The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

Chapter One: Circus

Who the hell did this?” Kingston whispers, staring at the corpse.

Sabina’s body is on the pedestal she uses in the show, and she almost looks like she’s performing. Almost. Her legs are tucked behind her ears in a perfect backbend, her fingers laced under her chin. She’s even smiling, her brown eyes fixed on a point far away.

I’m right beside Kingston, doing everything I can not to vomit on his black Chucks, run from the tent, or do an embarrassing mixture of both. Right then, I’d give my left kidney for him to wrap an arm around me to shield me from the atrocity before us. But he’s not mine, and probably never will be. And even if he were, he’s not the comforting type. I can feel his heat against my arm. I don’t know why that sticks out at the moment, but maybe that’s just the way shock works.

We’re both standing in the dust of the center ring. The rest of the troupe quickly filters in with gasps and screams. Sabina looks perfect — poised like she’s holding a pose for the audience’s applause. Except her sparkling unitard is usually white, not stained a wicked crimson. The long gash across her throat is a second smile leaking its secrets into the ring.

Someone is crying behind me. I don’t look back. I don’t look at anyone. I just look at Sabina and wonder what sort of shit-show I’ve gotten myself into.

I hear a shout and look up to see Mab storming into the tent. Her wild black hair is in disarray and the sequins of her midnight-blue dressing gown sparkle in the lights. Not for the first time, I can’t help but think that she looks like an early incarnation of Cher. Her porcelain face is flushed, and when she catches sight of her star contortionist, she stops dead. Mab’s perfectly manicured hands clench and unclench at her sides. After a deep breath, she stalks forward, stepping over the ring curb and into the spectacle. She goes right up to Sabina and lightly puts a hand on the girl’s knee. I see something flash across Mab’s face — the tightening of her eyes, the barest strain of her lips. Then she withdraws her hand and faces us, her company.

Her minions.

“Which of you found her like this?” she asks. Her voice is deep and smoky, like an ex–jazz singer’s. Even though it’s a whisper, it carries to every wall of the big top.

A woman to my right steps forward. I've never asked her age but she looks like she's in her forties, maybe younger, with aquamarine eyes and fiery red hair that falls to her waist. Her skin is as pale as pearls, and even though she wears a rumpled blue bathrobe, she looks ready to take the stage. I can’t help but glance down at my own wrinkled pj’s, and hate her for it.

“Penelope?” Mab asks.

“Yes, my Lady.” Penelope’s voice is crystal clear. Everything about her screams vintage pinup model, even the way she’s holding her robe closed with one hand. It’s like she practiced how to be perfectly disarrayed. “Not five minutes ago, I was making coffee when I noticed the tent lights on. I thought…I thought someone was practicing.”

“And she was…like this?”

“Yes. Exactly so.”

Mab stares at the body, the corners of her mouth barely tilting into a frown. She’s not staring at Sabina like she’s sad over the death of one of her troupe. No, Mab’s expression is purely calculating, like she’s facing a particularly frustrating Sudoku puzzle. One that might, at any moment, piss her off.

“I assume no one knows who did this?” she asks.

No one speaks. No one even breathes.

I mentally prepare myself, waiting for her to fly into a rage. Not that I’ve ever seen Mab in a rage. But it doesn’t take a genius to know there’s a storm brewing under that well-maintained facade. I can only imagine that “Hell hath no fury” refers to her. But instead of ripping us a new one, she strokes the corpse’s short brown hair. Things are clicking behind Mab’s green eyes, things that subdue everybody — even her. A crowded tent has never been this quiet.

“Well then, my loves,” she finally whispers, almost to herself. “It appears we have a murderer in our midst.”

She lifts her hand. Like ash scattering to the wind, Sabina’s body dissolves, collapsing in on itself in a hush of glitter and smoke.

There is still a great deal of congestion near the grey-and-blue main tent, but it’s pretty quiet at the pie cart, next to the forgotten bacon and boxes of cereal. Kingston stands by the serving table, grabbing a coffee before the rest of the troupe shakes itself from their post-murder stupor. He looks like a rock star at the peak of his glory days, all pale and angular and assured. His black hair is sticking up in the back from sleeping on it funny, and there’s a line of stubble on his jaw. His white T-shirt hangs loose over lithe muscles; through it, I can see his lats. They curve under the fabric like wings, highlighted by the faintest shadow of a large serpentine tattoo. I shouldn't be staring. Melody would kill me if she knew.

Damn circus performers and their perfect bodies. Damn them to hell.

“I guess this doesn’t happen very often,” I say, trying to focus on the fact that someone has just been killed, and not on the way Kingston’s triceps cord when he starts pouring coffee into a second cup.

“Never,” he says, still facing away.

“Do you think Mab will cancel tonight’s shows?”

Kingston chuckles humorlessly. He turns around and stares at me over his mug, one eyebrow tilting up like I’m a complete idiot. His eyes are dark brown, almost black — the same color as the coffee steaming in his hands. I look away.

“Don’t count on it, Vivienne,” he says. “Mab doesn’t cancel a show for anything. Ever.”

“Even if someone here is a killer?”

“Especially if.”

He looks toward the tent and sighs. He’s only a couple years older than me — Mel told me in secret that he was twenty-four — but sometimes, when he gets all quiet like this, he seems much older. “The show must go on.”

If this was one of those perfect movies, this would be the moment for him to shake himself from his reverie and come over, say something comforting to the new girl or at least give her a hug. But like I said, Kingston doesn’t act like that with me. If he has that soft side, he hasn’t really shown it. He’s funny, yeah. Dependable, definitely. But comforting? I’d have better luck trying to warm up to Mab.

