The Immortal Circus: Act Two (4 page)

Sara tilts her head down and examines the pavement as she walks.

“The Burger King thing wasn’t a metaphor,” she says sadly.

“Anyway,” Melody says, intervening before I start feeling any more
awkward than I already do. “The stories are pretty uniform, and the new
performers are beginning to think they were set up. Unsurprisingly, they aren’t
very happy about it.”

“I can’t blame them,” I say.

But I can’t really blame Mab either. Not in the light of the truth that’s
dawning. No wonder Kingston was so nonchalant about the approaching battle.

Mab’s not just waiting for Oberon to come. Her troupe is more than just a
bunch of mortal murderers.

We’re magical, the lot of us, and we’re just waiting for a reason to
fight.

Later
that night, during intermission, I’m back in my booth waiting for clients to
show. Though if I’m going to be entirely honest with myself, I’m really just
hoping Sheena will appear.

Which she does.

Her eyes are wild when she comes into my tent, the beaded curtain
clacking behind her like a death rattle. Despite the fact that her glance is
darting around the room, the rest of her is perfectly composed. She walks over
to the table and slides a folded slip of paper to me.

“He’s watching,” she says in a whisper. “He knows I’ve delivered my
message. Read that. When I’m …” she takes a deep breath.

“What are you talking about?” I ask. I reach out to take her hand, but
she pulls away. “Is it,”—I lower my voice—“is it Oberon?”

She nods.

“I have to go.” She turns to leave and pauses at the curtain.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have said anything. You shouldn’t
have known.”

Then she leaves.

Outside, I hear the jugglers calling out that the next act is about to
start. I open the slip of paper. The words are scrawled in purple pen.

Don’t let him take you. You were his prisoner once; do not fall under
his rule again.

I glance up from the page and feel that old sensation, the fear of fight
or flight. The feeling of being hunted. Goose bumps wrap across my skin. I
refold the note and put it into my Tarot pouch. Then I get up and go to the
back of the main tent to watch the show. I need a distraction, and I don’t want
to be alone right now. Not now. Not ever.

As expected, Sheena is nowhere to be seen.

Back in
the booth after the final act, I sit and shuffle my cards and acknowledge the
anxiety roiling in my gut. It didn’t go away at all during the show, and I know
it won’t go away anytime soon. Every time I blink, I see Sheena’s eyes, hear
the scared whisper of her voice. I wonder how long it will be before I
understand what she was talking about. I wonder if learning more about myself
is really worth the risk. I consider my earlier, albeit fleeting, urge to find
Oberon and demand he tell me more about my past. The fear in Sheena’s eyes
dashes that desire to bits.

When Kingston shows up, I feel my world crash in a screaming train wreck.

“Come on,” he urges. His face is pale, paler than usual. He’s still in
costume.

I follow him out of the booth, and that’s when I hear the commotion.
Initially, I think it’s just a couple of performers putting on an encore—it
wouldn’t be the first time. But no, the crowd forming near the pitch’s entrance
isn’t watching a show, and it’s not another pyre. Huddled just past the arching
neon sign for
Cirque des Immortels
is a group of performers, most still
in costume. Only a few punters remain, and they’re easy to pick out; they’re
the ones whispering under their breath or trying to call an ambulance. The rest
just stand and stare in silent horror. Kingston pushes them aside and guides me
into the circle.

Sheena is lying on the ground.

Dead.

She’s not covered in blood, but it’s clear she was dragged—the dirt is
torn up and there are bruises in the shape of hands on her arms. Her eyes are
still open. Her neck tilts toward the forest, like she’s looking for a way out.

“What happened?” I ask Kingston. He’s staring down at the body with a
distant look in his eyes.

“Someone attempted to take her back,” he says. He leaves the rest out. He
doesn’t need to fill in the lines; I still remember when she confided the
details of her contract.
If I’m ever taken from the troupe against my will,
my life is immediately forfeit.

Someone tried to bring her back to Oberon. Because of that, her contract
killed her.

“We should get Mab,” I say. He nods, still looking down at Sheena’s body.

I turn and head back toward the tent, my thoughts drowning under the roar
of my pulse.

I make it five steps before someone grabs my arm and turns me around.

“Vivienne?” the guy asks.

The guy looks like a Hollister model, with tan skin, short brown hair,
and a polo shirt a little too tight for his muscular frame.

