The Immortal Circus: Final Act (Cirque des Immortels) (15 page)

“You’ll have to choose, soon,” Meadowsweet says. She perches on a big red toadstool a few feet away, her legs daintily crossed. “The life with Kingston or the life with Austin. You’ll have to break one of their hearts, and your own as well. But in Tír na nÓg, you would not need to choose. You could live with both, forever.”

I choke back the words I want to say, because my heart is practically burning now. Kingston’s touch still ghosts against my skin, but with it is another knowledge, the memory of Austin.
People like you and me don’t handle normal,
Kingston said. And he was right. But a life under the big top would just be another illusion. There’d still be the threat of war, the slow drone of eternity. There’d still be the question of whether or not Kingston’s love for me was real, or if it was all some extended plan to keep me there. I’m not saying a life with Austin doesn’t sound dull in comparison, but there’s something about it that pulls at my heart: after so much time running and questioning, a home is more desirable than any applause.

Kingston already betrayed me. Who’s to say he won’t do it again?

“Which will you choose?” she asks, pulling me up from the depths. My hands and knees are frosted, but I’m numb to the pain. “The life of glamour or the life of mortal love? You can’t have both, Vivienne. Not out there. But if you stay here, if you give yourself to Tír na nÓg, you would never have to choose one or the other. What is that human phrase? You could have your cake and eat it, too? We very much enjoy cake and the eating of it in my court. Simply stop fighting. Open your heart to Tír na nÓg. Don’t you deserve to be happy? Don’t you deserve to stop sacrificing everything?”

I struggle to force out her words, to keep Mab’s charge in my head. I have to save Kingston. I have to save the mortal world.

But why? Why is it always me? Why do I have to keep hurting like this?

“Yes,” Meadowsweet coos. “Tír na nÓg knows. And it wishes to help you. Let your dreams rest here. Let yourself surrender.”

I open my mouth, and I don’t know if it’s to scream at her or tell her that yes, yes, I’m so tired of fighting. But Zal gives a furious sting on my wrist. The pain pins me in place like a butterfly on a corkboard.

“I don’t have time for this.”

“Time,” Meadowsweet says. “Yes, there is the matter of time. That is always the enemy of you mortals. Let me show you.”

I try not to listen to her; I need to get out, before she manages to convince me to stay. I push myself up from my knees.

There are comforting hands on my shoulders. Comforting, but not comforting enough. I look down into the casket at Austin’s face. The years have taken their toll, but he’s still beautiful to me. He’s still the boy I fell for, and he always will be.

“There was never any other,” I whisper, or maybe I think it; it’s hard to tell anymore. But my daughter wraps me in a hug as she pulls me away from Austin’s casket. Heart attack, the doctors said. But he went in his sleep. In my arms. That’s what we always wanted. I walk away in my daughter’s arms. Will she hold me when I pass? Will he be waiting for me to join him?

Or will I be alone?

I don’t cry as hard as I should, the ache is so great. My daughter doesn’t let go of me, and I lean against her as the rest of our family and friends come up to pay their last respects. There are so many lilies in here, I feel like I’m drifting in a soft world of white. A world of soft edges, of comforting smells. A world where nothing withers or dies.

“It’ll be okay, Mom,” she sniffs. And I nod and stare at Austin’s face.

But I don’t know if I believe her. I don’t know if it will ever be okay again. Not until the end comes. Not until it swallows me whole. Hopefully, when it does, we’ll be together again. Back under the faerie lights of Prague, dancing in the snow-swept streets, dreaming of endless days and nights of bliss.

“Time is the greatest murderer of all,” Meadowsweet says. I look over to her, to where snow lies in drifts. Ice cracks against my cheek. I brush the tears away and watch them fall to the ground as dust. Every blink is Austin’s face, as wrinkled and pale as the snow on the ground. Every blink is a reminder of the end. His end. Our end.

“Why are you showing me this?” I manage.

“Because I want you to stay here. Tír na nÓg wants you to stay here. In the mortal world, you will watch your loved ones age and die. If you choose Austin, you will see him buried. But if you stay here, if you give up this fight, you can live with him in bliss for eternity.”