I stuff my hands into my pockets and look back to the chapiteau in time to see a huddle of men carrying out the contortion pedestal. Sparkly purple dust wafts off it as they move it to the backstage tent. The sight brings Sabina’s dripping body back to mind. For the second time today, I’m glad I didn’t eat breakfast.

“Why do you think Mab suspects one of us?” I ask.

“That’s the thing,” answers another voice. “It can’t be one of us.”

I look back to see Melody walking over. She’s twenty-two, the same age as me, though we look nothing alike. We share the same slight build and hazel eyes, but that’s where the resemblance ends. She has angular features and is an inch or two taller than me, not that I'm short. My ash-blonde hair reaches my back, while her brown hair is styled in a pixie cut. She looks like the type of girl you'd expect to find in some Bohemian cafe, reading poetry and chain smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. Less Hepburn, more hippie James Dean. Whereas I'd probably be the girl serving the coffee, the one you smile at but forget the moment you have your triple espresso — pretty, normal, but utterly pass-over-able. She's Kingston’s assistant onstage. And offstage, wherever one goes, the other is sure to follow. I hate to admit it, but they’re the perfect couple — always teasing, always thinking of the other person, and never dipping into the PDA.

Mel gives me a nod before taking the coffee cup Kingston hands her, as if he’d been waiting for her arrival. I guess it was too much to hope the spare was for me. Her eyes are shadowed. She shrugs deeper into her loose knit cardigan, in spite of the early summer heat. She looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks.

“Why not?” I ask. It’s not like many people wander around the fields our show usually haunts. Besides, I can’t imagine there being a killer that…artistic in rural Iowa.

The two of them exchange a quick glance, and Kingston answers.

“Because it’s in the contract. We aren’t allowed to harm other troupe members.”

“Right,” I say. “Because people always do what their contracts say they will.” If that was the case, going postal wouldn’t exactly be a phrase, now would it?

“Maybe not where you’re from,” Melody says, taking a long sip of her coffee. “But in this company, yes.”

I bite back my witty retort and wonder if I’m the only sane person working here.

“Is this what you really want?” Mab asked.

Her voice sounded sincere, but it was impossible to know; an hour wasn’t nearly enough time to figure out her tells. If I were judging books by their covers, she’d be one of those smutty romances you keep hidden in your sock drawer. All I’d gauged of Mab was that she was powerful, mysterious, and probably a ball-breaker. That said, I felt a hell of a lot safer with her there.

We sat in her trailer, candles flickering from skull-and-crystal sconces along the wall. It seemed larger inside, as though stepping through the rickety aluminum door had led to somewhere…else. I could have sworn I heard wolves howling in the distance, even though this was the middle of the day.

In Detroit.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I said, though my wavering voice was anything but.

Running away, joining the circus — that was what I really wanted. I needed to get the fuck out of Dodge, and this seemed like the most reliable way. My nerves had me shaking like I was in a caffeine crash. It felt like I’d been running a thousand miles and hadn’t stopped to breathe. I couldn’t keep my fingers from rattling the pen she handed me, its nib tap tap tapping on the ornate ebony desk. I could see the ghost of myself reflected in the glass, the rings of shadow under my eyes from too little sleep and too much fleeing. A smudge of something dark on my pale cheek. The half-reflection made me look even more pallid, more worn-through than I felt. And that was saying something.

Mab grinned like one of her skull sconces and raised one hand. With a snap of her burgundy-manicured fingers, a book floated down from a shelf behind her. I couldn’t hold back the gasp. I knew from the moment I saw her on the street that she wasn’t like everyone else; somehow, the rain seemed to bend around her, leaving her red silk dress and bone stilettos perfectly dry. As the book settled in front of her and opened to a page covered with names, I knew without doubt I was stepping into something big. I didn’t care; I just wanted as far away from…whatever I was leaving…as possible. At the bottom of the list, my name was inking itself into being, scrawled by some ghostly hand in ink as dark as blood.

“Well then,” she said. “Let us examine the terms, shall we?” Her finger paused beside my now-completed name.

Vivienne Warfield.

My name had never looked so menacing, so concrete. Everything else blurred as she began reading through the contract, line by line. Only two things stuck out. One was my name. Her words eddied around it like it was a stone in a stream. The other was the growing calm that came with knowing that the crazy I was stepping into was far less dangerous than what I was leaving behind.

Or so I thought at the time.

At noon the troupe starts to warm up in preparation for tonight’s shows. Kingston was right; Mab wasn’t canceling anything. You'd think that after a murder there would be a whole hell of a lot more crying and a bit more fear. But everyone looks calm. Maya walks back and forth on her practice tightwire in suede boots, earbuds firmly in place. The three jugglers — I still haven’t caught their names — are doing cartwheels and catching whirling clubs. The remaining two contortionists are stretching out on a panel mat in the shade. Even from here, I can tell they’re trying to come up with a new routine. I can’t help it; I’m impressed by everyone’s resolve. And a little weirded out by the ease at which they gloss over not only a murder, but a concealed killer. Just the thought makes goose bumps prickle over my freshly sunburned skin. I try not to keep looking over my shoulder every time I hear a noise.

“I still don’t get it,” I say.

“I’m shocked,” Kingston replies.

He and Melody are facing each other, going over a new magic act for the show — something lighthearted. Something that doesn’t involve their usual daggers-through-the-heart bit because, as Kingston said, there’s been enough death for one day. Melody has a handful of roses in one hand, and on each of Kingston’s shoulders perches a white dove.

“Seriously, though,” I say. I lean forward on the wooden crate I’m calling my front-row seat. The boards are digging into my ass, but there’s only so much shifting I can do without it being obvious. “Why isn’t anyone, I dunno, searching for the killer?”

