The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

Chapter Eight: Your Little Body’S Slowly Breaking Down

No one says anything after Mab leaves the murder site, but as the crowd disperses, Melody and Kingston stick behind with me. The two other jugglers — Vanessa, who’s short with a brown bob, and Richard, who’s tall with wavy black hair and a heart tattooed on his arm — come up and say they rehearse three hours a day, between lunch and dinner, and they’ll help me get as good as Paul in no time. They both look at Kingston when they say this, as though he holds the secret to success in his fingertips. When they leave, I can’t help but feel like I’ve been roped into a losing fight. It’s amazing how fast things can fall to shit.

“Come on,” Kingston says. He glances back at the swords scattered on the ground. Although Roman’s body is gone, his blood is still congealing in the sun. “Let’s get out of here.”

We head to a picnic bench on the edge of the beach. Melody is walking on her own, but she’s still got a limp, and Kingston hovers by her side like he’s waiting for her to collapse. When we reach the table, she leans back onto the wood and lies back to look at the sky.

“Remind me not to sleep on the beach again,” she says. “I feel like sand should have asked me on a date first.”

Kingston laughs but gives me an I told you so sort of look when she breaks into another cough. She's definitely getting worse. But even after our talk last night, I refuse to believe he can be responsible for it. Whatever it is.

“So,” Mel continues, oblivious to the shared look. “A juggler, eh? Frankly, I pinned you as more of an acrobat myself.”

“I’d rather not think about it,” I say. “I’ve never juggled in my life. Anyway, what the hell’s going on with you? Are you okay?”

She closes her eyes and the grin slips. “Nice diversion,” she says. “I’m fine.”

It would have been a convincing cover-up, if not for the hacking fit that immediately followed.

“Kingston?” I ask.

He sighs. “I don’t know. I can’t heal it, whatever it is.”

“I’m still here,” she says.

“I’m not saying anything you don’t already know,” he says. “Besides, Vivienne’s a friend. She deserves to know.”

And yeah, it’s sick in light of everything that’s happened in the last twenty minutes, but that statement makes me feel really, really good.

“Fine,” Mel says. “Yes, Vivienne. I appear to be quite ill, and our all-powerful witch can’t do anything about it. As you said, I’d rather not think about it.”

“I was going to talk to Mab,” Kingston says, half to me and half to Melody. “Whatever this is, it’s not normal. But I don’t know if she’s in the right mood to be confronted with another loophole.”

I sit down on the table and look back at the trailers. I wonder who’s going to gather up Roman's swords, and who’s going to take his place as head of the Shifters. I wonder if his blood will still be pooled on the ground when we go back.

“What do you think she’s going to do?” I ask. “I mean, clearly this isn’t a one-time thing. First Sabina, then Roman. If that Summer guy was telling the truth, we’re going to keep getting picked off one by one until the show falls apart.”

“I don’t even know,” Kingston says with a sigh. He runs his hands through his lank hair and looks out at the waves. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re already falling apart. All the Summer Court has to do is pull the right thread, and we’re done.”

“But they can’t, right? It’s Mab. You heard her. The show will go on.”

Melody answers, her words laced with bitterness. “Don’t gloss over the details, love. With or without the lot of you, she said. She’s only concerned with the show. I have no doubt that she’s willing to accept a few casualties if it means she can keep playing ringleader. Never stopped her before.”

She looks like she’s about to say more, but Kingston glares at her, which shuts her up instantly. No one says anything after that. It’s clear that she’s overstepped a line in the sand I’m not supposed to see. Apparently I don’t deserve to know everything. I can only hope that what I don’t know doesn’t get me killed.

As they promised, Richard and Vanessa find me at lunch that afternoon. I’m sitting across from Kingston while Melody rests in her trailer. I hadn’t said much to him during the meal. What was there to say? Sorry one of your friends died like one of Vlad Dracula’s victims, but hey, I hear you’re single so maybe we can go out to dinner sometime? By the way, what is it that you’re so obviously hiding from me, because I’m getting tired of waiting around, and I might be the next to go? There’s nothing to say, and the silence just grows and grows between us. Not that anyone else in the troupe is talkative. Today’s meal is even quieter than when Sabina was killed. So I just eat my salad and pasta primavera, and stare at Kingston’s left arm, where the head of his serpentine tattoo has suddenly taken up residence.

Vanessa spots me first. She sits down on my left side, setting her tray with a half-eaten salad and juice next to mine. The distraction is an immediate relief that I know won’t last long. She smiles at me, and I can’t tell if it’s friendly or laced with you-can-never-replace-him undertones. It makes me wonder if she and Paul ever had a thing in those ninety-two years of service.

“So,” she says, barely giving Kingston a second glance. “Do you actually know how to juggle?”

“Kind of,” I say. I try to think back, try to remember juggling oranges in my kitchen or something like that. The images are there, but they don’t seem to piece together quite right. It’s like looking through someone else’s childhood scrapbook. “I think so.”

“Don’t worry,” she says. “If we can’t train you, Kingston can always bewitch you into stardom.”

Kingston coughs slightly. “You know it doesn’t work like that, Vanessa,” he says over his mug.

Vanessa waves her hand, “Fine, fine, whatever it is you do, then. I’m just saying, with my skill and your magic, we’ll have no problem turning her into a young star.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. Okay, I know I probably couldn’t juggle if my life depended on it — and my life probably does depend on it — but I don’t think I’m that hopeless.

“I think it’s best if he explains,” Vanessa says. “I’d just get it wrong.”

“There’s nothing to explain,” Kingston says evenly. “How about you just do your job and train her. When that inevitably fails, come find me.”

Vanessa opens her mouth, but Richard’s arrival spares us from whatever she’s about to say. He steps up behind her and puts his broad hands on her shoulders. He looks maybe ten years older than her; he’s probably in his late thirties. But when she looks up at him, her face instantly becomes all smiles. If that isn’t an I’m-sleeping-with-you look, I don’t know what is.

“Hey, guys,” he says. “Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all,” Kingston replies.

“Good,” he says. “I was hoping I could steal Vanessa. We’re going to have to piece together a duo act for tonight.” He turns to me. “Unless you think you’ll be ready by then?” He grins.

I decide in that moment that if I had to choose to save either him or Vanessa from being eaten by sharks, I’d choose him. Neither of them act fazed by the fact that their partner was just aged to death in front of their eyes. Maybe Kingston was right; maybe everyone is only looking after their own asses.

“Only if you want it to be a clown act,” I say. I can no longer remember if it was juggling I was good at as a kid, or unicycling. Or maybe I’d just wanted to be able to do them.

He chuckles and helps Vanessa to her feet. They walk off, leaving me, Kingston, and Vanessa’s half-empty tray.

“Bitch,” Kingston says the moment she’s out of earshot.

“What was that all about?” I ask.

“She’s still pissed that I slept with Richard a few decades back. In my defense, they hadn’t been seeing each other for at least a year. Girl can hold a fucking grudge.”

My stomach does a flip and I can’t tell if it’s because he just admitted to sleeping with a guy or because he just said he’s at least a few decades old. Then again, after watching Paul turn to ash, the notion that Kingston is much older than he appears isn't as shocking as it should have been. My mouth is hanging open like a fish, which just brings a smile to his face.

“What? It gets boring here. You can’t blame me for playing both sides of the field.”

Which just makes me wonder how many people he has slept with. I mean, I can’t judge. Even though I can’t remember my sexual exploits — which doesn't speak very highly of them — I know I’m no virgin. But still…how many? I didn’t even really care about the genders.

“I…That’s not what I meant. What did she mean by that whole bewitching me to stardom thing?” I say.

“Oh.”

Kingston picks at the food on his plate, then looks up at me and points his fork at my face.

“How do I put this? You’ve seen The Matrix, right?”

“Sadly.” I’m not certain how that memory stands out, but it’s there, swimming in the haze of my past.

He smiles, but his voice is serious. “Well, it’s sort of like that. If necessary, I can…download, if you will, things into your memory. Make you know how to do things you couldn’t do before.”

“You what?”

“It sounds bad,” he says. “But I don’t use it if I don’t have to, and even then, I only use it if the person asks. And even then, only if Mab allows it, and writes it into the contract. But she almost never allows cutting corners.”

“So you could make me think anything you wanted.”

Like making me fall madly in love with him. The moment the thought crosses my mind, I push it away. After all, if Disney taught me anything, it's that love can't be forced through magic. Thank you Aladdin.

He raises an eyebrow. “In theory, yes. In practice, no.” His voice drops. “Consider me reformed.”

