Алекс Калер - The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

“Why would I be pissed?” Kingston says from behind. I nearly jump. How long was he standing there?

“Speak of the devil,” I mumble. Clearly, even getting bitten by a rattlesnake wasn’t enough to clear my shitty karma. I try to visualize my face not being red and turn around. I know it doesn’t work. “We were just talking about you.”

“I thought I felt my ears ringing,” he says. Apparently, he doesn’t care to know what we were saying. He walks over to Melody and puts a hand on her face, uses a thumb to lift an eyelid. “Shit,” he whispers.

“What?” we both ask. My heart immediately drops.

“Still nothing in there.”

“Ha ha,” Mel says, swatting his hand away. “Nice to see you too, dickhead.”

Kingston turns to me. “Feeling better?”

I nod and take a drink of water. If he was listening in, he didn’t catch much. I hope. God, do I hope.

“Good,” he says. “Vanessa was asking after you. Apparently, you aren’t allowed dinner until you can manage eight three-ball passes in a row.”

“Fantastic,” I say. “I’ll just start gorging myself now, lest I starve for the next few days.”

Kingston reaches over to a bowl and snatches a few pieces of cereal.

“Better start practicing now,” he says, and tosses them in a high arc toward me. They ignite in midair, flaring into three soft, red juggling balls. I manage to catch one. The others fall to the ground. Melody chuckles.

Some part of me can’t help but feel like this is all forced, though I have no clue where the notion's coming from. Kingston seems too casual, Melody too quirky. Something is going on, something that neither of them wants to admit. Either that, or I'm getting paranoid.

One of the balls rolls under a table, so I bend down to grab it. That’s when I see Poe curled up beside a bench leg. The ball is right next to him. He stirs as I reach out, opening one eye and then rolling up to stretch before limping away.

There’s a miniature white cast on his front paw. Memory burns, but then Kingston taps me on the ass with his foot. I stand and chuck one of the balls at him, missing by a mile. I’m smiling, but I can feel it slip. Something digs in the back of my head, something pulling itself up to consciousness. It smells of brimstone and fear.

When the rest of the troupe leaves for the watering hole — Melody as well, since Kingston saw some benefit in her getting out for a bit — I sit inside the main tent, legs crossed, with a pile of juggling balls beside me. It’s a bit cooler in the chapiteau, and with the lights off, everything is a muted blue from the sun diffusing through the walls. The bleachers are empty and there’s a thin stream of light coming in from the back curtain. I can still practically feel the ghosts of crowds past. Being in here without an audience seems wrong, somehow, much emptier than it should be. I’ve got my MP3 player on to drown out the quiet, trying to keep a rhythm with the balls. One, two, three, catch, one, two, three, catch. I succeed every couple of songs. It’s easier to practice without anyone watching me, judging, or waiting for me to do it right. I even cheer when I manage three successful passes in a row. Then I drop one of the balls. It rolls away, toward the ring curb, where it’s stopped by Kingston’s foot.

I pull out one of my earplugs as he bends down to pick it up. A faint voice inside of me is saying I should feel strange right now. I should be holding something against him, but I can’t remember what. I let whatever grudge I had go. I just don’t have the energy for that sort of drama. Not when my job and everything else is on the line.

“That was good,” he says, rolling the ball around on his palm. I watch him for a moment as he moves his hand back and forth, twists it over and under, the ball seeming to hover in one spot as it rolls across his skin, then up his forearm. Zal is wrapped around his neck, the tip of his tail just protruding from Kingston’s shirtsleeve. After a few more moments of contact juggling, he pops the ball into the air and catches it. He winks when he sees my stare and slightly dropped jaw. “Years of practice,” is all he says.

He walks over and sits down next to me, then tosses me the ball.

“How’s it going?” he asks.

“I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh.”

We sit there a moment, and I’m acutely aware of how close he is. Even in the heat, his presence feels cool, and his scent is sweat and spice, something exotic and dangerous and alluring, all in one. I can practically feel the static between us, my bare arm hardly an inch from his.

“Well,” I finally manage, picking up the balls and trying again. One, two, three — but the ball flies far and I miss the last catch. Taking my mind off juggling certainly doesn’t help my performance. “I guess, all things considered, I’m doing okay.”

“All things considered?” he asks.

I pick up one of the balls from the pile and try again.

“Well,” I say, making the first pass. “I was bitten by a snake, I’m a million miles from home, and, oh, yeah, three people have died in the last week, and no one knows who did it, so naturally Mab suspects me. On top of that, if I don’t learn how to juggle by the next site, I’m on the street. Again.”

Kingston nudges me, which makes me fail the catch.

“You’re being melodramatic,” he says.

“Really? Because from where I’m standing, I’d say there’s more than enough drama outside of myself.”

“Welcome to circus life,” he says. “Never a dull day.”

“You don’t seem to care if I stay or not,” I say. The words grate against my pride, but I can’t help but voice them.

“You know that’s not true,” he says.

I put down the balls and look at him. He’s looking at me, a slight smile on his lips. Is it just my imagination, or is he looking at me differently? It’s almost as if he’s looking at me like he knows I have some sort of secret. Like I’m worth noticing for more than comic relief.

The words I want to say sound childish in my head, but I don’t care. I’m tired of not knowing.

“Why?” Why do you care? Why is this happening? Why does everyone seem to be against me? Why am I suspected of murder? A thousand other questions are also left unasked. But I know he can’t or won’t answer.

He looks away.

“I know it’s hard,” he says. “The first couple weeks. The troupe’s been together for years and we’re cliquey as fuck. But that doesn’t mean people don’t care about you.”

People like you? I want to ask.

“I highly doubt anyone else in the troupe has had the same welcome. Being suspected of murder isn’t exactly friendly.”

He looks at me.

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“What?”

“That Mab suspects you.”

I throw up my hands and can’t help but laugh. “What are you talking about? Of course she does. Why else would she say she suspects me? Why else would she put me under house arrest and threaten to kick me out of the troupe if I don’t learn how to juggle? She hates me. And what if she’s right? What if I did do it? I can’t remember my past! What if I’m blacking out the memory of killing everyone as well?”

It’s a thought I wouldn’t let myself entertain before, one that shakes the very core of who I think I am. What if I really am the killer? Like one of those Russian sleeper cells, just awaiting activation.

Kingston shakes his head.

“You’re not the murderer. I wouldn’t believe that for a second. Do you really think Mab — cunning as she is — would put her cards on the table like that?”