The Immortal Circus: Final Act (Cirque des Immortels) (13 page)

Free?

The word is an alien concept. Just a few hours ago, I was convinced I wasn’t going to make it out of this alive no matter what. There wasn’t anything worth fighting for, not really: I was locked into an endless contract, my family was all dead at my hands. Hell, just a few hours ago the only thing worth living for was a post-circus future with Austin, and Mab had managed to twist even that one against me. Now there’s Kingston to contend with, another possible future with another man I can’t seem to figure out.

But freedom? The chance to get out early, to live a normal mortal life, to have all this murder and bloodshed behind me? Kingston’s face bubbles in my mind, the promise he made of our potential future, of a castle and children and a thousand granted wishes. It’s almost too good to be true, that future. It’s still impossible to know if he meant it, or if that was part of the snare to bind me to this show.

With Austin, I know what I’m getting. I know where he’s coming from. Together, we could craft a life worth living. An honest life. One without magic and manipulation.

That’s when I catch Mab’s omission.

“No,” I say.

“No?” She looks at me like she’s amused and a little surprised.

“If I do this for you, you’re going to need to give me more than that.”

She chuckles and begins to pace around me, her long dress curling like smoke at her heels.

“Vivienne. I’m giving you everything you’ve always wanted. If you want, I can make this whole experience just one bad dream, one you barely remember. You’ll be out. Your slate washed clean.”

“I want Austin,” I say. The words surprise even me.
Can I really choose him over Kingston?

She pauses and gives me the once-over.

“If he lives,” is all she says.

I swallow hard and nod. I don’t want this to be a choice between men. I want to convince myself this is for the greater good. “When this is over, you’ll release him from his contract. He came here to find me. There’s no other reason for him to be part of the show. If I’m going back to my old life, so is he.” Just saying it seems to weave Mab’s magic into place; a part of me yearns to wake up some day and have this be a dream. A nightmare.

This could all be over.
Even though it means the loss of Mel and Kingston, I’m too tired from all the fighting and death to hold on to them. I just want to rest. In this moment, I want nothing more than to live in a world untouched by all this madness.

“Agreed,” Mab says. Her words snap me from my trance. She holds her right hand out in front of her, her nails glinting jade. “You and Austin will be released from my care when this war is over.”

I hesitate for only a moment. Then, I take her hand.

Sparks jolt through our skin, spreading up my arms and twining down my spine. It feels like spiderwebs and chains. I gasp; she grips tighter.

“Should you fail, Vivienne, should you try to revolt, or somehow sneak more than just Austin from his contract, you will be my subject until eternity’s end. No exit clause, no chance of escape. You will win this war and bring glory to my kingdom, or I will make Lilith’s imprisonment in that tomb look like heaven in comparison.” In the corner of my mind, I can hear the furious scribbles of a quill on parchment, as my contract changes to meet these new terms.

She releases my hand, and it takes everything I have not to drop to my knees. I glance at my palm; the skin is pink, raw. When I blink it’s back to normal.

Mab steps away and toward a path that I’m pretty certain wasn’t there moments ago. She stares out into the shadows and dancing lights and menacing black boughs.

“This path will take you through the Wildness to the edge of Summer,” she says. “It is very difficult to tame such a path, and it will not last forever. I suggest you hurry and do not stray, no matter the temptation. Otherwise it may disappear entirely or decide to lead you elsewhere. And paths such as this rarely lead to safety on their own volition.”

She looks back toward me.

“Well? Run.”

I pause for just a moment more. I pat my pockets to make sure I have the glamour for Kingston and me. Then I look out at the path. The path, which seems to be shifting back and forth before my very eyes, undulating slowly like a serpent in the dark sand.

I follow Mab’s advice. I run.

I’m not an athlete. Unlike everyone else in the Cirque des Immortels, I don’t train for five hours a day, seven days a week. Getting up in the morning is enough of a workout. Putting on Mab’s corsets is my cardio. After about five minutes of sprinting through the dark undergrowth I slow down, my breath already loud enough to attract whatever big bad wolves are hiding in the shadows. And when I glance back, I realize that there isn’t a path behind me. Just a wall of bare black trees and dancing fireflies.

