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.
Ink grinned with deep dimples as Luiz patted his back.
“Ditch the shirt,” Luiz advised and glanced at Joy. “And the shoes. Let’s dance!”
He grabbed Joy’s hand as she grabbed Ink’s, and they swung into the circle of rhythmic dancers swirling around the flames. Stomping feet became clapping hands, and whirling contras slid into hand-off marches, grasping forearms, passing partners, smearing paint on arms and cheeks. Beads were looped around strangers’ necks, shells clattered, rattles shook, feathers blurred and fur rippled as trinkets passed from hand to hand to hand. Ink threw his stained shirt into the flames to a collective cheer. Joy kept her dress on, inviting teasing and laughter. Soon she was festooned in ribbons and crystals and mad swirls of paint. Ink matched her, bare-chested, wearing smeared handprints and a lei of teeth. Both of them laughed, running and twirling, spinning and leaping, and it wasn’t long before Joy was lost to the music, her body vibrating with heartbeat and the thunder of sound.
Thump-THUMP. Thump-THUMP. Like a wordless chant, the glow inside her built like a clenched fist, power eking through the cracks, an almost-pleasure-pain...
Too much. Too much!
When it crested, Joy launched, her legs fueled by the sound, the fire and the deep, driving light—Ink caught her, tethering her to this world and the ground. She split-kicked as Ink held her aloft, arms locked, solid and strong. She tilted her head back and spun under the chandelier, its crystal labyrinth filling the ceiling as more and more people poured out their joy and grief.
The strange, wondrous feeling poured through her limbs, shivering down her arms and out the soles of her feet. It might have been grief, but it felt like magic. This was her tribute. This moment. This memory. This.
Joy slowly bent her knees and came down to applause, feeling vulnerable and proud, energized and spent. Ink twirled her around, a wild excitement in his eyes.
“It is you!” he said. “Can you feel it? This is joy!”
Another swing in the music and several drums joined in, tumbling over one another, beating faster and faster, like outrunning death. Joy and Ink became separated as twin circles of dancers raced around the fires. The flames began to lift and swirl into snapping plumes. The mob became a percussive instrument—a living, flashing Kodo drum, a sword dance of flying feet and clapping hands without blades. Scarves and ribbons streamed like banners. Sweat ran through paint. Joy’s hair flew over her shoulders and into her face. Adrenaline coursed through her body, pounding her heart and slamming her feet, smacking her soles against the hard-packed ground, driving the defiant beat harder, faster. The music spun, twirling random partners together and apart in the maelstrom of motion, a rave on fire—this was where she lived: this body, this earth, with Ink and the rhythm of her blood in her ears. This was life. This was living. This was alive. This.
The music stopped abruptly. Panting, Joy beamed, holding a stranger’s hand.
“You?”
She registered the shock of white hair and the gray-green eyes, chest heaving under a familiar feathered cloak. His smile was fading fast.
It was like déjà vu in reverse, the way the strange young man stared at her, exposed on the dance floor, surprised at being seen; but this wasn’t Ink at the Carousel—this was the young courtier who’d stood by Sol Leander, a member of the Tide, the faction that had hired the Red Knight to kill her. She was too surprised to do anything but stare.
His shock turned to revulsion as he yanked his hand out of her grasp and swept away with a dramatic swirl of his cloak.
“Joy?” Ink appeared behind her.
“Ink!” she whispered as they stepped away from the fires. It was colder now—much colder—and fear brought goose bumps to her skin.
“Hoy, Joy Malone!” Filly bounded over, wearing her usual leather vambraces and short cape of bones, as brash and bold as ever despite the scandalous smears of blue paint down her front and the crown of ivy wilting atop her head. The young warrior turned to watch the feathered cloak swirl away between the dancers and licked the blue tattooed spot beneath her lower lip. “Problem with your dance partner?” she quipped.
“I think the problem’s mutual,” Joy said. She was grateful to have the young Valkyrie near—Filly was both a true friend and crazy good in a fight. “What is he doing here?”
Ink curled his arm around Joy and spoke close to her ear. “Perhaps he knew Enrique,” Ink said. “All who knew him are welcome here.” He brushed back a wet curl from her face. “Despite being human, Enrique was well-known for his adventuresome spirit, and that made him quite popular.” He gestured around the room with a pink-and-orange hand. “Normally the Folk do not acknowledge Inq and I or our associates, but Inq has gone out of her way to make herself difficult to ignore.” He lifted his chin toward his sister, who was crowd surfing, carried aloft by many loving hands. She swam in the decadence, a blissful smile on her lips. “The fact her lehman were allowed to attend such an event is a testament to how high the Folk hold her and Enrique in their esteem.”
Or her skill in blackmail,