The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)
Read The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels) Online
Authors: 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 A.R. Kahler
Originally released as a Kindle Serial, November 2012.
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
Las Vegas,
NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781611099447
ISBN-10: 1611099447
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012953329
EDICATION
To my family — circus and nuclear — for supporting me the world over.
ABLE
OF
C
ONTENTS
HAPTER
O
NE
: C
IRCUS
W
ho the hell
did this?” Kingston whispers, staring at the corpse.
Sabina’s body
is on the pedestal she uses in the show, and she almost looks like she’s
performing. Almost. Her legs are tucked behind her ears in a perfect backbend,
her fingers laced under her chin. She’s even smiling, her brown eyes fixed on a
point far away.
I’m right
beside Kingston, doing everything I can not to vomit on his black Chucks, run
from the tent, or do an embarrassing mixture of both. Right then, I’d give my
left kidney for him to wrap an arm around me to shield me from the atrocity
before us. But he’s not mine, and probably never will be. And even if he were,
he’s not the comforting type. I can feel his heat against my arm. I don’t know
why that sticks out at the moment, but maybe that’s just the way shock works.
We’re both
standing in the dust of the center ring. The rest of the troupe quickly filters
in with gasps and screams. Sabina looks perfect — poised like she’s holding a
pose for the audience’s applause. Except her sparkling unitard is usually
white, not stained a wicked crimson. The long gash across her throat is a
second smile leaking its secrets into the ring.
Someone is
crying behind me. I don’t look back. I don’t look at anyone. I just look at
Sabina and wonder what sort of shit-show I’ve gotten myself into.
I hear a
shout and look up to see Mab storming into the tent. Her wild black hair is in
disarray and the sequins of her midnight-blue dressing gown sparkle in the
lights. Not for the first time, I can’t help but think that she looks like an
early incarnation of Cher. Her porcelain face is flushed, and when she catches
sight of her star contortionist, she stops dead. Mab’s perfectly manicured
hands clench and unclench at her sides. After a deep breath, she stalks
forward, stepping over the ring curb and into the spectacle. She goes right up
to Sabina and lightly puts a hand on the girl’s knee. I see something flash
across Mab’s face — the tightening of her eyes, the barest strain of her lips.
Then she withdraws her hand and faces us, her company.
Her minions.
“Which of you
found her like this?” she asks. Her voice is deep and smoky, like an ex-jazz singer’s. Even though it’s a whisper, it carries to every wall of the big top.
A woman to my
right steps forward. I've never asked her age but she looks like she's in her
forties, maybe younger, with aquamarine eyes and fiery red hair that falls to
her waist. Her skin is as pale as pearls, and even though she wears a rumpled
blue bathrobe, she looks ready to take the stage. I can’t help but glance down
at my own wrinkled pj’s, and hate her for it.
“Penelope?”
Mab asks.
“Yes, my
Lady.” Penelope’s voice is crystal clear. Everything about her screams vintage
pinup model, even the way she’s holding her robe closed with one hand. It’s
like she practiced how to be perfectly disarrayed. “Not five minutes ago, I was
making coffee when I noticed the tent lights on. I thought…I thought someone
was practicing.”
“And she
was…like this?”
“Yes. Exactly
so.”
Mab stares at
the body, the corners of her mouth barely tilting into a frown. She’s not
staring at Sabina like she’s sad over the death of one of her troupe. No, Mab’s
expression is purely calculating, like she’s facing a particularly frustrating
Sudoku puzzle. One that might, at any moment, piss her off.
“I assume no
one knows who did this?” she asks.
No one
speaks. No one even breathes.
I mentally
prepare myself, waiting for her to fly into a rage. Not that I’ve ever seen Mab
in a rage. But it doesn’t take a genius to know there’s a storm brewing under
that well-maintained facade. I can only imagine that “Hell hath no fury” refers
to her. But instead of ripping us a new one, she strokes the corpse’s short
brown hair. Things are clicking behind Mab’s green eyes, things that subdue
everybody — even her. A crowded tent has never been this quiet.
“Well then,
my loves,” she finally whispers, almost to herself. “It appears we have a
murderer in our midst.”
She lifts her
hand. Like ash scattering to the wind, Sabina’s body dissolves, collapsing in
on itself in a hush of glitter and smoke.
There is
still a great deal of congestion near the grey-and-blue main tent, but it’s
pretty quiet at the pie cart, next to the forgotten bacon and boxes of cereal.
Kingston stands by the serving table, grabbing a coffee before the rest of the
troupe shakes itself from their post-murder stupor. He looks like a rock star
at the peak of his glory days, all pale and angular and assured. His black hair
is sticking up in the back from sleeping on it funny, and there’s a line of
stubble on his jaw. His white T-shirt hangs loose over lithe muscles; through
it, I can see his lats. They curve under the fabric like wings, highlighted by
the faintest shadow of a large serpentine tattoo. I shouldn't be staring.
Melody would kill me if she knew.
Damn circus
performers and their perfect bodies. Damn them to hell.
“I guess this
doesn’t happen very often,” I say, trying to focus on the fact that someone has
just been killed, and not on the way Kingston’s triceps cord when he starts
pouring coffee into a second cup.
“Never,” he
says, still facing away.
“Do you think
Mab will cancel tonight’s shows?”
Kingston
chuckles humorlessly. He turns around and stares at me over his mug, one
eyebrow tilting up like I’m a complete idiot. His eyes are dark brown, almost
black — the same color as the coffee steaming in his hands. I look away.