“But it’s all a lie,” I say. I take a deep breath and try to remember what I’m dealing with. Faeries don’t lie. But they always have an agenda. “What’s in it for you? If I don’t fight? If Mab and Oberon kill each other. What do you gain?”

She smiles a sweet little smile.

“Let’s just focus on you, Vivienne. See what I am giving you, not what I could gain.”

“I don’t trust you,” I say. “You’re no better than Mab.”

“Mab, who promised you an eternity? She didn’t promise everyone. Time will take those you love, Vivienne, no matter which path you choose. Unless you stay here. Here, you would never know the greatest of mortal pains.”

I block her out, focus on Zal writhing on my wrist. I wipe the snow and dust from my hands.

“Just like dust,” Melody says. I look up at her, diverting my attention from the linoleum floor of her trailer. “C’mon, Viv. You know it’s better than the alternative.”

“She has a point,” Kingston says from beside me. I spare him a glance—he’s in his normal street attire, the faded leather coat and jeans I swear he wears more often than underwear.

I sigh and look back to Melody. Like Kingston and me, she looks the exact same age as when we met. Her hair is curled and streaked with magenta now, but she’s dressed in an oversized cardigan and torn-up denim like always. Unlike Kingston and me, however, her age is just an illusion, a trick of her Shifter nature. Every day she forces her body to take on this form. But she’s still aging, underneath all the illusions of youth. She’s still dying.

One of us has to. The tithe demands it. And that is the one act of magic no contract can break—it doesn’t matter that I’ve been the ringmaster for nearly seventy years. The tithe is law. Not even Mab could break it, not that she’d care enough to try.

“I’ll have to find another…” I begin, but Melody waves her hand. The motion is slow. She stopped performing years ago, and I think that marked the start of her inevitable decline. Going from star to worker-in-the-shadows had to have been a tough choice on her part, even if she never showed it. Especially when she still looked like she should be doing backflips onstage.

“That will be taken care of automatically,” she says. “The faeries handle it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, the moment I’m gone, the faeries will go out and find another child suitable for the tithe and deliver her to your doorstep. Usually within the hour.” She coughs as she laughs. “Better than overnight delivery. Mab doesn’t mess around.”

“Still, Melody, you can’t ask me to do this.”

“Technically she can,” Kingston corrects. I glare at him, but he doesn’t cower. He’s Melody’s friend, too, and I know deep down this choice grates on him just as much. He’s just better at dealing with it. He’s had centuries of practice. “You’re ultimately in charge of contracts. Why else do you think Mab gave you the book? She was tired of meddling—you’d already proven yourself.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” I say. I look back at Melody. There’s a slight glaze to her youthful eyes, her age peering through the cracks, proving her mask an imposter. “Are you sure you want me to do this?”

Melody nods.

“I’ve lived more than long enough. Everything hurts, Viv. And I’m starting to forget things: the good old days, the acts I did. Hell, I’m saying things like
the good old days.
It’s time. I’m ready.”

I sigh and bite back the tears. I have to stay strong. Rule number one of showbiz: it doesn’t matter how much it hurts or how much you’re breaking inside. The show always goes on.

I snap my fingers.

The book appears from thin air. It coasts down in front of me and lands on my lap, already open to Melody’s page. Another wave of my hand and a giant peacock feather appears, the steel nib dry.

“You’re sure?” I ask. I don’t want her to be sure. I want to wave my hand and make the damned book disappear. I want there to be another way.
There has to be another way.

“I’m sure. I’m begging. Please. Don’t make me suffer.”

I’ve done many things in my time in the Cirque des Immortels. Many things I talk about, and even more I don’t. But I know, without a doubt, as I reach over and prick Melody’s finger with the quill, that this moment will go down in history as the worst executive decision I’ve ever had to make.

I bring the pen back to the page, the nib hovering above Melody’s full name, the drop of her blood poised on the tip.

“I love you, you know,” I say.

“Lesbo,” she says. She coughs again, and I’m positive it’s to hide a sob. “I love you, too. Both of you. Thanks for a great career.”

