The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

Chapter Four: Spotlight

Is she awake yet?”

“Not yet. Wait…yep, there she is.”

I peel my eyes open, which feels like rubbing burning sandpaper inside my temples. It takes a moment, but after a few blinks the dim light solidifies into something I can make out. Kingston hovers overs me, Melody at his side. We’re in my tiny trailer room, and I’m lying on the bed. They’re both looking down like they’re expecting me to grow horns or die. Or both.

“Morning, sunshine,” Kingston says. He touches my shoulder, and once more that cool ice-water sensation slides across my skin and seeps into my head. It feels like bliss.

I shift under his touch and stare up at those brown eyes. For once, I have his attention. All it took was nearly getting crushed to death and an act of stupid heroics. I smile, and he smiles back.

“What happened?” I ask, because I’m afraid if we keep smiling at each other I’ll forget that Mel is still in the room.

“We were going to ask you the same thing, doll,” Melody says. Her eyes are even more shadowed than before, especially in this light. Is it just my near-death experience, or are her fingers shaking?

“What do you mean?” I ask. I try thinking back, but it’s all a blur. Something deep down feels fire, feels burning, but I can’t put my finger on it. Like steam, it just floats around in my subconscious, smoldering invisibly.

“Well,” Kingston says, removing his healing touch. “We all saw you jump into the wreck and pull Lilith out. But we don’t understand why you were screaming when you got her out of there. Then you passed out.” He traces a finger down my arm. I shiver, but not from any magic he might possess.

“No injuries,” he says, almost to himself. “No trauma. So why did you faint?”

“I don’t…I don’t remember.”

Still, the memory nags at me. I’ve got Lilith’s huddled form in my mind. I remember taking her hand, and then…that’s it.

“Maybe she’s just got a weak stomach,” Melody says. She chuckles, which turns into a cough. Kingston glances at her; his eyebrow cocks in a strange mix of concern and curiosity. She holds up a hand until the coughing fit stops. “Sorry,” she says. “Must be coming down with something.”

“Must be,” Kingston says. “You better not die before our act tonight.” He turns back to me.

And that’s when I notice that they’re both in costume. Melody’s not wearing her tuxedo coat or wig, but she’s in her tight pinstripe trousers and a clean button-down. Kingston is in a white shirt and black sequined slacks. The tip of his tattoo is curled around his bicep. I blink because I’m pretty certain that’s not where the tail was last time. I push myself up to sit, which just makes my head swim even more.

“What time is it? How long have I been out?”

“A full day,” Kingston says softly. “We’re already at the next site.”

“No way,” I say, sinking back down onto the bed. “Shit.”

“The show’s in an hour,” Melody says. She slips something into my hand. “But Mab’s giving you the night off.”

I look at the ticket stub in my hand. Cirque des Immortels is in swirling black ink on the front of the dusty purple card stock, my seat number and row are on the back. VIP seating, nice.

“She doesn’t ever give people the night off,” Melody says, nodding to the ticket in my hand. “Let alone reward them for it. She must be impressed.”

She and Kingston share a look.

“You’re sure you can’t remember anything?” he asks.

“I wish,” I say. The absence of memory sears.

Melody leaves a few minutes later, when a particularly strong coughing fit sends her out the door in search of tea and honey. Kingston stares after her with a look on his face that tells me he feels he should follow. He doesn’t, though. And after a moment of looking at the door, he turns back to me.

“That was brave,” he says. He’s leaning against my desk, almost in arm’s reach. The scent of his musky cologne fills the trailer. I realize that, for the first time, we’re alone in a room together. The thought makes my heart beat faster. He smiles, and it’s not the usual sarcastic grin. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I let out a half-chuckle, and look down at the admissions ticket.

I hear him shift, and then he’s standing next to the bed. Next to me. I don’t look up. I know if I do I’ll be tempted to say or do something I’d regret later.

He puts his hand on my shoulder. The ticket stops spinning in my hands but my pulse speeds up. What would Mel say if she knew we were alone like this? I can’t hurt her, not after all the kindness she’s shown me. But after what he said yesterday, a large part of me is holding on to the hope that they aren’t a thing.

“You surprise me,” he says. I look up at him.

“Is that a good thing?” I counter. I’d probably fuck things up if I said anything remotely serious or tried to be smooth. But there’s something in his eyes, something in our closeness that makes me want to reach out and touch him, even if every part of me knows it’s a horrible idea. I can’t stop telling myself that he’s looking at me differently than the way he’s looked at Mel. I try to convince myself it’s just from fainting.

“I’m not sure yet,” he says. He studies me like he’s actually trying to figure me out. No one’s looked at me that intensely since I started here. The silence between us grows, and I don’t want to do anything to make it end. He looks at me and I look at him and his hand is still on my shoulder. His touch makes my skin tingle. He bites his lower lip.

If this were a movie, I think this must be the part where tragedy and heroism bring us together and we make a really stupid decision. One of us has a moment of weakness, forgets the relationship-thing due to overwhelming passion, and then it’s nothing but lips and discarded clothes and murmurs of love —

Kingston shakes his head and steps back.

“I better get going,” he says. “Wouldn’t want any rumors about us, you know.” He winks and heads to the door. Before stepping through, he turns back and gives me the grin I’m starting to love. “And, Viv, I know my act is good, but try not to faint before intermission.” He chuckles and leaves me sitting there.

He’s just toying with you, I try to convince myself. But my body’s not listening. I stare at the door for a while and feel the after-trace of his hand on my shoulder. I tell myself that there are more important things to think about, like finding the killer and keeping Kingston and Mel safe, and figuring out why I fainted in the first place. More important things. I stand up and search my shelves for a clean shirt. There are much more important things than a guy I barely know. A guy who’s gorgeous and strong and could set my ass on fire if he wanted. A guy who I’m now only ninety percent certain is dating my best friend. Right.

I can still smell his cologne.

An hour later, I’m milling about in the promenade with the rest of the punters. Stalls and booths of every kind flank each side of the makeshift road that leads up to the blue-and-black tent. Cirque des Immortels blazes in acid-purple neon above the gaping maw of an entrance. I’m in my everyday jeans and T-shirt, nothing to set me apart from the rest — no Crew splashed across my back, no tower of cotton candy in one hand. Tonight, I’m just like everyone else. I hadn’t realized how appealing that thought would be.

I grab a box of popcorn from the concessionaire booth and am saved from making small talk; today it’s run by a new girl from the nearby town, someone I haven’t met and maybe never will. All she sees is a girl with a VIP pass that entitles her to free food and drink. Even that small act of anonymity makes me feel a little more at home. Being surrounded by people who know you 24/7 isn’t something I’m used to. Small memories of another life flutter through my head like moths — all grey images and tearstains — and then I’m leaping out of the way to make room for a stilt walker.

It's dressed like a giant black rabbit trundling around on eight-foot-tall legs, except the rabbit head is actually a raven’s. And when the beast walks past me, I distinctly see the eye blink. A whole line of walkers moves through the crowd. All the creatures are like some tame sort of nightmare, their legs nimbly stepping around and over the people below. Kids are calling and screaming and laughing, and even the adults stare up in wonder as the creatures roam and pirouette and leap. They’re all headed in the same direction. To one side of the promenade there’s a wooden archway set up between concession booths. The stilt walkers narrowly duck under a sign as they vanish down the side alley. Freakshow, the sign reads.

I grin in spite of myself. Although they are technically hired as tent crew, sometimes, when they’re really bored or want to shake things up, the Shifters set up their small carnival-styled area to put on their own show. It’s like a two-for-one deal. For once, my luck seems to be swinging toward the positive.

I take a step toward it, but then the music inside the tent changes, and the jugglers come out into the promenade twirling clubs of fire. They shout at the top of their lungs, “Show begins in five minutes!”

I’d kill to see what the Shifters are putting on at this site. Last time, Roman made himself rotund and covered every inch of his torso in tattoos, so he resembled an old-school globe. But the ticket in my hand burns at the thought of some kid stealing my seat. I follow the throng toward the black entrance curtains. I’ll catch the freaks at intermission.