Melody flourishes the roses in front of Kingston, who studiously ignores the romantic gesture. One of the doves ruffles its wings.

“Because,” she explains. “Mab’s on it.”

“But you said it couldn’t be one of us. Why isn’t she calling the cops to hunt whoever it is down? He could be hiding anywhere, maybe even in one of those barns out there. You know, just waiting for a moment of weakness. Like when one of us goes to a Porta-Potty.” I’m trying to keep my voice light and witty, but I can’t lie to myself. The questions are honest, and so is wondering if someone is lying in wait to strike again.

Kingston raises his plastic magic wand and raps Melody’s knuckles. The flowers explode in a flurry of red petals and sparks. Judging by the eyebrow Melody raises, I’m not the only one who’s reminded of Sabina’s unnatural end.

“We’re called The Immortal Circus for a reason,” Kingston says. He sighs and waves his fingers in a lazy circular gesture, as though he’s more annoyed by having to explain this to me again than the fact that there’s reason to bring it up. The petals on the ground swirl in a gust of wind and then, with a small burst of fire, become a dove that flies up and lands on his finger. Most magicians spend years trying to make their tricks look like real magic. Kingston, I quickly learned, has precisely the opposite problem. He answers in his bored-yet-amused voice, “So long as we’re under contract, no one and no thing can hurt us.”

“So how was Sabina killed?” I ask. Because if that’s the case, murder is a pretty huge breach of contract.

“That,” he says, lifting the bird to the top of his head, “would be the million-dollar question. Someone found a loophole in Mab’s magic. You’re welcome to bring that to her attention, if you like.” He flashes me a grin, and even Melody looks amused at the notion of pissing off our ringleader.

“Aren’t you worried, though? That you’ll be next?”

“If anything, I’d be more worried about you.”

Something clenches around my heart, that old feeling of fight or flight. I adjust my position on the crate in hopes of stifling it. It doesn’t work. “You think they’ll go after me?” My voice squeaks. I’m grateful neither of them looks to see the blush rising on my cheeks.

“Doubtful,” he says, looking at Melody. “I just think you’re the only new thing in this troupe for the past, what would you say, Mel? Three years?” Melody shrugs, and Kingston turns his gaze back to me. “Awfully suspicious, don’t you think? Barely a month after the new girl starts and someone winds up dead?”

“What? You think I’m the killer? You know I’m not that type.”

And I’m not. I’m too scrawny, too quiet. I’m a vegetarian, for Christ’s sake. I never got into fights or did competitive sports. I’ve never even done gymnastics or cheerleading. Or band. At least, not that I can remember. Which is probably why the only job Mab could find for me was as a cotton-candy seller.

Kingston laughs. The doves ignite in that instant, flaring up like strobes and disintegrating into ash. My breath catches at the way his brown eyes flash in the flame.

“Viv, this is show business. Nothing here is what it seems.”

Not, I’m sure, even him.

“This isn’t like any other circus,” Mab said, her fingers idly caressing the handle of a whip coiled on her desk. The book of names and contracts had flown back to the shelf behind her, and now she was staring at me with green eyes as intent as a jaguar’s. “All of our performers have…eccentricities.”

A haze surrounded the exact terms of our agreement, but I didn’t really care. I no longer felt like the world was crashing down around me. Still, her gaze made me wonder if I was stepping from the frying pan into the inferno.

“What do you mean?” I asked, though I already knew. My mind wrapped around the idea of this place much more easily than it should have. Magic, circus freaks…it seemed more natural than it rationally should. I knew in the corner of my mind that these should all be warning signs, signals that something was terribly wrong, that I should be getting out now. I shouldn’t be letting myself believe in magic or flying books or any of this. That voice was tiny. The stronger voice told me it was okay, it was all normal, and my tired mind was all too happy not to fight it. Luckily, Mab didn’t give me any time to fret.

“I only hire exceptional performers. And, like you, they were often in a bind. And I,” she said, flourishing her hands, “am a humanitarian at best. I help. In return, they work for me, using their talents to capture the imaginations of our audience.”

“But I don’t have any talents,” I said, thinking we should have had this conversation before I signed the contract.

“Oh, love, everyone has a talent. Yours will blossom in time. Trust me.” She smiled at me, and something in her eyes told me that I didn’t have a choice.

“Circle up, lovelies,” Mab says, striding into the huddle of performers. Inside the main tent, the muted rumble of another full house is masked by the creepy tones of live organ music. It’s just before the 8 p.m. show and somehow the sky is already turning dark. Mab is wearing her ringleader outfit — a hideously sparkling getup made of a bedazzled tailcoat and top hat, nude leggings, and high-heeled black boots. Her whip is coiled at her side, and her long black hair falls down her back like the River Styx. Despite having disposed of a body earlier that day, she seems remarkably nonchalant.

Everyone does.

“As you know,” she says, once we’re all in a huddle, “this morning we lost a dear member of our troupe. Sabina will always live on in our hearts, and she will be greatly missed. Tonight, let our show be in honor of her work. A moment of silence, please.”

Everyone bows their heads.

I’m standing just outside of the huddle. I’m not one of the performers, so I don’t get the sparkly leotards and elaborate headpieces. I just get a black T-shirt that reads Cirque des Immortels on the front and Crew on the back. But at least they let me stay back here for opening, unlike most of the concessionaires, who are just hired locals.

After a few moments, Mab takes a deep breath that even I can hear, and everyone looks up again.

“For Sabina,” she says.

The members of the troupe put their hands in the center and shout.

