“Ah,” Ink said, cutting his roll neatly in half. “I see your mistake. That name is not a lie—more like a time-honored tradition.” His voice skimmed low over the table, crisp and clear. “I did not change my name, I simply named my glamour ‘Mark Carver.’”
He grinned and took a bite. Butter wet his lips.
Joy beamed in relief, and Stef laughed despite himself. “Clever,” he said.
Mr. Malone thunked the water pitcher on to the table, cutting off their conversation. He and Shelley sat down.
“Now, where were we?” he asked, setting his napkin on his lap.
“Grilling,” Ink said.
Stef snorted.
Joy lunged for the earthenware bowl. “More potatoes?”
Ink spooned out three roasted potatoes and watched them wobble across his plate. He poked at one with his fork, painting a long trail of rosemary and oil. Catching a piece of herb on a tine, he examined it curiously, turning the fork over and over, watching the bit of leaf glisten under the lights. His face was a mask of pure fascination. Joy put a hand on his leg. Startled, he looked up with a smile.
“This looks delicious,” Ink said.
“It is,” Mr. Malone said. “It’s Shelley’s recipe. She’s a great cook.”
“Oh, stop,” Shelley said and patted her red hair into place. “It’s an old family recipe. The secret is to crush fresh herbs and garlic and store it in the olive oil overnight.”
Ink put the potato in his mouth, chewed carefully and swallowed.
“I have never tasted better,” he said. Joy grinned. Besides being polite, Ink was telling the truth: he had only recently begun to taste things because he’d only recently begun to eat. It was fun watching him talk circles around the others, hiding the whole truth behind words that were one hundred percent true.
Joy’s phone rang. She glanced at her purse in the hall.
“Don’t you dare,” her father said without looking up from his plate. “Whoever it is can wait.”
No phones at the dinner table was a new household rule. Dad was trying to reinstate the sacredness of family dinners before everyone split up again. Joy didn’t recognize the ringtone so it wasn’t Monica or Kurt or Graus Claude or Luiz. It might be one of the other Cabana Boys, which made her feel nervous and guilty. Ink’s sister, Invisible Inq, had a tribe of mortal lovers who supported one another through thick and thin, like an extended family of hot male models that stretched across the globe. Even if Joy technically wasn’t Ink’s lehman anymore, she was still considered one of them—a mortal who loved one of the Folk—and a call from one of the boys meant something important. Joy sat on her hands as the call flipped over to voice mail.
“Thank you,” Dad said. “Now can you please pass the—”
Joy’s text messaging pinged. And again. And again. Dad sighed. Stef rolled his eyes. Ink looked up, curious. Joy took a shy bite of green beans. Shelley passed Dad the pepper.
“Where will you be camping?” Ink asked as he sliced a potato in half. Joy was glad that he could handle subject changes as easily as a fork and knife.
“Lake James,” her father answered and took a drink of water. Ink took a drink at the same time, mimicking her father’s movements, watching him with the same intensity he used while watching Joy. Ink was still learning the subtleties of how to act human. His efforts made her smile. Stef glared at his green beans as he chewed.
“It’s a great place,” Dad said. “We used to do a lot of family camping trips—” he swerved to avoid the words before Mom left and continued smoothly “—when the kids were little.” The subject of Mom didn’t hurt like it once had—they’d all grown used to the weekly calls and video chats. Time healed things without meaning to, whether you wanted it to or not. “How about you?” he asked Ink. “What does your family do on vacations?”
Ink put his fork down, and Joy twisted her napkin over her thumb. This was what they’d been rehearsing ever since Dad suggested that Joy invite Ink over for dinner. Her nervousness reminded her of how Monica had felt about her boyfriend, Gordon, meeting her parents, but Ink wasn’t a different race, he was a different reality. As a member of the Twixt, Ink, like Joy, could not lie...but the Folk could be rather creative with the truth.
“I never knew my parents,” Ink said and smiled to take the sting out of his words. “But I have a twin sister, and she’s all the family I can handle.”
Joy laughed. Stef didn’t. Mr. Malone looked apologetic.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know.”
Ink shrugged and made looping swirls in the ketchup. “It’s all right,” he said. “She and I are very close. We’ve traveled a lot, met lots of interesting people, seen many amazing things together—over the years, we have created our own family.”
“That’s good,” her father said, nodding. “Family’s important.”
Mr. Malone glanced over at his son and smiled. It was only recently that Stef had come out as gay, and Joy had forgiven their mother for the divorce. The past two years hadn’t been easy for anyone, but they’d made it through as a family—albeit a different one from the original. A lot had changed, but they still loved each other, and that was something.
Shelley turned in her chair, sniffing.
“Did we leave the stove on?” she asked. “I smell something burning.” She got up and walked over to the oven.
Joy could smell it, too—a whiff of smoke like a burnt matchstick. She recognized the odor: vellum and ash. Filly. It must have come from the pouch the young Valkyrie used to send Joy messages. Now Joy knew something was wrong. Ink did, too; his body tightened, tense and alert. Joy put down her fork, trying to think up some excuse to grab her purse and go check.
That was when she saw the face in the window.
She almost screamed but bit her lips together. It was a tiny face, different from the monstrous Kodama that had scared her that first time. The small, winged creature pressed its bulbous nose against the glass, hair and beard a wild halo of tangles. It waved to get their attention. Joy couldn’t move, but she couldn’t look away. Ink casually traced the silver chain at his hip to the wallet in his back pocket where he kept his blades. Joy held her breath as Shelley walked right past the creature on her way back to the table. It watched her pass, its wild eyes bulging with curiosity. Stef’s face was carefully neutral, his fingers white-knuckled on his knife. Joy wasn’t sure what any of them could do with Dad and Shelley present.
The creature pointed emphatically at them.
Under the table, Ink pointed to himself and raised his eyebrows like a question.
The tiny creature shook its head and pointed again, tapping the glass.
Shelley glanced at the window. “Do you hear pecking?”
“It’s the birds,” Mr. Malone said without turning around. “There’s one of them trying to build a nest in the window box. I keep meaning to install a mesh lid.”
Joy lifted her napkin to hide her hand and pointed at herself. The little creature nodded, wagging its tail. Joy dabbed her lips. Great. Now what?
The winged Folk hooked its tiny toes into the sill, licked one of its long fingers and drew a word reversed on the glass. Its saliva was brown and sticky-looking, the letters gooey and smeared.
It made a big show of licking its finger again, a dribble of drool stuck to the hairs on its chin.