The Twixt

Ink cocked his head. “This isn’t Faeland,” he said. “And you are not human.”

“Good point,” Joy said and sipped her drink. It barely had a taste, more like a vapor of old forests and honey that filled her head and slid down her spine. She hadn’t realized she’d swallowed, it was so smooth. It burned, slow and sensuous, inside her. Joy put the glass down carefully. “Aaaaaand that’s enough for me.”

Ink placed his glass next to hers and curled his arms around her middle, his chest pressed against her back, his chin resting on her shoulder.

“What would you like to do?” he asked. “Dance? Sing? Sculpt?”

“Sculpt?” Joy asked, and Ink pointed. Like a weird reception line, there were Folk picking soft, translucent balls out of a tall basket, which glowed like a kiln. Each person molded whatever was in their hands, fashioning the clay with fingers and claws, small tools or stones spread out on the floor, crafting shapes lovingly, delicately, or banging them hard against the wall. As the Folk worked, the stuff began to glow from within, growing brighter the more they tinkered with it until the shapes became too bright to see, illuminating faces like miniature suns, hardening into crystal.

“What are they?” she asked.

“Memories,” Ink said. “Emotions. Wishes. Watch.”

Joy hushed as a thin man with dragonfly wings lifted the glowing crystal over his head and opened his hand slowly, letting it go. Joy followed his gaze as his creation floated gently upward while a small, shaggy thing with flaring nostrils snuffled around his ankles and whipped its finished crystal angrily at the sky. Both lights eventually slowed as they rose the great distance to the high ceiling and slid into place among the other luminous shapes that hovered in midair. That was when Joy realized that the chandelier was actually a mass of memories—the collective thoughts about Enrique by those who knew him best. It made her heart swell.

“The memory crystal holds on to those thoughts, those memories, like dreams under glass,” Ink said. “We can visit them anytime to free our thoughts and remember so that our loved ones will never be forgotten.”

“That’s beautiful,” she murmured.

“That is immortality.”

She turned and faced him. A powerful heat sparked between them, trickling up the soles of her feet, wrapping around her knees and thrumming in her teeth. She tapped her fingers on the drum of his chest as her body swayed in Ink’s arms. The music and magic were a warm glow in her veins.

“I want to dance,” she said.

It was ridiculous, but it was true. When she felt so much more than her body could hold, she wanted to move—to run and trick and flip and kick. She was kinetic, kinesthetic. It was as necessary to her as breathing, like living, like flying. The shiver up her legs was an urge, a push. The energy in the room was stronger than the wine. She wanted to leave everything that had happened at the dreary human funeral behind. Ink looked at her, eyes sparkling, as if he understood perfectly.

“Come,” Ink said, taking her hand and leading her across the room, weaving expertly between Folk who unconsciously moved out of his way. He could always part a crowd with ease. Joy followed, feeling the heat of bodies and bonfires burning all around her. The music hummed in her rib cage, an anticipating crackle under her toes. She wanted to dive into this like Inq into the crowd, swim above it, through it; she wanted to feel that freedom Enrique had loved during all of his adventures all over the world.

He’d said that she was an ordinary girl who’d been given an extraordinary life. She’d known that, intellectually, but this was where she felt it for the first time—what it meant to be part of this world, paired with someone who loved her.

Blackmail and jealousy and damp tissues could wait. This was about Enrique, and they were going to dance!

Joy squeezed Ink’s hand as they wove between circles and dodged couples shouting over the music. Someone bumped into her, smearing her black dress in blue paint.

“Perdóneme,” the figure said and then stopped dead. “Joy?”

“Luiz?” Joy almost laughed. She would never have recognized the young lehman. He was painted in bright colors from his wavy hair to his toes, save for what looked like a loincloth and a spattered necklace of metal beads. He was dripping with sweat; rainbow rivulets ran down his chest. He flashed his butter-melt 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 humans to be the enemy and we Scribes to be mere tools, barely more than animated quills—we do not register as ‘alive’ to him, so he would hardly acknowledge the death of one of our lehman.”

Joy nodded dully. While the words made sense, she couldn’t ignore the creepy chill that now colored her mood. She felt every flaky inch and prickle of dried paint on her skin. She began walking away. Away is good.

“Let’s go,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Leaving so soon?” Filly said, surprised. “They haven’t even cracked the casks open yet! The night is young, and blood beats hot!” She grinned and gestured to the bonfire plumes. Firelight turned her horse head pendant gold. “Come dance and remember! Dance and forget! That is what we are here for—to dance ere we die!”

“No, thanks,” Joy said, taking Ink’s hand. “I’m going home.”

Filly grinned wider. “There are other kinds of dancing.”

Ink tugged Joy closer. “Well said and well met.”

The young horsewoman raised a goblet and snorted. “Good morrow, then, as you shall surely enjoy a good night!”

