Flesh Circus (12 page)

Saving a Trader’s life was a novelty, and not one I liked.

“Someone had better start explaining things to me.” I took perverse joy in using the same tone a teacher would with a class
of young imbeciles.

Perry’s fingers tightened again. The Ringmaster’s pale face contorted, but he didn’t make a sound. If this kept up we were
going to have yet another Bad Situation.

“Ease up on him, Pericles.” I dug for my pager, every nerve alert. It would take very little to turn this entire mob into
a melee, especially with the way most of them were now shifting their attention, ever so slowly, toward Perry. And while I
didn’t particularly mind the thought of them tearing him apart in little quivering pieces, I minded the thought of dealing
with the Cirque
and
a scramble for power among the hellbreed who jostled in Perry’s long deep shadow. “He’s got the most to lose if the hostage
bites it.”

The number on the pager was familiar, and my intuition tingled.
Huh.

“Voodoo?” Perry pronounced the word like he didn’t know what it meant. Saul rose as soon as I took another step forward, gravel
shifting under his booted feet. His was the only warmth in this place that didn’t make me feel like slime was trickling over
my skin.

“Yeah, voodoo. As in, the
loa
taking an interest in this, or someone who has enough credit with them to make a Trader uncomfortable. Nobody wants to tell
me why anyone would have a grudge against the Cirque?” I don’t think I could have sounded any more sarcastic. “Or why there
were roaches crawling all over your sorcerously-being-strangled hostage not five minutes ago? Or something about this murder
I’m supposed to be looking into?”

The bitter, rancid grumbling of Helletöng rose. It cut short when I swept my gaze over them and tapped at a gun butt with
one bitten-down fingernail. “English,” I said softly. “Good old-fashioned American English. None of this töng shit.”

I couldn’t even feel good about glaring a bunch of ’breed into silence.

Perry finally bestirred himself to speak. “One of the performers has been murdered.” He let go of the Ringmaster, who crumpled
and caught himself on hands and knees, ichor splashing and his cane making a soft chiming sound that sliced the stillness.
“We shall examine the evidence.”

Well, la-di-da. Of course we shall, Pericles.
But I didn’t want to give him control of the situation just now. “Wait a second. First things first. Who died, who found
the body, and who had the last contact with the victim?”

It was amazing to watch them move like quicksilver, exploding away from one tall male Trader who hunched, his eyes grown round
and desperate. He wore a straw hat and suspenders, and looked vaguely familiar in the way all blond, dark-eyed men with ferret
faces do. You know the type—the narrow-eyed, unreliably handsome, and just waiting to slip a thin knife between your ribs
and
twist.

Yeah. That kind. Especially in a frayed, worn linen button-down and a pair of gray pinstripe trousers that wouldn’t have looked
out of place on an Edwardian dandy. The flat shine of Trader on his irises looked weird for a moment, like two silver pennies.

Perry beat me to the punch. He sounded kind and avuncular, and the only thing more terrifying was the way everyone in the
crowd shivered and pulled back further. “And just who are you?”

The Trader snatched at his hat, his silken thatch of hair damp with sweat. I suspected he’d look vaguely pretty in daylight,
but here in the dim shifting light the pointed jaw became strong and his wide cheekbones merely masculine instead of pugnacious.

Then he opened his mouth. “T-T-T-Tr—”

He stammered.

I frankly stared. What kind of joke was this? Hellbreed don’t usually Trade with someone so flawed, and Traders usually bargain
for beauty as well as weird body mods. This guy must have something else to recommend him—smarts, or viciousness.

“Dear heavens.” Perry made a mocking little moue, his lips twisting. “Were you a joke?”

“N-n-nosir. J-j-just a k-k-carny. I’m T-T-Tr-Troy. I w-was H-Helene’s t-t-t-t—”

He kept going with the t’s, his face contorting. Perry tapped one elegant wingtip, his shark’s grin widening.

“
Talker,
” the unfortunate Trader finally spit out. “H-Helene’s t-talker.”

