Алекс Калер - The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

“No injuries,” he says, almost to himself. “No trauma. So why did you faint?”

“I don’t…I don’t remember.”

Still, the memory nags at me. I’ve got Lilith’s huddled form in my mind. I remember taking her hand, and then…that’s it.

“Maybe she’s just got a weak stomach,” Melody says. She chuckles, which turns into a cough. Kingston glances at her; his eyebrow cocks in a strange mix of concern and curiosity. She holds up a hand until the coughing fit stops. “Sorry,” she says. “Must be coming down with something.”

“Must be,” Kingston says. “You better not die before our act tonight.” He turns back to me.

And that’s when I notice that they’re both in costume. Melody’s not wearing her tuxedo coat or wig, but she’s in her tight pinstripe trousers and a clean button-down. Kingston is in a white shirt and black sequined slacks. The tip of his tattoo is curled around his bicep. I blink because I’m pretty certain that’s not where the tail was last time. I push myself up to sit, which just makes my head swim even more.

“What time is it? How long have I been out?”

“A full day,” Kingston says softly. “We’re already at the next site.”

“No way,” I say, sinking back down onto the bed. “Shit.”

“The show’s in an hour,” Melody says. She slips something into my hand. “But Mab’s giving you the night off.”

I look at the ticket stub in my hand. Cirque des Immortels is in swirling black ink on the front of the dusty purple card stock, my seat number and row are on the back. VIP seating, nice.

“She doesn’t ever give people the night off,” Melody says, nodding to the ticket in my hand. “Let alone reward them for it. She must be impressed.”

She and Kingston share a look.

“You’re sure you can’t remember anything?” he asks.

“I wish,” I say. The absence of memory sears.

Melody leaves a few minutes later, when a particularly strong coughing fit sends her out the door in search of tea and honey. Kingston stares after her with a look on his face that tells me he feels he should follow. He doesn’t, though. And after a moment of looking at the door, he turns back to me.

“That was brave,” he says. He’s leaning against my desk, almost in arm’s reach. The scent of his musky cologne fills the trailer. I realize that, for the first time, we’re alone in a room together. The thought makes my heart beat faster. He smiles, and it’s not the usual sarcastic grin. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I let out a half-chuckle, and look down at the admissions ticket.

I hear him shift, and then he’s standing next to the bed. Next to me. I don’t look up. I know if I do I’ll be tempted to say or do something I’d regret later.

He puts his hand on my shoulder. The ticket stops spinning in my hands but my pulse speeds up. What would Mel say if she knew we were alone like this? I can’t hurt her, not after all the kindness she’s shown me. But after what he said yesterday, a large part of me is holding on to the hope that they aren’t a thing.

“You surprise me,” he says. I look up at him.

“Is that a good thing?” I counter. I’d probably fuck things up if I said anything remotely serious or tried to be smooth. But there’s something in his eyes, something in our closeness that makes me want to reach out and touch him, even if every part of me knows it’s a horrible idea. I can’t stop telling myself that he’s looking at me differently than the way he’s looked at Mel. I try to convince myself it’s just from fainting.

“I’m not sure yet,” he says. He studies me like he’s actually trying to figure me out. No one’s looked at me that intensely since I started here. The silence between us grows, and I don’t want to do anything to make it end. He looks at me and I look at him and his hand is still on my shoulder. His touch makes my skin tingle. He bites his lower lip.

If this were a movie, I think this must be the part where tragedy and heroism bring us together and we make a really stupid decision. One of us has a moment of weakness, forgets the relationship-thing due to overwhelming passion, and then it’s nothing but lips and discarded clothes and murmurs of love —

Kingston shakes his head and steps back.

“I better get going,” he says. “Wouldn’t want any rumors about us, you know.” He winks and heads to the door. Before stepping through, he turns back and gives me the grin I’m starting to love. “And, Viv, I know my act is good, but try not to faint before intermission.” He chuckles and leaves me sitting there.

He’s just toying with you, I try to convince myself. But my body’s not listening. I stare at the door for a while and feel the after-trace of his hand on my shoulder. I tell myself that there are more important things to think about, like finding the killer and keeping Kingston and Mel safe, and figuring out why I fainted in the first place. More important things. I stand up and search my shelves for a clean shirt. There are much more important things than a guy I barely know. A guy who’s gorgeous and strong and could set my ass on fire if he wanted. A guy who I’m now only ninety percent certain is dating my best friend. Right.

I can still smell his cologne.

An hour later, I’m milling about in the promenade with the rest of the punters. Stalls and booths of every kind flank each side of the makeshift road that leads up to the blue-and-black tent. Cirque des Immortels blazes in acid-purple neon above the gaping maw of an entrance. I’m in my everyday jeans and T-shirt, nothing to set me apart from the rest — no Crew splashed across my back, no tower of cotton candy in one hand. Tonight, I’m just like everyone else. I hadn’t realized how appealing that thought would be.

I grab a box of popcorn from the concessionaire booth and am saved from making small talk; today it’s run by a new girl from the nearby town, someone I haven’t met and maybe never will. All she sees is a girl with a VIP pass that entitles her to free food and drink. Even that small act of anonymity makes me feel a little more at home. Being surrounded by people who know you 24/7 isn’t something I’m used to. Small memories of another life flutter through my head like moths — all grey images and tearstains — and then I’m leaping out of the way to make room for a stilt walker.

It's dressed like a giant black rabbit trundling around on eight-foot-tall legs, except the rabbit head is actually a raven’s. And when the beast walks past me, I distinctly see the eye blink. A whole line of walkers moves through the crowd. All the creatures are like some tame sort of nightmare, their legs nimbly stepping around and over the people below. Kids are calling and screaming and laughing, and even the adults stare up in wonder as the creatures roam and pirouette and leap. They’re all headed in the same direction. To one side of the promenade there’s a wooden archway set up between concession booths. The stilt walkers narrowly duck under a sign as they vanish down the side alley. Freakshow , the sign reads .

I grin in spite of myself. Although they are technically hired as tent crew, sometimes, when they’re really bored or want to shake things up, the Shifters set up their small carnival-styled area to put on their own show. It’s like a two-for-one deal. For once, my luck seems to be swinging toward the positive.

I take a step toward it, but then the music inside the tent changes, and the jugglers come out into the promenade twirling clubs of fire. They shout at the top of their lungs, “Show begins in five minutes!”