After that, the twenty-something performers run to their places. Everyone goes out for the opening act, the charivari. They don’t need me to sell cotton candy until intermission, so I sneak to one of the side entrances to catch a glance. I lean against the cool metal supports of the bleachers and stare out into the center ring, trying to ignore the kid banging his feet against the seat to my right. In the aisle around me, keeping out of sight, are a handful of the performers, their faces set in concentration. Kingston and Melody are on the other side. I can barely make them out in this light, but Melody’s giant wig is a dead giveaway.

The music changes. Organ music shifts to heavy downbeats, bass floods the tent, and then the five-piece band kicks in with swinging violins and saxophones. On cue, the troupe floods into the ring in a swarm of beautiful chaos. Twin aerialists drop from the air, wrapped in sheets of burgundy fabric, as the acrobats burst from the back curtain, tumbling and leaping over each other in an intricate dance. Jugglers flip over the ring curb and toss their flaming knives across the full space of the ring, creating an arc of fire and steel that illuminates the contortionists twisting themselves on arms and elbows. I look over just in time to see Kingston and Melody whirl onstage like salsa dancers, their feet stepping a quick rhythm perfectly synced to the throb of techno. The moment they spin apart, Kingston raises his wand and shoots a shower of vivid purple sparks. Melody does a perfect aerial through it, landing in a split that makes the crowd roar with applause. More performers crowd into the ring. A pair of women do a one-arm balance on the heads of their burly bases. Men and women in leather and velvet wield flaming staffs and poi, swirling the fire in arcs that sear ghostly traces in my vision. More aerialists drop from the ceiling, this time dangling and stretching from hoops and a spinning trapeze. My hands already hurt from clapping so hard. In these fantastic moments, it’s easy to forget that just this morning, one of our members was murdered right where the hand-balancers are standing now.

Almost as soon as the manic party has begun, the troupe assembles near the back of the ring. With one quick call out, half the performers leap onto the thighs of their bases, creating a human wall of color and smiles. The fliers clap and wave, then spread their hands wide as the music changes once more. Then they freeze.

The lights in the ring dim, and colors fade to black and blue and silver-white. Fog appears from the thick black curtain in the back, filling the round stage with a pool of writhing mist. The music becomes haunting again as a pipe-organ chord rises above the drums’ downbeats and the cello’s churnings. A strobe goes off, and Mab is there, revealed in a whirl of fog like Venus emerging from the sea. Only this Venus glitters with a thousand tiny Swarovski crystals and sports a top hat. And a whip.

The crowd, of course, goes wild.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she calls, her voice as thick and dusty as the smoke that curls at her feet, just as soft and just as overpowering. She strides forward and raises her top hat, sweeping it down in a bow that seems to encompass everyone in the crowd. When she stands, her green eyes are sparkling as bright as her outfit. “Welcome to Cirque des Immortels! Tonight, we have a show to ensnare and entwine, filled with acts to allure you, hellish and divine. Tonight — tonight only — we offer you this, a night of ecstasy, a night of bliss. For once our shows are over and through, for the very select — the most special of you — to our backstage, we cordially invite, to wine, to dine, relax and…delight. Curious? You should be. Just ask, and you’ll know. But for now, sit back, relax, and enjoy our show.”

With that, she unfurls the whip from her side and raises it high into the air, snapping the tail with a perfectly timed crack. The lights flash. And then she’s gone. The audience applauds as the music resumes and the troupe runs offstage to make room for the first act — the jugglers.

Melody whirls past me, and I follow her and the line of performers out into the night. The moment I’m out of the tent, the air seems to drop ten degrees, sending lines of goose bumps over my arms. Melody and the others are already gathered near the backstage tent. It’s a small, pavilion-style thing that looks like it should be holding a barbeque rather than a bunch of props and costumes. I wander back toward her. I’ve seen the juggling act enough to have it memorized. And besides, my cotton candy won’t miss me.

As I’m walking around the side of the tent, I catch the faintest hint of movement under the bleachers. The bottom of the tent sidewall has been pulled up to allow for more ventilation, and clambering among the wires and discarded popcorn boxes is a girl dressed all in black. The kid is watching the show from between the audience’s feet, completely hidden from the crowd. I’m about to duck under and drag her out — she probably thought she could just get a free show — when she turns her head and I see the familiar green eyes that never fail to give me the chills. Lilith, Mab’s right-hand man. Well, girl. She doesn’t look older than twelve. She’s short, with curly black hair, green eyes, and a roundness to her face that makes her look cherubic and somewhat lost. I’ve never seen her doing anything in the show, either in the ring or behind the scenes. Hell, I practically never see her period. But wherever she is, Mab isn’t too far away. The one time I saw them together, Mab practically petted Lilith’s head like a kitten.

She glances back at me and smiles a grin of pure childlike delight, then goes back to watching the show. That’s when I notice another small movement as her cat, Poe, slinks around his master’s feet. The tabby curls up around Lilith’s ankles and watches me with calm yellow eyes. I shiver and turn away, quickly making my way toward the backstage tent. When I reach Melody, she’s already halfway into her next costume. Her blushing makeup and enormous Marie Antoinette pink wig make her look like some fetishistic baby doll. The pinstripe suit isn’t helping much, either. I wonder how long it will take me to get used to seeing her in costume — the contrast between pink Lolita and refined hippie is still jarring.

“Hey, Viv,” she says as I approach. “Gonna watch the new act?”

“Of course,” I say. “Got nothing else to do.”

