LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

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