The Immortal Circus: Final Act (Cirque des Immortels) (4 page)

The hunger, the hunger. My breath is quick in my lungs, and every inch of me burns with need. The need to press closer, dig deeper. I undo the top button of his jeans with my free hand. My fingers trail lower, scratch long red marks against the soft skin of his pelvis. His gasp deepens. Our hips pulse to the music.

I let my other hand drop from his hair to the base of his neck. My fingers curl against his throat, his moans vibrating against my palm as I slide my body down. Light blinds at the edges of my vision, burns away everything—every doubt, every fear, every hesitation. I drag my teeth right below his ribs.

The light burns it all, replaces everything with hunger.

I clamp my fingers tight around his throat and dig my teeth into his flesh.

Blood fills my mouth. Light burns.

And as the man groans and pulses light into my lips, I float in blinding ecstasy.

“That was quite a show, love.”

The voice filters through the light, a shadow of ink staining oblivion black. The tent throbs back into focus, each heartbeat bringing clarity. I kneel on the ground before a man lying limp on a sofa, his jeans undone and a trail of blood flowing down his naked torso. Even from here I can see his upturned eyes, his mouth frozen open in the last moment of bliss.

I lick my lips and taste the iron of his blood, feel the final flourish of another dream twining down my throat.

And standing beside the man, dressed in an elegant black evening gown, is Mab.

Her long hair flows over her shoulders in obsidian waves, highlighting the deep V of her dress. At once, her outfit is modest and scandalous—the neck that dips to her belly button, the long slit that slashes from above her right hip to reveal bare legs and pale skin, the sleeves that drip past her fingertips. Her green eyes glitter with amusement, her grin both wicked and pleased.

I push myself to standing, suddenly acutely aware of all the skin I'm showing and the blood staining my white bra crimson.

“Mab,” I say. The word is a gasp.

She curtsies. The movement is almost mocking.

“It's good to see you taking so naturally to your duties,” she said, the smile not once leaving her lips.

“You didn't give me much choice.”

“Nor did you,” she says. “But the past is the past, after all.”

Her shrug is elegant, dismissive. Around her, the other patrons are engaged in their own nefarious acts—I can barely hear the music over the sounds of moans and stifled screams. In spite of that, in spite of the body lying at my feet, all I can focus on is her. She is the axis on which this room turns, and there's nothing I can do to escape her orbit.

I hold back the urge to wipe away the blood that dribbles down my neck, keep my hands from crossing over my chest in a semblance of modesty. She can't know she already has me on the defensive.

“I need to talk to you,” I say. I make my voice firm. I am the ringmaster. I am the queen of this show.

She laughs. “This is hardly the place for talking.”

“It's about Oberon,” I say. “I think he's up to something. He came to me and warned me—”

She waves her hand, and my lips clamp shut of their own accord.

“Oberon is always threatening and scheming,” she says. “He is a king. That is what kings
do.
”

I want to tell her about the visions, about Lilith's warning, but I can't open my mouth. My obvious struggle brings a smile to her face. It's not a smile I'd consider comforting.

“Besides, I'm not here to speak of the Summer King or war. Like you, I'm here to unwind. And to bring joyous tidings.”

That makes me stop trying to speak. Mab doesn't bring
joyous tidings.
Mab brings cyanide and riding crops. Still, I can't speak. Her magic has me tongue-tied.

“I feel so terribly about your loss,” she says. She glances down at the man on the sofa. “Though it does seem like you're dealing with Kingston's absence splendidly. In any case, I know the ache of an absent lover. I know how difficult it can be to focus on one's duties when the heart is broken.” Her smile turns wicked. “And I am, as I'm sure I've said before, a humanitarian at best.”

She holds her hand out to the side. From the shadows steps a man in a full black mask. He is tall and tan, wearing an impeccable grey suit with a skinny black tie. My heart beats frantically. Something about the set of his shoulders is familiar.

“Consider this a consolation prize,” she says. “A peace offering, if you will. You've lost one man you love.” She walks over and pulls the mask off the stranger's face. “So I've brought you another. Meet your newest concessionaire.”

My knees buckle.

I know him—the short brown hair, the blue eyes, the strong jaw. I know him better than I know myself, and I know he shouldn’t be here. Anywhere but here.

“Austin,” I whisper, my lips suddenly my own.

Mab smiles.

“An even trade: one boyfriend for another. Enjoy his company, Vivienne. I expect you have much catching up to do, and all the time in the world in which to do it.”

“Austin,” I say again. The word feels lodged in my throat, a name of barbs and lost syllables.

