“Right,” Joy said weakly. Enrique had given her his car. She couldn’t refuse it. “Um...thanks.”
Ilhami shouldered his backpack, which had been behind the bumper and was fully visible now that the car was not. “Hey, I’m just the messenger,” he said. “No thanks necessary. And besides, you shouldn’t thank me—you still have to wait until you’re twenty-one to get your part of the inheritance.” He laughed at the look on her face.
“Inheritance?” she squeaked.
“Oh, yeah. Enrique had bank, but he had no parents, no children,” he said, spreading his arms to embrace the summer sky. “We’re his family, Cabana Girl, and for some people, family is everything.”
Joy shook her head. She stammered, “I can’t...”
Ilhami waved her off. “Pfft. Whatever. Luiz got the yacht, but I’m not complaining.” He climbed into a sharp-angled Lamborghini parked on the curb. It looked like an enameled shark. Joy squinted down the street. How did it get here? He kissed his fingers and waved, a gesture she recognized from Nikolai. “Arrivederci, Cabana Girl! Remember, life’s short—have fun!” he howled out the window, gunned the engine and roared unapologetically down the street.
Joy stared after him, feeling silly and stupid as she tucked the keys into her purse. His visit had nothing to do with Ladybird or with Inq’s weird request. She had no idea what to think. She checked her phone for the time. Swearing, she turned her back on her magic sports car, running at top speed to catch the bus.
She was ten minutes late for work.
* * *
“Hey, wage slave!” Monica chirped. “You almost done?”
Joy stopped folding the light sweaters and sighed in relief. Just seeing her best friend brought a wave of much-needed sanity after a long day of stock work.
She dropped her tag gun. “If there is a God, then, yes.”
Monica adjusted her shoulder strap. “As a churchgoing girl, I’d say you’re free and clear, but you might want to check with your boss first.” She stroked her dark hand over the autumn-colored cashmere. “Ooo. Pretty. Do you think I’d look good in orange?”
Joy collapsed a cardboard box with a practiced snap. “Honestly, I’m not a big fan of orange.” The color reminded her of fox fur, mahogany eyes and malice. Joy still had nightmares and scars on her skin, both gifts from Aniseed. “I vote red.”
“Mmm. Gordon says red is my color,” Monica said. “Passionate, vibrant, smoldering hot...”
Joy gathered up the extra security tags, smiling. “Whatever happened to him bringing out your softer side?”
Monica shrugged and smoothed her slicked bangs. “I got over it.”
They laughed as Joy punched out, swapping directions to the closest decent restaurant they could find via GPS. Once they’d nabbed some chips and salsa at the nearby cantina, Joy started feeling half human again.
“Remember to breathe,” Monica said. “Aren’t you having another family dinner thing in a couple of hours?”
“It’s just Stef’s last excuse to pig out on Dad’s tab,” Joy said and pointed to herself as she chewed. “And, hello? Hypoglycemic, remember?” She slurped a chunk of tomato off her chip. “My metabolism needs food every four hours. The doctors say I have to keep up a base caloric intake or I’ll turn into a stick.”
Monica snapped a chip in half. “I think I speak for all dieters everywhere when I say pfbthth!”
Joy drank her water, ignoring the raspberry. The ice cubes clunked against the glass and her teeth. She speared a piece of ice with her straw and crunched on it as they waited to order—she had picked up the less-than-genteel habit from the normally genteel Graus Claude. She had been surprised not to see the Bailiwick last night, but then again, Filly had been sure that he wouldn’t show. Joy had no idea if the Bailiwick knew the Cabana Boys personally, but she didn’t think he would stay away because of bigotry, like Sol Leander; Graus Claude knew that the Scribes were people. The only difference was that they were made, not born.
“So,” she said while fishing her straw around for another cube. “What are you going to do while I’m gone?”
“Pine,” Monica said, scooping more tomatillos onto her plate. “Waste away to nothing without my bestie.” She pressed the back of her wrist to her forehead and swooned dramatically against the seat. “Or, on the other hand, I could curl up with my sweetie and watch a mindless movie marathon. It’s a close second.”
Joy snickered. “Did you just call Gordon ‘my sweetie’?’”
Monica snagged the last chip. “Didn’t I just.”
“I think I feel ill.”
“That’s the salsa talking,” Monica said. “But I was wondering if I could borrow your MGM Classics collection. I remember you got the set for your birthday.”
“Sure. I think it’s still shrink-wrapped,” Joy said. It had been a gift from her mother back when Joy wasn’t speaking to her. Things had changed, slowly but surely, but she hadn’t had time to watch late-night movies. Her nights had been filled with secret trips to London, Glasgow, Rome and Belize. She’d gone anywhere and everywhere with Ink and Inq and Inq’s horde of gorgeous guys and felt supremely guilty about not sharing any of it with her best friend. Joy’s mood slipped when she thought about Enrique and veered into extra-nervous when she thought about his invisible car parked on her lawn. Joy poked her straw around the glass, letting the sound mask her silence.
“Sounds like somebody is becoming a homebody,” Joy teased.
“As if,” Monica said. “I’m still up for dancing the night away whenever you get your skinny butt in gear—you just say when.”
Joy smiled, remembering her last dance—the pull and the heat of it. “When.”
“Seriously?” Monica said, surprised. “Tonight?”
“No,” Joy admitted. “My feet are killing me. But soon. Maybe when I get back? Last fling of summer?”
Monica and Joy clinked spoons. “It’s a date.”
Their server apologized for the wait and took their order. Joy felt a twinge of sympathy for the woman bussing her own tables and the two families with toddlers who were making a huge mess. She made a mental note to leave an extra-large tip. She’d been on the other side of the napkin, and it wasn’t pretty.
Monica handed back their menus as their server disappeared into the kitchen. “Can I ask you something?”
Joy chewed more ice. “You look beautiful.”
“No,” Monica said and leaned forward. “Are you ever going to tell me what went down at the hospital? Because, FYI, I would really like to know.”
Joy glanced at her friend’s face, the bald scar in Monica’s eyebrow a telltale remnant of their encounter with the Red Knight, the invincible, invisible assassin who had been sent to kill Joy. While Joy had been protected by Inq’s glyph-wrought armor, Monica had not, and she’d suffered a glancing blow from his massive sword. Joy’s attempts to erase the scar, and her guilt, had nearly cost her Ink and her place in the Twixt. Now every time she looked at Monica, that scar was a reminder of what was at stake, what really mattered and what she’d almost lost forever. And, if Joy looked more closely, she could still see the signatura etched there—the angled arrow of Sol Leander’s True Name like a gruesome slash on Monica’s face. Her best friend lived under the auspice of Joy’s greatest enemy in the Twixt.
Monica misunderstood Joy’s silence. “You have to tell me eventually, you know.”
“I