“You’ve never seen anything like this before,” Kingston said. Two days in, and he and Melody were still the only ones who talked to me, but it was better than nothing. We stood at the back of the tent. He was in his costume and I wore a new pair of jeans and T-shirt that had miraculously appeared in my bunk the night I settled in. The performers were running in and out of the tent to catch their cues. To me, it all looked like well-orchestrated chaos. Kingston motioned for me to sneak closer, so I did, standing beside him and peering out through a crack in the curtain. Even then I was horribly aware of his proximity. I could see the contortionists doing their dance onstage, their white costumes sparkling in the magenta lights above as they folded themselves on top of each other, balancing on elbows and chins, tips of toes curling under shoulders. I looked over to Kingston, who had a smile on his face even though he’d already admitted to seeing the show a thousand times. He looked over at me and caught my stare. “You’re a part of this, now. It’s your home.”

I looked out again and watched the contortionists stand and take their bows, bathing in the applause. I closed my eyes and imagined myself out there; I could feel the pulse of fear and adrenaline and ecstasy, the mix of fight-or-flight that somehow pushes performers to entertain. The roar of the audience filled me. Home.

The first few acts go off without a hitch. The jugglers begin strong and don’t drop a single club or dagger. The contortionists follow, dancing their beautiful duet of entwining limbs and arching backs. I can practically feel the crowd’s excitement as each act gives way to the next, the anticipation growing with every performer. Three violet lengths of fabric lower from the ceiling, rippling like water as the aerialists ascend and begin twisting and dancing high above, their white costumes flickering in the spotlights. I can remember only one of their names — Arietta Skye, a girl no older than me with brown hair and eyes the color of the ocean. She seems to lead the other two in their dance. She is the first to roll in a dizzying drop toward the ground, and she is the one who smiles the widest.

I applaud louder than usual as Kingston and Melody take the stage. When they take their bow, I distinctly catch Kingston winking at me. Then he’s waving and running offstage. It’s not until the next act — Spanish Web — that I realize I’m still blushing.

It’s during the flying trapeze act that I notice her. At first, I thought it was just a shadow moving high up in the cupola. But then I squint and make out a figure moving up among the narrow catwalks strung between the lights. Lilith. I shake my head, trying not to wonder how she can stomach being up there when just yesterday she was nearly killed by the very poles she’s dangling from. I’m surprised no one else is pointing up at her, but then again, she’s wearing all black. I have a feeling that she’s done this so many times before, she knows no one else is going to see her.

That one glance makes my head ring. The scent of smoke fills my nostrils like an afterthought. Nothing’s burning, though, and the moment I look away from her, it’s gone.

The trapeze artists climb their two tiny rope ladders that attach to the foot-wide platforms high up above. They are dressed in dark, shimmering outfits that remind me of dragonfly wings, and the dim blue lights onstage make them look otherworldly. Mist seethes along the ground as the music changes to something deeper, slower, more ambient and foreboding. It’s all strings and drumbeats now. The singer, Gretchen, hums into her microphone as the first performers grab on to the trapeze and swing out above the crowd’s heads. There’s no net below them. No one dies in this circus, Kingston had said. Every act is a testament to that promise.

The fliers swing out, then back to their platforms. A simple swing. Then as one of the fliers lands and poses on one platform for the mild applause, the other is inverting himself and latching his legs on the bar. He swings toward the other platform with his hands free. The man who just took a swing changes places with a girl, who launches herself over the space, swinging toward the inverted man who arcs toward her with open hands. The girl releases her grip at the swing’s apex, flips twice in midair, and latches on to the man’s wrists. They glide gracefully over to the platform, where she dismounts and waves. He grabs hold of a tether to keep from swinging out again, one arm raised in salute. The applause is deafening.

But this is just the intro. Another man swings out from the other platform, flying through the air. He inverts as well, while a young man is readying himself on the free trapeze. With perfect timing, he launches himself off, arcs up and over the crowd, flips not twice, but three times in midair, right before his partner expertly catches his wrists and swings him back to safety. The crowd goes wild.

I feel a huge grin on my face as the energy of it all catches me up in its thrall. When I glance down, practically beaming at the crowd as though it was me up there, risking life and limb for their entertainment, I see that not everyone is enjoying the show as much as I am. Across the ring from me, sitting almost precisely in the middle of the bleachers, is a man in his thirties with sharp blond hair and angular features. I can’t tell much about him, except that he’s staring straight up at the performers with a frown on his face. I look up, wondering if maybe one of the aerialists is giving the crowd the finger — apparently it’s happened before — but everything’s as it should be. I look down again.

That when I realize he’s not looking at the performers. He’s looking past them, into the cupola.

At Lilith.

The man’s gaze flickers to me, and it feels like vertigo slaps me in the face, twists around my stomach. I look away, look up to the fliers that are readying for another trick, and try to force the sickness back down. Each trapeze has a man swinging out toward the other, then back to their platforms. As they swing back, they invert, grab the hands of the waiting girls, and swing out again. Both girls release at the same time, one flying high over the other; the lower girl curls tight into a ball, the one above spreads in a wide X. They both reach the awaiting partner at the same time. Grips catch in a snap of chalk dust. But the lower girl only locks one hand. The other hand slips. In that horrifying moment, I know she’s fucked. The crowd gasps.

It’s only a second. Only one terrible second as gravity connects and her swing pulls her back down to the earth. That one tentative grip slips, and then she’s plummeting to the ground.

Someone in the audience screams, or maybe it’s many people, I don’t know. All I know is that the girl only falls for a moment, then she gives a jerk, like something’s snagged her, and her descent immediately slows. She lands lightly within the mist, clearly shaken but doing her best to smile and pose. Something flashes as she turns to face all sides of the crowd, which is now applauding as fervently as though she’d landed the trick. I see her safety lines. Two long black cables stretch from her waist up into the cupola. They caught her and kept her from landing in the dirt in an explosion of blood and bone. She unclips the cables and they slink back up into the heavens.

Except I know without a doubt that we don’t use safety lines because no one in this circus messes up. Ever. Either Kingston or Mab is covering an accident that shouldn’t have happened.

For some reason, I look away from the girl on the ground — Jillian is her name, I think — and catch sight of the blond man across from me. He’s still not clapping, but at least he’s looking down now, still scowling. He looks disappointed that the girl is alive.

Although intermission follows immediately after the flying trap, I don’t wait until the end of the act. I awkwardly make my way toward the aisles and bolt out the exit, heading around the tent toward the backstage. Despite the fact that someone almost died, no one seems to notice something went wrong. People are changing or stretching or relaxing. That’s when I notice Kingston standing beside the backstage curtain. He’s peering out through the crack like when we watched the contortionists together. His fingers are clenched into fists.

“What was that?” I ask when I reach him. He jumps slightly but doesn’t make a sound. When he sees it’s me, his fingers relax just a little. He really should wear a shirt backstage. His abs are distracting, even at the worst of times.

“Wait,” he whispers. “Just in case.” He turns back and continues to watch through the curtain. A few moments pass while I watch the performers mingling backstage, and then the audience breaks into loud applause. He steps aside just before the trapeze artists run through the back curtain. The girl who fell spots Kingston and wraps him in a hug.

“Thank you,” Jillian says. There are tears in her eyes and her makeup is smudged.

Kingston just returns the hug and whispers something in the girl’s ear that I can’t hear. Then the rest of the trapeze artists are circling us, asking what happened. I can’t tell if they’re asking Kingston or Jillian, but it’s Jillian who answers.

“I don’t know,” she says.

The guy who caught her — Peter — chimes in.

“Everything felt good from my end,” he says. “That was a perfect toss.”

“I know,” Jillian says. She shakes her head. “It felt perfect. But then…I don’t know. Right when I was about to catch, something just…just took my breath away.”

“What did you smell?” Kingston asks. I stare at him. The question seems ridiculously out of place.

