of the Council down here. Not even your overdressed toad in his finest silks.”
“Most of the Folk would not honor a human in this way,” Ink said. “Sol Leander in particular considers
