Insidious

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 no idea where they were—probably New York City, which was where Enrique had worked when he was in the States. It was green and leafy outside, unfamiliar, with an open, airy sky that didn’t feel like New York, but they could be anywhere. It didn’t really matter. Enrique, the eldest Cabana Boy, was gone, leaving behind friends and tears and photos and ashes. Joy stroked the inside of her palm, tracing the damp lifeline.

This was where all adventures ended. This was what it meant to be mortal.

Even with Folk blood in her veins and her own signatura, Joy Malone was not immortal.

The service washed over her in a buzz of condolences, Bible quotes and expensive cologne. Words wafted through her ears, unremarkable and unimportant. Joy fixed her gaze on the dark metal container in the center of the dais. She had a hard time reconciling how anything so small could possibly contain Enrique, who had lived so large. It was too small, too ordinary, too quiet to be him. Without seeing a body, Joy found it hard to believe that he was dead.

He could be faking it—staging his own death. Living under the radar, off the grid, leaving his old life behind in order to live in the Twixt. Maybe Inq helps him do it. Maybe he’s older than he looked and has to make a new life somewhere every sixty years to throw people off the scent. There are movies like that, right? It makes sense. It could happen. It could be a bluff...

But she knew, in her heart, it wasn’t.

It had taken Inq several tries to convince Joy that her lehman’s death had been due to natural causes, a sudden burst in the brain, and not some kind of mistake, and even more convincing to assure her that he hadn’t been a victim of Ladybird or Briarhook, Sol Leander or any one of their other enemies in the Twixt. Enrique’s death hadn’t been murder or revenge—it had just been time.

“He was mortal,” Inq had said. “Mortals die.”

It had happened. It was real. And there was nothing Joy could do. Humans were mortal. There were some things not even her magical scalpel could erase.

Sometimes there are no mistakes.

Joy shuddered and pulled her shrug closer.

She didn’t have a lot of experience with death, having been six or seven when her last grandparent died. She didn’t know how her Folk blood might affect how long she’d live and what would happen to her afterward. She knew what she was supposed to believe, but her brief stint in Sunday School had never prepared her for being part-Twixt. Did Folk go to Heaven? Did their half-human descendants, those with the Sight? Or did they go somewhere else? Where was Great-Grandmother Caroline now? Had she died young, for one of the Folk, or had she been old for a human? Joy glanced at Inq, dry-eyed and poised, knowing few could see the pale glyphs flying over her skin in silent fury.

A dark, long-haired woman offered Inq a tissue, which she politely refused. Joy stared at the Scribe. Would Ink be this calm when Joy was the one in a box?

The scent of lilies became cloying, and Joy pressed the tissue to her face.

When her eyes cleared, Ink was beside her.

She didn’t know when he had arrived, whether he’d walked through the door or if he had appeared out of thin air, but she quickly took his hand in hers, twining their fingers together. He’s here. We’re both alive. We’re together. I love you.

Ink was handsome in his black suit; only the silver wallet chain hanging by his leg looked slightly out of place. She leaned closer, breathing in the fresh rain scent of him. He sat comfortably, open-faced, listening to the speeches, taking cues from her and those around him, immersing himself in what it meant to be mortal, to experience loss, to be part of her world, even as his sister walked up to the podium to say a few words.

She ignored the microphone and stood straight in her heels. “Thank you for coming,” she said in her crisp, clear voice. She didn’t need an amplifier—even her whispers sliced through sound. “I loved Enrique, as did all of you.” She tipped her head to the side. “Well, maybe I loved him a little bit more.” There were some appreciative chuckles, Joy’s among them. Ink ran his thumb gently over her wrist. “And while I loved his beautiful body—” a few eyebrows rose, Joy’s included “—I mostly loved his soul—his funny, warm, incredibly generous, fiercely competitive, adventurous, wondrous soul.” As she smiled, her black eyes grew bigger, shining with bright flashes of hot pink and green. Joy wondered what those without the Sight could see in them. “And I will miss him, as do all of you.” Inq lowered her chin, taking a moment to breathe. “But I might miss him a little bit more.” Her smile was wreathed in sadness; her voice wilted as she gestured toward the urn. “This was just his body. His soul will live on—that funny, warm, incredibly generous, fiercely competitive, adventurous, wondrous soul. We all knew him once, and therefore, when we live life to its fullest, strip it naked and pour it to the brim, rich and overflowing, then he will live on in each of us, until we meet again.”

The priest stumbled on the “Amen,” but Inq was already leaving the podium.