I nod. I don’t take my eyes off her.

Not as I bring the nib to the page, not while I write “Contract Terminated” in crimson ink.

She doesn’t gasp when the line completes. Instead, a tightness unravels behind her eyes, like a coiled spring suddenly releasing its tension. Her lips quirk into a smile.

And then, as she slouches into herself, her body disintegrates, fluttering to the ground in a cloud of sparkling, pink dust.

“You did the right thing,” Kingston says, and there’s a note in his voice that tells me he’s trying harder than ever to keep his shit together.

I don’t speak. I shove the book from my lap—it disappears into the ether before it hits the floor—and I bury my head against his chest. He wraps his arms tight around me as I let myself sob. I haven’t cried in years. I haven’t needed to.

We’ve always had each other.

And soon, that’s all we’re going to have.

Him and me.

Forever.

The illusion fades as I blink back tears. The night is dark, the trees around me vanished. I stand in a field of tumbled weeds and broken stalks. The only light comes from the waning moon above and the glowing form of Meadowsweet hovering before my eyes.

“Not even Mab’s magic will keep you safe from time,” she says. “But here, in the land of Tír na nÓg, we can shield you. You needn’t watch your friends and family die. You may live every day in the glory of youth and happiness. Why would you choose anything else? No matter your choice, people will die. No matter your choice, your life will be wracked with pain. Why hurt? Why hurt when you can be free?”

Her words are the worst temptation I’ve ever felt. Beneath all the layers of duty and rage is an ache, an exhaustion I simply can’t release. And her words draw it out, make it as palpable as a wound slashed across my chest. I just want to lie down in the snow. I want to let her take it all away.

Don’t give in to her.
Kingston’s voice comes from nowhere.
Keep fighting, Vivienne. Please.

Maybe it’s my imagination. Maybe I’m hallucinating his voice. But if he’s still fighting, even in death, I can’t give up either. He still needs me. Austin still needs me. As much as it hurts, I can’t stop yet.

I look up to her. “I can’t stay here,” I say, and I’m only partially ashamed at the pain laced through my voice, at the whine that tells my greatest secret: I want to stay. I want to give in. I don’t want to do this anymore. “They need me. I can’t let them die. I just can’t. Please, you have to let me go.”

She sighs, then, and it’s only in that moment that I realize the music is gone. The night air is silent and empty and cold, as though everything is absent save for this moment.

“Tír na nÓg wishes you would stay. But we are the realm of dreams, not threats. We cannot keep you here, not against your own free will. If you truly wish to leave…” she looks across the empty field. Well, mostly empty, save for the smudge of buildings on the horizon, their forms dimly lit by the aurora overhead.

Behind us is the forest, the path lit by pearls and toadstools. When I glance over, I hear the music again, the faint promise of an eternity of dreams and happiness.
Tír na nÓg wishes you would stay.
And I wish it, too. The path calls to every fiber of me, every traitorous part that wants to stop fighting and hurting and losing.

But I can’t leave Kingston and Austin in the dust. I can’t live a lie of dreamed happiness when they’re out there, suffering, because of me.

“I have to go,” I say.

But when I turn toward her, Meadowsweet is already gone. I look back to the path. That, too, has vanished into the night—the only thing surrounding me is endless field. For a moment I think she’s abandoned me in the mortal world, probably somewhere in Canada, based on the aurora. Then I catch a familiar scent, one at odds with the dust of snow around me: clover. Clover and fresh earth, the scent of growth.

“Summer,” I whisper.

Even though every fiber of me wants to turn around and find my way back to Tír na nÓg, I take a heavy step forward. Toward Oberon’s realm. Toward Kingston.

Toward the beginning of the end.

The farther I walk into Oberon’s realm, the stronger the memory of entering here with Kingston grows. It feels like my head and my heart have been thrown in a blender set to “Majorly Fuck Up.” Every step, I’m flashing back to the illusions Meadowsweet showed me, the memories of potential futures. A life of luxury and limelight with Kingston, or a quiet, cozy life with Austin. It doesn’t help that I still can’t sort my feelings for either of them, and it’s not looking like I’m going to have any time to try. The finish line is beckoning, and I don’t know or care if that line is death or victory. Either way, the end is almost here. Soon, I can stop fighting. I just want to stop fighting.