“Do I know you?” I ask. Something about the guy rings a bell in a far-off
corner of my mind.

“Viv, it’s me,” he says. His eyebrows furrow with real concern, like I
should know this, like I should recognize him. He puts his other hand on my
arm. Behind him, the crowd still huddles unaware. For some reason, I don’t
flinch away from the stranger’s touch. His eyes are intense on my face; they’re
blue, blue as the sky, blue as the sparks dancing at the edge of my vision. The
bell in my head tolls louder. “God, I can’t believe it. Where have you been? I
thought you’d died.”

“Who are—” I begin, but my head is swirling. The blue lights flash, the
dark shadows edge closer. I feel the ground beneath me disappear. The bell
changes pitch, becomes a drone.

“I was so worried,” he says. A pause. “Viv. Don’t you recognize me?”

“I don’t—”

“It’s me. Austin. Your boyfriend.”

Sparks explode. The world swims black.

“You have a thing for passing out, don’t you?” Kingston asks.

I look up and he’s looking down at me. One of his hands is
stroking my hair, and the other is on his lap. It takes a few blinks for the
rest of the world to come into focus. The darkness behind Kingston’s head is
spotted with stars, and the howling in my ears is just the wind. I take a deep,
shaking breath and close my eyes. Blue lights still swim across my vision. I
don’t remember how I got down here, in the dirt. I don’t remember why it feels
like everything’s been torn apart.

“What happened?” I whisper. Everything is a blur, but some
recognition is scratching its way to the surface. And it wants to be let out
very, very badly.

“Shh,” he whispers. He leans over and kisses my forehead.
His lips tingle with warm electricity. My panic subsides, just a little, under
that kiss. The touch makes me feel safe.

I push myself up onto my elbows and look around. We’re on
the promenade; the entrance to the pitch is in front of us, the giant neon sign
unlit. Behind us, the tent perches like a beast, its bowels glowing with a
faint light. There isn’t anyone around. I have no idea what time it is. Why the
hell am I on the promenade so late?

“Why are we out here?” I ask.

“I didn’t want to move you,” Kingston says. “You weren’t out
long—don’t worry. Mab cleared the crowd pretty fast.”

The crowd … there was a crowd. Because of the body.

“Sheena,” I whisper. That part of my memory crackles through
the darkness, but it feels incomplete. There’s something else. Something worse.
Something swaddled beneath the comfort of Kingston’s touch. But what could have
been worse than Sheena’s bruised body just beyond the pitch?

He nods grimly. “I thought we were done losing troupe members,”
he mutters. It’s the first time he’s mentioned any doubt about Mab’s ability to
handle our situation. It’s not emboldening.

“What happened to her …?” I can’t bring myself to say “body”
or “corpse,” so I let the question hang.

“Mab disposed of it,” he says. I remember the other
disposals, the puffs of magic and glitter. I wonder what color Sheena’s ashes
were.

Silence stretches between us then. Kingston’s looking at me
with his eyebrows furrowed, his lips slightly parted as though he’s on the
verge of asking a question he can’t stomach voicing. I’ve seen him torn before,
but this is different. This makes my chest constrict; for some reason, I don’t
want him to say anything either.

“What?” I finally ask. Because that nagging feeling burns in
the back of my mind, and it won’t let go.

“Is that … is that all you remember?” he asks. “About
tonight? Just Sheena?”

I’m about to say that yes, that’s all I remember, but then
my vision gives a little twitch, and it’s no longer Kingston hovering over me,
but a boy with tan skin and blue eyes and slicked back hair. A boy whose name
feels lost on my tongue.

“There was a guy,” I say. I look left and right, as though
maybe he were still standing somewhere not too far off. But the promenade is
deserted. Just Kingston and me, surrounded by dirt and starlight. “He said … he
said he knew me.” There’s more … there’s more, but it won’t come. It’s
scratching and screaming, but its cries are muffled.

“There was,” Kingston says. “What do you remember about
him?” I’ve never heard his words this careful, this guarded. As though at any
moment I’ll pull out a gun and shoot him unless he talks me down properly.

I bring a hand to my head and squeeze my eyes shut and try
to remember. I summon the guy’s face, the football-jock features. His voice,
surprised, worried, and relieved all at once. And then I remember. It doesn’t
dawn on me; it crashes down like a sledgehammer, explodes across my senses and
makes my heart scream.

