The Immortal Circus: Act Two
Read The Immortal Circus: Act Two Online
Authors: A. R. Kahler
The Immortal Circus
Act Two
The Immortal Circus
Act Two
A.R. Kahler
The characters and events portrayed in this book are
fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead,
is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text
copyright © 2013 by A.R. Kahler
Photo of Paul Taylor's "Promethean Fire" copyright © Lois Greenfield.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North
P.O. Box 400818
P.O. Box 400818
e-ISBN: 9781477857373
Table of Contents
Happily Never After
The fire
is almost beautiful, in a way. It smolders against the setting sun, weaving a
trail of thick white smoke into the pink and fuchsia sky. It’s just after the
final curtain of our last show at this site, and the patrons who filter from
the big top’s black-and-violet canopy take in the spectacle as though it were
all part of the show. After all, it’s set up in the center of the promenade
leading to the main entrance. And no one’s rushing around to extinguish the
self-contained blaze. A few patrons stop and point and take pictures when they
get closer, when they realize that it’s not just a bonfire in the middle of the
walk. No, there’s something inside the pyre. Something that looks an awful lot
like our ringmaster.
I stand a few yards back and watch the scene with a detached sort of
dread. I know there isn’t meant to be a burning effigy right outside the tent.
I know it wasn’t there before intermission. The only thing keeping my heartbeat
even is the knowledge that the burning figure isn’t human: I can see the tightly
bound twigs splintering and can hear the crackle of snapping sap. Whoever made
the effigy of Mab did a damn good job, from the black top hat to the whip
that’s now just a stub in one smoldering hand. The figure’s porcelain-hued skin
was probably plaster, judging from how it cracks and peels. But the Swarovski
crystals and sequins are real, as are the thigh-high leather boots that already
smell like crisping skin. It’s eerie, watching Mab burn on a pedestal of
carefully laid wood. Especially when the real Mab appears beside me.
This Mab, all five-feet-six of her, practically quivers with rage. She
keeps herself in check, however; her only tell is the way her knuckles whiten
around the handle of her corded leather whip. I’ve known her long enough to
understand that this one small crack in her composure is sign enough. Everyone
else might think she’s calm, but I know there’s a storm raging beneath that
rouged facade.
Like the effigy, Mab’s in black leather stiletto boots that reach her
knees. From there on up it’s fishnet and corset and a ringmaster coat that
looks like it was pulled from some kinky Victoria’s Secret photo shoot. Mab’s
eyes are green as crystal, her white face perfectly painted with blushed cheeks
and crimson lips. Once more, I can’t help but think she looks like a young
Cher, complete with her flowing black locks and cheekbones of a goddess. That
and her affinity for leotards and bare skin.
“I trust, Vivienne,” she says, her words as tight as her grip on the
whip, as smoky as the trail weaving spirals above her disintegrating doppelgänger, “that you have no clue who did this.”
“I was watching the last act,” I say.
There’s a pop from the effigy, one that causes a few of the punters—the
more PC term we use for the show’s guests—to jump. The figure’s top hat falls
off and rolls to burn at the feet of a rather stunned-looking Asian couple. The
man raises his camera and takes a photo; the flash doesn’t go off, and I wonder
if he was secretly snapping away throughout the show. I wonder if the Shifters
standing further off notice, and if the man will still have his camera when he
reaches his car.
“What does this mean?” I ask, finally. It’s rare that Mab speaks to me.
After what happened only a few months ago, she’s made herself increasingly
scarce when she’s not onstage. I can’t say I blame her. After all, she
was
attacked by the Prince of the Summer Court.
“It means,” she says, “that Oberon is done playing games. This is a
declaration of war.”
When the
crowd has cleared and the effigy has faded to ash, the troupe gathers around
the spent pyre and does what circus performers do best: gossip. I don’t try to
find a place among them; instead, I stand on a small hilltop, the entire circus
splayed out below like a child’s toy set. I have no desire to be down there
exchanging theories. I know that not one of them has a clue about what’s
actually going on behind the scenes. The old recruits were magically forced to
forget what happened in the massacre three months ago. The newbies were hired
on after their predecessors were killed in the Summer Court’s attack. I’m one
of the few who remembers the tragedy. And today, like most days, I wish I could
bring myself to forget.
