Her stomach fell, a punched hole through her seat. A circle of her insides and recycled molded plastic should have been lying on the floor.
“Is it serious?” Joy asked.
“Not yet,” her dad said. “Maybe not ever.” He folded his napkin carefully into fourths. It crinkled softly, muffled under his hands. “But you’re my family and I wanted you to know.”
Joy examined the lines of her paper cup even though she couldn’t really see them. Her eyes were open, but nothing registered. Ice sloshed around like kaleidoscope beads.
“Does Stef know?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
That was something. Petty, but something. This time, whatever it was, she knew it first.
The need to talk to Stef burned in her throat.
Joy looked at her father, the worry creasing his hands and the corners of his mouth. This was too hard. She wanted to give him a break. But it hurt more than she’d thought it would.
“So...” she said, “this wasn’t really about you meeting my theoretical guy as much as me meeting your actual girl?”
“Something like that,” he admitted. “So what do you think?”
What did she think? Her thoughts were a jumble.
Mom. Dad. Doug. Shelley. Gordon. Monica. What did she think? What about me?
She gazed out the window, seeing the spark zip by each time she blinked. Shots of color winked orange and purple, silver and white, echoes of shadows and carousels and all-black eyes. Her mind whirled.
What did she think?
“I think I have to go to the doctor.”
Dad frowned. “You feel sick?”
“No, just that bit of light whenever I blink,” she said. “It’s annoying.”
There was a long pause. The only sound was the rumble of ice cubes inside her paper cup.
“I’ll make an appointment,” he said softly and stuffed their trash into the bag. Standing up, Joy instantly wished that she could take it back, rewind and record over, but then, she wished that about a lot of things.
They got in the car and, just like that, everything went back to being unsaid.
CHAPTER FOUR
JOY DRIFTED THROUGH the school day. She barely listened as Monica chattered endlessly about Gordon Weitzenhoffer, age seventeen and a half. No word from Stef. No email, no text, no IM, nothing. He had a new answering message recorded during a loud party. It sounded like he was having fun. Her brother hadn’t been half this popular when he’d lived at home. Instead of feeling happy for him, Joy wanted to smack him with her phone.
She’d been stabbed with a knife, weirdos were stalking her and Dad was dating some unknown person named Shelley. Joy knew Stefan would somehow understand, but if he was busy with some new girlfriend, it might be weeks before he remembered to call. And if Dad hooked up with this Shelley person, then he’d be busy, and Monica would marry Mr. Gordon-ocious, and Joy would end up living alone in an attic apartment with too many cats.
Returning home, Joy punched in her code and found a plate of cookies on the kitchen counter, proof that last night’s father–daughter bonding over Subway sandwiches had met with Dad’s approval. She snagged two, stuffing one in her mouth as she vaulted the couch. She welcomed the slightly sick, stuffed feeling of eating unhealthily on purpose, and promised herself she’d have something low-calorie for dinner. Sugar never tasted as good as gymnastics felt. She ate the second cookie just to smother the guilt.
Joy cracked open her homework. It started to rain. Around six-thirty, she made a frozen Lean Cuisine and ate while reading about the French Revolution. She wiped a spot of marinara off the textbook page and tried to ignore the sound of frightened squirrels on the roof.
There was a skittering of tiny nails, a nervous tickle across the ceiling. She followed the sound with her eyes. Being on the second floor meant that she was used to the local wildlife using the roof as a communal playground and convenient highway between trees. The pok-pok of acorns and drumming rain against the shingles often forced her to wear earphones to bed.
The noises made her twitchy. She couldn’t concentrate. Pushing back from the table, Joy washed her knife and fork in the sink. Wind and rain pelted the new window, copious steam obscuring the glass. Scrubbing, Joy wondered what was on TV, but as soon as she shut off the water, she heard the squirrel sound again.
But it wasn’t on the roof. It was inside the building.
Something scrabbled past the front door and faded down the hall. Every hair on her arms rose and all her senses cringed. She didn’t believe for a moment that it was a squirrel. But instead of fear, she felt a hot flare of rage.
Joy slammed down her dish. She’d had it! If this was another one of those creepy things with a message for Ink, she was going to tell it to leave her alone! If it was small, maybe she could scare it. Maybe it would just go away.
She grabbed the broom just in case.
The hallway was nearly dark, lit only by a failing fluorescent light. She stepped out onto the old, flat carpet beaten down by years of feet. The moldy smell normally hidden under air fresheners was newly kicked up by the storm. There was no noise now save the applauding gush of rain. Joy cautiously leaned farther into the hall and glanced both ways.
The small window at the end of the hall was propped open. The baseboard dripped rainwater and there was a puddle on the floor.
“You.”
Joy ducked, already knowing that it was too late. She was only half surprised to be pushed into the wall by something vaguely resembling a human-size bat. Nostril slits puckered between its enormous yellow-green eyes and a wide mouth split its football-shaped head as it spoke.
“You are the Scribe’s.” Its voice was gravelly, menacing. “Lehman to Ink.”
Impossibly long fingers wrapped clear around her throat, cutting off her voice. The horrible face glared at her with its wet, bulbous eyes.
The broom clattered against the floor.
She choked out, “I...don’t...”
“Tell him—tell your master that Briarhook is waiting. Mustn’t be kept waiting,” the thing emphasized with a brain-rattling shake. “Hear?”
Joy nodded, fingers scratching against his knuckles, pulling for air.
“Yes,” she croaked with tears in her eyes. “Yes!”
The creature released her with a shove, banging her head against the wall. Colors sparked and wobbled. Her tears were more fear than fight. She stared after it as her vision cleared.
Skeletal arms hung from its bony, gray shoulders, with pink scar tissue blooming over its back and ribs. The wide head sneered as he turned. “Don’t dally like you did for the guilderdamen. Won’t stand for it,” he warned. And with a sniff, he clambered up on the windowsill and leapt silently over the edge.
Joy propped herself against the wall as if it were the only solid thing in the world. Her legs were boneless beneath her, her breathing quick and shallow. A tingling swept over her limbs, all pins and needles, and there was a sudden taste of nausea in her mouth. Joy swallowed, took a deep breath and lunged through the door, slamming it closed, flipping locks and punching the alarm’s safety code with shaking, spastic fingers.
Joy slid to the floor. She started crying and, as soon as she realized it, stopped. Her face felt hot. Her eyes hurt. Her neck stung with what felt like a million tiny paper cuts. She rubbed her throat and coughed.
This wasn’t real.