I pause as Kingston walks over. He’s got his cape in one hand, magic wand in the other. He’s in sequined trousers and shiny shoes…and nothing else. My eyes catch on the single drip of sweat slowly edging down his chest toward his aggravatingly perfect abs. The head of his feathered-serpent tattoo is angled down one pec. The rest of its body curls over his shoulder and behind his back, its tail twisting over one hip and disappearing into his trousers. My face is up here, I can nearly hear him say, and I tear my eyes back toward Melody, praying neither of them caught it. He’s a magician, and magicians aren’t supposed to look like heavily inked Calvin Klein models. They’re supposed to be, like, old and wrinkled and wear funny clothing. It’s not fair.

“How’s it going?” he asks, tossing the cape down on a crate beside him before helping Melody get her other arm into her tux. I’m still refusing to stare at him, but my eyes keep lingering on places they shouldn’t. He has those lines at his hips, the come fuck me lines, I seem to remember someone calling them. Yeah, Mel would have my head.

“I’m all right,” I say, trying to keep my voice detached.

The two of them move like they came out of the same womb. Melody said she’s only been here for five years, but they move in such sync that I’d have expected longer. Just watching them makes the guilt squirm in my gut. Kingston is with her; I shouldn’t be staring at him like a fangirl. But it’s not like he’s making it any easier. God made shirts for a reason.

“Speaking of new acts,” I say, trying to keep myself from thinking in third-wheel terms. “What was with Mab’s new introduction?”

If I hadn’t been looking at them so intently, I would have missed the brief flick of understanding that passes between them. Then Kingston is looking at me, his eyes carefully guarded. He still hasn’t shaved his stubble.

“Tapis Noir,” he whispers. “The Black Carpet event.”

I raise an eyebrow. There’s something in the way he says it that makes butterflies hatch in my stomach.

“The what?”

He looks around to make sure no one’s listening in. No one is; they’re all practicing and psyching themselves up for their acts. Even so, he leans in a little bit, and Melody tilts her head closer.

“The Black Carpet event. It only happens once every couple of stops, on the new moon. It’s…for VIPs. A sort of after-party.”

“Cool,” I say, because that’s really all my brain can come up with. Thinking smart when he’s leaning this close is difficult. “Do we get in?”

“You don’t want in,” he says quickly. “It’s not for people like…like you.”

“Concessionaires?”

“No, Viv. Mortals.”

The word hangs in the air like a concrete veil, separating me from him and Melody and the rest of the troupe. It’s not something that I thought would ever be used against me. Not until I came here. I’m just a mortal, a normal, while the rest…they’re something else entirely. I'm still not entirely certain what.

“I see,” I say. Though, of course, I don’t. All I can see is that it’s one more reason Kingston and Mel are more suited for each other. And another reason I’ll always be an outsider with the two of them.

“Just stay away from it,” Melody says. “Trust me. I’ve only been once and that was more than enough.”

“What about you?” I ask Kingston. Is it my imagination, or does that actually make him blush?

“A gentleman never tells,” he says. Then he stands up straight and grabs the cloak from the crate. “Come on, Melody. We’re next.” I hadn’t even noticed the music inside the tent change or the roar of applause. Before I can wonder if I managed to piss him off, he’s dragging Melody across the grass and toward the back curtain. They disappear under the flap, but not before Melody throws me a quick apologetic glance.

I look around the backstage area at the performers completely lost in the routine of the show. The jugglers are changing into new costumes, the fire eaters are organizing their torches. Everything is so smooth, so refined. So absolutely unaware of my existence. Mab hired me with the promise of greatness, but this? So far, the only people who seem to notice me are Melody and Kingston. And even that’s not saying much. Especially not when he’ll never notice me the way I want him to.

Suddenly, the memory of Sabina’s corpse flashes across my vision. The broken smile and the blood. It makes my skin grow cold. It reminds me that not being noticed right now may be a good thing.

Chapter Two: Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This)

The night air is cold as the crowd leaves the main tent. They file toward the parking lot on the other side of the road, their chatter loud and excited. Only a few of them linger back by the chapiteau, fingering their tickets with nervous anticipation. A new, smaller tent has been constructed on one side of the dirt promenade, though I never saw it go up. It glows in the darkness like a black lotus. The interior flickers in shades of violet and crimson, and music filters out. It’s a heavy downbeat that has a pulse, an urgency that tugs at my hips, but no one moves toward it. I can’t help but stare like the rest of the loitering guests.

“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.

There’s a hand on my arm and I look over to see Mab staring down at me — there’s no mistaking her, even with her mask.

“Tsk tsk, Vivienne,” she says, and I know she’s about to tell me off for entering uninvited. Like I said, I always get caught. But all she says is, “This is no place for nudity.” She grins. “Mask on at all times. Please.” She winks and turns away. I reach up and tie the mask to my face.

For a while I just stand there, completely at a loss. This isn’t anything I’m used to. I seem to be the only one, though. The white-masked punters are completely enthralled by the music and scandal, drawn into a world I couldn’t have prepared myself to be a part of. I watch as one man laughs amid a group of black-masked men and women, completely oblivious to the fact that the performers are pulling his clothes off one article at a time. A woman across from me reaches up and is pulled onto one of the steel hoops, smiling as her heels fall into a punch bowl with a clatter. And on the sofas…there’s much less clothing and much more giggling and grinding. Even behind the mask I can feel myself blushing.

It’s not until someone bumps into me from behind that I realize I’m still standing by the tent’s entrance. Every time someone in a white mask comes in, someone in black comes forward to pull them deeper. No one does that to me, probably because I’m already in the black. I walk to one side of the tent and grab a glass of red wine, watching the sin unfold and kind of wishing I’d taken Kingston’s advice and stayed far, far away. I take a drink and hope the wine will help me accomplish just that.

A topless woman with a white mask comes up to the wine table and reaches out, grabs the front of my shirt and pulls me closer.

“Are you on the menu too?” she whispers, her words slurred. How are these people already so drunk?