Then he points his fork at Vanessa’s salad and it bursts into flames, instantly disintegrating into ash.

“Don’t fool yourself, Vivienne,” he whispers, almost to himself. “I might have the magic, but the others…they’ll get into your head way before me.”

Practice is a disaster.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the black eye and three bruises on my chest from missed passes. So after about twenty minutes of having clubs thrown at my face and torso, and subsequently missing every single one, Richard and Vanessa give me three juggling balls. They scoot me over to one corner, where I can practice without interrupting them and they can keep an eye on me.

“It’s like trying to keep a beat,” Vanessa says in a voice most people reserve for very small and very stupid children. “You have to imagine a rhythm, and throw at the proper time.” She demonstrates by throwing the balls in the air, while saying, “One, two, three, catch.”

They land in her hands like magic. I don’t care that she’s probably been doing this longer than I’ve been alive: I hate her for making it look so easy. “Keep trying,” she says, and hands them back to me. She stands up to go and I stand with her, but she puts a hand on my shoulder and pushes me back down. “No,” she says. “Don’t move around. The balls need to stay in one plane. If you move, you won’t learn anything.”

Then she goes back over to Richard — who is, of course, practicing with knives. Eight of them. They're even on fire. I stay in the corner to fumble around on my own. I try. Over and over. But I don’t have the coordination, and with every failed attempt, the image of Mab’s angry face grows in my mind. Then I just start freaking out that in this case, getting fired might actually mean getting incinerated. An hour later, Vanessa tells me to head out before I frustrate myself. A bit too late for that. I drop the balls into their prop trunk and wander off, sorely tempted to find Kingston and have him Matrix me.

I don’t, of course. Instead, I make my way back to the trailers and find Sheena sitting by herself under the awning of the dining area, a book in one hand and a mug in the other. I’ve only spoken with her once, in my first week here. She took me aside after dinner and asked to read my tea leaves. As I drank down the bitter tea, we made small talk about life and art and how nice it was to get away. When she read the dregs, her eyebrows furrowed, and she said my future was hazy, like my past. Then she started talking about all the indie bands she’d seen on tour, and asked what sort of music I liked. We hadn’t spoken much since then, but she smiled at me whenever she saw me. For me, that made her my friend. I sit down beside her, and it’s not until I clear my throat that she looks up and notices me there.

“Oh, Vivienne. Sorry.” She holds up the book. “Got carried away.”

“It’s fine,” I say. I’ve been trying to figure out how to broach the subject all day, and I still haven’t gotten an idea. So I just ask straight out, “Why are you hiding that you’re a faerie? I mean, you’re in good company.”

She does a little half-smile and puts the book down. It’s then that I notice the coffee cup is empty, but she’s still cradling it like it’s the nectar of life.

“Well,” she says. “That’s a political matter. I’m kind of a refugee.”

A few months ago, I’d have no clue what she was talking about. Now I was catching on.

“You’re from the Summer Court,” I say, because it’s not really a question.

She smiles at me, and her cheeks dimple. “Yes,” she says. “A few years ago, I found myself on the losing end of a deal with a satyr. My only option was to flee, but in Faerie, there’s nowhere to go. Mab found me and offered me sanctuary in exchange for my services to the show.”

“And let me guess: the Summer Court still has a warrant out for your arrest.”

Sheena laughs at this. “I’d say arrest is a nice way of putting it. Eternal torture and servitude is more accurate.”

“Thus the human disguise.”

She nods, and her smile slips. “I don’t know how you manage to do it. Human skin is so…suffocating.”

“Are you worried?” I ask. “That someone will sell you out? Now that you’re in the open.”

“Not really,” she says. The smile she gives me is horribly sad. “Mab and I sorted that out when I signed on. If I’m ever taken from the troupe against my will, my life is immediately forfeit.”

“You mean your contract will kill you if you’re stolen?”

“Yes,” she says. “There are many worse things than death.”

And now we’re edging close to the subject I’ve wanted to ask her about all day. I still don’t have a nice segue, so I just ask.

“Like what happened to Roman?” I whisper.

“Yes,” she says. “Though his death was quick in comparison to what to my own fate would be. He was just a half-blood, not a traitor like me.”

I pick the next words carefully. Sheena seems to be the first person who is honestly willing to talk about what’s been going on. I don’t want to mess this up.

“So…your safety’s clearly important to Mab. Why would she jeopardize all that? What was she asking you to do?”

“Big questions,” Sheena says. “And I can’t answer the first because I truly do not know. As to what she wanted from me, well…in my contract, she has the right to call upon my skills whenever she deems it necessary. Today was such a time.”

“And those skills are?”

“I’m a medium.”

“You’re like Miss Cleo?”

“No,” she says with a laugh. “When I’m in my true form, I can communicate with the recently deceased, before they pass on. I can catch the last few moments of their life, ask them questions. In the case of murder, I can see who or what killed them.”

“But you said you were blocked from Roman?”

“Yes,” she says, and her eyes look down to the ground. “His spirit was there. I could sense it. But it was blocked. I couldn’t reach it.”

“I take it that’s never happened before.”

She laughs, “It should be impossible. Like everything else going on.”

The show goes up that night without a hitch. Anyone on the outside wouldn’t have noticed a thing. But for those of us within the troupe, well, it felt different. There’s an energy before a show — an excitement and expectation — like every time has the potential to feel like the first. Not so this time around. The clouds came in shortly after dinner; the sky grew heavy, mirroring our mood. There was no pre-show circle and cheer. There was no pep talk from Mab to rally our spirits after the horrendous morning. No. She was absent, appearing only to introduce the show and to do her postintermission whip act. No one knew where she spent the rest of the time, and no one was about to ask.

I watched the jugglers from the side aisle. Vanessa and Richard flipped and cartwheeled and threw clubs and knives and flaming torches high in the air, cartwheeling around before coming together for the dramatic catches. Not a single club was dropped, and when they took their bow, their faces gleamed like they’d been a duo act all along. The entire thing made my stomach clench. There was no way in hell I’d ever be that good. No way. Not in a week.

When the magic show was up, Melody appeared onstage with a ton of makeup to cover whatever was ailing her, and Kingston played up his part of fumbling magician with panache. For their final trick, he waved his wand in the air, chanting a gibberish spell he told the crowd would make Melody grow ten feet tall before their very eyes. “A feat,” he said, “defying the laws of her seemingly prepubescent nature.” But rather than change height, she disappeared in a puff of pink smoke and laughing applause. Kingston bowed and walked offstage. I followed.

“How’s she feeling?” I ask when I find him backstage.

“Horrible,” he says. He flops down on a trunk and peels off the cape, tossing it onto the table beside him. This time, the serpent tattoo is curled over his stomach, the head nestled between his shoulder blades and the tail spiraled around his navel.

“Where is she?” I ask.

“Back in bed,” he says. “I sent her straight back to her trailer. I don’t want her getting any worse.”

He bites his lip. It doesn’t make him look cute or childish. It makes him look like every worry in the world is stacked on his shoulders.

“You really care about her, don’t you?” I ask. I want to reach out and comfort him, tell him it will all be okay. But I don’t, because I can’t be sure about that, and I’ve already gotten myself neck-deep from one lie today.

“She’s like a sister,” he says. “I don’t know what I’d do if she got hurt.” His voice hitches.

That does it for me. I sit down beside him and, before I can think better of it, put an arm around his shoulders. He stiffens and then leans into me, his hair tickling my chin. He smells like talc and spice and I want to remember that scent forever. I don’t want to have to let him go.

“She’ll be okay,” I say, praying it’s not a lie. “It’s just a cold.”

“Don’t you get it?” he says, but his words aren’t at all harsh and he doesn’t push away. He just sounds tired. “She can’t get sick. She is contractually obligated not to get sick, just like the rest of us. She’s being targeted.”

Things click, things that I don’t want making sense.

“You think she’s next,” I say.

He doesn’t answer, just nods and takes a deep, slow breath.

“This is fucked up,” he says. “We’re just sitting around like ducks waiting to be picked off.”

Something burns inside of me, and before I realize what I’m saying, the words tumble out of my mouth.

“I’ll protect you. I’ll protect both of you.”

He leans away from me then and gives me a wry smile.

“That’s cute. Heroic, even. But if Mab can’t protect us, what hope do you have?”

