House of Mirrors (2 page)

They’d been heading to a line of freight and animal wagons painted with a bright confusion of murals and gold lettering, but now Grimstone veered toward a wagon at the edge. This one was enclosed, like a little house on wheels. In the dark Jonah couldn’t see what color it was, but unlike most of the others in the enclave, it didn’t have bright paintwork or lurid depictions on its side.

Inside, Grimstone lit an oil lamp and hung it on a metal bracket by the door. The crowded interior smelled of unfamiliar spices and tobacco. Jonah’s aching eyes adjusted, and he saw that his first impression of clutter wasn’t quite right. The single room was crammed with objects yet organized. There was a trunk and neatly made narrow bed that looked like a shelf built into the wall. Two pots hung on a metal loop over a small spirit stove. Most of the hulking objects were cabinets. Anything private, even as personal as a hairbrush, must have been locked away in those cabinets. Funny to glimpse the mundane in the midst of the glittering exotic carnival. But then light reflected off the spangles of something lying across the foot of the bed. A costume?

Mr. Grimstone gave him a gentle push toward the corner, and Jonah saw a bedroll lay ready, almost as if Grimstone had been expecting him.

“Thank you, sir.” Jonah dropped to his knees, gasping as his bruised ribs creaked. With shaking hands he unrolled the two blankets. Not even bothering to haul one over himself, he lay down and waited for the dizziness to pull him under. If he woke up tomorrow, perhaps he’d have the strength to mourn all he’d lost. Except, no; he knew the day after a beating was always worse. He’d met with a few growing up—a preacher’s kid was a natural target. He’d occasionally dreamed of taking the path to hell-bent revenge, but Jonah had been well trained to turn the other cheek. Very few people under the sway of Pastor Talbot would question his stern teachings. His own son had once been as devoted as any parishioner.

Tonight Jonah’s aches would be bone-deep, a fine distraction, “
the bright side of the situation
,” as Rev. Burns would say, for physical pain would be enough to drown other thoughts. Burns—his teacher. Damn the man to hell.

“Will you…I mean, will the carnival be staying here long?” he asked.

“In a hurry to run away?” Grimstone had hung his dramatic black cape on a hook near the door and was unbuttoning the mirror-studded vest.

Yes, please
. He wanted to run far and fast. “No, sir.”

“We’re due to head south after tomorrow. That good enough for you?”

“Yes, thank you. I-I promise no one will be looking for me.” He shouldn’t have hesitated over the last part. It made him sound unsure, and he was anything but uncertain. No one would come searching for him here.

Perhaps he’d begun to doze, because he was disoriented when something scraped on the wooden floor near him. He opened his eyes. Only inches from his head, a pair of dusty boots shifted. The leather of the boots creaked as someone knelt and laid a hand on his shoulder.

Oh God, no. The beating would begin again. Then he remembered it was his new employer who was bending over him, but that didn’t relieve his anxiety. Perhaps the carnival man realized Jonah’s true nature and had come to finish off matters. Jonah had felt strength in that wiry form when the man’s arm had held him upright, and knew he didn’t have a chance against Grimstone’s fists or those boots. He tensed, ready to curl into a protective ball.

“Nothing terrifying, Talbot. Just a salve.” He set an open jar of something greasy and stinking of animal fat by Jonah’s hand. “You rub it on the parts that hurt or that you think might hurt later.” The boots moved out of his sight. “I’ll be back.”

After the door to the wagon banged shut, Jonah forced himself to sit. He unbuttoned his shirt, hiked his undershirt, and rubbed the rancid-smelling goop on his belly and ribs with tentative fingertips. No bones broken that he could tell. The salve tingled on unbroken flesh. When some touched a cut, he bit back a yelp of pain. He smeared on only enough to obey Mr. Grimstone’s order and only on his torso and arms. He had no desire to unbutton his trousers.

Within a few minutes, Mr. Grimstone returned, holding a dark bottle with no label. “You a drinking man?”

“No.” Jonah focused on the long fingers that dangled the bottle. “Thank you.”

“Might help with the pain.”

“It’s not so bad as all that, sir.”

“So you say.” His host grabbed a tin mug from somewhere behind the pots.

Holding bottle and cup in one hand, Mr. Grimstone dropped to a crouch next to Jonah, effortlessly, like a man used to a life without chairs. Jonah recalled foreign farm workers who could sit on their heels for hours at a time. Peasants, his father had called them.