Jillian rubs her arms. Peter steps up behind her and wraps his own muscular arms around her. She leans back into him, but she’s still shaking. It takes her a while to answer.

“Lightning,” she finally says. “It smelled like lightning and cut grass.”

Kingston’s face darkens.

“They wouldn’t dare,” he whispers. “I have to find Mab.”

“What is it?” Peter asks.

“Summer,” Kingston says.

The small crowd gasps. I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Take her to her trailer,” Kingston says to Peter. “Watch her. If anything changes, find me immediately.”

“Am I in danger?” Jillian asks. Her voice trembles.

“Keep her out of sight,” Kingston replies, looking only at Peter. Then he’s off, heading toward the trailers.

The trapeze artists disperse the moment Kingston leaves. Jillian’s practically carried off by Peter and the rest follow in a half-circle behind. I don’t wait around. I jog over to Kingston’s side.

“What’s going on?” I ask him again. He doesn’t slow.

“This doesn’t concern you, Vivienne,” he says.

I reach out and grab his arm, force him to stop. He turns. His eyes burn and I nearly let go. But I don’t. I’m not going to just stand around and wait for someone to include me. I don’t know where this inner fire came from, but I’m not going to fight it. After all, it already saved Lilith’s life. Maybe it’ll save someone else’s, like a heroic sixth sense.

“I’m part of this troupe,” I say. “What’s going on?”

I can see the frustration in his eyes, the immediate desire to push me away. I steel myself for the outburst, but it doesn’t come.

“Summer,” he finally says. “They’re here.”

If this wasn’t clearly a serious situation, I’d make some witty comment about it being obvious it was summer, seeing as how it’s eighty degrees even after dark. He must notice I’m clueless because he doesn’t wait for me to say anything.

“The Summer Court. Mab’s rivals. They’re here. They’re interfering.”

“You think they tried to kill Jillian,” I say. Pieces are clicking together in my head.

“I think they’re trying to make a point. Which means we need Mab. Now. Before they make any more.”

He turns to go but I grab him again. Touching him is addictive and, in this instance, allowed.

“How do you know?” I ask. “What if she just fell?”

“That doesn’t happen,” Kingston says, not even turning around. “Besides, even I could smell Summer magic at work. I just needed Jillian’s confirmation.”

We’re nearly to Mab’s trailer when he turns around.

“Please, Vivienne. Stay out of this. You don’t need any more attention. Just go back to the show.” His eyes are pleading, and he doesn’t give me time to refuse. He turns and heads around the corner of a trailer. I don’t follow.

Instead, I turn around and head back toward the front of house. I don’t stop until I catch sight of the blond-haired guy who was sitting across from me. He didn’t make it hard; he’s standing at the concessions booth right in front of the tent, looking over our DVDs with the mildest amount of interest. He’s tall and thin — taller than me — in a grey pinstripe suit that makes him even more angular. I stand on the other side of the promenade and watch from the popcorn queue. The man keeps glancing around, but he doesn’t seem to notice me noticing him.

Mab comes out from the crowd before I reach the cashier. The man in the suit puts down the brochure he was pretending to read and smiles, but it's not even close to friendly — it's the grin of a man looking forward to a conflict. Mab doesn’t even return the forced affection. She strides right over to blond guy with a grim look on her perfectly painted face. A few people stop and stare and make like they’re about to approach her for an autograph, but there’s a darkness to her presence, something that radiates don’t fuck with me. And the whip at her waist only pushes that point home.

The two share a look, but I don’t see their lips move. Instead, she turns and escorts him away from the booth, behind the picket fence separating backstage from the front. I know that following her would be suicide, but something in me can’t resist the temptation. I don’t know why the hero thing has taken over, but the very thought that this guy might be the one trying to hurt someone in my troupe — my home — makes my blood boil. No one messes with my family. In that moment, I realize it doesn't matter that I've felt like I'm still on the edge of this place. These people took me in. If nothing else, I'm indebted.

I watch her take him away from the chapiteau — not toward the backstage tent and not toward the trailers. I grin in spite of myself. She’s taking him to the freak show.

Without hesitating, I head toward the makeshift wooden sign and enter the tunnel of freaks.

Chapter Five: Freak Show

On my second night in the troupe, I was gathered around a bonfire with Kingston and Melody and a few others, listening to stories of past shows and the wild adventures people had experienced off-site. Some had gone skinny-dipping in the Arctic. Others reminisced about buying out an entire town’s stock of glazed donuts. Kingston sat next to me, our arms brushing as he laughed. He kept waving his hand over the thermos being passed around, magically refilling it with unknown booze. I hadn’t really grasped that at the time. There were mostly Shifters with us, and they could hold their drink. Most of them, anyway.

That’s when they started playing Outfreak the Freak.

It was Melody’s idea, probably because I’d just asked her why members of the tent crew were called Shifters.

It started by her daring Stephanie to turn into Mab, which made the girl crow with laughter and ask which incarnation? Mel just smiled, said, “Present.”

Stephanie stood up, brushed herself off, and cleared her throat.

“Presenting,” she said, “the most feared faerie in history. The one, the only, Mab!” With that, her features melted and stretched, melding into a perfect likeness of Mab. If not for the fact that Stephanie was wearing shorts and a hoodie — something I doubt Mab would ever get caught dead wearing — she pulled it off spectacularly.

“Fail!” Melody yelled.

Mab/Stephanie glared at her.

“Mab’s eyes are more hunter green. I’d call yours mint.”

Stephanie kicked sand in Mel’s face and sat down, promptly shifting back into her normal pink-haired Goth self.

“Let me try,” said Heath, a heavily tattooed man with thick round glasses. He stood up and gave himself a shake as his blond hair turned black and wild, his features angling up into a vision of Mab that was frighteningly realistic. Minus two things.

“Boobs are way, way too big,” Roman said.

“Not big enough,” countered another guy.

Moments later, every Shifter around the fire was doing their best impersonation of Mab — some aiming for exactness, others just going wild. There were snake-headed medusae and Mabs with red skin and devil horns. Others had two heads or five breasts. It just got worse from there, as they deviated from impersonating Mab into creating the weirdest creatures they could think of. Soon, the campfire was surrounded by bleeding harpies and twelve-foot-tall stick men and — strangest of all — a round blob of human flesh with no eyes or appendages, just a giant mouth filled with broken-syringe teeth.

“That, my friend,” Melody laughed, “is why they’re called Shifters. Shapeshifters, if you want to be precise.”

“How the hell do they do that?” I asked, watching the blob slurp itself back into the form of a tiny girl with a green buzz cut.

“Lineage,” Kingston said. “You know all those stories about gods mating with mortals?” I nodded, thinking of Zeus and all his bastardized offspring. “Yeah, well, replace ‘gods’ with ‘faeries’ and that’s what you get.”

I watched as Heath — at least, I thought it was Heath — mutated into one giant blue breast.

“Not as refined as the stories, eh?” Melody laughed.

“Never is,” Kingston said.

Roman is the first guy I recognize in the throng, though it takes me a moment to connect the guy I’m looking at with the heavily pierced, blue-mohawked guy I’m used to. This new, changed Roman is wearing a three-piece suit that looks like it was in at least a dozen pieces before he resurrected it. Patches are fraying off the elbows and I can’t tell if it’s mostly brown or tweed or black pinstripe. He’s also at least seven feet tall, with thick black tattoos curling around his bare wrists and tunnel plugs in his ear that are big enough to pass a tennis ball through. His general face shape is still roughly the same, albeit pointier, a bit more elfish. But he still has the blue mohawk.

“Vivienne,” he says. His voice is much deeper than usual, rumbling in the depths of his chest. “Enjoying the show?”

“Yeah,” I say, looking around, trying to find my quarry. Everything here seems dusty and antiquated, from the hand-painted signs proclaiming the bearded lady (classic), bat boy, and serpent fingers, to the makeshift tents and pavilions set up for the shows. I don’t see Mab or the blond guy anywhere.