“Not tonight,” I say.

She exaggerates a pout, but lets go and turns away. I take another drink of the wine and try to sink back into the shadows. But everything in the tent is shadow and candlelight and bass. There’s no getting away from it. After a few more minutes of feeling like a horrible voyeur, I decide this really isn’t my scene, that Kingston was right. This wasn’t for people like me, though I have no idea how being mortal plays into it. I set the glass down and turn away, head to the exit. Only there is no exit. I spin around and try to find the black curtain, but it’s not there. Just purple and black walls.

“Going somewhere?” a man beside me asks, snagging my sleeve with a finger. He’s wearing a black mask, but I’ve never seen him before. He’s tall, very tall, and lithe. His eyes are shining blue behind his mask, and there’s a blue feather boa around his bare shoulders. His muscular chest and stomach are covered in intricate tattoos.

A woman slides up next to him, also in a black mask. She’s wearing a V-necked red dress that dips dangerously below her navel. I focus on her eyes, which are warm amber. If those tits are real, I’ll eat my wineglass.

“She must be new,” the Playboy model says. She reaches out and slides one sharp finger under my chin. The man’s hand reaches up to my shoulder, though it doesn’t stay there long. For some reason, I don’t have the will to push it away when his touch slides toward my chest. They’re both so close I want to back away, but there’s nowhere to go, and I have a feeling it would be worse than bad manners if I did. I don’t move and try not to flinch as their touches grow bolder.

“Mab told me about you,” the woman continues, “her latest acquisition to this menagerie. I’m quite surprised she let you in, considering…” but she doesn’t say why, just smirks and steps back, scratching my skin in the process.

I don’t rub the spot, just keep focused on her eyes. The man’s hand has found its way to my hip. His touch is colder than ice.

“Come on, Fritz. Let’s enjoy the party.” She puts an arm over his shoulder and he wraps an arm around her waist, and then they’re sliding back into the crowd. The tingle of his fingertips still clings to my skin like frostbite.

I look around. It hadn’t hit me how many people there were in the tent; the people in black masks far outnumber the white. Mab’s been inviting people in, and it’s clear from their garb that they know the occasion well. I watch as two men in black masks and torn suits tilt a white-masked guy’s head back, pouring wine down his throat. Oh yes, they know the occasion well. The music pulses, the heat grows. Something deep down inside of me is growling. It doesn’t want to be sitting in a corner. It feels the music. It wants out. It wants to play.

On a chaise longue in front of me, a man is stripped naked, except for his porcelain mask. Black-masked men and women caress his arms and thighs and neck with fingers and tongues. The man groans as one of the men bites into his hip. The sight of it makes my heart thud faster, and my fingers grip tighter at my side. A small trail of blood drips down his pale skin but he doesn’t seem to notice. In fact, he reaches down and runs his fingers through the man’s hair as he laps up the blood, slowly, slowly licking.

“Trust me, dear, he isn’t to your taste.”

It’s Mab. She stands beside me with a grin on her lips and a drink in her hand, watching as her black-masked patrons bite and lick and bleed her guest.

“What…what is this?”

“If you’re interested,” she says, ignoring the question, “there’s a delightful young man next to the birdcage. Twenty-one, wishes to be a dentist…”

“I don’t…” The man being drained is writhing in ecstasy or agony. More and more black-masked patrons come in to bow at his side, and bring their lips to his bleeding flesh like some lustful Communion. No one comes to his aid; no one seems to notice anything is even wrong. Around him, couples and groups are locked in limbs and lips as they sway to the hypnotic music. No one in a white mask is clothed or alone, not that I can see.

“In that case, what about the young woman being entertained on the hoop over there? I don’t judge. Besides, she’s much too young for Stephanie.”

“I’m not…” I glance over to where she’s pointing, to the girl hanging naked on one of the hoops, her arms bound above her head and a woman running her hands over her chest and back. Red lines trace themselves into her skin, but she doesn’t seem to be in pain. If she is, she likes it.

“You see, Vivienne,” Mab says. She takes a sip from her glass. “We are the peddlers of dreams. Some people come to see a show, but for many, that isn’t enough. Their dreams are darker, less...publicly recognized. And as I said, I am a humanitarian. This is my way of giving them what they truly, deeply desire. This is how we get the strongest dreams of all.”

“You’re killing them,” I say. I can barely see the man on the chaise longue through the crowd of hungry patrons.

Mab shrugs.

“Not everyone wishes to live forever.” She sets her glass down on the table and takes a half step forward. Then she stops and looks back. “Although we cater to all wants here — even voyeurism — I might recommend leaving. The party’s just beginning, and I doubt you’d want to be here when the Night Terrors arrive.” She winks like it’s our little joke and slips into the crowd, disappearing in the sea of black masks and ball gowns.

A cool breeze blows at the back of my neck. I turn. There, like a deeper shadow on the wall, is the entrance. I move toward it and then close my eyes. The music behind me is a hook, an anchor. The fire in me burns, wants to lose itself in the throng. But all I can picture is the bleeding man. I try to block out how his blood would taste, how his skin would feel beneath my fingertips. I bite my lip until I taste my own blood and force myself to leave the tent. When the flap closes behind me, the cool air hits me like a snap to my senses. I drop my mask on the table and head to my trailer.

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.

Chapter Three: Mer Girl

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.

“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?”

I look back at the ticket stubs and try to focus on reorganizing them. My mind goes as blank as my face.

“I don’t really have a family,” I say.

A beat passes, and I know without looking up that she’s staring at me even more intently, and the thought makes my face go red.

“Everyone has a family, Vivienne.”

I close my eyes.