They made their way up the incline, leaving Filly and the feast and the Folk behind. Collecting her discarded shoes and purse, Joy stepped onto the jutting overhang where they’d first come in, safely distant from anyone who might blunder into Ink as he sliced open a door through the world. Joy cast a last glance around the revelry, trying to spy familiar faces in order to wave her goodbyes, but her attention snagged on a feathery cloak illuminated in the light of the basket kiln.

She watched as Sol Leander’s young aide opened his hand, allowing the crystal spire he had wrought to slip free. The look on his face was reverent as his eyes followed the delicate sculpture up-up-up, glittering like a tiny star climbing toward the light.

“Joy?” Ink said. He held a flap of nothing at all.

She turned her back on the spectacle, took Ink’s hand and stepped quickly through the breach.

* * *

They appeared in her room, just inside the door, and Joy found herself suddenly in Ink’s arms, his lips hungry on hers. She kissed him back gratefully—thankful to be alive, to be together, safe and finally alone.

He cupped her face as he kissed her and ran his hands through her hair, combing out stray feathers and glitter. She felt his bare arms and shoulders, his smooth, muscular chest pressed flat against hers. Paint flaked off under her fingertips. She wiped her hands on her dress and laughed into his mouth.

“Your poor shirt,” she said between kisses.

“I can get another,” he said and kissed her again—over and over as if he could not get enough. Joy was convinced he was addicted to kissing. Ink paused, his lips grazing hers. “Graus Claude has a very good tailor.”

She laughed and squirmed under his touch. He’d driven all bad thoughts away. It was getting hard to keep standing. She twisted a finger in his wallet chain and tugged him closer. His fingers traced the zipper down the back of her dress. Joy hadn’t realized he knew about zippers.

“We’re covered in paint,” she whispered next to his ear. He breathed a warm line down the length of her neck. Her fingers tightened in his hair. He kissed her collarbone and lifted his fathomless eyes to hers—they were dark and drowning.

“I don’t care,” he said.

She smiled at his rare contraction. “You ‘don’t’?”

He shook his head; only the tips of his hair moved, black eyes unblinking. “No.”

Joy backed up, pulling him along by his chain. He followed. She pressed herself against the wall by her headboard and wrapped one arm over his shoulders, drawing him into a long, luxurious kiss. He groaned against her, one hand flat by her ear. She distantly heard his fingernails scratch against the paint. She tapped her palm beside her hip.

“Can you make a door—” she tapped the wall again “—here?”

Ink withdrew an aching inch, looking where she’d knocked.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked.

“Just through the wall.”

He grinned like a little boy, all dimples. “Oh? Why?”

Joy tugged the silver chain again and whispered in his ear, “Come see.”

He needed no further encouragement. Reaching behind him, Ink pulled the straight razor from his wallet and snapped it open with a practiced flick. Staring into her eyes, he drew a line directly over Joy’s head. He then carefully traced a long loop past her shoulder, her elbow, her hip, her knee, and then sliced along the baseboard, nudging Joy to one side. He stood, pocketed the blade and pushed the breach open like a door. His eyes twinkled as he gave a small bow. Joy grinned in delight and kissed him as they walked through the wall with the taste of limes in her mouth.

Then she was kissing him in the bathroom, the sound of their breaths a tiny echo against tile. Joy tasted his lips and curled her toes in the thick bath mat. She caught his bottom lip gently in her teeth—she had to be careful with teeth; last time, he’d bitten her.

“Shh,” she whispered as she released him and reached through the shower curtain to twist the knob. The room exploded in splashing applause. High-pressure water rained against the bathtub and the air slowly turned misty with steam. She brushed her bangs from her eyes and touched the flaky handprints on his chest.

She looked down at his feet on the bath mat and then up. “Ditch the shoes,” she all but mouthed. Joy smiled. Ink stared at her mouth, his fingers gone still.

She drew him toward the shower, holding his forearm as she pushed the curtain aside and stepped in. The water was hot and she adjusted the temperature as he took off his boots and stepped in beside her, both of them still clothed. Paint began spilling in rivers down his chest, pooling at the waistband as water soaked his jeans.

Joy stood under the showerhead. Rainbow colors slid down her body, dripping off her elbows and swirling around her feet, her black dress plastered against her thighs and her back. She wiped water from her face and blinked at Ink through wet lashes. He absorbed her every movement, his gaze coursing over her like the water itself, hugging her curves and caressing her skin.

She leaned forward and kissed him, her mouth slick and wet. Ink kissed her curiously. She stepped back. He licked his lip.

“It is different,” he said. “It is like kissing you in the rain.”

“You can feel the difference?” Joy asked.

“Yes. Warmer, less friction.” He touched the drop at her chin. “Wet.”