Antony and the long-haired woman helped escort her to her seat as the priest gave instructions about where the reception would be held. The other guests rose and gathered their things. More kisses. More talking. More handshakes and hugs. Joy was surprised to see that many of the Cabana Boys had brought someone with them, often female, but then again, she knew that Inq wasn’t big into monogamy. There was lots of comforting. Joy squeezed Ink’s hand again, and he pressed a gentle kiss to her temple.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“No,” Joy said and dabbed her eyes. “But I will be.” Ilhami offered her a last tissue. She took it. “Thanks.”

Ilhami nodded, eyes red-rimmed, and Joy wondered if he was crying or high. He sniffed and straightened his lapels.

“I’ll see you at the funeral,” he said.

Joy frowned. Definitely high. She tried not to be angry with the young Turkish artist. Enrique had loved his brother lehman, despite his habits, but Joy still hadn’t forgiven him for the terrifying trip to Ladybird’s. “We’re at the funeral,” she said quietly.

Ilhami sniffed again with a little laugh. “This? For Enrique? I don’t think so.” He nodded politely to Ink and tapped Joy’s shoulder. “See you there.”

He walked down the row only to be grabbed by Nikolai, who hugged him so fiercely, he nearly lifted the smaller man off the floor. They pounded on each other’s backs as Ink helped Joy to stand.

“Thirty-seven,” Ink said.

“What?” Joy looked up.

“Types of hugs,” he explained as the Cabana Boys embraced. “I have been counting subtle differences as separate variations.” He tilted his head to one side. “Why do they hit each other?”

“I don’t know,” Joy said, wiping her eyes. “But don’t try that one with me.”

“How about this one?” Ink gathered her around the shoulders. Her arms circled his body, and she leaned against him, warm and solid. She took several deep breaths of him and calm, life-giving air. She was alive. Ink was alive. He was here, holding her.

She rocked in his arms for a long moment before whispering, “Which one is this?”

“Number sixteen,” he said. Joy smiled.

“It’s perfect.”

He breathed into her hair. “I am learning,” he said, drawing her closer, sounding sad and lost. “But I wish I did not have to learn this lesson so soon.”

Joy said nothing as they slowly broke apart, and she picked up her purse. “Come on,” she said and made her way toward Inq, who was accepting a hug from an older couple, the last stragglers in the room. As they left, Joy stepped forward and gave Inq a hug, too.

“I’m sorry,” she said, because that was what people said at funerals.

Inq nodded. “I’m sorry, too.” Her smile seemed to wobble as she tucked a stray bit of brown hair behind Joy’s ear. “Stupid fragile humans.” She laughed a little and slid her fingers along her string of pearls. Her gaze switched to Ink. He gave his sister a kiss on the cheek, and they rested their foreheads together for a long, quiet moment. Inq blinked and raised her head.

“Thank you,” she said, although Ink hadn’t said anything at all.

“Ink?”

The long-haired woman crossed the room and took Ink into her arms like an old friend. He hugged her politely, not at all like he’d held Joy. He was learning, but his hand lingered on the small of the woman’s back. Joy figured they still had to work on exits.

“Joy, this is Raina,” he said. “Raina, I would like you to meet Joy.”

Raina was stunning—all long limbs and shining black hair and deeply tanned skin. Her smile was winning, radiant, haloed in shimmering gold lipstick.

Joy smiled timidly and held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Raina ignored the hand and hugged her, comfortably and sincerely. Her copious hair smelled warm and tropical, as if she’d just flown in from someplace exotic. It parted over her shoulder in a long, glossy sheet, like in a Pantene commercial.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Joy,” she said, pulling back, yet still holding both of Joy’s hands. “I am only sorry that it is under such sad circumstances.”

Joy’s brain struggled to remember where she’d heard the woman’s name before while politely trying to extricate her fingers from the strong, lingering touch. Raina seemed to sense her discomfort and let go as she reached out to stroke Inq’s shoulder. Raina stood very close, as if oblivious to personal boundaries.

“Enrique was the finest among us,” Raina said. “A true treasure.”

Joy felt a frown, but didn’t let it show. Us? Joy could see that Raina was human, her Sight able to pierce things like glamours and the veil. Was Raina being figurative? Or was she like Mr. Vinh, someone with a foot in both worlds? Joy glanced between Ink and Inq, trying to guess. How much does this woman know?

Inq smiled and smoothed a hand over Raina’s hair. “He was a handsome boy with the shiniest toys and was a lion in bed, and I will miss him greatly.” Raina gave Inq’s hand a squeeze, eyes full of sympathy.

“I’ll see you after the reception,” Raina said, and she slipped her arm smoothly into the crook of Ink’s elbow. Joy stared at it. Then stared at them. They made a striking couple. “Mind walking me to my car?” she asked, steering him down the aisle. Raina smiled warmly over her shoulder. “It was nice meeting you, Joy.”

And together, she and Ink walked out of the room.

Joy stared numbly—dumbly—after them.