This is going to take a while.
I glanced at the number on my pager again, suppressed a sigh. Stuffed it back in my pocket. “Helene? ’Breed or Trader?”

“’Breed,” Perry answered. “You would have enjoyed it, Kiss.”

Enjoyed what?
I didn’t ask. “I do not have all night. You were the last person to see the victim?”

He simply nodded. Thank God.

“All right.” I dropped the hand resting on my gun butt with an effort. Saul was still and quiet behind me. “Show me.”

“What do you want done with him?” Perry gestured at the Ringmaster, who shivered again, more foul-smelling ichor splattering.
“He will survive this night, if you let him. Unless the hostage is attacked again.”

What a lovely thought, Perry. Thanks.
“Leave him alone.” I weighed the words, felt the need to add more. “I’ve just gotten used to his ugly face. I’d hate to have
someone new to deal with.”

T
he ’breed named Helene had died in a gaudy tent painted with screaming-red broken-open pomegranates and big stalks of green
vegetable. After a few moments I identified the green stuff as leeks, and weird creeping laughter crawled up my throat, was
strangled, and died away. “So what was this Helene’s act?”

“Fruit seller?” Saul piped up, and a great scalding wave of relief went through me. He sounded okay.

Perry, a respectful distance away, actually sniggered. It was the sound of a popular kid in high school tittering in the back
of the room. “Hermaphrodite.”

Suddenly the leeks and pomegranates made sense. “A hermaphrodite hellbreed?”

His bland blond face split in a wide grin. “Hell has its freaks too. Here is where they prove their worth.”

Which was another lovely thought.

Troy pushed aside the spangled curtain over the door-opening. “In h-here.”

“A stuttering barker?” I had to know. “How did you—”

He half-turned, his dusted eyes glittering sharply. “
Step right up!
” His face contorted, and a thin thread of cold slid down my back. Instead of a piping stammer, what came out was a rich,
seductive baritone. “
See the half-man, half-woman, all loveliness! Step right up, ladies and gentlemen!
”

I folded my arms. “That’s what you Traded for?”

He shrugged. “H-Helene t-taught me. L-l-like s-s-s-singing. Sh-sh-she was n-n-n-n—”

Oh, my God, is he about to say “nice”? Now I’ve heard everything.

“Spare me your love song,” Perry cut in. “What happened?”

For once I agreed with him, but I might’ve liked to hear more.

“It was a s-slow n-night.” The Trader spoke very slowly, trying to enunciate each word clearly. “I w-was b-barking, b-but
there were n-n-no t-t-takers. I w-was d-d-doing my b-best. F-first n-night’s always s-s-slow—”

“Get. To the. Point.” Perry tapped his foot again.

“Shut up and let him talk, Pericles.”
This is going to take even longer if you keep making him nervous.

“But of course, my dear. Anything for you.” The indigo still hadn’t left his whites, veining through like cracks in glazed
porcelain. His suit fluttered slightly at the edges, white linen mouthed by the warm damp breeze redolent with the smell of
fried grease.

“She s-s-sc-screamed.” The Trader was pale as milk, his unreliable face twisting as he tried to get the words out. “I th-thought
a r-r-r-rube was g-g-getting n-nasty. B-but they d-d-don’t usually. S-s-s-so I w-w-went in.” He shuddered, the movement rippling
through his skinny frame. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. “Th-th-there were b-b-bugs.”

Bugs?
“Flies? Or mosquitoes?”

Hey, you can’t ever trust them to tell the truth.

“R-r-roaches.” Another shudder. His red suspenders actually creaked. “All over. W-with r-red spots.” He ducked into the tent
and I followed, Saul behind me as close as my shadow. I had a moment’s worth of worry—Perry was right behind my Were.

Jesus. This is getting ridiculous.

It certainly was.

