Алекс Калер: The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

“Fancy a go?” says a voice at my side.

I nearly jump.

“Mel,” I say. She’s changed out of her costume and is now in pink pajama bottoms and a long, tattered knit cardigan, her thumbs poking out from the sleeves. She’s also grinning like a fool.

“Well?” she asks, nodding to the new tent.

“Are you?” I ask, my heart suddenly thumping in my chest in time to the music. There’s a ring of men and women in black suits surrounding the tent. They’re all wearing sunglasses. Did Mab hire bodyguards? What sort of after-party requires bodyguards?

“Hell no,” she says, “but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t invited.”

She holds up a small purple ticket. Cirque des Immortels is scrawled across the front in heavy black ink.

“Won’t they notice?” I say, gesturing toward the guard. Rebelling isn’t in my nature — I’m always the one who gets caught. But something about the tent is calling to me. It’s promising me things I can’t imagine, but would surely regret missing. Somehow I know that rebelling is precisely what the Tapis Noir is all about.

Melody eyes the guards before laughing.

“The Shifters? Please. So long as you’ve got a ticket, they don’t give a fuck who goes in.”

I glance back to the bodyguards and try to imagine the Shifters dressing up in suits, which is nearly impossible. The Shifters are the tent crew and part-time freak show. Most of them looked like they were part of a biker gang. I wonder what Mab had to do to get them into Armani suits.

Mel holds the ticket out. I hesitate. Then, because that small tugging voice inside of me is really digging the edge of danger thing, I take it. On the back, there’s a small block of handwritten script.

You are cordially invited to the Tapis Noir,

our premier, no bounds after-party.

Indulge and enjoy irresponsibly.

xx Mab

Performer is stamped down the left-hand side.

“Just make sure you get the right mask,” she says as I study the card.

“What do you mean?”

She leans in close and whispers in my ear, as though she doesn’t want any of the punters — the more endearing name we used for the public — to hear. “The black mask. If you get a white one, turn around and leave. Immediately.”

I slip the ticket in my pocket.

“Why do I have a feeling this is more than just a party?” I whisper as she steps back. Why do I have the feeling I want it to be more than a party? And why do I want Kingston to be there?

She just grins and shrugs. “Hey, we already warned you, not that that means anything. The rest, well…you’ll just have to find that out for yourself. You won’t forget it, that’s for sure.”

As if on cue, fire leaps up around us. I wince at the instant heat, then realize it’s one of the fire-breathers standing on a pedestal. More fire-dancers appear in the crowd — women with claws of fire or flaming hula hoops, men with torches and poi and flaming rope darts. None of them are wearing more than a few scraps of leather and rings of steel. If that. One of the fire-clawed women is only adorned in swirls of black body paint. Melody’s grin widens.

“That’s you,” she says, patting me on the shoulder. She begins to walk away and calls back, “Have fun.”

I don’t have time to second-guess. The crowd of punters huddles closer together, their faces glowing red in the flame. The air smells of kerosene and dust and heat and something that makes my stomach churn with excitement and an inexplicable feeling. I huddle in between a man in a tweed suit and a woman in jeans and a shawl. I’m staring with as much awe as the rest of them as the fire dancers whirl and manipulate the flames they twine about their bodies. One of the men blows a huge cloud of flame over the promenade in front of us. When the fire billows out, Mab is standing on the walkway.

It’s not a Mab I’m comfortable calling my boss.

She’s wearing what looks like a cross between a corset and some Victoria’s Secret nightgown — a tube of white silk with black lace over the bust and black stripes down the seams. The dress barely reaches her thighs, and from there down she’s in sheer black stockings and diamond-encrusted black stilettos. The worst part is, she pulls it off flawlessly. She has the perfect model physique, the curves to kill, the agelessness and allure. Her fingers are covered in rings that look like talons and skulls, and it’s only after a second look that I realize the heels of her shoes are black spinal columns. In one hand is a black half-mask, also covered in diamonds. She gives us all a smile I’d prefer she reserved for the bedroom.

“Follow me, my lovelies. The Black Carpet awaits,” she says. Then she turns and heads across the grass. She doesn’t look back to see if we follow. But we do. We follow her like she’s a provocative pied piper. The fire-dancers continue to twirl around us in a pyrotechnic escort.

She leads us around the tent to an entry hidden in the back. There are guards on each side of the velvet flap. Beside the entry is a table covered in purple satin and a variety of masks. Mab walks straight through the entry, then sticks out a hand to gesture us in with one ring-encrusted finger. The music pulses in my gut even from here. I feel like I’m waiting outside some L.A. nightclub, not standing in a field in the middle of nowhere. Not that I knew what being outside an L.A. nightclub felt like.

The crowd files in one-by-one, handing the guards their ticket in exchange for a mask. So far, everyone ahead of me is given a white mask, which makes the panic start to slide through my veins. Melody’s warning rings in my ear. She wouldn’t put me into a dangerous situation, though, right?

It’s not for people like you…for mortals.

I grip the ticket tighter. The music from inside the tent vibrates through my bones, growing louder every time someone pushes aside the flap and enters the dimly lit interior. I can’t make out anything inside. Minutes scrape by and then I’m standing up front. My heart’s in my chest as I hand over my ticket. For a brief moment, I wonder if being caught and turned away would be worse than being let in.

The guard examines it and pushes up her sunglasses.

“Vivienne?” she asks.

I gulp. I don’t really recognize her — she’s got pink hair and brown eyes and a slight figure. A single silver ring is in her nose. I know I’ve seen her, but the Shifters tend to keep to themselves. A couple hellos were all I got when I signed on, and after the first day, our paths never really crossed.

“Yeah.”

She chuckles and looks to the guard on the other side, a tall dark man with vibrant red dreads pulled back in a ponytail.

“Kids grow up fast, don’t they?” the guy says.

The woman slips the card into her pocket and hands me a mask. Black.

“Have fun,” is all she says. I look down at the mask in my hands, then step forward through the curtain.

It’s like stepping into another world.

The tent is enormous on the inside. The draping walls and roof are beautiful strips of purple and black. Sconces and chandeliers of glass and iron hang from the ceiling, flickering with firelight. Aerialists dangle and pose from hoops and slings, each wearing less than the last. Everywhere I turn there are half-naked bodies, men in suits without shirts, women in corsets and torn evening gowns, all of them in black masks. The masks have curving noses or devil horns, all of them looking like demons in some sort of erotic masquerade. The floor of the tent is covered in black rugs and plush chaise longues, leather armchairs, and glass tables. In one corner, a girl is inverting herself on a tall pole; in another, a contortionist wearing little more than string and mesh is twisting her body on a table covered in wineglasses. Underneath it all, underneath the moving and sweating and grinding, the music pulses like another frantic heart.