“Austin.” I mutter, opening my eyes. “His name was Austin.
And he said he was my boyfriend.”

“Shit,” Kingston says. He dips his head and runs his hands
though his hair, his shoulders hunching over. “Shit shit shit.”

“What?” I ask. I don’t know what to think or how to feel,
but a thousand emotions flutter within me like burning butterflies, and I don’t
know which will still be alive when they land and which will turn to ash.

“You’re not supposed to know that,” he finally says, his
words muffled by the hand he’s dragged over his jaw.

“Know what?”

One of those emotions burns bright, and I push myself to
sitting and scoot back to stare at him. I hadn’t expected anger to win out, but
it flares through my body like a warning beacon.

“What am I not supposed to know, Kingston?” I ask again,
biting off each word like a curse.

When he looks up at me, his dark eyes are haunted.

“You’re not supposed to remember you were in love,” he says.
Then he presses his palms to his eyes and mumbles, “We need to get Mab.”

Not much has changed in the shadowy interior of Mab’s
trailer.

She opens the door the moment Kingston knocks, almost as if
she were waiting on the other side for him to call. It wouldn’t surprise me.
She knows more than what she’s letting on about everything.

We sit in her office. She lounges behind her desk, wearing
fishnets and leather, her cleavage accentuated more than Elvira’s in those
cheesy horror flicks I vaguely remember seeing. The shelves surrounding us are
filled with old books and crystal sconces and skulls—some of glass, some of
bone, some inlaid with gold. On one corner of her desk is her top hat; it rests
on a cast-iron cat, the ruby on the satin brim glittering with its own light.
This place makes me feel like I’ve stepped into an oddities museum. The wolves
howling in the distance don’t help.

Kingston hasn’t looked me in the eye since he brought me
here, and for my part, I don’t want him to. Because right now I feel like a
cheater or like I’ve been cheated on—or some sick mix of both. I keep
remembering Austin and the concerned look in his eyes. I keep trying to recall
some sort of emotion toward him, something that would signify a relationship.
But I feel nothing toward him. Absolutely nothing. And that makes me feel a
whole hell of a lot of something else toward Kingston.

Rage isn’t an emotion I enjoy. Especially not when it’s
directed at the man I thought I was in love with.

“Tell me,” Mab says as she props her heels up on her
mahogany desk, “besides Sheena’s death, what other brilliant news do you two
lovebirds bring me this evening?”

There’s a twist to her words. She knows precisely why we’re
here. There’s no other reason she’d be looking at me with that little smirk on
her lips.
Lovebirds.

I open my mouth and find I have no idea what to say. I
stutter and hope that Kingston will say something in my place. He doesn’t.
Did
he know? Did he know I had a boyfriend before this? Was forgetting Austin
his
choice or mine?
Because I know Kingston was there when I signed my
contract. Kingston was the one who found me in the first place.

Finally, I say the words that feel like venom in my throat.

“I met someone tonight,” I say. My voice is flat, dead. “A
guy. Claiming to be my boyfriend.”

“And this surprises you?” Mab asks. “I don’t mean to be
crass, but my dear, it’s not as though you are the ugly duckling. I’m sure you
had many lovers before coming here.”

Is she really giving me a pep talk?

“What
surprises
me,” I continue, “is the fact that I
don’t remember him.”

Mab’s smirk increases as she raises an eyebrow.

“Must I remind you, Vivienne, about the parameters of your
contract?” She makes a lazy gesture to the bookshelf behind her and the large,
leather-bound volume resting above her head. I know that book well; it’s what
caused all the destruction when Penelope went off her hinges. The book of
contracts doesn’t dislodge itself from the shelf, not like the last time. She
knows I remember. There’s not much she’s let me keep, but I do recall
that
aspect
of my contract all too well: I’m not supposed to recollect anything from my
past. But what happens when my past starts remembering me?

I know that this isn’t the conversation we should be having;
I should be interrogating her about Oberon, about the new crew and their rigged
contracts. I should be asking about the war. I shouldn’t care about a boy from
my past who doesn’t even ring a bell. But suddenly, it’s very, very hard to
convince myself that any of this is real.

Austin was real. He
looked
at me like I meant the
world to him, like he’d been looking for me for years. And I didn’t even
recognize him.

“I want to know,” I say. “I’m supposed to forget my past,
but it keeps coming back. I’m tired of feeling like this, of feeling like I’m
incomplete.”