What just happened?

“I need to talk to you,” Inq said, taking Joy’s hand and tugging her closer to the urn. The smell of lilies was overwhelming. Joy’s brain was trying to keep up.

“But...” Joy tried to catch a glimpse of where Ink had gone—with Raina—outside, rewinding time in her mind, sifting through facts like Ink, Enrique, death, numbered hugs, black hair, white lilies and hooked elbows. She struggled to find the puzzle piece that made everything fit, the missing key to making this moment make sense. It wasn’t working.

Joy sneezed.

“Hello? Earth to Joy?”

Grabbing another tissue, she turned to Inq. “What is it?”

Inq lowered her voice. “I want you to kill someone.”

THREE

IT TOOK A moment for the words to sink in. Joy ran through them a second time just to make sure she’d heard Inq correctly.

“Um, I don’t think you can talk about killing someone at a funeral,” Joy said, checking discreetly for witnesses. “I’m pretty sure there’s some rule against it.”

Inq sighed. “Look, this sad, sorry ritual has reminded me that we haven’t got much time together,” she said. “I’d forgotten how short human lives can be, and if I’m going to use your help, then we’ve got to act fast.”

Joy gently but firmly removed her arm from Inq’s grip. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Inq grinned slyly. “Yes, well, you do and you don’t. That’s why you’re perfect for the job.” She plucked a flower from the arrangement and twirled it slowly in her hands. “I know what you can do, and you know I know what you can do—so don’t disappoint me by being difficult.” She handed the lily to Joy, its stiff petals curled over her palm. “Even without your armor, you’re still a wildflower with bite.”

“Yeah, but I don’t...” Joy’s mouth turned dry, her tongue fat and swollen, the next words solidified, lodged in her throat. She couldn’t say I don’t kill people! because that wasn’t true, and Joy, being part-Folk, could not tell a lie. The fact was, she had done more than kill someone—she had erased one of the Folk completely out of existence. And Inq had seen her do it. It was a secret Inq had agreed to keep “just between us girls.”

“I’ll explain later,” Inq said at normal volume. “Still so much to do! And so little time—isn’t that the theme of the day?” She scooped up the urn in both hands. “See you at the funeral!” she cooed as she skipped down the stairs.

“You mean the reception,” Joy said dully.

Inq waved a hand dismissively over her head. “Oh, don’t be silly,” she said as she strolled down the center aisle. She patted Ink’s arm as she passed through the doors. “See you both later!” She snagged a thin wrap from the coatroom and strutted to the waiting limousine parked out front.

Ink approached, fingers absently sliding along his wallet chain.

“Joy?” he said. “What happened?”

She looked at him blankly. She couldn’t say, exactly, what had happened. Had she just been blackmailed into being Inq’s assassin? Joy couldn’t figure out how to tell him what Inq had said because it didn’t make sense, but she couldn’t lie. She hadn’t told him what had really happened to the Red Knight, and she couldn’t bring herself to ask him who Raina was or why he’d gone with her or what Ilhami was talking about or what Inq was up to this time—it all felt strangely surreal, like an illusion. She shook her head. Only Aniseed could be so cruel.

Joy remembered being trapped in an illusion of her kitchen by the ancient dryad as bait for Ink. Aniseed’s hatred for humans had fueled her plans for worldwide genocide and an imagined “Golden Age.” Joy had been the one to stop her, erasing Aniseed’s signatura and the poison within it. She shuddered at the memory of the eight-petaled star of eyes on her skin. Joy was glad that Aniseed was dead.

She leaned over and put her arms around Ink.

“Can I have another number sixteen, please?”

He slipped his arms around her and they stood together, Ink rocking Joy gently against his chest. She blinked a few times as her breath fluttered. She felt as if she were running in circles while standing still.

“Are you ready to leave?” he asked.

“Yes,” she mumbled gratefully into his shirt.

He stroked his fingers through her hair and whispered, “Come with me.”

Taking her hand, he led her into the tiny coatroom and shut the door behind them. Joy’s eyebrows shot up.

“This is hardly appropriate,” she said, wondering if funerals brought out the weirdness in Scribes. Maybe immortals didn’t do well when faced with death? Both he and Inq were acting very strange.

Ink smirked as he twirled his straight razor in one hand, looking much as he had when he’d first tossed a jug of milk into the air, slipped thousands of miles away, then stepped through the breach to catch it a mere moment later. It was a mischievous, slightly naughty little-boy grin.

“Follow me,” he said. Slashing a quick line, he peeled away the edge of the world halfway through a set of empty hangers and the floor. A wild darkness shot with colored light pulsed beyond the rift.

Joy hesitated. “I thought we were going to the reception.”

“That is for humans,” he said mysteriously. “Not for us.”