The words I want to say aren’t forming in my head. All I can visualize is an empty apartment and grey concrete and feeling cold…and hunted. I try to imagine my mother, but she’s just a blur of brown hair and reprimands. My dad isn’t even an impression. It never really bothered me before, the fact that I couldn’t recall much about my past. I just didn’t think about it. After all, what you can’t remember can’t haunt you. I was always one of those focus on the present types.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and then she’s standing behind me, her arms wrapped around my chest in a tight hug. It takes a lot of self-control to not push her away. “I didn’t mean…I didn’t know you were an orphan.” She hesitates. “Like me.”

I take the bait, if only to shift the attention. “Like you?” Up close, her perfume is positively suffocating. Cloying, I think is the right word.

She lets go of me and sits on the side of her bed, staring at the bubbling fish tank.

“I was Mab’s first act,” she says. Her blue eyes have gone hazy, like a fog swept over the sea. “She found me when I was but a babe. My parents…well, I don’t remember my parents. They left me there in the sand, waiting for the tide to come in and wash me away. Mab saved me and raised me in the Winter Court as her own.”

“Why would your parents do that?” I ask. I can imagine her, a swaddled baby on the side of the sea, crying at a grey sky as the rain pelts down and the foam of the tide pulls farther in. And then there’s Mab, dressed in black and gossamer purple, sweeping down just in time to rescue the struggling thing from drowning.

Penelope smiles, and it’s easily the saddest smile I’ve ever seen. She doesn’t say anything, just raises one hand and flexes her fingers. Scales ripple from her flesh, glimmering pale-blue and soft. A shake of the wrist, and they’re gone.

“We Shifters, we can’t always control our forms, especially not as children.” She looks at me. “I was lucky. In my day, children like me were considered changelings — faeries switched with mortal babies. They believed that the only way to get their true child back was to burn the impostor. Or worse.”

I swallow and stare at her and can’t help but wonder just how many other Shifters were killed by their own parents by mistake.

“What was it like in Mab’s Court?” I ask. I want to steer the subject as far away from murder as possible. After last night, the idea of Mab’s nightmarish home is both intriguing and terrifying. I can’t imagine someone like Penelope, someone clearly more comfortable in posh digs, growing up surrounded by such lecherous monsters. Maybe that’s why she pretty much keeps to herself. Ignorance is bliss.

I should know.

“It was so long ago,” Penelope begins, and I expect her to wave the question away. She doesn’t. “But Mab’s Court isn’t something one can simply forget. She made sure of it.”

“What do you mean?”

Penelope rustles around in the nightstand beside her bed and pulls out a necklace. It’s a simple silver chain, and on it hangs a diamond that glints as black as night. She loops the chain in one palm and holds it out to me.

“This,” she says.

It’s the second time in twenty-four hours that someone’s handed me something without explanation. Fool me twice…I eye it, not moving to take it from her.

“It won’t hurt you,” she says with a small smile. “One of Mab’s jewelers made it for me. It’s hewn from the very walls of her castle.”

I still don’t move.

“What’s it do?” I ask.

“So suspicious,” she says, though the smile doesn’t fade. “It’s a memory stone. It allows me to record and recollect my history. Otherwise, I’d have trailers and trailers of diaries.”

“You sure you want me to know all that?”

She laughs.

“It will only show you what I want it to.”

She motions her hand once more. I take a deep breath. Hopefully she’s never been to the Tapis Noir…

The stone drops into my palm. It’s warm and tingling and as the heat spreads up my arm, the world grows black.

A few blinks and my vision clears. The light is dim and pale blue, like all the light is diffusing through blocks of snow. Penelope is standing beside me, but she’s barely there, just a flicker of a figure. When I glance down, my hands are just as ghostlike. We’re in a hall made of arching black stone. Blue flames flicker along the wall, the fires contained within giant crystals. Plush white carpet lines the hallway, and although the air is as warm as the trailer, everything looks frozen, from the glossy walls to the way the carpet piles like freshly fallen snow.

“This was the main hall,” Penelope says. Her voice is clear, but seems to be coming from far away. I look at her apparition as she talks. Her lips don’t move.

I blink, and now she’s standing a few feet away. Another blink, and she’s even farther. I move to catch up. The motion is jerky, like I’m a character in a broken film reel. I only see the hall blink past in flashes.

Moments later we stand before a large set of doors. They spread from wall to ceiling to floor, made of dark black wood inlaid with silver in curling thorned filigree. She pauses, one hand pressed to the door. She looks at me.

“Would you like to see the birth of the circus?”

I can’t imagine any other reason to be here, so I respond with a muted, “Yeah.”

She looks back to the door, a staccato flicker of her head.

Then she’s gone.

I look at the door that stands easily three times my height. I put a hand to the wood. I push.

I’m inside.

If the hall was large, this room is beyond comprehension. To say it’s a cavern is an understatement, but that’s the only thing my mind can connect it to. The ceiling domes up, way up, hundreds of feet above. The entire thing is illuminated by crystals and flickering lights that zip around like fireflies. The light falls like snow, dusting down to the floor and fading into the white carpet. Stalactites and stalagmites reach down and up like teeth on all sides, their surfaces carved and inset with silver like the doors. More tiny lights flicker around the formations. And there, sitting right in the center amid a wall of silver stalagmites, is a throne the height of a house. The actual seat rests a good twenty feet from the ground, sitting atop a disturbingly thin spire of stone. The chair back is silver and crystal, the arms ebony and ice. Mab sits there in a dress of white silk and fur. A crown of black ice sits atop her head.

“Your Majesty?” a young girl asks. She stands at the foot of Mab’s throne. A few steps closer and I can see her clearly. It’s a younger Penelope, with the same blazing red hair and porcelain features. There’s a doll in her hand, one with wings and glittering green eyes. Then the doll twists its head toward me, and I jump back.