Zal gives a twinge on my arm, and I glance down.

“What do you want?” I ask.

The tattoo doesn’t answer, of course. It doesn’t even really speak in my mind, not like Kingston did. But I get a sensation, an impression of an idea. And somehow, I know it wants me to let it out. It wants to show me how to get to Kingston.

“Okay,” I say. “But you better not abandon me out here.”

Zal shakes its head, then begins to uncoil from my wrist, the faded ink peeling off into a slightly less-faded golden apparition. Maybe it’s just my imagination, but his light seems duller than before, the sparks he drops heavier. Even Zal is tired, fading, and that doesn’t exactly bode well for finding Kingston.

“Okay,” I tell him. “Lead on.”

Zal takes off, undulating his way across the field and shedding sparks like golden streamers as he goes. Even with the shifting aurora overhead, we’re a dead giveaway in this empty landscape. It’s not exactly like I expected us to be able to sneak in—I’m pretty certain the only entrance to Oberon’s kingdom is through the giant gates I was led through a few weeks back. If Oberon’s anything like Mab—and I know he is—there’s no way I’d be able to go unannounced in his realm, glamoured or not. But I still cringe at Zal’s light; I’d like to have some ace up my sleeve, and the element of surprise is the only one I can think of. What we’re doing is suicidal enough that Oberon wouldn’t expect it.

As we walk closer and closer toward the dilapidated city outskirts, I can’t help but feel we’re the only living things out here. The fields are empty, the hovels and broken houses completely abandoned. Dark windows stare like bruised eyes, the crumbled facades pockmarked and hellish in Zal’s golden light. I keep waiting for something to crawl from the shadows, some emaciated faerie craving my life force or dreams. For once, my imagination is worse than the reality; nothing stirs in the dead night air. It’s almost a pleasant evening, really, and under any other circumstances the aurora overhead and the castle in the distance would be a beautiful sight.

The downtime gives my brain a chance to catch up to itself, my emotions cartwheeling as flashes of alternate lives reel through my mind. There’s nothing to distract me from the memories, nothing to keep me from wondering what I actually will choose in the end. Or whom. If I make it out of this alive, will I be able to leave the show for a life with Austin? Or will I want to stay, to live forever under the limelight with Kingston at my side? Mab said my contract would be up, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t renegotiate if I wanted to stay. No matter what, Austin is getting out to live his life—he’ll be free of Mab’s clutches. I can’t tell if I’m trying to convince myself that will be enough to make him happy or if I’m just trying to rationalize hurting him by choosing Kingston.

“She’d piss herself,” I mutter. Zal looks at me; if he had eyebrows, I’m sure one would be raised. Maybe it’s the desperation of my situation, but a chuckle escapes my lips. “Could you imagine that meeting?
Hey Mab, I know I tried to kill you and throw a coup on your show, but I actually think I want to stay on for a few more centuries. Getting old and having a baby sounds boring.”

My heart twists at that unrealized thought.
I had a baby.
A daughter.

Having a kid was never something I put much thought into—before the show, I had Claire, and keeping her safe was more than enough of a project. And after…well, after I joined, the thought of anything even remotely domestic was a pipe dream. Sure, Kingston had mentioned a family after we got out, but that would be a long time coming. If at all.

I look at Zal.

“What do you think?” I ask. “Would Kingston be a good father?”

Zal shakes his head like I’m going insane. Which really isn’t too far off. I wonder if any of this is getting back to Kingston. I wonder if it matters. At this point, everything seems like it’s tilting over the edge of delusion anyway.

“I dunno,” I continue, kicking a stone into a pile of rubble. “I think it’d be kind of cool to raise a kid with a witch as his dad. He’d never get bored, that’s for sure.”