He doesn’t move. He just stares straight ahead, his blue eyes focused on a point somewhere beyond my bloodied shoulder. I turn my attention to Mab, who’s somehow now nursing a glass of sparkling pink champagne in one well-manicured hand.

“What did you do to him?” I ask. “Why won’t he talk?”

“It’s just the dust, dear,” she says. She strides forward and places a hand on my shoulder, so our faces are barely a foot away. Even though I’m glaring down at her, I feel like a mouse in a trap. “Don’t worry. In a few hours the magic will wear off and he won’t remember a thing about this party. I thought I’d give you some time to clean up.”

“You’re too kind,” I say bitingly. I feel the weight of resolve settle into my gut—there’s no point arguing this. There’s no point trying to fight. Her previous words echo in my head:
This is what happens when you fuck with the Faerie Queen.
It seems her revenge was far from complete; I don’t need to push her into enacting more. “Why are you doing this?” I ask. “Why did you have to get him involved?”

“What?” she asks, stepping back with false concern on her face. “Do you not want him? If not, I’m sure I can find someone here who would. Just let me get him a white mask.”

“No. No, he…he can stay.” I bow my head. “I just want to know what he’ll know. When he wakes up, what will he remember?”

“Everything except this little party, I’m afraid.” Her voice says she is anything but sad about it. “Now that your witch is out of the picture, the magic that hid Austin’s memory of you is wearing thin. When Prince Charming over here wakes, he’ll remember everything that happened before you joined, and everything after. Though your reunion last month may be a hazy dream—he was, after all, very much under the influence at the time. The poor boy’s brain is likely as stable as Swiss cheese.”

Suddenly, I no longer want to warn her about the Summer King’s threat, I don’t give a shit about Lilith’s promises of destruction. Mab has already cost me everything. When Kingston died, I thought I had nothing left to lose. Mab is proving it’s quite the opposite.

And some raging part of me wants to make sure that, someday, somehow, she knows this feeling.

“Will he remember his contract?” I ask.

She smiles. “But of course. He wanted to join the show to be with you. And who am I to stand in the way of star-crossed lovers? He will remember signing on because it was his choice. As I said, I think he will make a fine concessionaire.” She eyes him up and down. “I might even be persuaded to let him keep the suit as uniform.”

I stalk forward and grab Austin’s arm. His body doesn’t even register the touch—his muscles are slack, his whole body mutable—a six-foot-tall doll. Mab chuckles as I pull him away; he moves like he’s sleepwalking.

“Indignation is a good color on you, love. But do remember, I like my performers with just a
little
fire. Too much, and I may have to reevaluate your usefulness.”

I don’t answer. I don’t look back. And I don’t let the first angry tear fall until Austin and I are out of the tent and stalking toward the main pitch, my mask broken and bloody on the ground.

Mel wasn’t kidding about the bonfire. It’s impossible to tell how much time has passed in the enchanted Tapis Noir tent, but the fire is blazing a few hundred feet away from the main pitch. Even from here, I can hear the drunken shouts and singing that accompany the Bacchanalian revelry, the tent crew’s shadows casting chaotic lines over the browning grass. The sky above is overcast, and a chill wind races across the mountains like a slap in the face after the tent’s heat. But the goose bumps spreading across my arms are the least of my worries; my focus is on the man at my side. The man I know I was once in love with but can barely remember beyond snippets of dreams.

I can’t stop staring at him, can’t stop glancing over my shoulder in hopes that maybe, this time, I’ll remember him as more than just a vision. I’ll remember the love that brought me into his arms, the feeling of safety that made me trust him with my little sister, Claire. But every time I look at him, all I can think of is a mantra that eats at my heart:
He’s not Kingston. He’s not Kingston.

I don’t know which is worse: losing the man I loved, or finding the man I should love. Either way, it feels like I’m betraying both of them.

I’m so lost in my thoughts and the presence of Austin that I crash straight into someone drunkenly stumbling from the fire.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Taking your meal to go?” she replies.

“Melody,” I say, as her shadow resolves itself into something recognizable. Her eyes glitter in the light of the fire, and her usual patchouli scent has been overpowered by whiskey.

For her part, she’s not looking at me; she’s still staring at Austin.

“Couldn’t you have picked an ugly one?” she asks. Her voice is practically pining and only a little slurred. “Such a waste. A sexy, sexy waste.”

“I’m not…I’ve already done it,” I say. She raises her eyebrows. “I see. Time for a little…” she makes a thrusting motion with her hips and stumbles.

“Mel, shut the fuck up. This is Austin.”