Chapter Nine: Too Close

I’m wandering around a few hours after the show. The punters are gone, and the lot is empty of cars. A couple performers are outside at the pie cart having cake and coffee and trying to make light conversation, but I don’t stick around very long to listen in. My feet feel antsy. The need to wander is tugging at me, but there’s nowhere to go. Besides, I don’t want to go far after this morning’s horrifying reality check. The sky above is completely clouded over, and the air tastes like rain. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something flash, and I shrug it off as lightning. I kick the popcorn box at my feet, trying to convince myself to pick it up and throw it out. I’m still trying to figure out how, precisely, I’m going to protect everyone, and kicking this box around the big top is about all the answer I’ve found so far. Another flash goes up, this one a soft blue that lasts for more than a split second. I look toward it. Down at the beach, someone is shooting off fireworks.

The time it takes for my mind to decide between popcorn box and fireworks is infinitesimal. I head to the beach.

Once I’ve left the pitch behind and am halfway down the sloping lawn, I hear the music. It gets louder with every footstep, and the fireworks are growing more chaotic. Brilliant flashes and bursts are going up every second. But they aren’t making any noise, and nothing’s flying higher than the shrubs that are blocking my view. Must just be ground flares or something.

I slow down when I reach the shrubs. The music is loud — some pop song with a heavy dance beat that reminds me a bit too much of the music from Noir. I still can’t hear any noise from the fireworks, even though I can’t be more than a few yards from their detonation point. When I clear the shrubs, I stop.

Kingston is standing in the sand, barefoot and wearing a pair of dark cargo shorts and nothing else. There aren’t any fireworks.

He’s dancing along to the music, his eyes closed or half-lidded, the sweat making his body shine. His feet trace circles in the sand and his arms sweep around. One hand reaches out, stretching to the lake, and curls of light snake from his forearm and flare over the ground. He looks different, somehow. His hair is matted, sand is covering his bare calves. And that’s when I realize what’s different. His tattoo is moving.

The serpent is undulating across his skin, twining from neck to shoulder, curling around his arms, as sinuous as the dance Kingston is weaving. Lights pulse from his fingertips, arcing over his body. Every movement of his arms is traced by light, every thrust of his hand and kick of his leg throws sparks over the sand. He is wild and feral, yet his movements are deliberate and controlled, like some form of tai chi on crack. The music is pulsing, pulsing, and he responds.

I know I’m not meant to be seeing this. I don’t really know what it is I’m seeing, but it seems personal, private, and the last thing I want is for him to open his eyes, see me there, and stop. I could watch him move all night.

Right before I tear my eyes away, though, he stops and cups his hands at his stomach. His head tilts back to the sky. The music is still throbbing wildly and I want to dance, want him to dance, but something’s changing now. The serpent tattoo gathers at his stomach. As he pulls his hands up, the serpent moves, like he’s holding it in his hands. He brings his arms above his head and the tattoo writhes up one arm, curls around his wrist, and, in a flood of silver-gold ink, spills into the sky.

I gasp. I can’t help it. And that’s when Kingston opens his eyes and looks straight into mine. He lowers his arms and the glowing feathered serpent floats in the air above him, curling like a snake in water.

“How long have you been watching?” he asks.

I can hear his voice perfectly, and it’s only then that I realize the music has faded out. There isn't a stereo to be seen.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask instead. I can’t keep my eyes off the creature hovering and twisting above his head. Its path leaves traces of light behind my eyelids every time I blink.

“Practicing,” he says. He follows my gaze and grins. “Vivienne,” he says. “Meet Zal.”

The serpent-dragon-thingy turns to regard me. And winks.

“What is it?” I ask. I start walking forward, my feet sinking into the sand. I’m drawn to the apparition like a moth to the flame.

“My familiar,” he says. The serpent drifts down and wraps around Kingston’s outstretched arm, almost like it’s perching there. “All witches have one.”

I’m only a few feet away now. I can see every glittering scale on the thing. Its body is the palest gold, and the feathers sprouting from its head are teal and mint and dusty rose. Its eyes are golden yellow, like amber. They’re the only part of the thing that seems solid. Kingston reaches his free hand over and strokes the snake’s mane. I swear it purrs.

“But what is it?” I say again.

“A Quetzalcoatl,” he says. “I found him while we were doing a tour in Mexico. Mab was in one of her better moods and said it was time I found my familiar. I’d only been with her for a year or two by then, and I still didn’t really know what it means to be, well, a witch.” His lip twitches in a smile, as though he’s still not used to the word. “Anyway, she took me…somewhere. First, we were walking down some back alley in Mexico City and then, bam. We’re in the middle of a tropical jungle straight out of National Geographic. And right in front of us was this temple, older than old. Aztec, she said. And hidden from mortals by their priests. It looked like a pyramid, but the sides were entirely made up of steps and there was some sort of pavilion up top. She made me walk up alone. When I got there, I found him curled up on top of an obsidian mirror.”

The serpent makes its purring noise again, rubbing its head against Kingston’s pec. Kingston smiles and ruffles its feathers.

“The moment I saw him, I knew he was my familiar. It just clicked. He’s been with me ever since.” He glances at me and his grin widens. “You can pet him, if you want. He doesn’t bite.”

It’s stupid how much I trust Kingston. I reach out and pet the thing without hesitation. It feels like warm static beneath my fingertips, just the barest amount of solidity.

“He’s beautiful,” I say, because there’s really not much else to say when looking at something that probably descended from a god. “Why do you keep him as...why is he your tattoo?”

Kingston shrugs. “Keeps him nearby. A familiar is an animal extension of a witch’s soul, so it made sense. Besides, people tend to stare when he's out.”

I look from the golden creature to the space on Kingston’s chest where it usually resides.

“I think people stare no matter what,” I say. The words tumble from my mouth before I can stop them. My face immediately heats up in a violent blush. Thankfully, he just laughs while I desperately try to change the subject.

“Why are you out here?” I ask again, because I know in my gut he hasn’t really answered.

Kingston looks down and kicks the sand at his feet like a little boy.

“When I practice…it’s the only time I feel like I have any control over all this anymore. You know?”

I nod. I do know. It’s the same reason I’m out here, the same reason my tired body refuses to give in and sleep. Someone we care about is in danger and there’s nothing — nothing — we can do about it.

Kingston stares at me. Not in a quizzical way, and not in a joking way. He’s looking at me like he knows precisely what I’m doing on the beach. Like that’s throwing him for a loop. I’m suddenly all too aware of my pulse and how it’s speeding up. What a first kiss this would be, standing on the beach and bathed in the light of his godly familiar. He catches the current and takes a half step toward me. My heart sticks in my throat. His heat is unbearable, the scent of his cologne fills me as he leans in.

It begins to rain.

And I’m not talking a romantic drizzle, I’m talking about a full-on downpour, like God decided to fuck with me and turn the tap on full blast. Kingston’s head shoots up and Zal starts writhing around above his head again. I am soaked to the bone in seconds. When Kingston speaks, I can barely hear him through the din. He looks disappointed and also a little embarrassed.

“We should get you inside,” he says, putting a hand on my arm. His touch is hot. I can practically hear the rain sizzling off his skin. “Don’t want you getting pneumonia.”

I bite my tongue. Go figure. Go fucking figure. But I’m not about to act desperate. Not now, not when his familiar’s watching like an expectant house cat.

“Right,” I say.

We don’t say anything else as he guides me back up to the trailers, but his hand doesn’t stray from my arm, not until we get back to my bunk and he opens the door. Once I’m inside, he snaps his fingers. I’m dry immediately.

I can’t really describe how he looks, standing on the bottom step of my trailer, his hair dripping rivers down his soaked body, and every inch of him glowing in Zal’s golden light. One hand is on the door frame, like he’s trying to hold himself up. Or back. I’m not sure which. And I want nothing more than to lean over and kiss him goodnight, but I don’t.

“Goodnight,” I say.

“Goodnight,” he replies.

Then he raps his hand on the frame once and steps down. I close the door before I can change my mind about the whole kissing thing. A part of me hopes that he’ll knock. I even wait by the door a few breaths, just in case.

He doesn’t.

I stay in my bunk ’til one, when the chapiteau is dark and everyone is definitely fast asleep. I’m still antsy after seeing Kingston, and my head is ringing with his words. It makes me feel like I have some control over all this. I may not have any magic or a divine familiar, but I’m not about to sit around and wait. No, I’m not going to be that person anymore. When my watch beeps at one, I don my raincoat and head to the pie cart to pour myself a mug of lukewarm coffee. I sit under the canopy of the dining area and watch the trailers. I try not to shiver and try not to look suspicious in case anyone braves the weather to use the Porta-Potties on the edge of the field. No one does. I’m alone for the first cup, and then the second. Kingston’s trailer is dark, and I have no doubt he’s asleep after our earlier encounter.