“Don’t count
on it, Vivienne,” he says. “Mab doesn’t cancel a show for anything. Ever.”
“Even if
someone here is a killer?”
“Especially
if.”
He looks
toward the tent and sighs. He’s only a couple years older than me — Mel told me
in secret that he was twenty-four — but sometimes, when he gets all quiet like
this, he seems much older. “The show must go on.”
If this was
one of those perfect movies, this would be the moment for him to shake himself
from his reverie and come over, say something comforting to the new girl or at
least give her a hug. But like I said, Kingston doesn’t act like that with me.
If he has that soft side, he hasn’t really shown it. He’s funny, yeah.
Dependable, definitely. But comforting? I’d have better luck trying to warm up
to Mab.
I stuff my
hands into my pockets and look back to the chapiteau in time to see a huddle of
men carrying out the contortion pedestal. Sparkly purple dust wafts off it as
they move it to the backstage tent. The sight brings Sabina’s dripping body
back to mind. For the second time today, I’m glad I didn’t eat breakfast.
“Why do you
think Mab suspects one of us?” I ask.
“That’s the
thing,” answers another voice. “It can’t be one of us.”
I look back
to see Melody walking over. She’s twenty-two, the same age as me, though we
look nothing alike. We share the same slight build and hazel eyes, but that’s
where the resemblance ends. She has angular features and is an inch or two
taller than me, not that I'm short. My ash-blonde hair reaches my back, while
her brown hair is styled in a pixie cut. She looks like the type of girl you'd
expect to find in some Bohemian cafe, reading poetry and chain smoking
hand-rolled cigarettes. Less Hepburn, more hippie James Dean. Whereas I'd
probably be the girl serving the coffee, the one you smile at but forget the
moment you have your triple espresso — pretty, normal, but utterly
pass-over-able. She's Kingston’s assistant onstage. And offstage, wherever one
goes, the other is sure to follow. I hate to admit it, but they’re the perfect
couple — always teasing, always thinking of the other person, and never dipping
into the PDA.
Mel gives me
a nod before taking the coffee cup Kingston hands her, as if he’d been waiting
for her arrival. I guess it was too much to hope the spare was for me. Her eyes
are shadowed. She shrugs deeper into her loose knit cardigan, in spite of the
early summer heat. She looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks.
“Why not?” I
ask. It’s not like many people wander around the fields our show usually
haunts. Besides, I can’t imagine there being a killer that…artistic in rural Iowa.
The two of
them exchange a quick glance, and Kingston answers.
“Because it’s
in the contract. We aren’t allowed to harm other troupe members.”
“Right,” I
say. “Because people always do what their contracts say they will.” If that was
the case,
going postal
wouldn’t exactly be a phrase, now would it?
“Maybe not
where you’re from,” Melody says, taking a long sip of her coffee. “But in this
company, yes.”
I bite back
my witty retort and wonder if I’m the only sane person working here.
“Is this
what you really want?” Mab asked.
Her voice
sounded sincere, but it was impossible to know; an hour wasn’t nearly enough
time to figure out her tells. If I were judging books by their covers, she’d be
one of those smutty romances you keep hidden in your sock drawer. All I’d
gauged of Mab was that she was powerful, mysterious, and probably a
ball-breaker. That said, I felt a hell of a lot safer with her there.
We sat in
her trailer, candles flickering from skull-and-crystal sconces along the wall.
It seemed larger inside, as though stepping through the rickety aluminum door
had led to somewhere…else. I could have sworn I heard wolves howling in the
distance, even though this was the middle of the day.
In
Detroit.
“Yes, I’m
sure,” I said, though my wavering voice was anything but.
Running
away, joining the circus — that was what I really wanted. I needed to get the
fuck out of Dodge, and this seemed like the most reliable way. My nerves had me
shaking like I was in a caffeine crash. It felt like I’d been running a
thousand miles and hadn’t stopped to breathe. I couldn’t keep my fingers from
rattling the pen she handed me, its nib
tap tap tapping
on the ornate
ebony desk. I could see the ghost of myself reflected in the glass, the rings
of shadow under my eyes from too little sleep and too much fleeing. A smudge of
something dark on my pale cheek. The half-reflection made me look even more
pallid, more worn-through than I felt. And that was saying something.
Mab
grinned like one of her skull sconces and raised one hand. With a snap of her
burgundy-manicured fingers, a book floated down from a shelf behind her. I
couldn’t hold back the gasp. I knew from the moment I saw her on the street
that she wasn’t like everyone else; somehow, the rain seemed to bend around her,
leaving her red silk dress and bone stilettos perfectly dry. As the book
settled in front of her and opened to a page covered with names, I knew without
doubt I was stepping into something big. I didn’t care; I just wanted as far
away from…whatever I was leaving…as possible. At the bottom of the list, my
name was inking itself into being, scrawled by some ghostly hand in ink as dark
as blood.
“Well
then,” she said. “Let us examine the terms, shall we?” Her finger paused beside
my now-completed name.
Vivienne
Warfield.
My name
had never looked so menacing, so concrete. Everything else blurred as she began
reading through the contract, line by line. Only two things stuck out. One was
my name. Her words eddied around it like it was a stone in a stream. The other
was the growing calm that came with knowing that the crazy I was stepping into
was far less dangerous than what I was leaving behind.
Or so I
thought at the time.