Without a word, Mr. Grimstone poured the grog—or whatever it was—then handed over the mug. The burning liquid stole Jonah’s breath and made him cough.

“No, no. Thanks,” he managed to choke out as he handed the mug back.

A flash of a grin lifted the corners of Mr. Grimstone’s narrow black mustache, making him appear more devilish than ever.

“All the more for me, then.” He swallowed the rest of the mug’s contents without so much as a flinch, wiped his hand over his mouth, and looked at Jonah with glittering eyes.

Jonah’s own eyes still watered from the alcohol. A few days ago he might have been self-conscious about his callowness, a lad unable to fight or hold his liquor. According to the rougher elements in this part of the county, he’d never been much of a man. But now he didn’t care what anyone thought of him, except he needed to escape and worried that if he appeared weak, Mr. Grimstone wouldn’t keep him on. Perhaps he should explain that, despite his scrawny frame, he could and would work hard. His thin body held strength. He might tell Mr. Grimstone how he’d been outnumbered by his attackers, but he didn’t want the man to ask about the reason for the beating.

“Thank you,” he repeated and stretched his aching body on the bedroll on the wooden floor. He closed his eyes so Grimstone would leave. Despite the kindness the carnival man had shown him, Jonah needed to be alone. Still he could feel the watchful presence hovering, gazing down on him. Jonah only relaxed when at last footsteps thumped across the floor and the door slammed shut.

Chapter Two

After the carnival closed for the night, Mindy took the leather pouch with the day’s earnings to hide it under the floorboards of the cat’s wagon. The old lion, discarded years ago by a man who couldn’t keep up with the meat bill, had lost most of its teeth courtesy of its first owner. Sir Lancelot couldn’t gum a potential robber to death, but his claws were still effective.

Work done, Rafe strolled around the camp, trying to be pleased. Fine weather meant they’d had a good take that afternoon and evening. A hefty bribe paid to local law enforcement would keep them safe. Even if they weren’t entirely welcome in this Bible-thumping corner of the Midwest, at least they wouldn’t be driven out.

Except he’d gone and welcomed potential trouble into the fold. He smiled at the idea that the injured creature he’d taken in was a fugitive, perhaps a bank robber with a gun. No, the young man was too well-bred, running off with volumes of poetry and Shakespeare. Ha, worse than a robber; Rafe had just invited a poetic fool into his wagon for the night.

Rafe walked the perimeter, checking lines, bidding everyone he met a good night, idly wondering about what crimes the straw-haired young man could have committed that might have the law knocking on Rafe’s door by morning. A shop’s assistant who’d taken money from the till? Or a young barrister who’d run afoul of a local corrupt judge? But Rafe’s instinct told him the young man’s trouble was a family matter, as he’d said. Perhaps he’d been discovered in the arms of another man’s wife. That would earn him a beating.

There’d been more than bruises and blood in that face. Sorrow lay in the young man’s green eyes, as if he grieved a loss so great he might give up hope. He was escaping more than immediate danger.

That was just what the carnival needed. Another lost and lonely soul who thought life on the road could provide an answer to his woes. As if leaving everything behind could give more than a temporary measure of comfort. Rafe’s breathing grew shallow, and for a moment old memories regained their unpleasant hold over him. Dark self-loathing rose in his heart, and he walked faster. Leave it alone, he warned himself.

Rafe reflected that he shouldn’t have downed that cup of Parinsky’s rotgut. Drinking the stuff always gave him a black view of the world. He purposefully strode up a grassy hill and looked down on his kingdom. With almost all the lights extinguished, the wagons and tents were only dim huddled shapes now. His world to protect.

He drew a long breath of cool night air. After the magic fled, as the carnival settled in for the night, this was his favorite time. Or perhaps he liked just before dawn best, when the animals grew restless and noisy for their breakfast and the scent of coffee joined the usual stale fug of peanuts, fairy floss, the sweat of long-departed crowds, and the fresher sweat of roustabouts.

Even better, he loved the few minutes before they opened for business, trotting around the wagons, checking that everyone was in his or her place and ready to go. That was his favorite.