I check my watch. One thirty. I pull the raincoat tighter and head out, wandering over to the sparse woods on the other side of the trailers. I crouch the entire time, but no one’s out. I find a place among the undergrowth where I’m pretty certain I can blend in with the tree trunk behind me, and I watch. Melody’s trailer is right in front of me. I wasn’t just being overzealous when I told Kingston I’d protect them. I keep my word.

I sit and I wait. I don’t know what I expected when I psyched myself into guard duty, but it wasn’t the reality of getting soaked to the bone and having pine cones digging into my ass. I shiver, but I don’t move. I watch Melody’s door and it’s only when I check my watch and see that only twenty-three minutes have gone by that I start to wonder if this is even necessary. If Kingston suspected something, he’d be on guard and would have enchanted or hexed the door to make it impenetrable or something like that. Hell, maybe Zal was patrolling the woods right now, if he could do such a thing. Kingston was right; if Mab couldn’t protect us — and if I didn’t trust Kingston’s magic — what chance did I have? Still, as uncomfortable as it is, I feel better sitting out here in the rain with the owls. At least I’m thinking that I’m doing more than I would if I were back in my warm, cozy trailer. I shove the thought away and try to shift my weight off whatever twig is getting a little too personal with my personal space. The rain pours. The trailers stay dark. Nothing happens.

I’m about to call it a night at 1:59 when something crosses my path. My heart leaps into my throat, but I keep quiet. A moment later, I realize it’s not a person or Zal or a wandering faerie. It’s Poe. The cat curls up at my feet and I reach out to stroke it. Its fur tingles like static under my touch.

“Lilith,” I hiss into the rain. “Where are you?”

I can barely hear my own voice over the sound of water falling through the trees, but something above me snaps and I jerk my head to the branches above. There’s a shadow moving around up there, though I can’t really make it out. She says nothing, but I can tell it’s Lilith. The figure waves, and I wonder if I’ve been forgiven for liking Kingston, or if she’s forgotten entirely. At least we have the same idea of whom to protect. I settle back down and keep watch.

Time ticks by and the only things that move are the rain and Poe shifting around in front of me. The cat starts shying away from my touch, so I stop trying, keeping my hands shoved in my pockets to stay warm, and wishing either something would happen or the sun would rise so I could go to bed. I check my watch again. 2:43.

Poe stirs, stretches, and wanders off.

Something behind me rustles, and I assume it’s just the cat chasing a waterlogged mouse. Then I hear voices, and my breath catches.

I turn, very, very slowly, and sink even deeper to the forest floor. I try to blend in with the undergrowth that I’m now thanking rather than cursing for making this entire stay uncomfortable as hell.

I can’t see anything, not in the darkness. And through the rain, I can’t make out distinct voices. Just words. I try to edge closer, every inch of my skin on fire with adrenaline. Someone’s definitely out there, someone trying to remain hidden. I sneak closer, down an all fours, my stomach grazing the ground as I crawl. Then I stop, because I can hear them now, two voices. One of them, I’m sure, is the blond guy, but the other? Wherever she is, I hope Lilith’s getting a better view than I.

“…can’t back out now,” the man’s voice hisses. I can just imagine him, the shadow of him, standing only a few feet away. “You know what’s at stake. The Dream Trade must stop.”

The response is whispered, a mumble I can barely make out.

“Had enough?” the man says. “Too much blood on your hands?”

Another pause, and it sounds like someone’s crying their words out. If I could get closer…

“No,” the man says. “The next phase will happen, with or without your help.”

Another sob.

“If you fail — ” and then he pauses. I hear a snap as something moves closer to me. My blood is pounding louder than the rain, and the only thing I can think is shit shit shit. Then there’s a hiss, and the man curses as Poe leaps from the underbrush.

“Damn cat,” he says. Another pause. “Leave,” he finally says. “And do your part.”

I don’t move. I don’t know how I can tell, but the guy is gone, vanished like he had before. I don’t dare move an inch in case he’s hovering somewhere nearby. I stay there, crouched in the mud, waiting for him to put a knife in my back or for the other person to stumble across me. Nothing happens. Time ticks by, and every inch of me aches from stillness. The rain doesn’t stop. Lilith doesn’t appear by my side. There’s nothing but rain and silence.

I don’t leave, though. I don’t move. Not if something is about to happen, not if there’s a threat.

Only when the first streak of light brightens the rain clouds do I move away from my spot. Only when I’m positive Mel hasn’t been taken, and that the people I care about are safe. I strip off my raincoat and scurry back to my trailer, stepping gently inside so none of the other bunks register the shift of weight. I dry off and curl up under the covers, hoping I’ll get enough sleep to last the rest of the day.

I close my eyes and picture only cold and darkness and conspirators bathed in shadows, but at least my friends are safe. At least we’re safe.

CHAPTER TEN: NOTHING FAILS

I don’t think my eyes have been closed for ten minutes when someone’s knocking at my door. There’s bile in my throat and a cold that won’t get out of my limbs, but I push myself out of bed and open the door. No fucking way keeps repeating in my head. Everyone’s safe. They have to be safe. But somehow I know that’s not the case.

It’s Lilith. Not Kingston, coming to say that someone else has bit the dust. I highly doubt the girl has that sort of mental capacity. I could kiss her in relief.

She ducks under my arm and comes into the room, Poe gripped tight in her hands. Her clothes are dry and clean, but there’s a smear of mud across her pale forehead and her eyes are just as shadowed as Melody’s were yesterday.

“Bad man,” she says the moment she sits on my bed. “Bad man, bad man’s here. Bad man wants us.”

I look out the door once more and make sure there isn’t a commotion. No one is screaming about another death, so I close it and look at the kid shaking back and forth on my bed. She looks like a doll. One that walks around your house at night stealing knives and hiding your puppy in the freezer.

“The bad man,” I say. “Yes, you saw him last night. Who was with him?”

“Bad man,” she says. “Bad man chasing, bad man finding.” She looks up at me. “You can’t protect them.” Her voice has turned eerily sober once more. “And they can’t hide from him. She will die. And he will die. We will all die if the Summer Court finds us.”

“Who?” I ask. “Kingston? Mel?”

But she’s back in la-la-land, singing Kingston’s name under her breath. I sigh. The only other person who saw what happened last night is as good as a vegetable. The sigh becomes a yawn, and I’m about to ask her to leave or at least make room on the bed so I can continue my nap, when there’s another knock on my door.

I open it. Kingston. Fuck.

“It’s Melody,” he says before I even say hello. “She’s not waking up.”

We’re out the door and walking toward her trailer in a heartbeat, Lilith at our heels. She’s still singing his name, but Kingston doesn’t seem to notice. I swear the world has slowed down; I can feel every footfall, every beat of my acidic heart pounding out its terrible truth. I failed. I failed. I failed.

“What happened?” I ask. No one’s outside except for the cooks in the pie cart, and the air smells like bacon. “What do you mean she’s not waking up?”

He gives me a look. “I went in to check on her. And she didn’t wake up. What doesn’t click for you?” His words are biting, but they aren’t hitting home. If roles were reversed I’d be just as terse.

Lilith giggles at that. “Kingston’s smart. Lilith’s smart, too.”

“Yes you are,” he says in an offhand way. Then we’re at Melody’s door, and he opens it without knocking.

Her bunk is the same size as mine, with the same furniture setup, except the curtains drawn across the windows give the room the feeling of a crypt. The stale air and stench of sweat don’t help. Kingston walks right up to the window and opens it, letting in light and fresh air. Melody is on her bed, the sheets tangled around her. I move closer and see the sweat dripping down her forehead. Her eyelids look like they’ve been covered in dark stage-makeup. She’s pale — pale as her white sheets — and except for the slightest tremble of her lips, she’s not moving.

Lilith sidles up beside me and stares down at Melody. Poe purrs loudly in her hands.

“Melody’s sick?” she asks, like a child asking why Granny isn’t coming home from the hospital.

“Very,” Kingston says, stepping over to Melody and putting a hand on her forehead. A soft haze seems to flow from his fingertips, but it only lasts a second before he slumps to sitting on the bed as well. He runs his hands through his hair. Zal is once more twined around his arm, its head on the back of Kingston’s hand. The ink is a little smudged, as though even the serpent’s tired of trying to hold itself together.

“Lilith,” he says. “Would you…would you please get Mab?”

“Auntie Mab?” Lilith asks.

“Yes,” he says. He sounds so, so tired. “Tell her there’s something wrong with Melody. Now, please.”