Mab wasn’t kidding. This path doesn’t like being in existence.

Still, I can’t keep running, so I hustle into a power walk and try to keep myself from freaking out over the fact that every time I take a step forward, the path closes up behind me. The forest beyond the path is far from inviting—the trees here are studded with barbs as long as my hand, the ground choked in spiny weeds and glinting shards of stone. Even the faerie lights in the branches have taken on a sickly, menacing lime-green cast. They’re the only light in here, and their constant movement makes shadows shift through the branches and across the ground at my feet. A cold breeze sighs through the boughs, or maybe it’s the boughs themselves sighing.

Anything could be out there.

Hell, I’m sure that anything and everything
is
out there. And I don’t know if I’m not seeing it because the path is enchanted or because the monsters are waiting for me to let my guard down.

Your powers will come if your life is in danger.
It’s a nice fallback. But it’s also not something I want to test.

A few minutes later, I hear it.

It’s the sound of wind chimes, the gentle tickle of bells. The notes drift through the trees like an angel’s chorus, sounding terribly out of place in so dismal a scene. Then a faint drum, the tap of a tambourine. The soft tones of a flute. My skin prickles at the noise. The music is distant and near, the memory of a memory, and in spite of Mab’s warning, my feet grind to a halt.

I look toward the melody and the trees twist away, revealing a path that wends its way through the woods. It’s impossible to see what’s at the end, but there’s a light down there, a warm, summery sort of light, and the moment I see it the cold in my bones grows unbearable.

Come,
whispers a little voice in my head.
Come to where the day is warm and your worries are naught. You deserve to rest. You have fought so, so long. Let this be your reward.

And, in spite of myself, my foot takes an impulsive step toward the glow.

“No.”

The word comes from my lips, but I don’t remember saying it. Something makes me stop, and the moment I snap to reality I realize my forearm is burning with pain. I glance down—Zal is twisting and churning on my skin, his pale eyes wide.
Kingston?

No, it couldn’t have been him. Could it? I can feel the traces of his voice, the faint impression of his cologne. It’s impossible to focus on his memory, though—with every second the music grows louder, the pull toward the promise of rest impossible to shake. Zal gives another twinge on my arm, reminding me of my duty, reminding me that so many lives rest on my shoulders. I can’t give in. I can’t rest, even though every cell of me wants to. Not yet.

I turn toward the main path.

And as one, all of the lights in the wood go out. So too does the music.

“Shit,” I whisper. Immediately, I drop into a crouch, my ears straining for any sign of movement. It’s darker than dark, like being stuck in onyx. The complete absence of sound rings in my ears like a gong. The silence doesn’t last for long.

Something scurries past on my right, making my heart jump into my throat. Seconds later, something wet drops from the trees behind me. I turn, dig my hands into the soil, praying for a sharp stone or some sort of weapon. Nothing: just grit and pebbles. Something giggles in front of me. Right in front of me. I jump back and raise an arm in defense, my mind already crafting a myriad of terrible monsters.

A light comes on.

It’s dim, more lines of light than a singular source, and when the lines shift I realize the streaks are cast from between tiny fingers. The figure opens its hands like its holding water, and the light illuminates a face that makes my blood run cold.

“Claire.”

My sister nods. She looks exactly as I remember her, and that makes it worse. Her brown hair is sticky with blood, her dress ripped and red from where I stabbed her. Her eyes are lost, almost white, and I want to cry a thousand apologies at what I’ve done. It can’t be her. It can’t…

“It’s okay,” Claire says. She lets go of the light; it floats up and hovers above her, the downlight making her even more eerie, her features even more sharp and frost-worn. Then she takes a limping step forward, toward me, and I scramble back. If she notices my retreat, she doesn’t show it. Another step forward. It’s then that I notice the dirt on her face, the scratches on her arms. Like she clawed her way out of a grave. “I’m okay here.”

“What are you?”

