Алекс Калер - The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

“I don’t know how long my contract is,” I say.

He says nothing to that, but he doesn’t look away. It’s me that has to avert my gaze; there’s an intensity in those coffee-colored eyes I just can’t match.

“I am responsible for her,” he finally says.

“What?”

“Melody. I’m responsible for her.”

“She’s twenty-two,” I say.

“Age is deceiving,” he replies. I know he’s not just talking about Mel. He looks away. “I found her, much like — ” he stutters, “much like Mab found you. If not for me, she wouldn’t be here.” He brings his gaze back down and traces a finger along Mel’s forehead. Maybe it’s the drink, but I swear a faint blue light swirls beneath her skin, a pattern I barely glimpse before it’s gone. “If not for me,” he whispers, so soft I can barely hear it, “she wouldn’t be getting sick.”

“It’s not your fault,” I say, though the defense sounds weak. He doesn’t say anything, so I try to make an actual point of it. “I mean, Mab brought me here and some crazy shit’s gone down, but I don’t regret it.”

I look back to the tent, to the Shifters milling around. The sides are being pulled up now, the skeleton gaining skin.

“This is better than whatever I came from,” I say, though even as the words are leaving my mouth, I know it’s not true. I have no idea what I came from. I can’t even remember what street I lived on. The thought infuriates me for a moment, makes me want to scream at the top of my lungs and rip everything apart. And then it’s gone, and I don’t know what I was thinking about in the first place.

He laughs, and I look over.

“What?” I ask. What were we talking about?

He’s smiling. It looks genuine.

“You’re cute,” he says. “Drunk is a good look on you.”

“I’m not drunk,” I say. I realize a little too late that it sounds slurred. I chuckle and fall back in the sand.

“Get some sleep,” he says.

I don’t want to, but after all the running around today and the lack of sleep last night, it’s hard to resist.

I close my eyes and listen to the waves as I sway with the heaviness of wine. I want to tell him he’s beautiful, that he isn’t responsible for everyone. That Melody’s lucky no matter what because she has him looking out for her. I don’t say any of this; the words just won’t piece together. I’m drifting when I feel something brush through my hair. I don’t open my eyes to see if the fingers are real or just my imagination. Melody’s lucky she has you. When sleep comes, it washes everything to grey.

“Shit,” Kingston says, and I’m pulled from dreams of nothing. The sun is just rising, the pale light making everything pink and purple and beautiful. But that’s not enough to mask the screams coming from the tent. I sit up, sand stuck to every inch of me. Both Melody and Kingston are pushing themselves to standing.

“You don’t think?” Mel asks, and Kingston closes his eyes. Although he looks much more well-rested than yesterday, there’s a weariness around his eyes that seems to grow by the minute. If it weren’t for the screaming, I’d be sorely tempted to tell him to go back to sleep.

“I don’t want to find out,” he says.

My heart is sinking into the dirt. A crowd gathers by one of the trailers, and the scene from a few days ago is playing on loop in my head.

“Come on,” I say, and head toward the chaos.

The two of them are right behind me, and it’s not ’til I’m running up the grassy slope toward the field that I realize Melody’s lagging behind. I turn back. No, not lagging, limping. One arm is around Kingston, her face twisted with pain. She must have slept wrong or something. I don’t slow down. I want to see this before Mab takes over.

When I reach the trailers and push my way to the front of the crowd, I’m immediately glad I haven’t eaten anything yet.

It’s Roman. He’s naked, except for socks and boxers, like he’d been killed in his sleep. Except he was clearly awake for this; his eyes and mouth are wide open and his body is arched back, supported by six swords piercing his spine, the tips just poking out the front of his torso. He’s covered in thick blood that drips down his arms and pools on the grass below. His powder-blue mohawk is stained purple. Flies are already gathering.

I push aside the nausea and look around, scan the crowd, try to find someone who’s missing, something out of place. But everyone’s there, and everyone looks horribly shocked. Everyone except for Lilith, who’s nowhere to be seen.

The crowd parts like a sobbing Red Sea the moment Mab arrives. She isn’t even trying to look mortal, now. She glides over the ground like a wraith, the grass beneath her long, black, smoke-like dress turning to ice. Her green eyes are blazing, and I swear her nails are talons.

“What is the meaning of this?” she hisses, and the crowd draws back. She moves forward and reaches out, her hand hovering an inch above Roman’s face. “Roman,” she whispers, the intensity of her rage dimming with her words. “Who did this to you?”

She turns back to the crowd and points. Again, they part, all of them except Sheena, the purple-haired girl who was working the novelties booth two nights ago. She seems rooted to the spot, her eyes locked on Mab’s. I can tell she’s not afraid, but she looks wary.

“Come here, girl,” Mab says.

As Sheena steps forward, the troupe looks at her with fear and anger in their eyes, and I feel my own pulse start to race. Mab’s narrowed it down. Mab knows the killer, Mab is about to tell the world. My heart is hammering in my ears. It was Sheena all along. But why?

Sheena walks straight up to Mab and stares up into the eyes of hell, her head held high. I have to give it to the girl; she’s keeping calm even though every single one of us knows she’s about to turn to dust. Every nerve and muscle in me tightens, ready to fire as judgment is dealt.

“I should have done this the first time,” Mab says. She raises a hand…

…and steps aside, leaving a space for Sheena to approach the body.

“My Queen?” Sheena asks.

“It must be done,” Mab replies.

Something crosses Sheena’s features, hesitation and loathing, but she nods anyway. Her eyes close, her fingers clench into fists. And then she changes.

It’s not Shifter magic, which — according to Kingston — isn’t really magic at all, but something else entirely. Sheena’s body shivers like static on a screen, a flash of purple light and smoke, and then she’s no longer there. In her place is a tiny hovering orb of violet light. It takes a moment for the truth to hit, but there’s no mistaking that Tinkerbell-esque glow. She’s a fucking faerie.

I expect some great wave of magic, maybe for Roman to start speaking in tongues from his bladed bed, or for sparks of lightning to shoot out. But nothing happens. There’s a haze of smoke around the orb that seems to wrap around the body, but it’s so faint in the light of day that I can’t really see it. A few moments pass, and then I blink and the girl is standing there again, all purple hair and blue jeans. She looks down at the ground.

“I’m sorry, my Queen,” she whispers. “I cannot divine. Someone has hidden his sight from me.”

Mab hisses and the air around her grows dark, just for a moment.

“The Summer King,” she seethes. “It must be him.”

Sheena bows and steps back into the crowd. People edge away from her like she’s diseased, but I see the flickers in a few people’s eyes — the recognition, the longing. Sheena’s not the only fey hiding in our midst, but she’s clearly the only one who’s been outed. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why she looks like her dirtiest of secrets has just been aired. After all, it’s not like Mab makes any attempt at hiding what she is.