Insidious. Dawn Metcalf
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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 didn’t call home to see how she was feeling after she’d taken an emergency sick day; Joy suspected Stef wouldn’t cover for her.
“Are you packed?” her father asked as she headed for the door.
“No. Not yet.”
He frowned. “Are you packing, as in, ‘in the beginning stages of getting packed’?”
Joy laughed and grabbed her purse. “I’m on it. Don’t worry.”
“I’m your father,” he said. “It’s my job to worry.”
“Later. Gotta go!”
Joy’s hand was on the doorknob as she spied her brother in the hall. He didn’t stop her or berate her, but he knew where she was going. The silence hung between them, filled with unsaid things. Stef despised the Folk, the “Other Thans,” who had hurt their great-grandmother so long ago, but he loved his little sister, and he knew that she loved Ink. That was probably what made it so hard for him to see them together, and why it was so hard for her to tell him that he was one of them—part-Folk—which was probably why she hadn’t yet.
It was another secret standing between them.
It was amazing how close secrets were to lies.
Joy tried not to think about it as she opened the door, crossed the courtyard and the street, and stood waiting at the corner of Wilkes and Main. She tried not to dwell on it as she watched the vintage car take the turn, and attempted to put it out of her mind as she settled into the buttery leather seats, letting sleep overtake her in its customary way as she slipped from Glendale, North Carolina, to Boston town.
She tried very, very hard, but she felt guilty all the same.
Joy blinked awake as the Bentley slowed to a stop in front of the grand brownstone, and she waited politely for the driver to open her passenger door. Wiping the gunk from her eyes, she scraped her heel against the edge of curb just to convince herself once again that this was real—she’d traveled hundreds of miles in a matter of moments during a spell-induced catnap. She’d never get used to it.
Joy climbed the stone steps and rapped the old-fashioned brass knocker twice. She had her tablet under her arm and a new pair of shoes, but she still felt unprepared for her meeting with Graus Claude.
Kurt