“Looking for something in particular?” he asks, the hint of a joke on his lips. “I hear the fire eater’s quite hot this time around.”

“Mab,” I say, ignoring the horrible pun. His face becomes serious in an instant.

Roman clears his throat. He doesn’t ask me why I want to know, doesn’t ask if I’m getting into trouble. We stare at each other for a moment and it’s clear he already knows something’s up, and he’s not interested in getting involved. Mab doesn’t come into the freak show; whatever’s going on is serious.

“She went that way,” he says, pointing to the side.

I glance around. The tents back here are chaotic, all jammed together with no real rhyme or reason. Small alleys appear between a few tents, leading off in more directions and more shows. Hiding somewhere behind them is Mab and the man, and my time to find them is running out fast.

“Any idea which one?”

He shakes his head. “Went down Alligator Alley. You’ll have to look.”

Across the circular pitch from Roman stands a tank as wide as I am tall, and twice my height. In its depths, waving slowly with a grin on her face, is Penelope. Her red hair floats around her in a halo, her pale skin looking even paler in the clear water. She’s wearing a bra made of sequined seashells, and from the navel down, her body is that of a fish, with opalescent blue scales and a beautiful fin as diaphanous as a betta's. She smiles at me, a tiny trail of bubbles escaping her lips, and I wave back, trying not to look as rushed as I feel. To the right of her giant aquarium is a space between a couple tents. A wooden sign strung above it reads Alligator Alley with a bitten-off chunk missing from the side. There are a few people walking in and out of the narrow space, heading for or returning from the other tents nestled in the back.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Be careful,” he says in return, not looking at me. I nod and head into the crowd.

The air back here is stifling. It smells of sawdust and horses, kerosene and sweat. I cram down the tight passage next to a couple others and squeeze my way forward. I can’t see Mab or the blond guy over the heads of everyone, and I’ve got a sneaking suspicion they wouldn’t just be standing out in the open. They’re hiding.

I come to an opening in the tent on my left. I glance up. Tarantina the Tarantuless — araknaspiderphobes beware is written in black ink on the wooden sign. A rubber spider hangs off the edge. Deciding to start at the beginning, I duck inside.

The moment I enter the tent, I feel like I’ve stepped into the Amazon. Stunted trees arch under the tent’s canopy, and long strands of moss droop down like broken wings. All I can see is the winding path in front of me. The floor is dirt and the air is thick and moisture immediately starts dripping down my forehead. There isn’t much of a crowd in here, and it doesn’t take long to figure out why; every surface is covered in spiders. Big Brown fuzzy creatures the size of my thumbnail or larger than a plate roam freely over the tent. They dangle from webs in the ceiling, crawl over the moss. A few scurry across the path in front of me.

I shiver in spite of myself. I’ve never been afraid of spiders, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy the idea of a large one dropping down the back of my neck.

I creep through the undergrowth, careful not to step on any of the spiders making their oblivious way underfoot. The only sound in the tent is the hum of cicadas and the occasional disturbing crunching noise; I can’t hear the music from outside or the voices of the audience. I feel completely alone. I walk a few steps deeper and turn a corner. The trees close in, reaching out with their leg-like branches. Cobwebs stretch from floor to ceiling.

Something slides across my neck and I jump, my hand immediately swatting at it.

A woman stands behind me. Her hair is long and braided, her skin deep brown. She’s wearing leopard skin and leather. Her feet are bare. There’s a tarantula the size of my fist on her shoulder and another creeping through her hair. Tiny spiders crawl up and down her legs.

“Vivienne,” she says, flashing a razor-toothed smile. Her eyes glint gold and black.

I take a deep, steadying breath and thank the gods I didn’t scream.

“Taran…tina?” I say.

She laughs, though her voice deepens. Her face changes.

“Heath?”

He chuckles. It’s just Heath’s face — stubble and all — that’s similar. The rest is definitely feminine. He gestures to his body with the hand not holding the spider.

“Convincing, eh?” he says. “Janet usually does this gig, but she’s on security instead.”

“Security?”

Heath’s smile slips. He doesn’t answer.

“Oh, right.” I pause. “Has Mab come through here?”

“Hell no,” he says. “You’re my only visitor so far. Well, a couple kids came through but they ran off when they met Honey.” He holds up the tarantula.

“Okay, thanks,” I say, turning around.

“You’re not looking for trouble, are you?” he asks, his voice sliding back into cool feminine tones.

“Never,” I say, and head toward the exit.

“Good,” he/she says. “Because I’ve got a feeling trouble won’t have any problem finding you.”

The alley is a little less crowded now. I can hear the music from the big top and know they’ve probably already called out that the second half is about to start. Everyone is heading toward the chapiteau. I stand on tiptoes, trying to peer over the crowd, and see a shock of pale white hair near the end of the path. I don’t wait. I push into the crowd and make my way toward the end of the lane.

When I get there, the man is nowhere to be seen. The crowd has thinned out and I’m standing alone in a small cul-de-sac. I turn around. I would have seen him leave, and Mab wouldn’t have allowed magic with punters around. That’s when I notice the small space hiding between the tents. A backstage exit.

I step toward it and then stop. If Mab catches me sneaking out through there, she’ll know I was following her. I might as well sign my own death warrant. I need to be crafty. Inconspicuous. I glance at the tent next to the alley. Human Pincushion — adultz only is written on the sign in curling ink. I have to be sneaky.

I duck under the tent flap and enter a room filled with dim light and the scent of hay and oil smoke. The sounds of a viola are coming from a man in the corner, and it’s like I’ve been transported back a few dozen years to the heyday of sideshows. The inner tent walls glow orange in the lantern light and there, on a wooden platform, is a Shifter girl. Her hair is pink and done up in six-inch spikes, and the only thing she’s wearing is a black dog collar around her neck. Every square inch of her naked flesh — from neck to nipples to heels — is pierced. Rings, studs, even what look like nails and acupuncture needles, all sparkle in the lamplight as she weaves a small, slow dance on the platform. The tent contains mostly speechless men, all watching her undulate like a slow-motion belly dancer. She catches my eye as I walk in and winks, then goes back to entrancing the crowd. The black cauldron at her feet is already brimming with bills and coins.

I take advantage of the crowd’s fixation and sneak to the edge of the tent, where the canvas overlaps, and crouch down. I peer out through the tiniest of cracks. Hidden from the crowds, Mab and the blond guy stand beside a few crates. They’re talking, but I can’t make anything out over the music. I don’t want Mab to see me, but I’ve already come this far. And besides, I now feel like if someone’s fucking with the circus, they’re fucking with me. I take my chances and give the occupants of the tent one more glance to make sure no one’s looking, then slip out into the night.

I stay low, crouching behind boxes and sticking to the shadows. Mab and the man are talking near one of the parked company semis. I crawl closer, praying that she’s too fixated on the man to notice me slinking around. I weave behind the semi and crawl underneath, until I’m only a few feet away from their legs. I nearly yelp as something brushes past me, but a quick glance shows it’s only Lilith’s cat, Poe. Which means… I look to my other side and sure enough, there she is, hiding next to one of the wheels like a solid shadow. If she sees me, she doesn’t make any motion to show it. I try not to sneeze as the scent of brimstone fills my nostrils.

“…direct violation for you to be here, you know this,” Mab says. I inch closer and peer up, trying to see her face, but all I can see are her stockings.

“And you are in direct violation of the Blood Autumn treaty,” says the man. His voice is smooth and deep, almost musical, with the lilt of an accent I can’t place.

Mab pauses.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says.

“Don’t play stupid. Your time among the mortals is making you soft. I know what I’ve seen.”

“This is a circus,” Mab says, her voice pitched dangerously low. “Eyes are meant to be deceived here. What you speak is nonsense. And what you’ve done is unforgivable. You dare stand in the Winter Court’s own land and challenge its queen?”

The man doesn’t answer. He shifts his feet, though, which is answer enough.