His eyelashes were speckled with watery pearls. His black hair drooped in long, damp tendrils over his cheeks. Joy’s dress was completely drenched as she ran a hand from his neck to his belly button, admiring that tiny detail. We did that.

She picked up a bar of soap and began lathering it in her hands. Ink watched the bubbles form with kittenlike interest. The foam turned pink and gray and blue.

“Feel this,” she said and spread a smear of soapy bubbles over his chest. Ink gasped and stepped back awkwardly, contained in the narrow tub. Joy held on to his wrist, his skin sliding against hers. She squeezed, slipping her fingers over his long muscles, massaging his arm. He stared, fascinated. She watched him feeling every inch of the new sensation. Joy pushed soap up to his shoulder. Froth cascaded down his back. Ink held on to the wall and exhaled with a hitch in his breath.

Joy smiled, spreading her slick hands over his chest, fingers swimming through the suds, rubbing slow circles, washing the paint from his skin. The foam turned red and purple and yellow and green. Joy wiped away the colors and cupped her hands under the showerhead, splashing his front, trickling clean.

Ink touched a hand to his chest, splayed fingers wide. There was a flicker in his throat, and his eyes brimmed full of mist and stars.

“Again, please.”

Smiling, she did. Running the soap through her fingers, she kissed him as she slid her hands over his back. His spine arched toward her, and he held on to her shoulders, kissing and gasping with one shared breath. She tugged him under the spray—now hotter—rinsing him off as she squeezed her eyes shut, her hair a dark curtain running all over her face. She squeezed past him, letting the shower hit Ink full in the chest. His head tipped back, and his arms loosened as his eyes slipped closed. She turned him around by the shoulders so that his back was to her. Water slid off his wallet chain. His signatura flashed in the dark. Joy touched the ouroboros under the water, watching the dragon-swallowing-its-tail circle spin, wondering if his mark was sensitive to temperature and emotion like Inq’s. Like hers?

She smoothed her palms over his shoulders and up the sides of his neck, thumbs pushing into his hairline. She smiled, hearing him sigh.

His head lolled forward, and he flattened his hands against the wall, warm water coursing down the back of his head. A tiny stream ran down the length of his spine, bisecting the ouroboros and her circle of soap. Joy traced it with her fingers and pushed the heels of her hands into the muscles of his back. He steadied himself and murmured, a sound crisp and clean through the splash; although she didn’t understand the words, she got the meaning loud and clear.

Pushing her knuckles into his lower back, she kneaded upward and inched her thumbs slowly up either side of his spine. Ink arched again, lifting his head and turning to face her. His hair was drenched flat. His eyes were cavernous. Joy had the odd thought that he looked taller when wet. She stopped moving, her heartbeat loud in her ears, wondering what, exactly, would happen next.

Ink slowly took the soap from her hand. Running it smoothly between his palms, he gazed at her, unblinking. Soapy bubbles dripped down his forearms, off his elbows, and hit the floor. His voice was a sort of whisper.

“Now you.”

He took her wrist and slid his thumbs up the inside of her forearm, squeezing gently as he soaped her to the elbow. Joy’s mouth opened, trying to catch enough breath, hot and misty and clean on her tongue. He cupped her shoulder, pushing the bubbles down her collarbone, suds dripping along the scooped neckline of her dress. His fingertips followed, drawing long, slow circles, working off smears of orange, blue and black. Joy’s eyes fluttered under his strong hands. One of his palms rested over her heart, fingers spread across her breastbone, his pinkie slipping under the shoulder strap of her bra. Joy’s pulse thudded in her chest, a thick beat through the foam. Ink’s hand slid up her neck, behind her ears. Her eyes opened as he brushed a dab of paint from her cheek.

He looked into her eyes for a long moment, breathing.

Joy reached over her shoulder and pressed his fingers to the tiny metal pull at the back of her neck. Ink pinched it in his finger and thumb. He watched her face, mesmerized, as he slowly unzipped her dress.

She felt his hands slide over her bare back, and she made a small sound in her throat. He pushed the heels of his hands into the muscles above her hips, kneading upward as she had, running his thumbs along either side of her spine. Joy arched into him, meeting tongues and lips and wanting. He was following her every motion, mimicking her lead, and it was driving her crazy.

“Ink,” she said, almost dizzy with heat.

He slid her body against his. She gasped in his mouth.

“Joy,” he said.

Kissing him deeply, Joy pulled her arms through the straps and let the sodden weight of the dress hit the drain.

She shrieked as the water turned ice cold. Ink plastered himself against the wall, gaping in shock. Joy twisted out of the bathtub and yanked the water off. Wrapping a towel around her shivering shoulders, she saw the last twinkles of a spell fade.

“Take the hint,” Stef’s voice said through the crack in the door. “And chill out.”

Joy’s teeth chattered. She was shaking, mortified.

Ink and his boots were already gone.

FOUR