Алекс Калер - The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

Except I know without a doubt that we don’t use safety lines because no one in this circus messes up. Ever. Either Kingston or Mab is covering an accident that shouldn’t have happened.

For some reason, I look away from the girl on the ground — Jillian is her name, I think — and catch sight of the blond man across from me. He’s still not clapping, but at least he’s looking down now, still scowling. He looks disappointed that the girl is alive.

Although intermission follows immediately after the flying trap, I don’t wait until the end of the act. I awkwardly make my way toward the aisles and bolt out the exit, heading around the tent toward the backstage. Despite the fact that someone almost died, no one seems to notice something went wrong. People are changing or stretching or relaxing. That’s when I notice Kingston standing beside the backstage curtain. He’s peering out through the crack like when we watched the contortionists together. His fingers are clenched into fists.

“What was that?” I ask when I reach him. He jumps slightly but doesn’t make a sound. When he sees it’s me, his fingers relax just a little. He really should wear a shirt backstage. His abs are distracting, even at the worst of times.

“Wait,” he whispers. “Just in case.” He turns back and continues to watch through the curtain. A few moments pass while I watch the performers mingling backstage, and then the audience breaks into loud applause. He steps aside just before the trapeze artists run through the back curtain. The girl who fell spots Kingston and wraps him in a hug.

“Thank you,” Jillian says. There are tears in her eyes and her makeup is smudged.

Kingston just returns the hug and whispers something in the girl’s ear that I can’t hear. Then the rest of the trapeze artists are circling us, asking what happened. I can’t tell if they’re asking Kingston or Jillian, but it’s Jillian who answers.

“I don’t know,” she says.

The guy who caught her — Peter — chimes in.

“Everything felt good from my end,” he says. “That was a perfect toss.”

“I know,” Jillian says. She shakes her head. “It felt perfect. But then…I don’t know. Right when I was about to catch, something just…just took my breath away.”

“What did you smell?” Kingston asks. I stare at him. The question seems ridiculously out of place.

Jillian rubs her arms. Peter steps up behind her and wraps his own muscular arms around her. She leans back into him, but she’s still shaking. It takes her a while to answer.

“Lightning,” she finally says. “It smelled like lightning and cut grass.”

Kingston’s face darkens.

“They wouldn’t dare,” he whispers. “I have to find Mab.”

“What is it?” Peter asks.

“Summer,” Kingston says.

The small crowd gasps. I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Take her to her trailer,” Kingston says to Peter. “Watch her. If anything changes, find me immediately.”

“Am I in danger?” Jillian asks. Her voice trembles.

“Keep her out of sight,” Kingston replies, looking only at Peter. Then he’s off, heading toward the trailers.

The trapeze artists disperse the moment Kingston leaves. Jillian’s practically carried off by Peter and the rest follow in a half-circle behind. I don’t wait around. I jog over to Kingston’s side.

“What’s going on?” I ask him again. He doesn’t slow.

“This doesn’t concern you, Vivienne,” he says.

I reach out and grab his arm, force him to stop. He turns. His eyes burn and I nearly let go. But I don’t. I’m not going to just stand around and wait for someone to include me. I don’t know where this inner fire came from, but I’m not going to fight it. After all, it already saved Lilith’s life. Maybe it’ll save someone else’s, like a heroic sixth sense.

“I’m part of this troupe,” I say. “What’s going on?”

I can see the frustration in his eyes, the immediate desire to push me away. I steel myself for the outburst, but it doesn’t come.

“Summer,” he finally says. “They’re here.”

If this wasn’t clearly a serious situation, I’d make some witty comment about it being obvious it was summer, seeing as how it’s eighty degrees even after dark. He must notice I’m clueless because he doesn’t wait for me to say anything.

“The Summer Court. Mab’s rivals. They’re here. They’re interfering.”

“You think they tried to kill Jillian,” I say. Pieces are clicking together in my head.

“I think they’re trying to make a point. Which means we need Mab. Now. Before they make any more.”

He turns to go but I grab him again. Touching him is addictive and, in this instance, allowed.

“How do you know?” I ask. “What if she just fell?”

“That doesn’t happen,” Kingston says, not even turning around. “Besides, even I could smell Summer magic at work. I just needed Jillian’s confirmation.”

We’re nearly to Mab’s trailer when he turns around.

“Please, Vivienne. Stay out of this. You don’t need any more attention. Just go back to the show.” His eyes are pleading, and he doesn’t give me time to refuse. He turns and heads around the corner of a trailer. I don’t follow.

Instead, I turn around and head back toward the front of house. I don’t stop until I catch sight of the blond-haired guy who was sitting across from me. He didn’t make it hard; he’s standing at the concessions booth right in front of the tent, looking over our DVDs with the mildest amount of interest. He’s tall and thin — taller than me — in a grey pinstripe suit that makes him even more angular. I stand on the other side of the promenade and watch from the popcorn queue. The man keeps glancing around, but he doesn’t seem to notice me noticing him.

Mab comes out from the crowd before I reach the cashier. The man in the suit puts down the brochure he was pretending to read and smiles, but it's not even close to friendly — it's the grin of a man looking forward to a conflict. Mab doesn’t even return the forced affection. She strides right over to blond guy with a grim look on her perfectly painted face. A few people stop and stare and make like they’re about to approach her for an autograph, but there’s a darkness to her presence, something that radiates don’t fuck with me. And the whip at her waist only pushes that point home.

The two share a look, but I don’t see their lips move. Instead, she turns and escorts him away from the booth, behind the picket fence separating backstage from the front. I know that following her would be suicide, but something in me can’t resist the temptation. I don’t know why the hero thing has taken over, but the very thought that this guy might be the one trying to hurt someone in my troupe — my home — makes my blood boil. No one messes with my family. In that moment, I realize it doesn't matter that I've felt like I'm still on the edge of this place. These people took me in. If nothing else, I'm indebted.

I watch her take him away from the chapiteau — not toward the backstage tent and not toward the trailers. I grin in spite of myself. She’s taking him to the freak show.

Without hesitating, I head toward the makeshift wooden sign and enter the tunnel of freaks.

On my second night in the troupe, I was gathered around a bonfire with Kingston and Melody and a few others, listening to stories of past shows and the wild adventures people had experienced off-site. Some had gone skinny-dipping in the Arctic. Others reminisced about buying out an entire town’s stock of glazed donuts. Kingston sat next to me, our arms brushing as he laughed. He kept waving his hand over the thermos being passed around, magically refilling it with unknown booze. I hadn’t really grasped that at the time. There were mostly Shifters with us, and they could hold their drink. Most of them, anyway.