“I could have you killed,” Mab says, “and not even your Summer King would bat an eyelash. You know you are not welcome here, and you know your life is forfeit the moment you step foot on my land. Now, unless you wish to pay for tonight’s near-disaster with your life, you will leave. And you will not return.”

I expect the man to run. There’s blood in Mab’s words, a fury begging to be unleashed. Instead, he stands his ground. I have to give him credit; he has balls.

“As you say, Queen Mab,” he says. “But we are on to you. The dream trade will stop unless you meet our demands.” He steps back and turns, begins walking away. “Even queens must pay for their actions. Even queens must die.”

Then, without any signal I can see, the man vanishes from the night.

Mab sighs and stands there a moment longer.

Then, reaching down to the tabby cat now purring at her feet, she says, “You can come out now, Lilith dear. It’s safe once more. The bad man is gone.”

Lilith comes out of her hiding place, her frilly black dress smeared with mud.

“What does he want?” Lilith asks. Something about her voice makes me shiver. It’s not as vapid as usual.

“Nothing important,” she says, stroking Lilith’s hair like a pet. “Nothing to worry yourself over. Come, let’s get you some cotton candy.”

She guides Lilith away, Poe following close at their heels. I stay there a moment longer, waiting for the blond man to show up, waiting for someone to come under and yell, “Hah! Found you!” But there’s only the rumble of the crowd behind me. The music in the tent changes, but I don’t head back to my seat. I don’t wend my way back through the sideshow. I just lie there in the cold mud, too distracted to shiver, watching the woods on the far end of the field.

I know without a doubt that there’s more to Sabina’s murder than a random act. Mab is hiding something. And I have a terrible feeling that her secret will get us all killed.

Chapter Six: Thief Of Hearts

The next morning, before the sun is even up, someone bangs on my trailer door. My heart sinks the moment I gain consciousness. Experience has proven that waking up like this is never a good sign. I pull on a shirt and shorts and open the door. Sure enough, it’s Kingston, looking like the whole world’s on fire and he’s just too tired to give a damn.

“We’re leaving,” he says, handing me a travel mug of what smells like coffee. “In twenty minutes. They’re disconnecting the water in ten, so you might want to hurry if you want to shower.”

“Wait, what? What time is it?” My head still feels like it’s swimming and I’ve got that sharp taste in my sinuses that I’m positive is God’s punishment for waking up at the ass-crack of dawn.

“Five,” he says without checking a watch. “And I already told you the important part: we’re leaving.”

“But, we aren’t scheduled to jump ’til tomorrow.” I take a deep drink from the coffee, hoping that maybe it will help me remember the day of shows I’ve apparently missed.

“And Mab changed her mind last night. Look,” he says, and I really do look at him. He looks about as bad as Mel did yesterday, with dark circles under his eyes. His black hair is tangled and I’m pretty certain that’s the shirt he was wearing yesterday, but I don’t mention it. “Don’t ask questions, okay? For your own sake. Just go take a quick shower or brush your teeth or whatever you do in the morning, grab something to eat, and get in the truck. You’re riding with Lilith and Penelope.”

“But the tent,” I say, and then I realize why something about the view seemed off. My door opens out to the chapiteau. And yet right now, it’s all empty field. It clicks. “Wait, so Mab…she used magic to take the tent down? I thought she refused to do that.”

“Don’t assume,” Kingston snaps. He takes a deep breath, grabs the coffee from my hands, and takes a drink. “To be more precise, she used my magic last night to take the tent down. And now, I either want to sleep for the week or die. I’m not fussy. But I’m also not asking questions, and I suggest you do the same.” He takes another drink, grimaces, and swirls his fingers over the lid. I don’t see anything happen, but the next swig he takes brings a relieved smile to his face. “Much better,” he says.

He takes another big gulp and hands it back to me, then turns away and starts back to his own trailer. “Ten minutes,” he calls back. “And be careful with that. It’s strong.”

I take a drink and nearly burn my throat. He’s spiked it with something that tastes like Kahlua and nail varnish. I dump it out in the grass and go find my toothbrush. When I go back outside, I’m not at all surprised to see that spot of grass is already turning brown.

No one knows where the next site is.

Apparently, Mab’s completely changed the tour schedule overnight, refunding everyone who bought in advance and donating a dollar to Clowns Without Borders for every refunded ticket, just to soften the blow. At least, this is what Penelope tells me in the truck as we make our way to some unknown destination, following the semi in front of us. I'm hoping no one needs to stop for a piss on the way — myself included. I've got a feeling Mab hasn't scheduled any stops for the drive. Penelope’s driving, with me riding passenger and Lilith riding bitch. Poe is curled up in Lilith's lap, fast asleep. The kid hasn’t said anything, and Penelope — usually full of conversation — isn’t doing her part to mend the silence. NPR is playing in the background, but all I’m really paying attention to is the landscape sliding by and my deep, deep desire to pass out with my face pressed to the window. I am not a morning person, and the clock on the dashboard is telling me it’s only 7:13.

“What you did the other day,” Penelope says, breaking me from my stupor. “It was quite brave.” She reaches over and rustles Lilith’s hair. “If you hadn’t jumped in there, our little girl might have been crushed.” She smiles over at Lilith like calling her “our little girl” is some sort of compliment or like the kid is completely mentally vacant. It’s probably a bit of both.

“Just seemed like the right thing to do,” I mutter. Clearly it was the right thing to do; the surprise came from the fact that no one else had done it.

For her part, Lilith just stares at the road ahead, not really responding except by stroking the contented Poe.

“What did you get up to last night?” Penelope asks, seemingly out of nowhere.

I glance at her.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” she says, not taking her eyes off the road. “I saw you come into the sideshow, but I never saw you leave. And I was in that tank for quite a long time. I find it to be relaxing.” She says the last bit like it’s some secret, as though swimming in a tank for a crowd of gawking people is her idea of a spa day.

A beat passes. My brain is too tired to try and come up with a suitable answer. I hadn’t gone back to my trailer until the second act was nearly over, and although I’d gone to bed right away, I couldn’t sleep at all. She’s got me cornered, but she doesn’t seem to realize it.

Apparently my lack of an answer is enough for her.

“It was a curious night, was it not?” she continues.

“I guess so.” I wish she’d just let me sleep. There’s no way I’m going to make it out of this conversation without sticking my foot in something.

“Did you run into Mab last night?”

I can’t help but jerk my head to look at her. She’s still not looking at me, though, and her voice is light.

“I only ask because I saw her enter Alligator Alley a few moments before you. It’s quite rare that she makes an appearance backstage. Especially with company. That man she was with…perhaps she found another plaything.”

Of course Penelope would have seen Mab and the man go backstage. I do my best to look completely unfazed. Disinterested.

“Didn’t see her,” I lie, and pray I’m getting better at it.

For a horrifying moment, I envision Lilith saying that she and I were hiding out under one of the trailers, spying on Mab, but she doesn’t seem to be paying us any attention.

“Hmm, well, they didn’t come out the same way either. They must have found something worth exploring.” She giggles to herself, and I lean back against the seat. I close my eyes. Just let me sleep. I really couldn’t care less if Penelope thinks Mab was screwing dangerous-looking Scandinavians.

“I’ve been wondering,” she says, after I’ve had just enough time to drift. “The terms of your contract, what are they?”

I sigh. Force myself awake. There’s no point trying anymore; Penelope wants company. And she certainly won’t get any juicy stories out of Lilith.

“I don’t know,” I say as I watch the road signs fly past.

“You don’t know?” she asks. There’s an incredulous note in her voice I don’t like.

“I don’t remember,” I say. “All I remember is signing the contract.”

“Interesting,” she says, almost a purr. “Remembering one’s contract is often a part of the contract itself, lest people forget why they joined on in the first place. I wonder if she had Kingston — ” Then she catches herself, though the slip seems far from unintentional, and switches subject. “No matter. The past is the past, after all.”

Lilith stirs beside me, making it impossible for me to concentrate on this new piece of information.

“Kingston. Kingston is pretty. King, king, king of hearts.” Her words are quiet, barely a whisper to her cat.

