Алекс Калер - The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

I don’t say anything. I haven’t been here long enough to have even the slightest idea of what Mab would do. And I have a feeling that that wouldn’t change even if I stayed here another thousand years. Which might be a very strong possibility.

“She’s using you,” he finally says. His voice is flat, like he’s not entirely pleased with it himself. “You’re a diversion.”

“A diversion?”

“Of course. If she places the blame on you, the real killer might think they’re off the hook. They’ll get messy.”

“Yeah, well, they only have a couple days left. After that, I won’t be around to play scapegoat.”

“I won’t let her kick you out,” Kingston says. There’s a promise in the way he says it. As much as I want to laugh it off, I don’t doubt for a minute he’s telling the truth. I’ve seen him go head-to-head with Mab. He could hold his weight. But could he hold his ground while defending me?

“Why?” I ask again.

He doesn’t answer. For a moment, all I can do is stare at him, wonder if he’s really willing to be my knight in shining armor or if he's just being macho. The desire to reach out and touch him slugs me in the chest, but I hold back. There's still that inkling that I should be royally pissed at him.

“Have you ever killed someone?” I ask.

He leans back. “Why the hell would you ask me that?”

“Because I wanted to make sure you wouldn’t burn me alive if I ever tried to kiss you.”

“Funny,” he says, and he picks up one of the balls, starts rolling it around in his palm again. Smooth , I think. There goes that moment.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Neither of us says anything for what feels like the longest while. But he isn’t standing up to leave. Maybe I didn’t fuck it up entirely. Maybe he’s just making sure I meant it.

“I take it that’s a no on the kiss, then?” I finally say. I try to keep my voice light, but — to continue his metaphor — now that my cards are on the table, I feel horribly exposed. Besides, isn’t this supposed to be his role? Shouldn’t he be the one trying to win over me?

“I’m too old for you,” he says. The statement is fast and well practiced, so smooth it doesn’t sound genuine. It also isn’t an answer.

“You don’t look like it.”

“Yeah, well, that’s Mab’s magic for you. All glitz and glamour. Nothing real.” The bitterness in his voice is overpowering.

“So,” I say. “How long do I have to wait?”

“Until?”

“Until I’m old enough for it not to be so creepy.”

He actually laughs at this, an outburst that sounds like half a sob. He looks at me.

“You’re serious?”

I nod. I’m not smiling. It’s the most honest I’ve been with him since signing on to this venture.

“I’m three hundred and forty-one.”

The numbers drop like guillotines, but he doesn’t look away from me as he says them. Clearly, he’s judging my response. I try to keep my face composed, and my response is as witty as I can make it.

“You don’t look a day over two hundred,” I say. “Must be all the popcorn.”

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling nonetheless. Again, he looks at me like I’m amusing. But there’s something else behind it. Surprise?

“What did you do?” I ask. “Why did you join?” Most of our performers were in a bind, Mab had said. What could Kingston have done?

“Well,” he says. “I used to live in Salem.”

“Oh.”

He takes a deep breath and stares off at something past the bleachers. “Yeah. Oh. A little over three hundred years ago, I was being burned at the stake. I’d accidentally lit someone’s pig on fire, which sounds much funnier in hindsight. At the time, when I didn’t realize I actually was the type of person all the menfolk were burning, it freaked the shit out of me. I was found out, given a trial befitting the times, and found guilty.

“So there I am, bound to a pole in the town square, getting called every possible name for a bastard heathen. I was crying because I knew I was guilty and going to hell, but I didn’t want to die. But that doesn’t really mean anything to them, you know? Anyway, Mab must have been watching for some time, because a minute or two after they lit the kindling — bitch let me roast for what seemed like eternity — everything just…stopped.”

He pauses and looks at me, clearly making sure I’m still following along. I am. Either he’s a good storyteller or I’ve got a vivid imagination: I can practically smell the wood smoke.

“I mean, it’s like being in a movie. Everything’s on pause. I still remember there was a rotten tomato hovering like a foot away from my face. And then she appears out of nowhere in a puff of black smoke. Didn’t look anything like she does now. She was in her PVC boots and mohawk phase, even had a British flag as a belly shirt. Think Tank Girl but infinitely more badass. Certainly made the right impression.”

I let the image of Mab dressed as a true punk seep in. It’s quite at odds with her current glamorous self.

“She offered me a job then and there. Work for her and she’d not only set me free, she’d let me get revenge and teach me how to use my powers. I accepted, of course. I mean, it wasn’t much of a choice: burn an agonizingly slow death, or get out of jail free. At the time, I thought I was just hallucinating because after I’d agreed, everything started back up again. People were yelling, the tomato missed me by an inch. Then I realized the ropes on my hands were gone, and the fire didn’t seem so hot. That’s when the fire turned blue.

“Everyone started screaming and trying to run away, but there were demon eyes in the flames and I heard Mab’s voice in my head. This is your power. Do with it as thou wilt. ”

“And?” I ask.

“And I killed them,” he says, tossing the ball into the air. “All five hundred and forty-three of them. Men, women, children. All burned, just like they would have done to me.”

I stare at him. My mouth is open, I’m sure, but I can’t close it. If he notices, he doesn’t pause to point it out.

“It wasn’t until later, of course, that Mab set out the actual terms of my contract.”

“Which was?”

“One year for every life lost. So, yeah, I’ve killed before. And I’m paying dearly for it. Circus freak for life,” he says with a sigh.

“I don’t remember any of that in the history books,” I say. Here I was, freaking out because I might have killed three people, and he’s killed hundreds. He doesn’t look like the type who’d have blood on his hands. But then I remember the way his eyes flashed when doing some of his more dangerous tricks. Not everything is as it seems. His words. He was definitely talking about himself.

He just shrugs. “Mab’s good at misdirection.” The look he gives me is loaded, but I’m too wrapped up in the idea of him fricasseeing small babies to let it sink in.

“Do you regret it?” I ask, shaking off the image. “Joining? Your contract?” In other words, killing all those people.

“Hell, no,” he says, standing. “I’d do it again.”

He tosses the ball into the air. At the top of its arc, it explodes in a burst of sparks and flutters away as a pearl-white moth.

“You don’t fuck with a witch,” he says. “Ever.”

With that, he strolls out of the tent, a slight, cocky bounce to his gait. I know I should be looking at him differently. He’s a killer. He’s here because he murdered a town. But then, I can’t say I’d have done much differently if the roles were reversed. Kill or be killed. Wasn’t that the most basic human instinct? Besides, it’s not exactly like I could crucify him for his past when I couldn’t even remember mine. He’s still the guy who promised to keep Mab from kicking me out, the guy who takes it upon himself to make sure Melody and everyone else is safe and happy. He’s still the guy I fell for at the start. I pick up the balls and then realize one thing: he never answered whether or not he’d kill me for trying to kiss him.