Алекс Калер - The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

I don’t look back.

By the time I’m a few steps away, I’m running.

“How’d it go?” Melody asks.

She’s sitting on a lawn chair in front of the trailer, right outside the door to my bunk. She’s got a shit-eating grin on her face and a book in her hands.

“I hate you,” I say. I put a hand on my door.

“I warned you,” she says. “It’s for your own good.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. “I just watched…” I pause, trying to find the right words. “Actually, I have no fucking clue what I just watched.”

“Probably exactly what you think you did.”

“What was that?”

She gives me a small smile.

“You know those stories you heard growing up? All those fairy tales about shadows in the woods and monsters under your bed?”

I nod slowly.

“Yeah, well, that’s the Winter Court. They’re the creatures you’re taught to fear. Once every couple of sites, Mab throws a party for her most beloved subjects.”

“Now you’re just being a bitch.”

“What?”

“You seriously expect me to believe that Mab — Mab , who is currently wearing a teddy as an evening gown — is the queen of the faeries? Like Shakespeare’s Queen of the Faeries?”

“She’s older than Shakespeare,” she says as though it’s obvious. “She just liked him well enough to let him write about her.”

I sigh and lean against the trailer, which makes the whole thing rock a little. Hopefully it didn’t wake anyone up.

“This place is fucked up,” I say.

“What was your first clue? Signing your name in blood?”

I close my eyes. The memory is vivid, the sear of pain as my name inked itself on the final line on a blurry page of contractual obligations. I hear the creak of Mel’s chair as she stands and steps over to me. She puts her hand on my shoulder.

“I know how it feels. Most of these performers, they’ve been here thirty or forty years. They forget what it feels like to be the new girl. I’ve only been here for five. Some days the first day feels like yesterday.”

I force away the images of the tent and try to focus instead on this moment, on the kindness in her words. This is the first time we’ve really gotten the chance to talk, at least without Kingston around. I want to hate her for giving me the ticket, but it’s hard to be mad at someone who’s actually seriously seeing you when no one else does. Would she still look at me that way if she knew what I thought of her boyfriend? I try to shove my guilt and the question down to a place neither of us can see it.

I open my eyes.

“I’ve got your back,” she says.

“Thanks,” I say. Would you still, if you knew how I feel about Kingston?

“Of course.”

She smiles and steps back, walks over and picks up the book from where she dropped it on the ground. Then she turns to me.

“That’s why I’m going to tell you to be careful.”

“What do you mean? You’re the one who gave me the ticket.”

She shakes her head.

“You had the black mask. At worst, you’d have seen a couple mortals get eaten in some sexually frustrating way. I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about earlier.”

“You think people will suspect me?”

“I think you’re liable to make them suspect you. I know that look,” she says. “Today, when we were practicing. It’s the I think I can be a heroine look. But shit’s going down and people are getting hurt, and the last thing you should be doing is getting involved. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

She sighs.“I wish I was fey.”

“Why?”

“Because then, you telling me you'll stay out of trouble would be binding. Like, contractually so.”

“I won’t get involved. You’re right. Mab’s got it covered.”

Melody just laughs and walks over to the trailer facing mine.

“My second piece of advice is to work on your lying. Otherwise you won’t make it another month.”

She looks over to where the VIP tent is. I follow her gaze. There are shadows moving in the field, dark, lumbering shapes that I can tell without doubt are far from human.

“Mab told you about the Night Terrors?” Mel asks.

I nod.

“Yeah, that’s them now. I wouldn’t recommend lingering if you’re hoping for some decent sleep.” She winks. “‘Night, doll.”

Then she steps into her bunk without looking back.

Once she’s safely inside her trailer, I look down the row at the door I know is Kingston’s. The light’s off. It’s late, yeah, and he could be fast asleep. But for a moment, I can’t help but wonder if the reason he didn’t want me to go to Noir was because he didn’t want me to see him behaving like…like the others. The question is: Am I glad I didn’t see him, or just disappointed?

I can still feel the music in my veins as I undress and get under the covers. For the first time since I signed on, my bunk door is locked. There’s also a pocketknife hiding under my pillow, though I have a sinking suspicion that it wouldn’t do much good if Kingston was wrong and I was the next target. In spite of all that — in spite of all the fear I know I should be feeling — I’m not scared. The music from the tent pulses, drowning out everything except the most primal instincts. As always, the circus still feels safe. Like how home should be, not that I really have anything to compare it to. I close my eyes and try to sleep. When that doesn’t work I stare at the thin light splashed across my ceiling, and try to ignore the muffled snores coming from the bunk next to mine. I want sleep to come, want to forget everything about the Tapis Noir, everything from the shit-show that was today. But I can’t. Every time I close my eyes I see the man being eaten alive. Every time I close my eyes, his face becomes Kingston’s.

I can’t tell if the image repulses or arouses me.

That alone scares me more than Sabina’s murder or whatever creatures Mab invited over for dinner.

The sun is just rising above the woods to the east, but the pie cart is already bustling as the cast and crew ready for the next jump. Off to one side, mulling over cups of coffee and cigarettes, are the Shifters, no longer decked out in suits and sleek sunglasses. Instead, everyone is covered in ink and piercings and ragged denim. The men have mohawks or no hair at all, and the girls have multicolored dreads. On jump days, they play tent crew. Odd to think that seeing them like this seems more normal than when they’re dressed up. One of them nods when he sees me glance over, and I nod before looking back to my friends. Melody is wrapped in a gray knit shawl, and Kingston wears his university hoodie. Each is nursing a coffee and cinnamon roll.

When I woke up this morning, the VIP tent and all its inhabitants were gone. The parking lot on the other side of the road, however, still has a few cars waiting like tombstones. I don’t mention it. To her credit, Melody says nothing about our encounter or the ticket. Kingston doesn’t give her the chance.

“I still say you should tell her,” he whispers.

“They’re just nightmares,” Melody says, giving her head a shake. “Everyone gets those.”

“Really?” he asks, then looks at me. It’s enough to make my heart do a double-step. It doesn’t help that when I see him, I can only picture him in place of the man on the chaise longue. “Been dreaming much lately, Vivienne?”

I take a drink of my coffee and try not to wince at the bitterness. These carnies like it strong.

“Not that I recall.” Thankfully. I can only imagine what my mind would have come up with after yesterday.