“He is pretty,” I say. Lilith is nearly a teenager, but I feel like I’m talking to a baby. “But I think he and Mel are a thing.”

Penelope laughs, then, which sounds horribly loud in the cab. When she finally gets herself under control, she throws me a glance and a devious smile.

“Oh, my dear,” she says, “I think not. Melody is, well. Melody plays for the other team, if you know what I mean.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Melody’s gay?”

“You didn’t realize?” she says. “Your brain must be more addled than I expected. Haven’t you noticed how she looks at you? No, Kingston and Melody are not a thing. He hasn’t been in a serious relationship for at least a dozen years. Trust me, I know everything in this company.”

If it wasn’t 7 a.m., and if I didn’t feel like my head was stuffed with cotton candy, I would have laughed. Melody’s gay. And Kingston is single. Which means I’m in the clear. I have been all along. I don’t know if it’s relief flooding through me, but I definitely feel better than I have since falling for him. Then the other half of Penelope’s statement tries to crash through my sleep-deprived mind. A dozen years? Is that some sort of joke? I don’t say anything, though. My feelings for Kingston are something I refuse to let her know about. Lilith is still humming Kingston’s name under her breath, singing it like some nursery song to Poe.

“Don’t tell me you have a thing for him?” Penelope says, looking over at me with an eyebrow raised.

“I don’t — ”

Lilith pipes up then, “Kingston is pretty. I like Kingston. He understands. He burns, too.”

Penelope continues on like Lilith’s not even there.

“Well?” she asks. “Don’t lie. I’m ever so good at picking out lies.”

And I’m ever so shit at lying.

“I guess…yeah,” I say. So much for keeping my cards hidden. Lilith looks at me. One eye twitches, and her expression doesn’t look so blank. “I think he’s nice,” I continue, though under Lilith’s gaze it comes out more as a question.

“Kingston is nice,” Lilith says, and her voice is a dangerous whisper, a frighteningly sane contrast. “Kingston is nice to me, and Kingston is mine.”

I stare at her a moment and then her face glazes over again, and she’s stroking Poe and humming under her breath once more.

Penelope casts me a glance. “Looks like someone’s got a crush.”

I can tell she’s not just talking about Lilith. I lean back against the window and close my eyes, wishing I’d shut up ten minutes ago.

“Well then,” Mab said, standing in one feline-smooth motion. It was only then that I realized she had changed clothes completely without me noticing, sometime between meeting me outside and coming in here. She was now in an elegant black lace dress, a burgundy bra and panties showing through the sheer fabric. I felt the heat in my cheeks rise at this — she’s probably old enough to be my mother, which she made an easy fact to forget — and looked at the walls. She continued speaking as if she weren’t wearing something almost too scandalous for Victoria’s Secret.

“Now that your terms are settled, I’ll show you around the company. You’ll find that we are a very warm, open community here.” She swept around the desk and put a hand on my shoulder. “Are you ready?”

She helped me to my feet and opened the door to the trailer. It was still pouring outside, but the moment she stepped out there was a large lacy umbrella in her hand, the type you’d expect to see Morticia holding in the Addams Family. She held it out for me, and when I stepped out into the rain, the door shut behind us on its own accord.

She led me around the trailers, pointing out who lived where and what the daily schedule was like, when to wake up for breakfast, and when my turn for washing pots would be. The exact memory was hazy; sometimes, when I thought back, I remembered blood on the knees of my jeans. Other times, I just remember them being ragged.

“And this,” she said, leading me to a small tent pitched up next to what she called the pie cart, “is Kingston. Consider him your tutor, if you will.”

“Vivienne,” Kingston said, and I was too entranced by everything to realize he already knew my name. His eyes were deep brown, the color of coffee, and there was something about the way his lip curved in the corner that made it look like he was on the verge of a joke. He was stunning. “It’s nice to meet you. Mab said you’d be joining us soon.”

I remember glancing back to Mab, who was smiling but had a look in her eyes that said, quite clearly, no more.

Kingston cleared his throat and took my hand. His touch was warm. He was in jeans and a worn Icelandic-style sweater, and there was a thick paperback on the table next to him. I tried to smile, but my heart was still racing from whatever it was that came before this. His touch wasn’t helping any, either.

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

For the first time in a long time, I actually meant it.

A few miles pass us by, and I’m starting to feel more awake. The caravan of trucks stops at a gas station around nine, and we all get out, stretch our legs, and head straight for the Dunkin’ Donuts for coffee and sugar. Kingston’s in there with Mel. They both look like they’re coming off some bad trip, with dark circles under their eyes and a shake to their hands as they hold their coffee cups. In the fluorescent lighting, their skin looks like paper. The high from Penelope’s revelation wears off. Here I was, thinking I’d run in and do something brave and stupid like kissing Kingston without so much as a hello. But they both look like they’re five steps from the grave. Not the time for large acts of desperation.

“You guys look like shit,” I say as I walk up to them. “You feeling okay?”

“What do you think?” Kingston says.

He starts to leave, and Melody and I follow. We sit on a concrete bench out front, one overlooking the highway and the sun that’s already burning through the haze of traffic. Kingston fishes around in his pocket and pulls out a pack of unmarked cigarettes. He takes one out and brings it to his lips, cups the other hand around it like he has a lighter, though I know it’s just a feint. The smoke that curls out smells like cinnamon and brimstone. His eyes practically flutter with happiness, though he still looks bone tired. We watch the rest of the troupe mill around for a while. Lilith’s near the dog park, doing somersaults in the grass while Poe stretches in the sun. When no one says anything, I speak up.

“I saw something last night.” There’s no one around, and Mab’s still in her black Jag E-Type, but I’m whispering nonetheless. I don’t care what Penelope was trying to hint at; these two are my only friends. “I tried to tell you after the act. But there was a guy in the crowd. Blond, seemed pissed off at everything.” I look at Kingston but he’s concentrating on his cigarette. He just doesn’t want to admit he should have listened. “After you found Mab, she came out and took him backstage.”

“So that’s what you were doing,” Melody says. I stare at her. “What? I was talking with Heath last night. He said you came in looking for Mab.”

Are there any safe secrets in this troupe? I look at Kingston and remember Lilith’s outburst. I wonder how long it will take for it to get back to him. I wonder if he’ll still talk to me after he knows. I take a few sips of coffee and then continue.

“Yeah, well, I found her. She and this guy, they were talking out back. Something about some treaty being broken.”

“They’re always looking for some reason to shut us down,” Kingston finally says.

“Who?”

“The Summer Court. Only other time we had to pack up like last night was ’83. Mab was raging for weeks.”

’83. So maybe Penelope wasn’t joking about his love life. I can’t help but stare at him and try to figure out if even his twenty-four-year-old body is one of his illusions. It’s not something I have brain power to think about. Melody nods and takes another nibble from her doughnut. She’s hunched over herself, elbows on knees, brown hair falling over her eyes. Give her some emaciated ribs and she’d easily pass for a junkie.

“But why?” I ask. “We’re just a circus.”

Kingston laughs and Mel chuckles, which once more turns into a hack she tries to hide behind a drink of coffee.

“Just a circus?” he asks. “You really think that’s what this whole operation is?”

I raise an eyebrow. “What else would it be? We travel around the country in a blue and grey tent, putting on shows. Sounds like a circus to me.”

“Viv,” Melody says when her coughing fit’s over. “We’re talking about Queen Mab here. The Faerie Queen of legend, ruler of the Winter Court. You really think she just gave up ruling an entire kingdom to wander the mortal world and put on a show?”

I shrug. “Everyone gets bored, right?”

Mel shakes her head and shares a what-an-idiot look with Kingston. Then she looks back at me with a grin on her face.

“Time for a lesson in supply and demand,” she says. “What do faeries live on?”

“I dunno. Honey?”

Kingston laughs again and continues where Melody left off.