Lilith puts Poe on the ground and nods, then turns and opens the door for her cat. They both slink out into the filtered light.

“You didn’t leave her side last night, did you?” There’s a thermos sitting on the desk beside her bed, along with a book I remember Kingston carrying around. “You stayed in here to keep an eye on her.”

“Someone had to,” he says, with more venom in his words than I expected.

“I was outside,” I whisper. “In the woods. Watching.”

He looks at me and there’s a surprised smile on his lips, but it fades in a moment. “I don’t know what’s wrong. No one came in, nothing changed. Zal was patrolling just outside the trailer all night. I didn’t sleep at all and now — ” He leans back against the wall and closes his eyes. “Now I’m too tired to light a candle, let alone heal her. I failed her, Viv. She’s going to die because of me.”

“No, she won’t,” I say. “I think I know what’s going on. Last night, I heard someone out in the woods. Well, two people, but I only heard the one. It was the Summer Court guy. He said something about the next phase needing to happen.” I nod my head to Melody and whisper, “Do you think she’s the next phase?”

“How could she be?” he asks. “She doesn’t have any magic. She’s just a girl.”

“I thought she was — ”

“She’s not,” Kingston whispers. He closes his eyes, like he doesn’t want to witness what he’s about to say. “She’s mortal, like you. She just doesn’t like admitting it.”

I stare at Melody for a moment and wonder what got her into this mess. Was she an orphan like me? Or was she running from something else? I sit down on the other end of the bed and put a hand on her forehead. She’s burning up. If she had been running from something, it looked like it was finally catching up. Knowing this…she looks so much tinier, so much more frail. I always expected her to have some magical ability she never let on, something that made her invincible. But she was normal, mortal, and Kingston brought her here. Why? I don’t have time to ask him.

The door opens, and Mab walks in. She’s in her sequined dressing gown, her hair loose and curling down her back. Her face is guarded, but she doesn’t seem wrathful, at least not now. She closes the door softly behind her and raises an arm like she’s throwing confetti into the air. The walls of the bunk glow gold for a moment — the slightest shimmer of light — and then are normal.

“Prying ears,” she says, and steps forward, leaning in between Kingston and me to examine Melody.

For a moment, no one says anything as Mab traces Mel’s outline with her hands. I watch Mab’s face, but it gives nothing away, not a hint of concern or recognition or rage. She is a perfectly painted mask of obsidian eyebrows and crimson lips. When she steps back, she looks at the both of us.

“Which of you found her like this?” she asks, her voice a smoky whisper. It’s exactly what she said when we gathered around Sabina. My stomach drops.

“I did,” Kingston says. “I didn’t leave her last night, after the show. She said she wasn’t feeling well, so I decided to keep an eye on her.” Neither of us mentions meeting on the beach. Neither of us wants to wonder if that’s when she became so ill.

“And in the light of all that has happened, you failed to come to me?” Mab’s voice has a dangerous edge, even though her tone is still perfectly civil.

“You had enough on your plate,” Kingston says. He doesn’t flinch from Mab’s gaze. I’ve never seen the two of them interact before this, but somehow, there’s no sense of a power struggle. They both seem to be on the same playing field. And that field is way, way above me. “I figured it was just a…a by-product.”

There’s a silence in the room, then, one that makes me feel they’re sharing more than I can catch, one that makes me feel like I shouldn’t be there. It makes me wonder if that’s precisely why Kingston came and got me first. I’m the buffer to keep Mab’s rage in check.

“Perhaps so,” Mab says. “But whatever illness has taken her…it's not normal. She has been cursed.”

“I know,” Kingston says. “I can’t break it.”

“Nor can I,” Mab says. “But that’s precisely why you brought her in, isn’t it?”

They both look at me.

“What?” I ask.

“I thought, perhaps — ” Kingston begins, but Mab waves her hand and cuts him off.

“You put your love of this girl,” she says, and a part of me hopes she means me, and not Melody, “before your obligations to the show. Under normal circumstances, you know what that would entail.” She looks again at Kingston, and there’s a sneer, one that says she’s caught on to the game. “But these aren’t normal circumstances, are they? You know I’ll be kind.”

Kingston doesn’t contradict her. He just crosses his arms and stares at Mab like they’re discussing politics over tea. Mab raises her hands and steps away from the bed.

“I’ve taught you well,” she says. Then she looks at me. “Vivienne, if you please?”

“You want me to leave?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “I call upon line 23B of your contract. I request that you break this girl’s curse, or at least discover its maker so I may dispose of him. Though,” she says, looking at Kingston, “I don’t think there’s much doubt that the Summer Court is at fault.”

Something burns inside of me at her words, something that singes through my brain the moment she utters the word contract. I want to say I have no clue what she’s talking about, but the fire is building and burning. And then I’m putting my hands on Melody’s face, one on each side, and I’m closing my eyes. The fire inside is flash and thunder and everything is roaring, roaring, the world ripping apart and filing itself back together. It’s nails on concrete fire in water trees on fire burning through suns and stars and emptiness circling the tunnel of falling, falling, falling into white. Then there’s someone’s words cutting through it all.

“I call upon line 23C. Forget.”

And I’m back. There’s only a ringing in my ears and a heat in my head, but there’s no fire or thunder anymore. I’m sitting on Melody’s bed covered in sweat and shaking. I can’t tell if I’m starving or about to throw up. Mab and Kingston are both looking at me with blank expressions on their faces.

“Well,” Mab says. “That was most…unenlightening.”

“What, what was that?” I manage, though my words are sour in my throat.

“None of your concern,” Mab says. She raises an eyebrow. “Nothing happened, you just aren’t feeling well. Or don’t you remember?”

“I…” But I don’t remember. I just remember sitting in the trailer, listening to them talk about curses and Mel and then feeling faint. “What was I talking about?”

“Nothing,” Kingston says, putting a hand on my shoulder. There’s no magic, this time, but his presence cuts through the sickness anyway. “We should get you out of here, in case whatever Melody has is catching.”

He helps me to my feet and squeezes me past Mab, who is still looking at me like an interesting specimen. Kingston opens the door for me and ushers me out, an arm looped around my waist.

“I…does Mab know what’s going on?”

“Not yet,” Kingston says. He speaks slowly, like the words are hard to find. “But we have a better idea now of what we’re up against.”

“And?”

He looks at me and tries to smile. It slips into a grimace. “And it isn’t good.”

Melody doesn’t wake up for lunch, so Kingston and I spend the meal outside her trailer, dining and talking as the clouds from yesterday’s rain slowly dissipate. He even brought a picnic blanket. It would be romantic, if not for the fact that we’re both waiting for Mel to cry out and need us. I can’t help but notice the way Kingston twitches every time there’s a noise. I’m surprised he hasn’t asked Zal to keep an eye out, but the tattoo is still wrapped around a bare arm. Maybe his familiar can only come out on special occasions?

“You going to practice?” Kingston asks, clearly trying to keep the conversation light. We can see the pie cart from here, and people are slowly starting to meander off to wash their plates and practice or take a quick run into town. I see that Richard and Vanessa have a table to themselves, and seem deep in discussion.

“I don’t think there’s a point in practicing anymore,” I say. It feels stupid, worrying about learning how to juggle when one of my only friends is practically in a coma and we’re all at risk of getting murdered. But, as Mab said, the show must go on, with or without us. Just the thought of being thrown back to the outside world makes my stomach flip. I try not to count the days I have left on my fingers.

He takes a deep breath. “If you want, I could help out.”

The weight of what he says stuns me for a moment. Sure, I’d entertained the idea, but having him actually offer to mess with my mind makes me pause.

“I thought you said you didn’t do that anymore.”

He looks away, toward Melody’s door. “I’ll do what I have to to keep you around. Even if Mab said what she did in anger, she can’t negate it. Faeries can’t lie.”

“It’s not important,” I say, though I’m touched by his words. There’s more to this guy than I first thought. “I kind of think there are bigger things at stake.”

He sighs. “Maybe.”

“Why is it such a big deal?” I say. “The Dream Trade, I mean.”

The question’s been nagging at me ever since he mentioned it, and after last night’s spying venture, it sounds like there’s more to it than just sustenance. It almost sounded like some drug cartel, the way the Summer Court was willing to kill just to have it stop. But they’re just dreams. Surely there are other ways of making people imagine.

Kingston takes a bite of his apple and stares up at the sun. “I told you, dreams are what keep the faeries alive. If people didn’t dream about them, they wouldn’t exist.”

“So they’re figments of our imagination?”