“We have traveled the world together, yes? And you’ve enjoyed it?” Mab asks. I can’t help but stare in awe at this incarnation of Mab. She looks every inch a regal queen, from the crown on her head to the hem of her dress that dangles ten feet below the edge of her throne. She is nothing like the debaucherous Mab I know, but there’s a power they both share, a presence that tells me they are without question one and the same.

“I have, my Lady,” Penelope says. Her voice is perfectly composed — not a hint of fear or doubt.

“But you’ve grown lonely,” Mab purrs. “You desire friends.” She seems to regard the doll in Penelope’s hand. “Real friends.”

The young Penelope pauses. Apparently, even at an early age, she knew Mab’s offers usually had a hook. Or twenty.

“Yes, my Lady.”

“Then perhaps I have a solution.”

Mab waves a hand and the carpet at the young Penelope’s feet ripples, as though the floor is trying to push its way through. Peaks form and colors melt across the fabric as the carpet becomes a series of tents in blue and black. Tiny shadows move about the tents, and I can hear the sound of applause.

“What is it?” the young Penelope asks.

“Your new home,” Mab replies. “I have decided our show is too informal. My scouts in the mortal realm have confirmed that Philip Astley’s show is a great success, and I feel it is in our best interest to follow suit. We are creating a circus.”

The young Penelope leans in to examine the tents.

“Imagine it,” Mab says. She floats down from her throne and kneels down opposite Penelope. “An entire show filled with people like yourself — fey and mortals and divinities. Every act a sensation, every performer a new friend.”

As I listen, I can’t help but wonder if this softer side of Mab still exists, or if it’s been hardened over the years. Could she really have created an entire show for Penelope? Or was that only a ruse to make Penelope feel better about being forced to join?

A voice calls out from the corner of the room.

“I hate it.”

I jerk up and see her striding toward us. She’s in a lacy purple dress and her black hair is tied with ribbons, but there’s no mistaking her face. It hasn’t changed a single bit. And there, prowling from the shadows, is her familiar.

Lilith and Poe.

She walks straight to the circus and stomps on one of the tents. The tents fade instantly. So, too, does the vision.

I blink and we’re back in the trailer. “What was…what was she doing there?” I ask.

Penelope reaches over and plucks the necklace from my hand, returning it to her nightstand before replying.

“Lilith has been with Mab for many, many years. I was the first to tour the world with her, but Lilith existed within Mab’s court long before I did.”

I shake my head.

“But she looks exactly the same. Why did you grow up?”

She shrugs and smiles, though there’s no happiness there.

“I’ve never asked,” she replies.

“Why did she — ”

A loud crash sounds outside, one that makes the glass makeup jars on her vanity tremble. We both jump to our feet in the same instant. She glances out the window.

“The king pole,” she says. “It’s fallen.”

Then she rushes past me and out the door. I’m not far behind.

The tent is a tangle of steel and cables. The canvas walls and roof are gone, but one of the four king poles — the central poles that hold up the highest points of the tent — is on its side. People are shouting and Penelope and I are running full out. The Shifters are already trying to lift the thing, which is easily two stories long, from where it’s toppled onto the bleachers. That’s when I see her, hiding under the tangled mess: Lilith. The king pole is barely two feet above her. Poe is mewling, just clear of the wreckage.

There are other crew members yelling at her to get out, but no one’s willing to take the chance to go after her. The pylons are slowly crushing down on the bleachers, shifting inch by precarious inch. If she doesn’t get out of there fast, she’ll be jelly. Trouble is, anyone trying to get in might just disturb the whole thing and make it crush sooner.

Something in me takes over. I duck into the maze of aluminum and steel and make my way toward her. She’s curled in a fetal position, I can tell that much. But with all the yelling and groaning of steel, I can’t tell if she’s making any noise. She sure as hell isn’t moving. I swing through the mess until I’m just a foot away. Lilith’s shaking, her black dress covered in dust and rubble. One arm is bleeding. Above us, the massive king pole hovers precariously, pitched between a crunching pile of bleacher bits. The thing shudders and eases an inch closer to my head. I hunch down even further and try to reach for her.

“Lilith,” I say. She doesn’t move, so I call her name again, a little more harshly this time. She looks up. “Lilith, we have to go now.”

“Scared,” she says. Her green eyes are wide and her face is completely ashen. “Scared scared scaredy cat.”

“Come on,” I say as the king pole shifts again. “Please.”

“Can’t.” She curls tighter. “Scaredy cat scaredy cat scaredy cat.”

And that’s when something clicks.

“Poe misses you,” I say. “He wants you to come out.”

Her head tilts up again. “Poe? Kitty kitty?”

“Yes,” I say, extending my hand further. “Poe misses you, but he’s too scared to come in here. He wants you to come out and play with him. He wants you to take my hand.”

A screech rends through the air and I flinch as cold metal touches the back of my neck. Lilith doesn’t seem to notice. She’s looking at me, her expression still dazed.

“Please,” I say. “Poe misses you. Now.”

“Okay,” she says. And she takes my hand. My vision explodes.

I scream aloud as the hallucination tears me apart, and then I’m stumbling and falling and letting go and it’s gone. It’s gone and the world is white white white as color slowly seeps back around the edges and my head splits apart like a cleaver is carving it in two. Faces first, then voices. Faces looking down. Kingston and Penelope and Melody and someone’s got a hand on my forehead. Ice water trickles down my skin and down my neck and under my skin into my bones, and I close my eyes and wait for the water to drown me, dreaming of scaled skin and burning blood.