“Not quite. Faeries live off dreams. Why do you think faerie tales exist in the first place? The fey are secretive as hell; if they wanted to remain anonymous, they would. So why would a group that prefers to stay away from mankind let mankind even know they exist?”

“I…”

“Right,” he says. “You don’t know. Faerie tales are like seeds.” He waves a hand, and the smoke trailing from his cigarette curls into itself, forms a tight little nut-shape floating in the air. “We tell them to kids because it makes their imaginations run wild with thoughts of magic and the supernatural.” The smoke-seed breaks open, tendrils sprouting wildly like vines. “Those thoughts feed the fey. Without them, they die.”

I interrupt him. “What happened before humans?”

“I’ve never asked,” Kingston says, an eyebrow raised. “The point is,” he continues, the tree of smoke-vines before him beginning to fade and wilt, “over time, faerie tales started to lose their ability to inspire. Kids believed them, but adults stopped. Technology overtook the story.” The smoke fades out entirely, blown away in a gust of wind. “The stories weren’t enough. So, Mab decided to be proactive. A more in-your-face approach.”

“She made us,” I say.

“She made us,” Kingston continues. “We spark people’s imaginations, get adults dreaming of the impossible. And those dreams, all those hopes and fantasies, they feed the fey.”

Melody spreads her arms wide. “We are the lunch ladies of the faerie world. The Dream Traders.”

She chuckles and coughs again, which stifles the humor of her statement.

“Okay, I’ll buy it,” I say. “But if that’s the case, why would the Summer Court want us to stop?”

Kingston gets an evil grin and takes one last, long drag on his cigarette, then flicks it to the curb. It turns into a moth and flutters away before ever hitting the concrete.

“Because,” he says, “if you hadn’t noticed, Mab’s a woman of business. All those dreams we procure, all that magical faerie food? It’s reserved. All for the Winter Court. Which, of course, means Summer is hungry. And pissed.”

“Can’t they make their own damn show?” I say.

“Come on,” Kingston says. “Faeries are proud. The Summer King would never stoop to imitating his enemy.”

“Besides,” Mel says, “The name Cirque du Soleil was already taken.”

We reach the new site a few hours later, in some town whose name I missed in between napping. It’s on a beach, I get that much. The trucks park a few hundred yards from the shoreline in what looks like an old soccer field. I jump out of the cab and stretch my legs. Poe slinks beside me and vanishes under the truck; Lilith slides out behind him.

“Lilith,” I say, quietly, once the door is shut. “What did Mab say to you last night? After you left?” She’s looking at me with a blank expression on her face. “You know,” I continue, “after she met with the bad man. We were hiding under the truck.” I crouch down to emphasize the point. She smiles, and I try to smile too. Her smile quickly fades.

“You’re mean,” she says. The sober tone is back. “You help me, make me think you’re my friend. But you want to take him from me. You’re bad. Bad. Just like bad man.”

Then she turns and runs off, cartwheeling toward the tide. I watch her go with a sinking feeling in my stomach. Just looking at her brings the scent of brimstone back to my nostrils. That, and the fact that when I looked into those green eyes, a part of me felt like I should be screaming.

Chapter Seven: Bye Bye Baby

The tent gets set up that night. I half-expect Mab to come out and demand that Kingston magic the tent back to standing, but much to my surprise — and Kingston’s, apparently — he’s been given the night off. Melody, Kingston and I sit on the beach and watch the moon rise over the water while behind us, lit by giant floodlights that turn everything the color of bone, the tent rises like a monstrous skeleton. The sound of the waves is accented with thuds and clangs and curses from the tent crew as they work their graveyard shift.

We don’t really talk, the three of us. Instead, we share two bottles of red wine and sink back into the sand. After the day we’ve had, there’s really not much space to say anything. All any of us are after is the calm that comes from good company and contented silence. Halfway through the first bottle, Melody lays her head in Kingston’s lap and stares at the stars while he runs his fingers absentmindedly through her hair. Something turns over in my chest when I see that, some memory of comfort and love I can’t quite place, but I don’t say anything. Now that I know it’s entirely platonic, I’m only filled with the hope that maybe, someday, he’ll act like that with me. I’m already tipsy before I can start thinking how I feel about this, this sudden knowledge that I have a sliver of a chance with Kingston. I can’t tell if it makes things easier or worse.

“I really don’t know what’s wrong with you,” he whispers to Mel, and he seriously sounds sorry about it, like it’s all his fault. She reaches up and touches his arm.

“Don’t worry,” she says with a small smile. “I’ll be fine.”

I turn back to watch the tide, my head filled with thoughts I wish I could share but can’t bring myself to voice. The man from the Summer Court, Lilith’s disapproving glare. My contract. It hasn’t even been a month and I feel more confused than when I started, like maybe things were simpler before I came here. Whatever “before here” actually entailed. The wine is not making it any easier to think.

A few minutes later, I look back over at the two of them, watch him run his fingers through her hair. Mel’s eyes are closed and her chest is rising and falling in rhythm with the tide. She looks peaceful like that, fast asleep. Even peaceful when she lets out a soft snore. Kingston’s looking out at the moon, his eyes distant. I’d give anything to switch places with Melody, to have him run his fingers through my hair.

He looks to me and smiles. Just that is enough to make my stomach warm.

“Why do you look at her like that?” I whisper, the wine making me bolder than I should be. Melody doesn’t stir.

“Like what?” he asks. He doesn’t stop twining his fingers through her hair. Yeah, I’d give anything to switch spots.

“Like you’re responsible for her.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

I huff and lean back into the sand.

“I could be here a while,” I say. “You might as well get used to the fact that if I don’t understand now, I will eventually.”

“What do you mean?”

I think back to my conversation with Penelope, though the memory is a swirl of wine.

“I don’t know how long my contract is,” I say.

He says nothing to that, but he doesn’t look away. It’s me that has to avert my gaze; there’s an intensity in those coffee-colored eyes I just can’t match.

“I am responsible for her,” he finally says.

“What?”

“Melody. I’m responsible for her.”

“She’s twenty-two,” I say.

“Age is deceiving,” he replies. I know he’s not just talking about Mel. He looks away. “I found her, much like — ” he stutters, “much like Mab found you. If not for me, she wouldn’t be here.” He brings his gaze back down and traces a finger along Mel’s forehead. Maybe it’s the drink, but I swear a faint blue light swirls beneath her skin, a pattern I barely glimpse before it’s gone. “If not for me,” he whispers, so soft I can barely hear it, “she wouldn’t be getting sick.”

“It’s not your fault,” I say, though the defense sounds weak. He doesn’t say anything, so I try to make an actual point of it. “I mean, Mab brought me here and some crazy shit’s gone down, but I don’t regret it.”

I look back to the tent, to the Shifters milling around. The sides are being pulled up now, the skeleton gaining skin.

“This is better than whatever I came from,” I say, though even as the words are leaving my mouth, I know it’s not true. I have no idea what I came from. I can’t even remember what street I lived on. The thought infuriates me for a moment, makes me want to scream at the top of my lungs and rip everything apart. And then it’s gone, and I don’t know what I was thinking about in the first place.

He laughs, and I look over.

“What?” I ask. What were we talking about?

He’s smiling. It looks genuine.

“You’re cute,” he says. “Drunk is a good look on you.”

“I’m not drunk,” I say. I realize a little too late that it sounds slurred. I chuckle and fall back in the sand.

“Get some sleep,” he says.

I don’t want to, but after all the running around today and the lack of sleep last night, it’s hard to resist.

I close my eyes and listen to the waves as I sway with the heaviness of wine. I want to tell him he’s beautiful, that he isn’t responsible for everyone. That Melody’s lucky no matter what because she has him looking out for her. I don’t say any of this; the words just won’t piece together. I’m drifting when I feel something brush through my hair. I don’t open my eyes to see if the fingers are real or just my imagination. Melody’s lucky she has you. When sleep comes, it washes everything to grey.

“Shit,” Kingston says, and I’m pulled from dreams of nothing. The sun is just rising, the pale light making everything pink and purple and beautiful. But that’s not enough to mask the screams coming from the tent. I sit up, sand stuck to every inch of me. Both Melody and Kingston are pushing themselves to standing.

