LITMIR.BIZ

      Joy felt light-headed. This was how it had all started: strange messages left on her window and phone for a mysterious someone called “Ink.” She glanced at him across the table. He kept his eyes down and nodded as if in thought. It was enough confirmation for the little creature, who flipped backward, wings unfolding, and hovered in the air. Stef rolled up his sleeve, and Joy wondered if he was going to draw wizards’ symbols on his forearms with the butter knife. She shook her head. Her brother glared at her and picked up his unused spoon.

      “You need to wash it off,” Stef said, shoving it at her, pointedly not looking at the window. Joy swallowed. He was right—even if Dad and Shelley didn’t have the Sight, there was a chance they’d see the words written on the glass in ooze.

      “Stef—” Mr. Malone said tiredly.

      “No, he’s right,” Joy said, grabbing the spoon and standing up. “It was my turn to do the dishes. My bad.” She hurried over to the sink, blocking the view of the kitchen window with her body. She turned on the water and scrubbed the spoon, mouthing to the creature, Wash it off! She made a scrubbing motion with the sponge and lifted the water nozzle. The little face scrunched up in confusion. Joy pointed at the letters. Wash. It. Off, she overemphasized with her lips.

      The creature suddenly smiled and nodded, its big eyes glinting merrily through its bristly mane.

      Joy gave it a wave of thanks and returned to her seat, handing back the spoon to her brother. “There,” she said. “Better?”

      There was a drizzling, trickling sound like rain against the window. Joy peeked over her shoulder. The incriminating words dribbled down the glass as the little creature flew around, peeing on them. Stef changed his snort into a cough, and Joy pushed her plate aside, having suddenly lost her appetite.

      Ink looked at Joy’s father. “More potatoes?”

      Mr. Malone shook his head and patted his stomach. “Portion control,” he said. “Don’t tempt me.”

      Shelley shook her head. Stef did, too. “Pass.”

      Ink lowered the bowl slowly. He touched his chest, rubbing the dip at his breastbone, the space above his heart where he now felt things like love and pain and fear. He looked disoriented, confused.

      Joy touched his arm, “You okay?”

      Ink didn’t say anything. He turned around in his chair and stared at the door.

      Someone knocked.

      Joy went cold.

      “That’s odd,” Mr. Malone said, standing up. “Who could that be?”

      Joy couldn’t decide whether to stop him or not, wondering if he’d even see anything should he look through the peephole. Stef and Joy exchanged glances. Joy reached for Ink’s hand. Stef picked up a steak knife and the salt.

      Mr. Malone opened the door...and there was Invisible Inq.

      The resemblance between the two Scribes was unmistakable. Even wearing their glamours, they both had the same spiky black hair, the same long, lean bodies and the same youthful faces with liquid eyes that wobbled when wet. Mr. Malone didn’t need to ask who she was, but it was eerie having her stand there so still.

      “I’m sorry,” she said, and Joy was startled to hear that she really sounded sorry—no snark, no sly wit, no smoky insincerity. Inq glanced at the table. “Sorry to interrupt. I see you’re having dinner. With my brother—” she looked at Ink, eyes pleading “—I need to talk to him. And Joy.”

      “It must be a twin thing,” Shelley whispered.

      “Come in,” said Mr. Malone. “Would you like to sit down?”

      Ink stood up. “What is it?” he said, but everyone heard What’s wrong?

      A smile warred with a frown on Inq’s face as if she couldn’t quite decide which was which. Her eyes swam, pools of fathomless black.

      “It’s Enrique,” she said.

      And Joy knew even before Inq could say the words.

       TWO

      WANDERING THROUGH THE funeral parlor, Joy examined the photos on display—Enrique sailing ships, climbing mountains, posing with friends laughing, clinking glasses at a bar, windsurfing at Cape Hatteras, showing off an octopus in both hands, hiking somewhere in the rain forests, riding a camel through the desert, snorkeling in the Great Barrier Reef and haloed against a gorgeous sunrise at the top of Machu Picchu—Enrique’s life had been one amazing adventure after the next. It was hard to believe that he was dead.

      People milled about in black dresses and crisp suits, talking in low voices and hugging one another in tissue-soft arms. Joy could hear the whispers between them, words like aneurysm, what a shame and really knew how to live. Joy inhaled the sweet scent of lilies. The flowers crowded the reception tables and flanked the heavy-looking urn. Inq welcomed guests, looking glamorous in a little black dress and a choker of pearls. She smiled and nodded and thanked them all for coming. Luiz had saved Joy a seat with the rest of the Cabana Boys, who looked unusually somber in the front row. Joy remembered that Enrique had said that he had no family, so she figured that these were his friends, his business colleagues and a few dozen invisible people.

      Joy sat down gingerly, self-conscious about joining the row of beautiful men who had known Enrique best, but she didn’t know anyone else here. The murmurings and gentle noises slid around her, not touching, not comforting, barely real. Unlike Inq, she didn’t know what to say, and the silence felt as black as her dress. Beside her, Ilhami took her hand and squeezed. She squeezed back. With all that was unsaid between them, they understood each other perfectly.

      “Sorry, Cabana Girl,” he whispered. “No booby doll today.”

      He’d surprised a smile out of her. “That’s okay.”

      He shrugged, looking uncomfortable in his expensive suit. “Where’s Ink?”

      “In some hospital in Darfur,” Joy said. “He said he’d be here soon.”

      Ilhami tugged his cuffs over his tattoos. “Better save him a seat.”

      She placed her purse on the empty seat to her right and tried to remember the sound of Enrique’s voice, the way his eyes twinkled when he was being clever, or her first impression of him—a South American James Bond. She tried to hold on to the things that he’d told her, that family was important and that they were both very lucky and how sorry he was for bringing her deeper into their world of danger and politics. He’d tucked her into a coat and kissed her forehead and given her coffee before he’d sent her into a drug lord’s den on the edge of the Twixt in order to rescue Ilhami. Later he’d driven the getaway car at high speeds and ensured she’d made it back home in one piece. A tightness welled in her throat, and Tuan offered her a box of tissues. She took one and twisted it around her fingertip.

      She didn’t remember calling in to work. She didn’t remember what excuses she’d given. She had told her father that she was going to the funeral of her boyfriend’s sister’s boyfriend, which was close enough to the truth that it hadn’t hurt to say it except for the usual hurt of having to say such things aloud.

      That morning, Nikolai had picked her up in Enrique’s customized Ferrari and handed her a cup of coffee as they’d driven together in silence. His full lips had pinched as he’d hit the hidden switch, slipping them instantly through time and space to arrive just south of the funeral home.

      Joy glanced out the window. She had

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