Алекс Калер - The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

“Precisely,” Kingston says.

I sigh. “Let me guess, that’s in the contract, too?”

“For most of us,” he replies.

Maybe I should retract my previous cold-heart-warm-six-pack assumptions about him. He’s looking at Mel with real concern in his eyes, that brotherly type affection that makes my insides melt. He really does care about her. I can tell from that one exchange that he would do pretty much anything to keep her safe. I try to tell myself that’s a good thing, that I can be attracted to him for something more important than his body and charm. But it only drives one deafening point home: all that love and affection is directed toward someone else. So far, I’m still thinking I’ll be lucky if I reach good friend status.

Before he can say anything else, the Shifter guy who nodded to me is tapping Melody on the shoulder.

“You ready for tear-down?” he asks. He’s got at least a dozen piercings in his left ear alone, and his mohawk is tipped with light blue. I think his name is Roman. Melody glances to the Shifter leader and then back to her untouched breakfast.

“Yeah,” she says. She yawns again and hands Kingston the roll. “Ladies,” she says with a small curtsy, then turns and follows Roman to the rest of the group.

“Why are we leaving so early?” I ask.

Kingston takes a quick glance around. Then, without so much as a twitch of his nose, the spare roll goes up in a puff of fire and smoke. He flicks the ashes to the ground and looks back at me.

“Mab’s always itchy the day after Noir. Doesn’t like lingering.”

“So I see.”

I look over his shoulder to where the Shifters are already disassembling. A few of them have begun pulling down the sidewalls from the tent, while the rest have gone inside to start tearing down the bleachers. I still don’t see why Mab doesn’t just have Kingston magic the tent into the giant semis that carry our load. Apparently, she’s against using magic in broad daylight. That said, as I watch Roman jump into one of the semi cabs, I can see he’s already bulked up to twice his normal weight. Shapeshifters: the perfect grunts.

The very mention of Tapis Noir brings back memories I don’t want. It’s not just the thought of what I saw in the tent, but what my mind brought up in the darkness after. Scenarios I’m too ashamed to admit even to myself: Kingston in a black mask and torn pants, me in white, and I don’t care if he’s biting or if the roles are reversed. Kingston on a hoop, on the sofa, his skin soft and hard and glowing in the candlelight. I feel the heat rise to my face and turn away, pretending to study the table of fruit beside me.

So much for focusing on his caring personality.

“You feeling okay?” he asks.

“Fine,” I say, grateful my voice doesn’t give a pubescent crack.

“You better not be getting sick, too.”

“I’m fine,” I say. When I think my cheeks aren’t as red anymore, I look back at him, trying to push aside the image of him completely naked. My love life prior to joining the circus is a blur like everything else, but I know without a doubt that Kingston isn’t the type of guy I’d go for. Or, if I’m being honest, he isn’t the type that would go for me. He’s in control. He’s powerful. And, without a doubt, he’s out of my league. And very much in love with someone else. I try not to be that much of a masochist. This time it doesn’t appear to be working.

“Really?” he asks. “Because you look like Melody does every time she sees someone she wants to fuck.” He’s grinning as he says it, which just makes the fading blush brighten anew. Then his smirk fades, and I worry for a brief moment things have clicked and he’s read my thoughts.

“Shit,” Kingston says, glancing over my shoulder and then studiously regarding his mug. “Penelope,” he mutters.

I sigh. “No rest for the wicked.”

“There you are, my darlings,” Penelope says from behind me. I turn around, a smile already plastered on my face.

Even in faded jeans and a hoodie, she looks like she’s onstage, a feat I’ve never understood. I can’t help but wonder how long she stared in her mirror this morning, making sure she looked just disheveled enough. I don’t want to believe it comes naturally; it would make people like me hopeless. She smiles and reaches out to wrap an arm over my shoulders. I can’t make out her perfume, but I’d be willing to bet Ocean is somewhere in the title.

“Which of you lovelies would like to help me with the front of house?” she asks as soon as she lets me go.

“I’m on costumes this site, I’m afraid,” Kingston says. Though he’s so quick about it, I can tell not one bit of him is sorry. “Vivienne should be free.”

“Yeah,” I say. Technically speaking, I should be helping load up the concession stands. The first time I tried, however, it became wildly clear that the Shifters not only had it under control, but saw me as a hindrance rather than a help. I was now the proverbial floater, which meant a morning talking business and sideshow fashion with Penelope. “I’d love to help.”

I can’t help but notice Kingston’s smirk as Penelope guides me away. In truth, it’s probably for the best. I have a feeling that being around Kingston when he’s in one of his flirtatious moods would be dangerous. Especially after what my mind was dreaming up last night.

Melody was right; I need to get much, much better at lying. Otherwise I’ll never be able to look Kingston in the eye again.

It’s not until we’re halfway to Penelope’s trailer that something Kingston said strikes a funny chord. “You look like Melody when she sees someone she wants to fuck.” Those aren’t the words I’d expect him to say, not about his own girlfriend. Not while smiling. I take a deep breath and try to calm the sudden quickening in my pulse. Now’s not the time to start thinking I had it all wrong. That hope is far too dangerous right now.

Front of house is mostly administrative work. While the rest of the crew is loading the trucks, Penelope and I sit in the shade inside her trailer, the hum of the air conditioner almost drowning out the thuds and clangs of the demolition outside. The performers’ trailers are just that — double-wide trailers divided into even smaller cubicles. Mine has a bed that wouldn’t pass for a twin, a desk, and enough shelf space for a few pairs of clothes and the huge rubber boots Kingston recommended I buy at our first site, in case of a mud show. Penelope’s space is twice the size. It’s nearly half a trailer, with a queen bed in one corner and a large vanity with a fish tank against the other wall. In the middle, bolted to the floor, is a table covered in receipts and ticket stubs and a small laptop playing some sort of classical shit.

“So,” she says as I sort the ticket stubs into piles based on show time and seating area. She’s typing something into the laptop, and even though I can’t see the screen, I don’t doubt for one second that she’s just checking her email. How long has it been since I’ve checked mine? Once the thought passes, it fades like mist in the sun, replaced by Penelope’s voice. “How are you enjoying our troupe so far?”

“It’s great,” I say. “The people are really nice.” I hope it doesn’t sound as fake as it feels.

“Mmm,” she says. “I’m glad to hear that. You’re making friends, yes?”

I nod, then realize she isn’t looking. “Yeah. Mostly Kingston and Melody.”

She smiles and I look at her for a moment, trying to pinpoint her age. There are tiny crows’-feet at the edge of her eyes, almost perfectly hidden beneath her foundation.

“They’re a lovely pair,” she says, giving one of the keys a sharp tap and then looking up at me. Our eyes meet, and her smile becomes inquisitive. “I have to wonder…do you miss your family? Your old friends?”