“Then we seem to be at an impasse, love.” Mab slides her
feet off the desk and leans over to me. “Because I won’t change your contract.
You came to this show because you wanted to forget. I gave you your wish and
then some. If I renegotiate with you, the rest of the troupe will want the same
grace. I cannot do this. There is already too much
chatter
going around
for my liking.”

I should tell her about Sheena. I should tell her I know I’m
being singled out. I should tell her this isn’t just about Austin—this is about
everything in my past suddenly boiling to the surface. I might have wanted to
forget, but it’s starting to look like that desire was my greatest curse.

“I can’t keep hiding from this,” I say.

“Actually, my dear,” she says, looking over to Kingston, “I
think you’ll find you can.”

“No,” I say. The glance they share sends chills down my
spine. I push back my chair. “No, I’m not going to let you make me forget this.
Not again. Not anymore.”

Mab looks back at me. Kingston studiously stares at the
desk.

“Why did you come here, then?” she asks. “If not to forget
once more, why did you come to tell me what I already knew?”

“It was me,” Kingston says. His voice is hollow. Mab shoots
him another glance, this one far from understanding. “I brought her here.”

“Do explain,” she says slowly.

“I can’t keep this up,” he says. He sounds so tired. Even
though my emotions are fighting within me, I want to feel sorry for him. But
that pity is nothing compared to the rage I feel building, the lurching
recognition of betrayal.

“Keep what up?” I ask. I already feel my stomach dropping
through the trailer floor.

“Knowing,” he says. He looks at me then. His eyes are lost.
“Knowing that I’m not the only one. That if not for this,”—he waves his hand
and a trail of sparks flicker in its wake—“you might still be with him.
Underneath all of the magic, you might still be in love.”

My jaw clenches. I stare at Kingston and feel my heart
splitting apart. I want to hate him, but it’s obvious this is killing him too.
He’s right. How can I say I love him when there’s an equally good chance I’m
still in love with a man from my past? How can I say that any of this—any of
us—
is
real?

“It’s your choice,” Mab says. She sounds resigned.
“Technically speaking, I should have him wipe your memory immediately, as per
your contract. But I am willing to be lenient this once; I suppose, after your
help with Penelope and Lilith, I owe you this. You can remember. This one
instance, I’ll let you keep a shard of your past.”

“Thank you,” Kingston whispers, barely loud enough to be
heard.

I look at Mab and realize that, in spite of Kingston’s
relief, it’s still my choice to make. She stares at me with an amused
expression on her face, as though she’s secretly delighted things are working
out this way. I open my mouth to make my decision, but she cuts me off before I
take a breath.

“Before you answer, be sure you understand fully what this entails.
Magic is unpredictable at best. If I let you keep this memory, other cracks
will appear. That is the nature of manipulating the human mind. I cannot be
held responsible for what emerges. Furthermore, should you begin to remember
too much, I will be forced to clean the slate fully, as it were. With or
without your blessing. Your contract demands as much.” She looks from me to
Kingston. “It would also be wise to mention, ignorance is bliss. Especially
where romance is concerned.”

I take a deep breath.

She’s right. If I keep this memory, it will be hard to look
at Kingston the same way. I’ll always wonder if he’s the one or whether there’s
someone better waiting just outside the tent.

But if I let myself forget … I can’t bring myself to even
think of it.
That
option feels like offering myself up for execution.
It’s not a choice.

“I want to keep it,” I say. “The memory. I want to
remember.”

“So be it,” Mab says. She leans back again and examines her
nails. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have business more pressing than your
romantic interludes. A good concessionaire is so hard to find. As you well
know.”

“Come on,” Kingston says. He stands and pulls out my chair
for me, helps me to my feet. His hand lingers on mine as he opens the door. But
his touch is distant. That touch, that bare brush of fingers, is enough to make
me feel sick. It already feels like I’ve lost him.

When the door clangs shut behind us, I can’t help but wonder
if I’ve made the right choice.

“We don’t have to, you know,” he says. He stands in the
doorway of my trailer. I’m already by the bed, though that’s not saying much as
there’s barely three feet of space between the two. I stare at him. He looks
like a teenage boy, waiting at the threshold of his first date’s house. He
looks so lost, so meek. Why am
I
the one who feels like I should be
apologizing?

“I don’t like this,” I say. It’s a simple statement, but
it’s the only thing that seems to encompass everything. “I’m tired of the
lies.”