forehead scraped painfully against the edge of the concrete. Covering her ears, Joy whimpered against the feeling that her eardrums might burst.
She couldn’t think. She couldn’t get up. Joy held her keys over her head, squeezing her eyes shut, and screamed.
Something bloomed in the back of her brain, changing her scream to a single word: “INK!”
Her voice rose, as did the phantom wail. A crackle and electric pop, and the orange streetlights exploded, one by one, spitting a hail of glass that bounced against the walk. The numbing buzz in her body wound deeper, filling her lungs, slowly creeping up her throat, smothering her heart. It was getting harder to breathe. Joy wheezed and felt the world tilt.
A metallic shing split the air. The terrible cry ceased.
Joy felt something cover her, heavy and dark, a comforting weight against the pale, numbing light. Joy clung to it blindly, dimly recognizing the slippery shimmer of silk and the cool smell of rain. Joy felt his voice vibrate in his chest flat across her back.
“Stop,” he said.
She could hear the wraith reeling closer. Ink switched his grip on the blade in his hand. The cleaving sound struck again, clanging and clean. The howling retreated.
“She did not get your message,” Ink said, his arm held high. Joy cowered beneath him. “We will heed it,” he promised. “Presently. Now.”
Joy chanced a look. The wraith woman, her eyes wide holes of fury, exhaled a high, modulating cry before spinning into the darkness like a dandelion puff.
Silence returned.
Joy relaxed in small increments, joint by joint. Ink pressed against her numb shoulders and the ground sank with their combined weight in the grass. Joy lay curled protectively under Ink, dizzy and trembling.
Ink stood swiftly, gazing out into the pinpricked sky.
“That was a bain sidhe,” he said. “A banshee. The curse of the Isles. Evidently, a message has gone unanswered for too long.”
Curse of the Isles. Joy remembered the note in her locker. She groaned. “Crap.”
Ink turned and stared at Joy for a long moment before offering one of his glovelike hands. “Now, lehman, you must come with me. We have an obligation, you and I—understand?”
Joy nodded and stood up, her palm sliding off his like oil. “I thought...” she began, swallowing her icy jitters. “I thought you said you couldn’t lie.”
“I did not lie,” Ink said as he folded his knife into his wallet and tucked it away. “I said you did not ‘get’ the message, not that you did not ‘receive’ it. I intended ‘get’ as ‘understand.’ And I was correct that you did not understand the message,” he said archly. “Did you?”
“No,” she admitted and bent to get her keys.
Ink watched her with that shy, intense curiosity she’d seen when he’d inspected their joined hands.
“I felt you,” he said quietly. Joy hesitated. “Even before you called for me.” His eyes met hers. “Inq never said it would be like that.”
Joy didn’t know what to say. Her arms felt heavy, full of wet sand. She debated leaving the milk on the ground.
“Pick it up,” Ink said, as if reading her thoughts. Obediently, she did. Through a woozy sort of haze, Joy hadn’t the will to refuse. Ink followed her movements with those penetrating eyes. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Do you want to see a trick?”
His words surprised her. And she wasn’t really up for any more surprises, but the way he’d said it made her wonder if this was an offering of some kind.
“Sure,” she said. “But can I sit down?”
“No. It requires your participation and speed.” At her groan, he added, “It will help—the bain sidhe effects fade quicker if you keep moving. It reminds your body that you are still alive.”
Joy rubbed her hand against her jeans. Tingles pricked like electric sparks.
“Great. Okay,” she said. “What do I do?”
Ink extracted one of the deadly blades from his wallet and gestured with it. A dimple teased in one cheek, threatening a smile. “When I tell you to,” he said, “drop the milk, then jump.”
Joy frowned. Was he kidding? Was this a test?
“Jump?”
“I am certain that you can,” he said. “You jump very well.”
It shocked her like a dare. How long had he been watching her at Abbot’s Field? Joy bit back a retort and sank into her knees, ignoring the numb, prickling sensation, ready to spring.
“Okay.”
“On my mark,” he said.
There was a familiar swoop of motion, a tear in the world, and Ink peeled back a flap of nothingness.
“Drop it,” he said. “Jump!”
She tossed the jug high and jumped through.
Her feet landed on green fields so bright they shone. Joy’s first, crazy thought was that she’d stepped into Oz, but that illusion disappeared with the smell. Wet, woolly sheep with dirty coats dotted the hillsides, their spray-painted butts reeking of poop and the smoky scent of peat. Joy squinted up at the open sky, robin’s-egg blue with an early, silver-gold sun. The nearby narrow road was lined with low walls of uneven gray stone. A rock cottage squatted on the hillside, its bright red door ajar.
She gawked in a trance of delight and awe. Ink stood by her side.
“Where are we?” Joy asked.
“Ireland,” said Ink, and he marched through the open door in blatant disregard for personal property. Joy hurried after him, wondering how anyone could live with a door open to the world, where anybody off the street could walk in like this. She tiptoed gingerly into the house.
A boy of nine or ten lay dozing in a chair. A heavy plate littered with the remains of ham and eggs sat on a table beside a cold mug of strong-smelling coffee. He slept in a button-down shirt, loose pants and thick boots, with a floppy hat pulled down over half his face. Only the very end of his nose and his chin peeked out; both were heavily freckled. Joy thought the boy might be more freckle than not.
He didn’t stir as Ink plunked his wallet onto the table and selected the leaf-tipped wand. Joy leaned on the edge of the thick, wooden table, watching Ink unbutton the boy’s sleeve and tug it up over his elbow. No one should have been able to sleep through such treatment, but somehow, the kid didn’t wake. Joy wondered if that was some magic of Ink’s or the young boy’s impressive commitment to sleep.
“Can you move?” Ink asked Joy, pointing the wand. “You are blocking the light.”
“Oh,” she said. “Sorry.”
The sleeping boy stirred. Joy froze. Ink’s eyebrows crinkled a stern warning. Joy nodded and silently crept around the table, touching nothing. While Ink might go unnoticed, obviously she did not. Joy stood very still and watched from over his shoulder.
Ink tilted his head and considered the skin: a line dividing the freckled, pale part from a deep farmer’s tan. Ink shifted the boy’s elbow, attempting to drape the rest of the arm awkwardly over the sunken chest, but the loose weight kept dragging the arm down. After three tries, Ink scowled and turned black eyes to Joy.
“You want to be helpful?” he asked finally. Joy nodded. “Stand there.” Ink indicated a spot behind the wooden chair. Joy picked her way over. Ink held up the boy’s speckled right hand.
“Hold this,” he directed, slapping the hand on the boy’s shoulder. Joy gingerly pressed down on the knuckles to keep it in place. Satisfied, Ink reexamined the spot near the elbow and poised the blade like a