Алекс Калер - The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

“What is this?” someone asks, and I look over to see the guy next to me — one of the jugglers, the one I don’t know — take a half step forward. “Mab, what’s going on?”

She studies him for a moment. I can’t stop staring at the blood dripping down from Roman’s pinky.

“It would seem,” she says, “that the Summer Court is trying to force us down. Which,” — she raises her voice — “Will. Not. Happen. Do you hear me, Oberon? My show will go on.”

I expect thunder to crackle or clouds to gather, but there’s no retaliation, no mark her words were heard. Everyone seems to be holding their breath, myself included.

“This…this wasn’t part of the contract,” the juggler continues. He takes a deep breath and looks around for support, but no one’s looking him in the eye. He’s sweating, but he doesn’t back down. He’s got guts. Mab raises an eyebrow. “You told us we’d be immortal so long as the contracts stood.” He takes another breath and I can feel everyone’s hackles rise.

Behind me, I catch Kingston whispering under his breath, “Don’t do it, you fucking idiot. Don’t do it.”

“Sabina’s dead. Now Roman. None of us are safe. Which means…which means our contracts are void.”

Mab smirks, but there isn’t even a drop of humor there. She takes a step forward.

“Is that so, Paul?” she says. Her voice is ice. “You believe your contract is forfeit?”

There’s a curl in Mab’s words that promises something horrible, but Paul isn’t stopping now that he’s gained steam. I have a sinking suspicion he’s been waiting to say this since Sabina had her throat sliced open.

“Yes,” he says. “Your part of the deal was immortality. I’m not going to sit around and wait for that to be proven false again.”

Mab chuckles. “You have served me for ninety-two years, Paul. And you are due to serve another forty before your contract is up. But if you believe I have failed my end of the bargain, well, I am an honest businesswoman if nothing else. I follow my own rules. You are free to go.”

The guy slouches visibly with relief.

“Thank you,” he says.

She nods and he begins to turn away.

“But,” she whispers. The word hangs in the air like an executioner’s ax. “As you will clearly remember from line 76 C, early termination of the contract for whatever reason also terminates the magic that kept you — what did you call it? Immortal.” Paul stiffens and looks back, his eyes wide. “Which means, my dear servant, that I can no longer protect you from the hands of time. Ninety-two years is a long time, Paul. And had you just waited another forty, you could have prevented them from ever catching up with you.”

Paul opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He reaches both hands up to his neck and makes a horrible gagging noise. No one goes to help him. We all just take a step backward and try not to flinch.

He drops to his knees as wrinkles etch themselves into his face and hands, his skin yellowing and sagging, his veins bulging blue. His hair turns white in a matter of seconds and falls to the ground like dandelion fluff, his teeth yellowing and following in stony suit. His whole body dries up from the inside out. His eyes roll back in his head as a spasm wracks him. He topples. And like a husk, he caves in upon himself, flesh eating skin, until all that’s left is a pile of clothes and a few mounds of ash.

“A shame,” Mab says, almost to herself. “I’ve lost two good performers today.”

She looks straight at me. Her eyes pin me like a cobra’s. “Vivienne. Can you juggle?”

“I — ” Then I realize it’s not a question and nod, my stomach sinking even further. Melody said I wouldn’t make it here if I didn’t learn to lie. I’m starting to think the opposite is true.

“Good,” Mab continues, completely ignoring my lack of confidence. “You will learn your routine from Vanessa and Richard. If you are not onstage by this time next week, you will be fired.”

She snaps her fingers, and Roman’s body collapses in a cloud of blue dust behind her.

“The show will go on,” she says again. “With or without the lot of you.”

In a sweep of shadows, she vanishes.

No one says anything after Mab leaves the murder site, but as the crowd disperses, Melody and Kingston stick behind with me. The two other jugglers — Vanessa, who’s short with a brown bob, and Richard, who’s tall with wavy black hair and a heart tattooed on his arm — come up and say they rehearse three hours a day, between lunch and dinner, and they’ll help me get as good as Paul in no time. They both look at Kingston when they say this, as though he holds the secret to success in his fingertips. When they leave, I can’t help but feel like I’ve been roped into a losing fight. It’s amazing how fast things can fall to shit.

“Come on,” Kingston says. He glances back at the swords scattered on the ground. Although Roman’s body is gone, his blood is still congealing in the sun. “Let’s get out of here.”

We head to a picnic bench on the edge of the beach. Melody is walking on her own, but she’s still got a limp, and Kingston hovers by her side like he’s waiting for her to collapse. When we reach the table, she leans back onto the wood and lies back to look at the sky.

“Remind me not to sleep on the beach again,” she says. “I feel like sand should have asked me on a date first.”

Kingston laughs but gives me an I told you so sort of look when she breaks into another cough. She's definitely getting worse. But even after our talk last night, I refuse to believe he can be responsible for it. Whatever it is.

“So,” Mel continues, oblivious to the shared look. “A juggler, eh? Frankly, I pinned you as more of an acrobat myself.”

“I’d rather not think about it,” I say. “I’ve never juggled in my life. Anyway, what the hell’s going on with you? Are you okay?”

She closes her eyes and the grin slips. “Nice diversion,” she says. “I’m fine.”

It would have been a convincing cover-up, if not for the hacking fit that immediately followed.

“Kingston?” I ask.

He sighs. “I don’t know. I can’t heal it, whatever it is.”

“I’m still here,” she says.

“I’m not saying anything you don’t already know,” he says. “Besides, Vivienne’s a friend. She deserves to know.”

And yeah, it’s sick in light of everything that’s happened in the last twenty minutes, but that statement makes me feel really, really good.

“Fine,” Mel says. “Yes, Vivienne. I appear to be quite ill, and our all-powerful witch can’t do anything about it. As you said, I’d rather not think about it.”

“I was going to talk to Mab,” Kingston says, half to me and half to Melody. “Whatever this is, it’s not normal. But I don’t know if she’s in the right mood to be confronted with another loophole.”

I sit down on the table and look back at the trailers. I wonder who’s going to gather up Roman's swords, and who’s going to take his place as head of the Shifters. I wonder if his blood will still be pooled on the ground when we go back.

“What do you think she’s going to do?” I ask. “I mean, clearly this isn’t a one-time thing. First Sabina, then Roman. If that Summer guy was telling the truth, we’re going to keep getting picked off one by one until the show falls apart.”

“I don’t even know,” Kingston says with a sigh. He runs his hands through his lank hair and looks out at the waves. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re already falling apart. All the Summer Court has to do is pull the right thread, and we’re done.”