“You don’t think?” Mel asks, and Kingston closes his eyes. Although he looks much more well-rested than yesterday, there’s a weariness around his eyes that seems to grow by the minute. If it weren’t for the screaming, I’d be sorely tempted to tell him to go back to sleep.

“I don’t want to find out,” he says.

My heart is sinking into the dirt. A crowd gathers by one of the trailers, and the scene from a few days ago is playing on loop in my head.

“Come on,” I say, and head toward the chaos.

The two of them are right behind me, and it’s not ’til I’m running up the grassy slope toward the field that I realize Melody’s lagging behind. I turn back. No, not lagging, limping. One arm is around Kingston, her face twisted with pain. She must have slept wrong or something. I don’t slow down. I want to see this before Mab takes over.

When I reach the trailers and push my way to the front of the crowd, I’m immediately glad I haven’t eaten anything yet.

It’s Roman. He’s naked, except for socks and boxers, like he’d been killed in his sleep. Except he was clearly awake for this; his eyes and mouth are wide open and his body is arched back, supported by six swords piercing his spine, the tips just poking out the front of his torso. He’s covered in thick blood that drips down his arms and pools on the grass below. His powder-blue mohawk is stained purple. Flies are already gathering.

I push aside the nausea and look around, scan the crowd, try to find someone who’s missing, something out of place. But everyone’s there, and everyone looks horribly shocked. Everyone except for Lilith, who’s nowhere to be seen.

The crowd parts like a sobbing Red Sea the moment Mab arrives. She isn’t even trying to look mortal, now. She glides over the ground like a wraith, the grass beneath her long, black, smoke-like dress turning to ice. Her green eyes are blazing, and I swear her nails are talons.

“What is the meaning of this?” she hisses, and the crowd draws back. She moves forward and reaches out, her hand hovering an inch above Roman’s face. “Roman,” she whispers, the intensity of her rage dimming with her words. “Who did this to you?”

She turns back to the crowd and points. Again, they part, all of them except Sheena, the purple-haired girl who was working the novelties booth two nights ago. She seems rooted to the spot, her eyes locked on Mab’s. I can tell she’s not afraid, but she looks wary.

“Come here, girl,” Mab says.

As Sheena steps forward, the troupe looks at her with fear and anger in their eyes, and I feel my own pulse start to race. Mab’s narrowed it down. Mab knows the killer, Mab is about to tell the world. My heart is hammering in my ears. It was Sheena all along. But why?

Sheena walks straight up to Mab and stares up into the eyes of hell, her head held high. I have to give it to the girl; she’s keeping calm even though every single one of us knows she’s about to turn to dust. Every nerve and muscle in me tightens, ready to fire as judgment is dealt.

“I should have done this the first time,” Mab says. She raises a hand…

…and steps aside, leaving a space for Sheena to approach the body.

“My Queen?” Sheena asks.

“It must be done,” Mab replies.

Something crosses Sheena’s features, hesitation and loathing, but she nods anyway. Her eyes close, her fingers clench into fists. And then she changes.

It’s not Shifter magic, which — according to Kingston — isn’t really magic at all, but something else entirely. Sheena’s body shivers like static on a screen, a flash of purple light and smoke, and then she’s no longer there. In her place is a tiny hovering orb of violet light. It takes a moment for the truth to hit, but there’s no mistaking that Tinkerbell-esque glow. She’s a fucking faerie.

I expect some great wave of magic, maybe for Roman to start speaking in tongues from his bladed bed, or for sparks of lightning to shoot out. But nothing happens. There’s a haze of smoke around the orb that seems to wrap around the body, but it’s so faint in the light of day that I can’t really see it. A few moments pass, and then I blink and the girl is standing there again, all purple hair and blue jeans. She looks down at the ground.

“I’m sorry, my Queen,” she whispers. “I cannot divine. Someone has hidden his sight from me.”

Mab hisses and the air around her grows dark, just for a moment.

“The Summer King,” she seethes. “It must be him.”

Sheena bows and steps back into the crowd. People edge away from her like she’s diseased, but I see the flickers in a few people’s eyes — the recognition, the longing. Sheena’s not the only fey hiding in our midst, but she’s clearly the only one who’s been outed. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why she looks like her dirtiest of secrets has just been aired. After all, it’s not like Mab makes any attempt at hiding what she is.

“What is this?” someone asks, and I look over to see the guy next to me — one of the jugglers, the one I don’t know — take a half step forward. “Mab, what’s going on?”

She studies him for a moment. I can’t stop staring at the blood dripping down from Roman’s pinky.

“It would seem,” she says, “that the Summer Court is trying to force us down. Which,” — she raises her voice — “Will. Not. Happen. Do you hear me, Oberon? My show will go on.”

I expect thunder to crackle or clouds to gather, but there’s no retaliation, no mark her words were heard. Everyone seems to be holding their breath, myself included.

“This…this wasn’t part of the contract,” the juggler continues. He takes a deep breath and looks around for support, but no one’s looking him in the eye. He’s sweating, but he doesn’t back down. He’s got guts. Mab raises an eyebrow. “You told us we’d be immortal so long as the contracts stood.” He takes another breath and I can feel everyone’s hackles rise.

Behind me, I catch Kingston whispering under his breath, “Don’t do it, you fucking idiot. Don’t do it.”

“Sabina’s dead. Now Roman. None of us are safe. Which means…which means our contracts are void.”

Mab smirks, but there isn’t even a drop of humor there. She takes a step forward.

“Is that so, Paul?” she says. Her voice is ice. “You believe your contract is forfeit?”

There’s a curl in Mab’s words that promises something horrible, but Paul isn’t stopping now that he’s gained steam. I have a sinking suspicion he’s been waiting to say this since Sabina had her throat sliced open.

“Yes,” he says. “Your part of the deal was immortality. I’m not going to sit around and wait for that to be proven false again.”

Mab chuckles. “You have served me for ninety-two years, Paul. And you are due to serve another forty before your contract is up. But if you believe I have failed my end of the bargain, well, I am an honest businesswoman if nothing else. I follow my own rules. You are free to go.”

The guy slouches visibly with relief.

“Thank you,” he says.

She nods and he begins to turn away.

“But,” she whispers. The word hangs in the air like an executioner’s ax. “As you will clearly remember from line 76 C, early termination of the contract for whatever reason also terminates the magic that kept you — what did you call it? Immortal.” Paul stiffens and looks back, his eyes wide. “Which means, my dear servant, that I can no longer protect you from the hands of time. Ninety-two years is a long time, Paul. And had you just waited another forty, you could have prevented them from ever catching up with you.”

Paul opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He reaches both hands up to his neck and makes a horrible gagging noise. No one goes to help him. We all just take a step backward and try not to flinch.

He drops to his knees as wrinkles etch themselves into his face and hands, his skin yellowing and sagging, his veins bulging blue. His hair turns white in a matter of seconds and falls to the ground like dandelion fluff, his teeth yellowing and following in stony suit. His whole body dries up from the inside out. His eyes roll back in his head as a spasm wracks him. He topples. And like a husk, he caves in upon himself, flesh eating skin, until all that’s left is a pile of clothes and a few mounds of ash.

“A shame,” Mab says, almost to herself. “I’ve lost two good performers today.”

She looks straight at me. Her eyes pin me like a cobra’s. “Vivienne. Can you juggle?”

“I — ” Then I realize it’s not a question and nod, my stomach sinking even further. Melody said I wouldn’t make it here if I didn’t learn to lie. I’m starting to think the opposite is true.

“Good,” Mab continues, completely ignoring my lack of confidence. “You will learn your routine from Vanessa and Richard. If you are not onstage by this time next week, you will be fired.”

She snaps her fingers, and Roman’s body collapses in a cloud of blue dust behind her.

“The show will go on,” she says again. “With or without the lot of you.”

In a sweep of shadows, she vanishes.