Stupid fucking contracts.
“Not exactly how I thought we’d close the show,” says a voice behind me.
I don’t turn around, but I do feel my shoulders lose a little bit of the
tension they’ve been holding. I lean back against the speaker’s chest as his
arms instinctively wind around my waist.
“Yeah, well, Mab’s good at defying expectations,” I say. He chuckles.
Kingston smells like musk and cinnamon, a mix that’s become almost more
comforting than his embraces in the past few months. Almost. The magician is
very good with his hands.
“Mab’s pissed,” I say.
“I’m surprised,” he replies. He sighs and pulls me tighter. “Did she say
anything to you?”
A few months ago, it would have surprised me that he asked. But now I
know I’m one of the inner circle. Mab didn’t make Kingston erase my memory.
Maybe because, like the last few times he’d tried, it would have been doomed to
fail. Or maybe because I’d proven myself ready to know more. Either way, it was
starting to feel like Kingston, Mab, and I were the only three who really knew
the truth behind this show. In any other situation, that would have made me feel
important or special. Now it was just one more reason to feel like I was
isolated from the rest of the troupe.
“Oberon’s declaring war,” I say. “And in a very passive-aggressive way,
Mab was trying to see if I was the culprit.”
Kingston squeezes me and nuzzles his face in my ash-blonde hair.
“Oberon’s always declaring war,” he murmurs. “And you know you were never
really a suspect.”
I shrug. Yeah, I know. Last time around, when it was performers and not
effigies who were showing up dead, Mab made it very clear that I was suspect
numero uno. After all, I was new in the troupe; no one knew anything about me;
and I had the fantastic perk of not knowing much about me either. But it had
all been a ploy to trap the real culprit. Poor Penelope. It’s hard to hate her;
she just wanted to be free. And I know that one day I might get just as fed up
with the show as she did. Hopefully I never get to her point of desperation,
though. Hiring the Summer Court to murder the troupe seems a bit over the top.
I may not know much about my contract, but I do know the rules of its
termination. Either I stay on for eternity, or I serve my purpose to Mab and
walk away without a second glance.
If only I knew what that purpose
was.
Kingston turns me around. Our stage magician is a stunning sight. He
looks like he should be playing guitar in some rock band, not touring with a
bunch of circus freaks and doing parlor tricks. His hair is black and shaggy,
his jaw covered in what seems to be an eternal five o’clock shadow. It’s
getting cooler now that the summer is almost over, and tonight he’s wearing a
leather jacket over his usual faded shirt and frayed jeans. The head of his
gray tattoo curls up his neck. The feathered serpent gives me a toothy grin.
“You’ve got to get this out of your head, Viv. It’s not your fault.”
I look down at his dusty Converse. It’s easy for him to say. He’s not the
one who’s been having the nightmares, the visions. He doesn’t wake up feeling
like there’s something terribly wrong. He doesn’t have his sight shift while
cleaning dishes, doesn’t smell the scent of burning blood …. Kingston knows
what his powers are. I still have no clue what happened the day the Summer Fey
attacked, when my hands glowed white and I was somehow able to take down not
only the fey but the demon Kassia as well.
Kingston also doesn’t know about the choice I made in Mab’s trailer, when
Penelope offered me the perfect way out of all of this. If I had let her win,
if I had just stayed in the trailer until the fight was over, I could have been
free. Free to live with Kingston and Melody. Free to be
normal.
I almost
let her, then. After all, my contract was for eternity, just like hers, and
seeing the deadness in her eyes was a concrete reminder of just how long
eternity really is.
His finger nudges my chin up until I meet his eyes. His irises are dark
as mocha and, right now, just as intense.
“You’re not a suspect,” he says again. “I know you.”
I try to look away, but his eyes lock me in place.
I know you.
The
trouble is, I have no doubt he knows me better than I know myself. And I’m
still convinced that that knowledge could put us all in danger.
“What
am I?” I asked.