Good. He’d come back from the imaginary pain brought on by bloody Parinsky’s bloody liquor. Now he could crawl into his bed and perhaps even sleep. Except, hell and damnation, there was a man in his wagon. What sort of idiocy had induced him to bring Talbot into his home? Mindy had been busy with the box office. Sam wasn’t feeling well and had gone to bed early. Parinsky was drunk—again—and too ornery to boot. Head roustabout Crooked Pete was suspicious and never welcomed new faces, particularly a useless, torn one like Talbot’s. Miss Jamie was far too much of a prima donna to be bothered with showing around a new hire, and he wouldn’t inflict the Fisher couple’s drama on any newcomer. The other members of the show wouldn’t appreciate any rubes thrust into their space. Too many closed circles in the carnival. But the real truth was he could have ordered someone else to look after Talbot, but he’d wanted to take care of the stray.

He entered his wagon as silently as he could. The huddled form in the corner didn’t move. Rafe kept the bedroll ready should the “Signortoris” have another battle and Henry Fisher, aka “Signor Signortori,” once again require a place to sleep other than his marriage bed. When he was angry, Fisher would look for a fight and find one if he bedded down among the roustabouts or anyone else on the line, but he knew better than to get into it with his boss.

Rafe sat on his bed, pulled off his boots, then went still when he realized he couldn’t hear the other man’s breathing. Jesus! What if Talbot’s wounds were worse than they appeared and he’d expired from some internal damage?

Rafe hadn’t bothered with the light since he could navigate this wagon with his eyes closed, but now he lit the kerosene lantern, replaced the glass chimney, and twisted the wick to high before checking on the stranger.

Talbot lay sprawled on his back. His chest rose and fell. Rafe felt his own deep exhalation of relief. The lad lived. He could blow out the lamp and collapse on the bed. But instead he stood over the form of the man now tangled in the blankets he kept ready for the volatile Henry. Blond hair lay over Talbot’s pale forehead and was matted with blood near his ear. Rafe was used to seeing the aftereffects of tussles and worse, but somehow the blood and bruises seemed more obscene on this innocent-looking face.

Rafe scoffed at the thought. A carnival man shouldn’t have to remind himself that beauty and the appearance of innocence meant nothing. He dropped to a squat and leaned closer to make an unemotional inventory. What exactly gave Talbot that air of innocence? Was it the bruise swelling one eye closed, or the long lashes of the other brushing the skin above his cheek? The contrast of his cheeks, pinked by sleep, to the tanned skin? Did he honestly believe that time spent in the sun made a man appear more honorable? Perhaps the full mouth or even the small birthmark on Talbot’s jaw lent him a look of honesty. Utter hogwash, as Mindy would say.

The lamplight picked out a faint growth of golden beard. Talbot’s unbuttoned shirt revealed pale skin and a rumpled, untucked undershirt stained with blood. Was that fresh or dried blood?

Rafe reached down to check the wound near Talbot’s collarbone. He immediately noticed several facts about his own body. His fingers shook, and he was completely aroused. Rafe shifted his squat slightly to adjust to his erection, but otherwise ignored his inappropriate excitement. He hooked a finger on the undershirt and slowly lifted it to look underneath.

Talbot wasn’t hirsute, but neither was this a boy’s hairless body. For a moment Rafe stared at the line of fine, tawny hair from his flat belly to the belted corduroy trousers. He noticed the trim waist. Talbot was thin, but there were some lovely muscles on that torso.

Oh, for God’s sake. No. Hell, no. He wasn’t examining Talbot’s body for his prurient satisfaction. Pervert, he scolded himself, but without heat or shame. No point in regretting what couldn’t be changed.

Rafe lifted the white knit undershirt higher. No fresh blood by Talbot’s clavicle, but a bruise was blooming on the skin over his hip bone. The odor of Mindy’s miracle salve couldn’t entirely hide the smell of clean laundry, blood, and man emanating from Talbot, and that almost proved too much. Rafe began to lean forward to inhale the scent and touch those intriguing lines. He should probably make sure there were no broken bones.

He dropped the shirt and rubbed his fingers over his own thigh, trying to wipe off the urge to stroke the young stranger. He rose to his feet and looked down again—straight into alert green eyes.

Talbot stared at him too long, unblinking.

Interesting. A lengthy look exchanged between men tended to arouse suspicion—or other things. Rafe turned away quickly to hide that other arousal. He went to the kerosene lamp and turned it low.

“No need to wake. It’s not morning. I’m sorry I disturbed you, but I wanted to be certain you were still alive.”