Алекс Калер - The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

Kingston laughs and Mel chuckles, which once more turns into a hack she tries to hide behind a drink of coffee.

“ Just a circus?” he asks. “You really think that’s what this whole operation is?”

I raise an eyebrow. “What else would it be? We travel around the country in a blue and grey tent, putting on shows. Sounds like a circus to me.”

“Viv,” Melody says when her coughing fit’s over. “We’re talking about Queen Mab here. The Faerie Queen of legend, ruler of the Winter Court. You really think she just gave up ruling an entire kingdom to wander the mortal world and put on a show?”

I shrug. “Everyone gets bored, right?”

Mel shakes her head and shares a what-an-idiot look with Kingston. Then she looks back at me with a grin on her face.

“Time for a lesson in supply and demand,” she says. “What do faeries live on?”

“I dunno. Honey?”

Kingston laughs again and continues where Melody left off.

“Not quite. Faeries live off dreams. Why do you think faerie tales exist in the first place? The fey are secretive as hell; if they wanted to remain anonymous, they would. So why would a group that prefers to stay away from mankind let mankind even know they exist?”

“I…”

“Right,” he says. “You don’t know. Faerie tales are like seeds.” He waves a hand, and the smoke trailing from his cigarette curls into itself, forms a tight little nut-shape floating in the air. “We tell them to kids because it makes their imaginations run wild with thoughts of magic and the supernatural.” The smoke-seed breaks open, tendrils sprouting wildly like vines. “Those thoughts feed the fey. Without them, they die.”

I interrupt him. “What happened before humans?”

“I’ve never asked,” Kingston says, an eyebrow raised. “The point is,” he continues, the tree of smoke-vines before him beginning to fade and wilt, “over time, faerie tales started to lose their ability to inspire. Kids believed them, but adults stopped. Technology overtook the story.” The smoke fades out entirely, blown away in a gust of wind. “The stories weren’t enough. So, Mab decided to be proactive. A more in-your-face approach.”

“She made us,” I say.

“She made us,” Kingston continues. “We spark people’s imaginations, get adults dreaming of the impossible. And those dreams, all those hopes and fantasies, they feed the fey.”

Melody spreads her arms wide. “We are the lunch ladies of the faerie world. The Dream Traders.”

She chuckles and coughs again, which stifles the humor of her statement.

“Okay, I’ll buy it,” I say. “But if that’s the case, why would the Summer Court want us to stop?”

Kingston gets an evil grin and takes one last, long drag on his cigarette, then flicks it to the curb. It turns into a moth and flutters away before ever hitting the concrete.

“Because,” he says, “if you hadn’t noticed, Mab’s a woman of business. All those dreams we procure, all that magical faerie food? It’s reserved. All for the Winter Court. Which, of course, means Summer is hungry. And pissed.”

“Can’t they make their own damn show?” I say.

“Come on,” Kingston says. “Faeries are proud. The Summer King would never stoop to imitating his enemy.”

“Besides,” Mel says, “The name Cirque du Soleil was already taken.”

We reach the new site a few hours later, in some town whose name I missed in between napping. It’s on a beach, I get that much. The trucks park a few hundred yards from the shoreline in what looks like an old soccer field. I jump out of the cab and stretch my legs. Poe slinks beside me and vanishes under the truck; Lilith slides out behind him.

“Lilith,” I say, quietly, once the door is shut. “What did Mab say to you last night? After you left?” She’s looking at me with a blank expression on her face. “You know,” I continue, “after she met with the bad man. We were hiding under the truck.” I crouch down to emphasize the point. She smiles, and I try to smile too. Her smile quickly fades.

“You’re mean,” she says. The sober tone is back. “You help me, make me think you’re my friend. But you want to take him from me. You’re bad. Bad. Just like bad man.”

Then she turns and runs off, cartwheeling toward the tide. I watch her go with a sinking feeling in my stomach. Just looking at her brings the scent of brimstone back to my nostrils. That, and the fact that when I looked into those green eyes, a part of me felt like I should be screaming.

The tent gets set up that night. I half-expect Mab to come out and demand that Kingston magic the tent back to standing, but much to my surprise — and Kingston’s, apparently — he’s been given the night off. Melody, Kingston and I sit on the beach and watch the moon rise over the water while behind us, lit by giant floodlights that turn everything the color of bone, the tent rises like a monstrous skeleton. The sound of the waves is accented with thuds and clangs and curses from the tent crew as they work their graveyard shift.

We don’t really talk, the three of us. Instead, we share two bottles of red wine and sink back into the sand. After the day we’ve had, there’s really not much space to say anything. All any of us are after is the calm that comes from good company and contented silence. Halfway through the first bottle, Melody lays her head in Kingston’s lap and stares at the stars while he runs his fingers absentmindedly through her hair. Something turns over in my chest when I see that, some memory of comfort and love I can’t quite place, but I don’t say anything. Now that I know it’s entirely platonic, I’m only filled with the hope that maybe, someday, he’ll act like that with me. I’m already tipsy before I can start thinking how I feel about this, this sudden knowledge that I have a sliver of a chance with Kingston. I can’t tell if it makes things easier or worse.

“I really don’t know what’s wrong with you,” he whispers to Mel, and he seriously sounds sorry about it, like it’s all his fault. She reaches up and touches his arm.

“Don’t worry,” she says with a small smile. “I’ll be fine.”

I turn back to watch the tide, my head filled with thoughts I wish I could share but can’t bring myself to voice. The man from the Summer Court, Lilith’s disapproving glare. My contract. It hasn’t even been a month and I feel more confused than when I started, like maybe things were simpler before I came here. Whatever “before here” actually entailed. The wine is not making it any easier to think.

A few minutes later, I look back over at the two of them, watch him run his fingers through her hair. Mel’s eyes are closed and her chest is rising and falling in rhythm with the tide. She looks peaceful like that, fast asleep. Even peaceful when she lets out a soft snore. Kingston’s looking out at the moon, his eyes distant. I’d give anything to switch places with Melody, to have him run his fingers through my hair.

He looks to me and smiles. Just that is enough to make my stomach warm.

“Why do you look at her like that?” I whisper, the wine making me bolder than I should be. Melody doesn’t stir.

“Like what?” he asks. He doesn’t stop twining his fingers through her hair. Yeah, I’d give anything to switch spots.

“Like you’re responsible for her.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

I huff and lean back into the sand.

“I could be here a while,” I say. “You might as well get used to the fact that if I don’t understand now, I will eventually.”

“What do you mean?”

I think back to my conversation with Penelope, though the memory is a swirl of wine.