Kingston and I were curled up in my tiny twin bed, the sheets tangled
around us. Only a week had passed since Lilith’s porcelain-doll facade
shattered and her demon-self, Kassia, set our show aflame. The new troupe
members had acclimated themselves at a frighteningly quick pace, and everyone
felt like one happy whole. The last few nights had brought bonfires with the
tent crew and drinking games with the new Scandinavian acrobats. Everyone was
“bonding.” Especially Melody and her new love interest, Sara. They seemed to be
bonding on every available surface.
Kingston considered the question for a long time. I tilted my head and
looked up at his jaw, refusing to move from my comfortable drape across his
naked chest. Of everyone in the troupe, he was the person I trusted most, the
one person who seemed to have a grip on what was going on. Even Mel was in the
dark about what had happened that fateful night of Kassia’s madness.
Which meant if anyone besides Mab knew about me, it would be him.
“You’re you,” he finally said. I groaned. It wasn’t like I expected
anything else; we’d had this conversation numerous times already.
He chuckled and ran a hand through my hair, massaging the base of my
skull. If I were a cat, I’d have been purring in spite of his lame non-answer.
“That’s not helpful,” I muttered. “You didn’t see it. I was
glowing
.”
His chest rose and fell as he sighed.
“Mab doesn’t tell me everything, you know,” he finally said. Again, it
wasn’t really an answer, but I could tell from the tone of his voice that it
was the only answer I was going to get.
“But what if I’m dangerous?” I asked. It was so easy to remember that
power, the way it felt to burn the fey with a blinding touch during the battle,
even if I hadn’t been able to summon it again. It felt like ecstasy.
“You’re about the least dangerous person here,” he said. He nuzzled
the top of my head. “Mab’s top hat is more dangerous than you.”
I bit my lip and squeezed my eyes shut.
I wanted him to be right. But I couldn’t help it; while everyone else
in the troupe was bonding together, forming new friendships, and drinking
themselves into a unified oblivion, I felt like I was even more an outsider
than before, when I’d thought I was just a normal mortal.
Because after the battle and the fire, I knew I was something else.
And that unknown something scared the hell out of me.
Kingston
leaves the hill a little while later to go help with teardown. I stay on the
hill, partly because I’m not actually of any use down there and partly because
I’m still frustrated with his avoidance of any topic related to the murders. Am
I seriously the only one here who’s worried about the Summer Court attacking
again? Am I really the only one getting an ulcer from the idea that next time
it’s going to be a hell of a lot more than an effigy set ablaze? I take deep
breaths and try to calm my nerves, watching as the floodlights come on and the
tent is slowly taken apart, panel by panel.
I’m actually starting to feel a little relaxed when the vision hits.
I barely notice it at first. There’s a low thrum like the sound of trucks
on a distant highway, and that’s what I shrug it off as. Then the vibration gets
louder. It rolls over me, sending shivers up my arms. But there’s no explosion
of light and sound, not like the horrifying visions from when I touched Kassia.
These visions are subtle: they don’t crash through me; they invade and subtly
consume. I brace myself anyway. I can’t do anything else.
The hum changes to a high-pitched ring, one that blocks out the sound of
the Shifters hammering down below and the wind in the trees. Just a ringing and
the silence beneath it. Ringing, and then the sky turns to flame.
The
blaze starts on the horizon. It sears into the sky, roils against the heavens,
and turns the night red and orange and angry. My pulse races as I stare at the
inferno, but that’s not what makes my breath catch. Not the light, no, but the
shadows.
They peel themselves from the grass, ooze against the horizon. And as
they congeal into shapes, the terror rises in my gut. They are the stuff of
nightmares, but they’re not the Night Terrors of Mab’s army. These are beings
pulled from hell itself, made of crackling brimstone and rage. They march. And
below, in the valley, the trailers and tent go up in flames as the ringing in
my head turns to screams, as the creatures tear the tent apart, as the demons
rip the tent crew limb from limb.
Screaming, as a demon trudges up the hill.
Screaming as it towers above me and reaches out with burning claws and
teeth of glass and razor.
I gasp.
And the vision shatters.
Melody stands in front of me, her head cocked to the side and one eyebrow
raised. There aren’t any flames on the horizon, no demonic army ripping my
world apart. No. Just like every other time, the visions leave no trace but a
slight shake to my limbs and a queasiness in my gut.