The smell hit me between one step and the next. They rot fast when they go, just like Traders. There was a wide greasy stain
on the small strip of planking serving as a stage. The rest of the place was scattered with pillows and rugs, a bargain-basement
impression of a harem helped along by the rusted glass-and-iron hookahs scattered around. Each pipe was at least four feet
high, scalloped and decorated to within an inch of its life. Frayed tassels hung everywhere, and behind the stage hung a tapestry
of trees and rivers that shifted, its stitches running over each other with a faint sound of needles against fabric.

“It looks like a whorehouse,” Saul muttered, and I heartily agreed.

“Have you been in one lately, cat?” Perry inquired sweetly.

“Perry?” I checked the circuit of the tent, examined the stage’s raw lumber. Three red satin cushions were covered in thin
black gunk dried to a crust.

“Yes, my dear?” Silky-smooth, but he didn’t look at me.

“Shut the fuck up.” I inhaled deeply, wished I hadn’t. Under the reek of sex, tobacco, and marijuana lay the rusted-copper
tang of blood and a breath of… what was that?

Cigar smoke. Candy. And rum.
It was very faint, fading even as I inhaled deeply again, trying to catch another whiff.
Now that’s interesting.

“I was only asking.” Perry eased into the tent, his lip curling. “Such petty games played here.”

“As opposed to the ones played out at the Monde?” It was my turn to inquire sweetly. “If you’re not going to be helpful, you
can wait outside.”

His tongue flickered over white teeth, a flash of wet cherry-red. “I can be singularly helpful, for your sake.”

Oh, I’ll just bet.
“Good. You’re going to stay here and keep an eye on the hostage. I’ve got other business tonight.”

“I might have business too.”

The scar turned hot, and a spill of poisonous delight threaded up my arm. “Too bad. Now that you’ve seen the crime scene,
you can run along.”

“Dismissed by my lady.” He sighed, but the scar tweaked.

So he was getting to the point of pulling my chain, was he? Hellbreed hate being outfoxed, and they hate being outfoxed by
their own cleverness even more. If Perry hadn’t been so eager to use a measure of what he thought was his newfound psychological
leverage on me, he wouldn’t have lost every bit of his hold—including the ironclad agreement to have me in every month. My
time for his power; that had been the deal—and when he welshed, it was his power for nothing.

Except I had to step carefully, or I would get trapped again. And he would make me pay for every insult I offered him.

Still, that wasn’t a reason not to twit him while I could. And I wanted him out of the way for the next ten minutes. The stuttering
Trader looked ready to die from fright, and couldn’t get out a coherent sentence.

I understood. I didn’t sympathize, but I completely understood.

“I’m not your lady
or
your hunter, Pericles. I’m the hunter of Santa Luz and I’m telling you to keep a close watch on the Ringmaster and that hostage.
You’re responsible for their good behavior. And not so incidentally, for the hostage’s continued survival.” I was apparently
staring at the stain on the stage. My attention was all on him, though. The Trader crouched with his face level to the planking,
peeping up at the red satin pillows like a kid looking through the banister for Santa Claus. “Now be a good little hellspawn
and run along.”

The air tightened, and I wondered if this was going to be the time that Perry pushed it. It was getting more and more likely
the longer this went on.

But apparently, he was just as invested in keeping the Cirque under wraps as I was. I was banking on that. So often, I was
banking on the flimsiest things to keep him from seriously fucking around with me.

It is the woman, has the advantage in situations like this,
milaya.
You just remember that.
Mikhail’s voice, a memory equal parts pleasure and pain.

I was hoping, like always, that it was true.

“Very well,” Perry finally said. “Happy hunting, my dear. I expect this… situation… to be resolved shortly.”

“The longer you stand here jawing, the less likely that is.”
Unless you’ve got some elegant little finger in this pie, which is very possible. I’m not ruling
anything
out.

But still… voodoo. The one thing pretty much no hellbreed would be involved in.

Perry’s presence leached out of the room slowly, like an invisible heavy gas. The Trader still crouched, peering up at the
stage, and I sighed.

“So, this Helene. Did she have any enemies?” I was fully aware of the irony of the question.