And maybe it’s exhaustion or my powers or some lingering trace of Tír na nÓg’s magic, but I’m struck with an image of a little boy, maybe four or five, wearing a tiny leather coat and black jeans, his blond hair slicked back as he rides on top of Kingston’s shoulders.

“We’d have a boy,” I say, the words ringing with prophecy. “We’d probably call him Dante. Do you think he’d be a witch, too?”

Zal doesn’t answer, of course. Neither does Kingston.

“No matter what, I could have a kid. Not that I even
want
a kid. I’m just saying. A normal life or an enchanted one. What would you choose?” Zal looks back at me, but only for an instant, and I have the feeling he’s trying to tell me to shut up.

“What? It’s not like there’s anything out here. This place is a ghost town.” Another glance back at me. “Fine. Fine. I’ll shut up.”
It’s not like this is even a conversation. I’m just trying to keep myself from going insane. Or running back.
I have no doubt that Tír na nÓg would be there for me the moment I reached the Wildness.

We stop a few hundred feet from the wall, hiding in the shadows of a broken barn.

“Any chance you can, I don’t know, dim yourself or something?” I mutter to Zal. I don’t expect him to actually do anything, but the serpent’s light dulls to a low shine, barely the glow from a cell phone. I mutter a quick thanks.

There’s no way I’m going any closer to the castle, not with Zal lighting the way. There’s no telling where the demons are. Hell, the fact that they haven’t spotted us and tried to incinerate us yet has my skin flush with goose bumps. It feels like walking into a trap.

And when I reach into my pocket to pull out the vials of chimera blood, the dread doesn’t get any better.

There’s only one vial, and it’s the one I’m not supposed to open: dried blood, for Kingston’s lips only.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter. I look at Zal, like maybe he’ll give me some advice, but the serpent just undulates unawares in and out of a broken window. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

If I use the powdered glamour, I won’t have enough to get Kingston and me out of the castle. If I don’t use it…what? Am I just going to walk up to the gate and hope Oberon will open it? Even if he does, there’s no way in hell he’d let me see Kingston’s body, let alone allow me to get close enough to throw powdered blood on him. Not that that would help me get out at all. I need more blood.

More blood.

I glance at the vial in my hand. Last time I was in Oberon’s dungeon, Kingston was held in a cell next to the chimera itself. Not that I know how to get down there, but if Kingston’s body is still held in the cellar…

“Zal,” I say. “Can you show me where Kingston is?” If Kingston is in the dungeon, Zal can lead me straight to him. I can use this glamour to get through the castle and somehow grab more blood from the chimera before it kills me or spits acid in my face or whatever the hell chimeras do in this world.

In answer, the familiar wends its way over to me and nuzzles around my neck like a feather boa. The moment his body alights against my skin, my eyes flutter back and my sight curls at the edges.

Wall and sunlight; light slashed on amber curtains; laughter, laughter; butterflies on topiary outside the window; grass carpet; brown stone; amber curtains; dancing butterflies, dancing light; a statue walks by, holding a tray of glittering champagne flutes and grapes. A statue with horns and fawn-like feet; he looks at me.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding when Zal floats away. He undulates in the air before me, staring at me with expectant eyes.

“Helpful,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. “Very helpful.”

Sarcasm, yeah, but there’s a hint of truth. I’m pretty certain whatever that was is what Kingston was seeing. He’s indoors, somewhere by a window overlooking the gardens. I look up to the star-filled sky. No way to tell if the scene was past or future or present tense, especially since Oberon probably has the entire palace glamoured to look sunny and pretty 24/7. But it
does
mean he isn’t in the dungeons, which sucks.

Basically, I have no idea where Kingston is or how I’m going to get him out. Perfect.

“What do you think?” I ask Zal, not actually expecting a response. “Do we just walk up and say hello?”

The apparition goes still, his scales practically bristling. I’m about to say, “
I’ll take that as a no,”
when I look up, past the houses, toward the castle. Toward the light that’s suddenly glowing like a burning beacon a hundred feet above the walls.

That’s when I smell the brimstone.