This makes her pause. Her eyebrows furrow, but her eyes still don’t focus. They are moons of the palest grey in a muddied red sky.

“I’m your sister,” she says.

“No,” I say. I scramble backward again and hit a tree. Am I still on the path? Is this still even Faerie, or have I somehow fallen into hell?

“I am,” she says. “Don’t you recognize me?”

“You’re not her,” I say.
You can’t be her. Not here. Not now.
But there’s a nagging in the back of my head that says
I’m
the one speaking lies.

“I am.” Her voice changes. Deepens. “At least, I am what’s left.”

I nearly choke.

“What do you mean?”

“You left her body in the kitchen,” she says. The voice is cold, scraped from the bottom of the Arctic. “You left her to rot. We saved her. Brought her here. Brought her here to play. Forever.” The thing that wears my sister’s skin takes another shambling step toward me.

She pauses. “Do you want to play with us?

Us?

But I don’t have to voice the question. Because at that moment, more lights flicker on through the trees. And under each faerie light, like some earthbound anglerfish, is a child. At least, they once were children. Dozens if not hundreds of broken bodies—children with stab wounds and bullet holes, boys and girls with missing arms or eyes or heads—fill the forest around me, each perfectly preserved in their moment of dying. Each glowing like cold death under the light of the faerie hovering above it.

I force myself to my feet and look around. I’m surrounded, completely surrounded. And what little path there was before is gone. The only way open to me is the direction the music was coming from
—that
path cuts through the forest, the end glowing as warmly as before. The moment my eyes land on it, I hear the music again.

“Don’t worry,” Claire’s body says. “She’s safe here. Your sister. She will always be safe here. This forest is for the lost ones, the children who were killed before their time. We take them in. We play with them. We give them another life.”

“My sister is dead,” I whisper, trying to summon some sort of resolve. I keep glancing between the dead girl and the side path. I don’t really have any options.

“Only because you killed her. But look. She has a new life now. A new life with all of us. Her friends.”

As she talks, her mouth slowly stops moving, like a windup toy running out of power. But the voice continues. The voice never stops. Then the other voices pitch in.

“You can play with us, too,” they say.

A boy to my right speaks, his tilted head connected by only a few fibrous strands of decayed muscle. “You’re already here. We don’t even need to dig you out. It’s so hard to dig them out. The fresh ones, they’re dug so deep.”

“You could keep your soul, if you like,” says a girl right behind me. I jump and turn to her. She looks normal. Save for the acidic froth trailing from her lips. “You don’t need to be filled. These bodies, they were empty. So empty and cold. So we filled them and brought them here, and now they can play.”

“You’re insane,” I say. I look back to Claire. Claire, whom I thought I was saving. Claire, whom I apparently damned to this.
Is her soul still in there, trapped and watching and screaming? Does she know what’s being done to her body?
“You’re all insane. You’re just possessing them. You’re nothing more than ghosts.”

“Be careful, Vivienne,” Claire says, her open lips still unmoving. “You’re in our world now.” She twists her ear to the sky, like she’s trying to hear the voice of God. “Do you know what she was thinking? Your sister. Do you know what she was thinking when you killed her?”

I take a step back and run into the girl behind me. I barely even notice her topple to the ground.

“She was hurt. So hurt. That’s why she called to us. That’s why all the children call to us. She wanted to be taken away. To a place where it didn’t hurt. To a place where she could always play. A place where she could forget that her big sister didn’t love her, that her big sister wanted her dead.”

“It’s not true,” I sob. Tears are pooled in the corners of my eyes, halos blooming in the lights above the possessed children. “It’s not true at all. I loved her. I loved her. I wanted to keep her safe.”

Another kid, this one with a hole in his face where his right eye should be, speaks up, “Liar.”

The others mimic him, their words becoming shouts. They shuffle forward. The music grows louder.

Don’t leave the path.

Claire, Claire. I’m so sorry.

The children crowd closer. They’re screaming at me now, calling me liar, murderer. Only Claire stays silent. From behind her back she pulls out a kitchen knife, bloodied from use. The knife I left lodged in her frozen chest.