He chuckles. “Ask Mab that and find out. No, it’s more like a symbiotic relationship.”

“Last night when I was in the woods, the guy said the Dream Trade must stop. What if this isn’t about killing us? What if the Summer Court just wants Mab to stop hogging all the faerie food?”

Kingston grins at me. “I’m sure Mab already thought of that, and it’s really not so cut and dry.” He tosses the apple aside and stands, reaching his hand down to me. I take it; his grip is warm and slightly sticky. He pulls me to standing. “It’s time you saw the Wheel,” he says.

I don’t question. He doesn’t let go of my hand as he takes me around to another trailer. His touch tingles, and I don’t know if it’s magic or my imagination or some combination of both. I half-expect him to take me to some invisible, hidden door, but it’s just another bunk like any other. Door number zero.

“Now,” he says, looking over his shoulder with a conspiratorial grin, “You can’t tell anyone I showed you this. Technically speaking, Mab and I are the only ones allowed in.”

I glance around. There’s no one nearby — they’re all at lunch or practice. I’m hoping my streak of rebellious bad luck isn’t still with me.

“Maybe we shouldn’t — ” I begin. “I don’t want her more pissed off.”

“Pussy,” Kingston says. He squeezes my hand, though, and pulls open the door, stepping inside and dragging me in behind him.

The door closes silently, and at first it’s as dark as Mab’s trailer. It smells of hay and barn wood and summer heat. Kingston snaps his fingers and a flame appears, balancing on the tip of his index finger.

The flame floats out of his hand and disperses to all corners of the room, lighting a couple dozen candles along the way. The room glows with warm light, its contents slowly coming into focus.

It’s about ten feet square — much larger than the trailer, which makes me think we’re not actually in the trailer at all — and the walls are wood. The floor is cobblestone with tufts of hay scattered across the smooth grey stones. The room is entirely bare except for a single structure in the middle of the room. It’s wood and round and clunky and covered in threads. A loom.

It’s so ordinary it’s a letdown — not that I’ve seen any looms in real life. I could easily imagine Rumpelstiltskin sitting on one side, turning a pile of straw into gold. But there’s no one there. Still, the giant wheel — easily my height — turns slowly on its own, pulling a myriad of strings into place, the shuttle sliding back and forth at a lazy pace. Kingston takes me around to one side, to where the completed pattern is working itself out and draping into a large wicker basket.

“This,” he says, “is what all the fuss is about.”

I stare at it.

The fabric the loom produces is beautiful, sure. It’s a rainbow piece of cloth covered in twisting patterns and colorful swirls, but it doesn’t look special. Probably not worth creating an entire circus for. Definitely not worth killing over. Sabina and Roman and Melody’s bodies flash through my mind. All that suffering and loss, all for a bit of pretty silk?

“That’s it?” I say. I can’t help but sound disappointed. I was picturing some beautiful golden Wheel of Fate or something encrusted with diamonds. Something more up Mab’s alley. This? This is just something out of a heritage museum. It’s borderline pathetic.

“I knew you’d say that,” Kingston says. “Which is precisely why I brought you here.”

A pair of tiny scissors appears in his hands. The blades glint in the candlelight. He reaches down into the basket and snips, pulling out a tiny square of cloth. It’s barely the size of a thumbnail.

“This,” he says, holding the square with the scissor blades like a tiny morsel, “would sell in the Night Market for a minor favor or a day’s worth of subjugation.” He holds it out. “But I’ll give you a taste for free.”

“It’s a scrap of fabric.”

“Just touch it,” he says. I reach out. He drops the tiny blue square of cloth in my palm.

Lights explode across my vision and suddenly I’m no longer in the trailer; I’m soaring through the clouds, light shining from the heavens. My arms are stretched out to the sides and I’m giddy, laughing, bubbling with happiness. I swoop down, break cloud cover and smile at the brilliant green fields that stretch all the way to the horizon. I bank right, coast into a beam of soft sunlight —

And I’m back. My arms are stretched out to the sides and there’s a giant grin on my face. I quickly drop my hands and try to force away the dopey smile. Definitely not quickly enough.

“Flying dream, eh?” he says. “Should have thought as much. Blues usually are.”

I look down at the fabric in my hand. The tiny bolt is now grey. The moment I move, it dissolves into ash.

“One use only, I’m afraid,” he says.

“What was that?”

“A dream,” he says. “Energy. Pure, creative, spontaneous energy. Mortals experience it as visions. For the fey, it’s like oxygen.”

I look at the loom.

“So this, what, converts dreams into fabric?”

Kingston shrugs. “Something like that. It solidifies energy, focuses it into something tangible. I’ve seen Mab store it in crystals and books and skulls, whatever takes her fancy. This is just easier to regulate. She can sell by the yard and make a killer profit.”

“You make her sound like some sort of drug lord,” I say.

“What’s the point of drugs if not to dream?” he says, and I can’t think of any way to counter that.

“Anyway, that’s the Trade. Mab converts all dreams in the tent into this, which she then sells or distributes to the other fey. Her own Court gets a discount, while Summer is taxed. But they need it, so they pay. Mortals don’t dream as much as they used to, and Summer’s still putting all their effort into the publishing industry…which wasn’t their best idea.”

I watch the loom weave its slow pattern, imagining it working double-speed when the tent is full and imaginations soaring.

“I still don’t see why it’s such a big deal,” I say.

“It’s sustenance for them,” Kingston says. He moves in a little closer. “Entire civilizations have been destroyed for less. Religion, ideology, love.” He looks at me, a wild glint in his eyes. “Love is usually the one everyone feels is worth dying over.”

“Have you ever been in love?” I ask. I don’t know where the words come from. I only know I want him to answer without words, the way I’d like to draw him close and breathe him in.

“Have you?”

I reach out, my hand only an inch from his arm.

And then there’s a knock at the door. Kingston jerks back and walks over to it. Damn my shitty luck.

“Should I hide?” I ask. Even as I say it, I know there’s nowhere to hide in the space.

He just looks at me and shakes his head with a smile that makes me feel idiotic. He opens the door. It’s Lilith. She barely gives me a second glance as she steps into the room.

“Saw you, saw you come here,” she says. “Important, important.” She goes up on tiptoes to whisper something in his ear, something that makes his eyes go wide. If he looked pale before, now he looks positively ghostly.

“Show me,” he says, and jumps out the door. Lilith goes right after him. Neither of them look back to see if I’m following, but I run over and hop out the door into the blinding sun. They’re already sprinting toward the chapiteau. I follow.

Lilith takes us around to the far side of the tent, the one facing the woods. Poe is sitting beside one of the support stakes, staring at the blue wall panel with a bristle to his fur. Lilith slows down when she gets there. It takes me a moment to figure out what caused Kingston to raise a hand to his mouth. Then I see it. There, in the seam between the blue and grey panels, is a rip. Not just a tiny tear, but a good eight-foot gash that starts just above arm’s reach and stops a few inches above the grass.

“No,” Kingston whispers over and over, like a terrible mantra. I look away from the rip and stare at him. Lilith is kneeling at his side, one hand out to pet Poe, the other reaching up to lace around Kingston’s fingers. He looks mortified.

After a moment of standing there, I ask the question digging at me.

“What’s the big deal?”

He looks at me like I’ve just spoken the worst of heresies.

“Get Mab,” he says through his fingertips. “Get her. Now.”

I know that look, ‘the sky is falling’ darkness, and I turn without question and run straight toward Mab’s trailer.

Mab’s door opens immediately after the first knock.

She stands before me in a leather vest and a black mesh undershirt that reaches her knee-high leather boots. Her leggings are black leather as well, and her waist is cinched with a belt of tiny silver skulls. Behind her, the trailer is swathed in shadows and candlelight and the scent of moss and pine. She leans out the door toward me. I step back, almost dropping into a curtsy.

“Mab,” I say. “Kingston…Kingston told me to get you. The tent — ”

“What about the tent?” she asks, cutting me off. She steps down and the door closes behind her. “What else could possibly go wrong today?”

“There’s a rip.”

She actually flinches back at this, as though I’ve slapped her across her rouged cheekbones. One hand goes to her chest, the other reaches out and grabs me by the shirt. She pulls me in close. “Show me.”

I lead her across the grounds, over to where Kingston and Lilith are still standing. Neither of them has moved. Even Poe is transfixed by the rip.

Mab releases my shirt and steps past the two of them, one hand just barely touching the tent, her fingers flinching back as though it’s on fire. She hovers there a moment, her face unreadable, and none of us dares to breathe, let alone ask what’s going on. It’s just a fucking rip in the seam, I want to say, but clearly there’s more to it than that. Like most things in this company, I have no doubt there’s more to this than meets the eye.