“Shit!” I curse. “Zal, quick!” I hold out my arm and he snaps toward me, burrowing back under my skin in a second flat, the pain either numbed by panic or familiarity.

But it’s too late. I know by the tingle of static in my palms and the brimstone in my nostrils that I’ve been spotted. Of course we stuck out. Of course the demons were watching. Whichever demon this is hurtles toward me like a comet.

So much for a smooth in and out.

So much for having a plan.

I unstopper the vial and choke down the congealed blood, praying it will turn me into something small and nimble. Images of tiny birds flash before my eyes as I feel the vile concoction worm and fizz in my throat, static soaring through my limbs.
Something small, something fast, something hidden.
I have only a second to wonder if it worked before the static lances me with pain and I crumple to the ground, twitching and screaming as the chimera blood turns me into something else.

When I feel hands burning into my skin, I know it wasn’t fast enough.

I wake up pinned to a wall.

One glance to the side tells me I’m still human: my arms are definitely humanoid and wrapped in fibrous vines, my skin raw and welting under their snare. Did the chimera blood not work, or have I been passed out for longer than I thought?

I look to my other side and nearly scream.

Kingston is propped up on a Roman pedestal like a puppet. He’s standing and wearing the same jeans and T-shirt he was the last time I saw him, though there’s no blood staining the white fabric or dark denim. His glazed brown eyes stare at the wall, his neck still slit but now clean, no longer bleeding, the gash barely visible. Despite the fact that he’s dressed like the living, there’s zero expression in his face—his features are limp, sagging, like a wax sculpture left in the heat just a little too long.

Even after all this time, even after knowing this is what I was getting myself into, the sight of him like this still makes me gag.

“Kingston,” I whisper. Of course he doesn’t look at me. Of course he just stands there like a martyred statue. But a part of me had hoped. Maybe, just maybe, he was still in there, still able to heal himself and get us out of here alive.

“Good morning,” Oberon says, his voice a deep rumble that somehow manages to set my frayed nerves at ease, despite my hatred and fear of him. Damn him and that power. “I was worried we were going to lose you. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that chimera blood has an expiration date?”

I have nothing to say to him, no witty comments, no sarcastic comebacks. So I just stare as he walks closer, his brown robes sweeping against the grass carpet. The hall I’m locked in is the exact same one that Zal showed me. Oberon stands beside the window overlooking a garden filled with hedges; within, statues dance and play instruments and serve wine to a myriad of faeries enjoying the magical sunlight.

“What are you going to do with me?” I ask. Laughter rings out in the garden; I don’t know if it’s from the statuary entertainment or someone overhearing my question. I’m not comforted either way.

Oberon’s face drops.

“I do wish we would stop meeting like this,” he says. He drops into a crouch in front of me, his robes shifting into a smart brown business suit the moment he does. The change makes me think that, despite the emotion in his voice, this is all business. Isn’t everything, to the Fey? Dark circles ring his eyes, and a spiderweb of lines spreads from the corners of them. Everyone else in his kingdom seems to be enjoying the day, but he looks about as worn as I feel. Apparently, for him, business isn’t going so well. “We don’t need to be enemies.”

“This, coming from the man who has me chained up.”

He shakes his head. “That was only to keep others from stealing you away,” he says. “You’re quite a commodity, you know.” Then he waves his hand, and the vines shrink back into the wall with the rustle of foliage.

My first instinct is to run. But I don’t. I have nowhere to go, and besides, I’m where I’m supposed to be. Kingston is only five feet from me, though there’s no way I’m going to get him out of here. Not like this.

“Why are you here?” Oberon asks. There’s so much pain in his voice I can almost believe he’s not acting. Almost.

I bite my lip. If I tell him about Kingston, there’s no chance I’ll get the body out of here. Hell, Oberon would probably burn Kingston’s corpse just to spite Mab and keep me here. So I try to think of a fitting lie. One that won’t get me killed or Kingston incinerated.

“You told me to come to you,” I say.

“And you refused.”

“Until you tried to burn down my show.”

Despite his earlier sadness, a small grin twitches the edge of his lips, a hint of trickster mirth or insanity slipping through the facade.