Joy didn’t know what to say to that, so she took his hand, warm and smooth, and stepped through the void, stumbling into the sudden dark. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. She stepped onto the lip of rough stone and looked all the way down.

Then Joy understood.

Below the rocky ledge was a cavern full of bonfires. Shadows of wild, frenetic dancers moved to tribal music throbbing with heavy percussion and rattles and horns. Folk were laughing, drinking, spinning, eating, dancing. They gathered in groups of threes and fives tucked into natural nooks and along the edges of the crowd. Knotted roots covered the sloping walls like tapestries in reverse, the veins of different minerals shimmering in the light of many fires; pinks and grays and greens and blues with flecks of mica winking in the bedrock like stars. Things resembling balloon-animal, crystal chandeliers hung suspended in the air, made up of individual twists and tubes of glowing glass. There were whispers of melodies and rhythms that seemed familiar mixed with earthy, primal songs and high-pitched undulating cries. There was no smoke, but the smell of roasting meat, rich and bubbling and basted in wine, filled the subterranean fête. There were tables of food absolutely everywhere, and the noise fizzed like champagne bubbles, effervescent and overflowing.

Joy looked down at the carnival in the stone basin. “Where are we?”

“Under the Hill near the Wild,” Ink said. “That is where Enrique said he wanted his ashes buried.”

“As well as the North Pole, Sri Lanka, Maui, Budapest, Mount Everest, Taiwan, Rio, Portugal and the dark side of the moon,” Inq said, sidling up to the pair in distinctly less than her funeral attire—in fact, it didn’t look like she was wearing much more than body paint. “I’ve just gotten back from honoring his wishes, with a short delay on that last one because there isn’t another space flight scheduled at present, but I’ve got time.” She looked over the two of them, frowning with a pout of her lower lip. She smelled of wine and dusty roses. “Why haven’t you changed?”

“We just got here,” Ink explained.

“No excuses!” Inq said and yanked off Ink’s coat. “This is Enrique’s celebration, so start celebrating!” She threw the suit jacket away. It hit the wall. “Less clothes, more music! Honor the spirit! Enrique loved to dance!” She spun and ran down the incline, jumping off the jagged ledge. Joy’s heart lodged in her throat as she watched Inq fall, but the hands of many strangers rose up to meet her; a hearty cheer of triumph erupted as they caught her body in its trust-fall landing. Together, they lowered her to the ground. Inq broke away, laughing, and ran to join a circle of dancers stomping and clapping and throwing handfuls of powder into the air. When the dust hit the bonfires, the flames changed color and spat out twirling, whistling sparks.

Ink stepped closer. Joy felt him on her skin.

“Is she okay?” Joy asked.

“Do not worry about Inq,” Ink said, undoing the top buttons of his shirt. “Everyone grieves differently.”

“Uh, yeah.” Joy gaped at the spectacle. “This is...?”

“Enrique’s funeral,” Ink said. “The way the Folk celebrate it.”

Joy shook her head in wonder. “Wow. It’s...”

“Bacchanalian?” Ink said.

“No. It’s beautiful,” Joy said. There wasn’t a sad face in the crowd. It was bold and boisterous, lively and wild—just like Enrique. “It’s perfect.”

“The Folk do not ritualize death as humans do,” he said, leading her down the incline at a much safer stroll. Joy removed her heels, and Ink carried her shoes. “Being immortal means that death is possible but not inevitable. So we celebrate a life well lived. Enrique certainly did.” Ink gestured to the revel. “Now those who knew him gather together to honor that and remember. We grieve the body, but honor the spirit.”

Joy smiled. It felt a lot better than tears. “So, what do we do now?”

Ink lifted two glasses from a table and handed one to her. “We eat, we drink, we dance, we talk, we tell stories, we reminisce.” He stepped toward her and looked up at the swirls of crystal colors and light. The spots of brilliance reflected bright sparkles in his eyes. “We remember.” He smiled at her. “We celebrate life.”

“To Enrique!” someone shouted from deep in the hall.

“To Enrique!” the gathered crowds screamed as many whooped and drank.

“To Enrique!” Inq shouted giddily. “And the Imminent Return!”

“To the Imminent Return!”

Joy lifted her glass along with the rest. “What’s the Imminent Return?” she asked.

“It is an old toast,” Ink said. “To friends long forgotten but still in our hearts.”

Joy clinked her glass against Ink’s. The liquid inside swirled. She paused.

“Can I drink this?” she asked.

Ink considered the wine. “Why not?”

She twirled the stem, watching the liquid hug the sides of the glass. “I’ve read stories where if a human eats or drinks something from Fairyland, then they can never go back.” The deep purple liquid smelled of cherries, oak and fire. “Or maybe it was the underworld? Something with pomegranates? I forget.”

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.