Invincible (2 page)

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.

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 obliterated her hurt confusion and she slapped her hand against the counter. Hard. “Who does he think he is?”

The Bailiwick sighed. “Your enemy.”