“We tear down now,” Mab says. Her voice is quiet, and there’s a waver in her words. That note of fear is enough to make me believe the worst. She was calm for the murders, for the confrontation with the Summer Court’s herald. Whatever this is, it’s worse than all of that, and I have a terrible feeling it’s only the beginning of the end.

Chapter Eleven: Sooner Or Later

I can bring you somewhere safe,” she said. She offered her hand, and I took it. I don’t remember why I had been in the alley, and I don’t know what had brought me to listen to a strange woman in the middle of Detroit. All I remember is that when she smiled, I believed her. Nothing could have been worse than what lay behind me.

She led me down the street, not saying much. People passed us by with umbrellas and raincoats and didn’t look at us twice, even though we should have looked out of place. They may have been dark shadows moving through the mist and rain. But Mab and I, we were something darker, something hidden in the corners of sight. When I think back, the one thing I remember is the greyness, the melancholy, and the splash of crimson that was Mab’s dress. Then we turned the corner and stepped into another world.

The tent rose above us in the neon-lit park, all blue and wild and vibrant, Cirque des Immortels roaring in acid-green lights. It was color and sound, reds and blues and yellows, tufts of fire and spinning clubs. Music cartwheeled through the crowd that laughed and pointed in the broad avenue leading up to the tent. I stopped, speechless, and watched as giants on stilts trundled past, stared at the woman clothed in only a python standing beside a sign for a freak show. Mab put a hand on my shoulder, but she didn’t make me move. The place smelled of popcorn and cotton candy and something else, something that defied scent. Something that smelled like energy and excitement.

“Welcome,” she said. “Welcome to your new home.”

There’s a pause after Mab’s declaration. She stands there, staring at the rip in the tent, and none of us dares to breathe. Finally, she turns around and crouches low so she’s at Lilith’s level. Poe prowls around her feet, rubbing against her leather boots. She ignores him.

“Lilith, baby,” she whispers, “Auntie Mab needs you to tell the Shifters to come at once. When you’ve done that, I need you to go into my trailer with Poe and hide until I find you.”

“Hide?” Lilith says, cocking her head to one side like a broken bird.

“Yes, sweetie,” Mab says. She reaches out and pets Lilith’s head. The exchange makes me cringe. “I fear the bad man might be nearby, and we don’t want him finding you.”

She stands as Lilith scampers away, Poe at her heels. She looks at Kingston and me, takes a deep breath, and then hesitates. Mab never hesitates. Mab is assured, confident, powerful. Once more, I feel the end drawing near. In spite of the heat, my skin is covered in goose bumps. I want nothing more than to grab Kingston’s hand for support, but he still looks shell-shocked and worlds away. Besides, I can’t show weakness. Not now. Not in front of Mab.

“Kingston,” she finally says. “It is becoming increasingly clear that someone is trying to destroy us. I fear we may have a spy in our Court.” Am I imagining it, or did her eyes flicker to me? “After teardown, you will go ahead to the next site. Take no one, tell no one. Once there, you will use every enchantment at your disposal to make the ground hallowed. Do I make myself clear?”

Kingston swallows, hard, and nods.

“Vivienne,” Mab says, turning her serpent’s gaze to me. “I am putting you under surveillance. You will be placed under Penelope’s watch until this situation has been sorted and your name cleared. Yes?”

“I…” I falter under her gaze, but there’s a feeling of indignation in me that flares for just a moment. She’s the one that brought me here. She’s the one who promised I’d be safe. And now I’m the one she suspects is behind all this? “Why?”

Mab takes one slow, dangerous step forward. She is taller than me by only a few inches, but her anger makes her taller.

“Given your past,” she says with a decided twist to the word, “you are a suspect individual.” Her eyes bore into me, and I have the sense she’s seeing something I can’t. Memories seep into my head, the color red on my knees the day she led me here, the feeling of needing to run, to get as far away as fast as I could. I clench my fists. Was I running from myself?

Then she steps aside and begins to walk away and the train of thought derails into nothingness. “Besides,” she says, not even turning back. “Lilith has already told me you were sneaking around last night. If you don’t want to be a suspect, I propose you refrain from suspicious activities.”

The fire in me wants to run after her, wants to grab her arm and demand she tell me what the hell she’s talking about. But before I can make what would probably be the worst — and last — mistake of my life, Kingston puts his hand on my shoulder and the rage dies down.

“Come on,” he whispers. “Let’s get out of here before the Shifters arrive.”

With that, he draws me away from the tent and leads me toward the pie cart.

“I always find problems are easier to deal with over coffee,” he says, handing me a mug. I didn’t miss the slight hand-wave over the rim as he passed it over, so I’m more than suspicious as I take a sip. Unlike the last time he magically spiked my drink, this one doesn’t taste like battery acid. I try not to wince as I take a few long gulps, hoping either the caffeine or magical alcohol helps settle my nerves. Neither does.

“What was she talking about?” I finally ask. “What did she mean, given my past?”

I watch Kingston as I ask this and can’t help but notice that he’s studiously looking away.

“I don’t know,” he finally says. “It’s your past, after all.” Maybe I’m just getting better at lying or he’s getting worse, but I have no doubt whatsoever that he isn’t telling me the truth.

Up until then, it hadn’t really bothered me that I couldn’t dredge up the details of my past. It was one of those things that just seemed better not to think about: high school, sitting bored in math class, driving lessons, summers at the public pool or playing video games. It was all there, but it was all coated over, hazy almost. And as far as I was concerned, that was probably a good thing. The trouble was, it was all so plain, so generic; there was nothing there that would make someone suspicious of me.

Except for those times when, looking back, I could have sworn there was blood on my jeans the day Mab found me. Blood that wasn’t mine. But even that memory is slippery. Maybe it was just a dream.

I run a hand through my hair and close my eyes. There are worse fates than being put with Penelope for a few days. Much better than a sword through the gut or half-decapitation. At least, that’s what I try to convince myself. Some doubt lingers in the back of my head, though. What if it was me? The deaths happened at night…what if I sleepwalked or was under a spell or something?

A moment later there’s a hand on my arm, and then Kingston’s leaning in. He smells like cologne and coffee, a mix that’s oddly comforting.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I know how unfair Mab can be, but she’s just scared.”

“I’m not the killer,” I say. At least, I don’t think I am. “I almost saw them, last night.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I don’t think you’re the killer either.”

I open my eyes and look at him. He’s looking right at me, his face only a few inches away. How many times have we been like this? Half a step away from leaning in and kissing, a second away from doing what my heart’s been begging me to do since I first laid eyes on him. If I wanted to, I could end the streak; I could lean in and kiss him here and now.

“Why not?” I ask.

“Because,” he says. His comforting smile turns wicked. “You’re too much of a wimp to kill anyone.” He taps my nose with one finger and pulls away, hops off the table, and stands, stretching back like a cat. I can feel myself blushing. Another moment lost. I'm hoping it's not some sort of karmic trend.

“I better be off,” he says. “Mab would skin me alive if she knew I was still waiting around.”

He turns to go and then stops, looks back.

“Keep yourself out of trouble,” he says. His face is serious. “I mean it.”

“You too,” I say.

He winks. “Me? Never.”

Then he’s walking away, and I’m left with a cooling cup of coffee and the sense that nothing’s going to get easier to deal with, not anytime soon.

“How is your practice going?” Penelope asks. We’re once again in her trailer as the rest of the crew does the grunt work. I can see the tent from the window; Mab is out there with a few Shifters. They’re carefully folding up the ripped panel like a flag. It doesn’t touch the ground once.

“What?” I ask, not looking away. There’s a steamer trunk at Mab’s feet, and the two Shifters are gently placing the panel inside of it.

“Your juggling practice. I assume you’ve been training night and day.” She talks as though that’s clearly the only thing I should be concerned about, as though there’s nothing going wrong. Maybe she really does spend all of her time secluded away in her trailer, lost in her own little world. I can’t really blame her for it. Outside, Mab closes the lid and latches it.

I turn my focus back to the computer. Penelope’s at another laptop, figuring out losses and gains and ticket sales. Once more, Mab’s refunding the tickets for tonight’s show and donating to nonprofits so people won’t be too pissed for missing the sold-out performance. And I’m the one sending out the notification emails, each one personally addressed because Mab likes things to have that personal touch.

“Practice? Not good,” I say. “I wasn’t made to juggle.”

