Rachel Vincent: Menagerie

One hundred twelve years.

That’s how long the menagerie had been in Rudolph’s family. The technological boom had not been good to traveling circuses, but thanks to Rudolph’s talent and attention, Metzger’s had survived when many other menageries folded. But survival wasn’t enough. He wanted Metzger’s to flourish!

His gaze focused on the occupants of the room beyond the one-way glass, uncomfortably aware of the fact that if the woman hadn’t been chained to both her chair and the floor, he would’ve had no idea she wasn’t, in fact, a woman at all. She was a monster.

“She wasn’t trying to pass for human. She thought she was human. The world thought she was human. When audiences look at her, they will see themselves, locked up and helpless. When the other exhibits look at her, they will see possibility. Opportunity. She grew up in freedom and human privilege. She’s smart, she’s loud, and she has a severely inflated sense of self-worth. Her delusions make her dangerous.”

He turned to his boss of livestock. “You must break her, Gallagher. She is the spark, and if that spark kindles, it will burn my menagerie to the ground.”

Rudolph shook his head to disguise the chill traveling up his spine. This female could incite riots. She could save the carnival—or be the end of everything he’d been working toward his entire life.

Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author Rachel Vincent

“Compelling and edgy, dark and evocative, Stray is a must read! I loved it from beginning to end.”

—New York Times bestselling author Gena Showalter on Stray

“Well written, fresh, charming, great voice—Buffy meets Cat People. I loved it, and look forward to much more in the future from this talented author.”

—New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham

“This is the kind of book that ups the ante in teen literature. The characters are true to life in a way not often captured by YA authors; Vincent writes dialogue as if she spends her days haunting the hallways of her local high school. The love triangle is fantastic… This plot is driven by more relatable impulses: love, friendship, jealousy.”

—RT Book Reviews on My Soul to Steal

“Vincent does a nice job of balancing all the various species of character…with dollops of humor and enough backstory to keep readers new to the series engaged, without dousing the pace for those already in the know.”

—Booklist on If I Die

“A well-thought-out vision of werecat social structure as well as a heroine who insists on carving her own path, even if it means breaking some of her society’s most sacred taboos.”

—Library Journal on Rogue

“Blood Bound offers a little something for everyone: a convincing magical system for urban fantasy fans; for romance readers, a love that time and distance can’t break; and a twist-and-turn plot for mystery buffs.”

—Shelf Awareness on Blood Bound

Menagerie

NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

Rachel Vincent

www.mirabooks.co.uk

RACHEL VINCENT is the daughter of a registered nurse and an attorney/pianist, and only rarely has she ever seen either of them without a book in hand. As the oldest of three (then later, five) children, she’s always known exactly when and how things should be done, and as a wife and mother, she has never once conceded an argument. A former English teacher and supporter of the serial comma, Rachel has written more than twenty novels and hopes to spend the rest of her life with her fingers on the keyboard and her head in the clouds.

www.rachelvincent.com

This one is for my husband and children, who suffered with me through three years, several rewrites, a shifted release date and the loss of my longtime editor while I wrote Menagerie. It’s been a long road, but I think it’s been worth it, and I can’t thank you all enough.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Part 1: Exposé

Introduction

Quote 1

Rommily

Delilah

Quote 2

Delilah

Atherton

Quote 3

Delilah

Delilah

Quote 4

Charity

Delilah

Quote 5

Rudolph

Delilah

Part 2: Confiné

Rommily

Delilah

Quote 6

Delilah

Nalah

Delilah

Delilah

Eryx

Delilah

Quote 7

Delilah

Rommily

Delilah

Gallagher

Quote 8

Delilah

Geneviève

Delilah

Quote 9

Eryx

Delilah

Quote 10

Nalah

Delilah

Quote 11

Gallagher

Part 3: Émancipé

Delilah

Charity

Delilah

Quote 12

Delilah

Quote 13

Delilah

Delilah

Gallagher

Quote 14

Delilah

Abraxas

Delilah

Kevin

Delilah

Delilah

Rudolph

Delilah

Acknowledgments

Copyright

PART 1 Exposé

Twenty-five years ago...

The heat rippling over the surface of Charity Marlow’s blacktop driveway was one hundred twelve degrees. It was nearly one hundred nine in the shade from the scrub brush that passed for trees in her front yard.

She sat on a white iron bench in her backyard, picking at the paint flaking off the arm scrolls. A glass of sweet tea stood on the empty plant stand to her right, thinner on top, where the ice cubes melted, thicker on bottom, where the sugar settled.

Inside, the baby was crying.

She’d been going for close to three hours this time, and Charity’s arms ached from holding her. Her head throbbed and her feet were sore from standing. From pacing and rocking in place. Her throat was raw from crooning, her nerves shot from exhaustion, and her patience long worn thin.

She’d decided to go inside again when the last ice cube had melted into her tea, and not a minute later.

Not a minute earlier either, even though the top of her head felt close to combusting from the heat of the sun.

She stared at the cracked earth beneath her feet, at the hands in her lap, watching her own fingers shake from exhaustion. Then she stared at her tea as the ice cubes shrank before her eyes, and still the baby screamed.

Then, the last ice cube melted.

Despair swallowed Charity like the whale swallowed Jonah, but she held no hope of being spit back out. Her arms felt like they were made of iron as she lifted her tea.

She closed her eyes while the top of her skull burned in the blazing sunlight. “Lord,” she whispered, condensation dripping over her fingers from the outside of her cold glass, “won’t you take this angry child and give me a quieter, happier one in her place?”

As soon as she’d said the words, she regretted them. Words spoken in pain and exhaustion are rarely meant, and Charity Marlow’s were no exception.

But there was no taking them back.

The moment the last word fell from her lips, the baby stopped crying.

Setting her glass down, she listened harder but heard only silence.

She stood and rounded the bench, headed for the kitchen door. By the time she got to the house, she was running. The screen door slammed behind her and her sandals slapped the floor, competing with the thunder of her own heartbeat in her ears as she raced down the hall.

She stopped in the nursery threshold, one hand clenched around the glossy white door frame, breathing too fast. Too hard. Her chest felt like it was constricting around her heart, as if her ribs were laced up too tight.

“I didn’t mean it. Please , I didn’t mean it.”