Алекс Калер: The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

And I will fail.

Claire isn’t fighting anymore. She never fought. Never would. I was the fighter, the older sister. I was the one who had to protect us: from Dad, from Mom, from this. I couldn’t. I failed. I tried so hard and I failed her, and now this is the only way to keep her safe. She’s flat on the floor and her eyes are searching mine, her mouth trying to voice the words I’ve already seen her say. I know how this ends. I’ve always known. There’s no escaping the visions. There’s no changing what I’ve seen myself do.

“Why?” she gasps.

“I’m saving you,” I say, sobbing, as I slide the knife in once more, this time between her ribs. She gasps, her eyes wince shut, and my whole body is shaking as I try to hold the light in. She’ll never understand, she’ll never run. She’d never escape what I’ve seen, the fire and brimstone and burning blood. She’d never escape a death worse than this. I lean down and press my head against her chest. Her blood pools against my lips as I whisper into her silent heart.

“I’m saving you from what’s to come.”

Kingston sits across the desk from Mab. Both stare at each other in silence. Perched between them on a curling iron stand is Mab’s top hat; it’s covered in black sequins and raven feathers, and in the center is a bright red ruby that casts the trailer in a bloody light. There is no other illumination save the stone, no sound save the howl of wolves in the distance.

Finally, after what seems like hours, Kingston breaks the silence.

“You can’t keep her in there forever,” he says.

“That was never my intention,” Mab replies. She wears a dress of black cobweb and velvet. Her hair shines with a thousand dark pearls. She doesn’t look like a queen who recently lost half her kingdom, she looks like a goddess awaiting her tribute.

“Then why?” Kingston says. “Why capture her in the first place? Why not just let her loose and be done with all this?”

Mab pulls the hat closer to her and examines the ruby. Angry flames dance within.

“Because,” she says. “It is not yet time. The show is not ready.”

“You mean Vivienne isn’t ready,” Kingston replies. His voice is dangerous and low.

“I fail to see a difference,” she says.

“I won’t let you use her,” Kingston says. “Not like this. She can’t take on Kassia. She’s too young. ”

Mab just chuckles and tosses the hat toward Kingston. Kingston catches it and turns it within his hands. The very thing makes his palms tingle with uncomfortable warmth. He smells brimstone.

“My dear friend,” Mab says, “don’t tell me you’ve grown soft. You know how little faith I have in love.”

Kingston looks over the hat to his queen. He says nothing, but his cheeks flush. This is answer enough.

“This show would play out no matter what,” Mab says. She stretches back in her chair and smiles. “I’ve merely done what I can to ensure it plays out in my favor. It cannot be stopped. Not by you, and not by me.”

Kingston peers into the stone that holds all that’s left of Kassia, the strength and sulfur that grows stronger by the day. Even now, he can imagine the tiny cracks appearing in the stone’s surface. Even now, he can feel her hatred. It has always been there, the threat of the final battle. But it had been easy to ignore; it had been easy to pretend this really was just a show, just a way to cultivate dreams. Kingston had managed to ignore the darker aspects for years, had allowed himself to pretend that Lilith was just a girl and Poe was just her cat and he himself was just a stage magician. Until Vivienne showed up. Until the final clock began to tick.

“She’s dreaming again,” Kingston whispers. “For the past few nights. She talks in her sleep.”

“And what does the dreamer say, my friend?”

“The end,” Kingston says. He looks into the depths of Kassia’s hatred and shivers against the flame. “She sees the end.”

“Well then,” Mab says. She reaches over and snaps the hat from Kingston’s hands. “It would appear our Vivienne is almost ready to remember who she is. Your work is almost done.”

Kingston says nothing. Mab drums her fingers against the desk. Moments pass.

“It’s time, love,” Mab says. Her dress shimmers into the sharp black and violet of her ringleader outfit. She stands and places the hat on her head. The ruby glows like the mouth of hell. “Places.” She smiles and holds out a hand to help Kingston stand. Kingston hesitates. Then he takes her hand and rises.

“The show goes on,” he says. There’s a flatness in his voice. He knows that no matter what, he is her puppet. He always has been, and always will be.

Mab winks at him.

“Oh, love, that’s an understatement. You have no idea what I’ve got in store.”

Like all good shows, this one couldn’t have come about without the support and collaboration of a multitude of people. I couldn’t hope to list them all, but I’ll try to name a few. In no particular order...

To my parents and family, for keeping me afloat in more ways than one and not (publicly) questioning my dreams of A) running away to the circus, B) becoming a writer, and C) gallivanting across foreign countries. Which, of course, pretty much dictated the inevitable D) living as a broke artist.

To my agent, Laurie McLean, for having more faith in my work than I ever thought possible. Superheroes exist—she is proof. And to Pam van Hylckama Vleig, for adding her magic to the mix.

To my amazing team at 47North, who got this show on the road in six short weeks, and my editor David Pomerico, who decided a book about demented, murderous circus faeries was clearly a good

idea. You guys are miracle workers.

To Devyn, for 2 a.m. intercontinental plotting. Without him, this show wouldn’t exist. And Mab wouldn’t be nearly as fabulous.

To Adam, for reading this in a circus tent in Norway and demanding more.

To my circus family the world over: Julie, Mags, M.A., Zay, Allison, Rodolfo, Charmaine...everyone with Aerial Angels, Spinal Chord Projects, Aerial Edge, Circus Smirkus, Xanti, and SHOW, for making me feel at home no matter where I was. I love you all.

To Bea, for always being my artiste extraordinaire.

To my Scottish writing friends, for all the critiques and coffee and advice on what author photo I should put on my private jet.

To the YARebels past and present, for understanding my crazy.

To the amazing bloggers, tweeters, readers, and Internet friends who’ve supported both me and my work, with a special shout-out to Rockstar Book Tours for the greatest blog tour on Earth.

To Lendrick, for helping me find the space to breathe.

...I couldn’t have done this, any of this, without you. Thank you.

You’re the true stars of this show.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Alex Kahler is no stranger to the circus life. While he may have been born in a small town in Iowa, like a true Sagittarian, he has roamed the world. He taught trapeze in Amsterdam and Madrid, drummed with Norse shamans, got lost in the Scottish moors, and traveled across the United States with various circus groups. When he’s not writing or climbing the rafters, he’s probably indulging his wanderlust or scoping out a new café to haunt. The Immortal Circus is his first published work; his second young adult novel, Martyr , is set to hit shelves October 2014. You can follow his travels at www.arkahler.com.