Penelope sighs and taps away at her keyboard. She looks tired, like the rest of the troupe, with a light layer of makeup and a faded Cirque des Immortels hoodie. I hate to admit that she makes even that look attractive.

“Mab’s always like that,” she says. “I should know. Always making rash decisions she can’t get out of later.”

I shrug and go back to emailing Mr. Carson, apologizing to him and his two lovely daughters for having to refund the tickets but promising to donate to St. Jude’s to offset the harm done. Somehow, Mab has more than just his contact details on file. There’s a full paragraph of his family history, his employment status and income, and even a line at the bottom that I hope is a joke. What the customer dreamt of becoming as a child. Mr. Carson, apparently, wanted to be an astronaut. Now he’s the general manager of a local Taco Bell. If she has this much information about her customers, I can’t help but imagine what she has on file for the rest of us. Which makes me wonder…

“That memory you showed me…you said that you were with her before that, before the circus got started?” I ask.

“Indeed,” Penelope says, not looking up from her work. “I was with her for the very first show. It was just her and me on tour, then. I was but a child. The Only Living Fiji Mermaid, she called me.” Penelope looks up at me. “Not exactly the way a girl should grow up, though there was some glamour on the road. When we weren’t at Court, she and I would stand on the busiest boulevards in the biggest cities: London, Paris, Berlin. She would erect a fish tank and set me inside of it. I would wave and smile at the crowds and she would collect the gold.”

“Why did she need gold?” I ask. Mr. Carson’s been sent out, and now I’m staring at a photo of Miss Jessica Meyers, thirty-two, who once wanted to be a ballerina.

“She didn’t,” Penelope says. “It was the attachment she needed. People gave us money because we had inspired something within them, got them dreaming of the impossible. That infused what they paid us. It was, if nothing else, a very crude beginning to the Trade.”

How long has this been going on? But that’s not what I really want to ask her.

“So how long is your contract?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer right away. She looks at me for a long moment, seeming to study whether or not I’m worthy enough for the answer.

“Life,” she finally says, her voice filled with a resolute sadness. The word fills the room.

“But I thought…I thought we couldn’t die? It’s in the contracts.”

“Now you’re finally catching on to the way Mab works.” She looks back down at the computer.

“So…you’re here forever.”

“Perhaps,” she says. “There’s always an exit clause.”

“What is it?” I ask.

“If you’re trying to keep your head down after being accused of murder, my dear, asking about the termination of people’s contracts isn’t the way to go about it.”

I blush and look back to my screen. I start tapping in Miss Meyers’s name, apologizing for the horrible inconvenience, and saying we’ve booked her a ticket for the ballet that’s coming through next month. I can feel Penelope’s eyes still settled on me.

“Besides,” she finally says. She goes back to typing. “What you should really be worried about is your own exit clause. No one wants to run away forever, not really.”

“I don’t know it,” I say. “I don’t remember what I signed, or why I even did it. It must have seemed worth it at the time.”

Another pause.

“You remember nothing at all?” she asks.

“No. But apparently it was enough to make Mab suspect me of killing everyone.” I hadn’t said it aloud before this, but the words spill from my lips and hang in the air like bloodstains. It’s like signing my own death warrant, and I can’t help but wonder if telling this to the gossip queen of the troupe is a terrible mistake.

“Interesting,” she says. She gives me a considering glance. “You don’t strike me as the murderous type.”

“Try telling her that,” I say. I lean back in the chair and try to block out everything swarming around in my head. There’s no way in hell I’ll be able to get a juggling act together for Friday, no way I’ll be able to clear my name even if I do. The only way around it is to find the real killer, which isn’t going to happen with Penelope as my new guardian. And there’s another reason I need to find the killer. I need to make sure it’s not me. I mean, I know I overheard the Summer Court dude talking to someone else. It can’t be me. But a small part of me is saying that stranger things have been happening.

“Mab wouldn’t listen to me,” Penelope says. “You know how she is.” A brief pause. “We all have pasts we wish we could run from, Vivienne. The trouble is, they always manage to catch up with us in the end, no matter the magic attempting to keep it at bay.”

“What are you saying?” I ask. There’s a nervous quake to my heart, like maybe she knows more about me and my history than I do, which, I’m starting to realize, wouldn’t take much.

“I’m just observing,” she says. “As I said, I’ve been with the troupe from the very beginning. I’ve seen numerous performers come and go, their past sins atoned for. But not one of them left happy, I can tell you that.”

“Why?”

“Because what they were running from — all of them — was something from within. They may have joined to escape incarceration or execution, but their demons never left.”

“I don’t have any demons,” I say. I’m not liking where the conversation turned. Mainly because I’m not convinced anything I say is true.

“Darling, everyone has demons. Yours have just gone quiet.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it was part of the contract.”

“Perhaps,” she says. “But where has that gotten you?” She gestures to the room. “You might not know, but Mab does. And it sounds like your demons need reconciliation rather than ignorance.”

I don’t say anything to that. Her words sink down into my bones, binding themselves to memory. She has a point. Whatever I was running from is still there, still haunting my movements. I rub my hands together and try to force out the uncertainty. For the first time since I came here, when I think back to my past, deep inside I feel unclean.

Mab wasn’t lying when she said I’d be put under Penelope’s custody. I’m not allowed to leave her trailer except to use the Porta-Potty on the edge of the grounds, and even then, Penelope goes outside her trailer to keep an eye on me. It weirds the hell out of me the first time I go to pee and realize she’s timing me, but when I get back to her bunk she acts entirely nonchalant, as if she was just outside enjoying the sunshine. She even opens the trailer door for me and waits a bit before coming in herself. That said, there’s one freedom I want that I’m strictly denied. I’m not allowed to go check in on Melody.

“She’s fine,” Penelope assures me as she boils the electric kettle for afternoon tea. “If anything was amiss, we would know.” She smiles warmly. “Trust me, in a company this small, it’s impossible for the welfare of another to slip through the cracks. Now, English Breakfast or Earl Grey?”

By the time the tent’s been torn down and packed away, I’ve emailed all of the refunded tickets and spent a good chunk of time staring at the Internet, hoping it would entertain me. Any other day, I’d have been overjoyed having an afternoon of sitting in the AC, wasting time online.

Except now, I’m realizing that I can’t really enjoy myself online because all these little things are adding up in ways that make my skin crawl. I don’t know what my email address is. There aren’t any blogs I know I read regularly. I don’t remember my Facebook account or anything else. Did I even have an email address? I take a deep breath and try to stay calm, try not to worry. Maybe I was just too cool to use social networking. Maybe I’d grown distant from all my friends and stopped communicating with them. I try to think back, try to remember chatting with someone — anyone — online, but the memory doesn’t come. I stare at the home screen and try not to have a panic attack. With a calculated slowness, I type my name into the search bar. Hit enter. Nothing comes up. Nothing whatsoever. Somehow, the search is completely, entirely blank. I stare at the white screen and wonder how no one in the world shares my name, how there is no trace of me out there whatsoever. Something about the wrongness of it makes me want to gag, or throw the laptop out the window. My hands are shaking.

When Penelope closes the lid of the laptop, I’m almost relieved to be torn away from the damning screen. I blink a few times and stare up at her. What was I just looking at?

“Time to hit the road,” she says.

By the time we’re in the cab of one of the trucks — just her and me, this time — I can’t even remember what I’d been worrying about.

We reach the next site at midnight. We’ve driven halfway across the Midwest, down interstates clogged with cars and back roads that seemed more mud than concrete. Now, we’re somewhere in Nebraska, on a plot just off the edge of the highway. As our truck heads down the dirt road toward our site, I catch a glimpse of a farmhouse and a few tractors. We really are in the middle of nowhere this time. How the hell does Mab expect to sell tickets all the way out here? The caravan stops at the edge of the cleared field and Penelope parks. The cars are parked facing the same way, lights still on and many engines still running. There’s a crowd of people assembling in the headlights, a mob of performers silently staring at the dark field.

“What’s going on?” I ask. I reach for the handle but then realize that Penelope isn’t moving. Her knuckles are white on the steering wheel, and in the green light of the dashboard, her face looks even more sallow than this morning. She doesn’t look terribly beautiful now.

“It’s him,” she whispers. “He’s here.”

I look back out, almost ask what she’s talking about. Then I see him.

There’s a man standing in the middle of the cleared plot. His hair is so blond it’s white, his skin is just as pale, and he’s in a sharp grey suit with lines like razors. It’s the man from the show, the man from the Summer Court.

And one of his arms is looped around Kingston’s chest, the tip of a dagger pressed to his throat.