Her hands drop to the sides.

“Shit,” she says.

She closes her eyes and shudders. When she looks at me again, the glaze to her eyes is gone.

“Ugh, sorry. Shifter perk number one: instant de-alcoholification. Feels like shit, though.” She takes a deep breath and looks between Austin and me again. “I didn’t realize he was the strong, silent type. With an emphasis on, well, both.”

“Mab hit him with faerie dust,” I say.

“So I gathered. But what is he
doing
here?”

“Meet the newest concessionaire.”

She wasn’t smiling before, but now her face goes even more serious.

“You’re kidding me.”

“I wish. She made it sound like he sought her out but…I don’t know, Mel. What the hell am I going to do?”

“Well, first, you’re going to go take a shower and change into normal-people clothes. I don’t think
bloody vixen
is the way to reintroduce yourself.” She looks at him and shakes her head. “I never thought I’d say this, Viv, but he could be the one who turns me.”

I snort and fall into a fit of laughter. It’s not even the humor, it’s the sheer ridiculousness of the situation, the complete lack of hope. It feels like hitting rock bottom and being told to dig deeper. I’m not laughing because it’s funny; I’m laughing because it hurts.

When she wraps her arms around me, I realize I’m also crying.

“It’s going to be okay,” she whispers into my ear. She holds me up with one hand, the other petting my hair. “It’s all going to be okay.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to block out the world.

Because I know it won’t be okay. It could never be okay—Mab made sure of it.

And it’s only going to get a hell of a lot worse from here.

I take Melody’s advice. Together, we lead Austin into my trailer, and she agrees to sit watch while I shower. I grab a towel and pajamas and head over to the bathroom trailer, which is actually just a small bunk with a shower and sink. No toilet—that’s what the porta potties outside are for. There’s barely room to stretch out my arms, but after using it all summer it no longer feels suffocating. Tonight, I don’t turn on the lights. Partly because I don’t want the glare, and partly because I don’t want to watch the water swirl pink. I want to pretend I’m somewhere else. In the dark, I can convince myself I’m far, far away, somewhere without long-lost lovers and diabolical fairies. I push open the small vent window and let the scent of wood fire and sound of laughter fill the stall. When I turn on the water, I close my eyes and pretend that the warmth can wash everything clean.

Deep breath in, deep breath out.

My heart is an acrobat tumbling in my chest, and my ears are ringing with the afterbeat of the Tapis Noir, but I try to calm myself. I try to settle in to the fact that when I leave this shower, I’m going to have to talk to the boy from my past. The boy I was in love with. I’m going to have to figure out how to integrate him into this life—not only the circus and his role within it, but to this new me. Because even though I can barely remember him or the girl I was, I know for a fact that I’m no longer the one he fell in love with.

“He shouldn’t be here.”

I scream.

I slam myself into the wall of the shower, making the whole trailer sway. There, silhouetted in the open doorway by the fire outside, is the tiny form of Lilith.

“Get out!” I yell, trying to cover myself. “Get the fuck out!”

She doesn’t, of course. Her head cocks to the side as she studies me. The glow behind her makes her look properly demonic.

“You shouldn’t have brought him here,” she says. “If you’re wise, you will get rid of him.”

“Who the fuck are you talking about?” I ask. Someone stumbles past outside and peers in, then keeps going. I’d yell at Lilith to close the door, but there’s no way in hell I want her locked in the same small space as me.

“That man,” she says. She points to the side, directly toward my trailer. The pose makes her look like a baby scarecrow. “You brought him here.”

“His name is Austin,” I say through gritted teeth. “And he’s here because Mab wants him to be. I had nothing to do with it. Why should I get rid of him?”

She giggles, and even the warm water isn’t enough to heat the cold that ices through me.

“For when I want to play. You will want him gone by then. He won’t like it when I play. Neither will you.” Her voice drops to a dangerous octave. “But you’ll play with me no matter what.”

Then she turns and leaves. She doesn’t close the door behind her.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and slide down the shower wall, letting the spray wash over my face.

“Shit,” I whisper, and let the hot water flow.

I don’t feel refreshed when I head back to my bunk. The moment my hand is on the door it feels like the first time I stepped into the center ring: the fear, the expectation, and the knowledge that everyone would see me, and see through me, and there’d be nowhere to hide after that. Still, there’s no getting around this grand entrance. The show has already begun.

Melody’s sitting at my desk, reading one of her paperbacks, her legs propped on the bed. Austin is still on the mattress, hands folded in his lap and a dazed expression on his face as he stares at the wall. My eyes catch on him when I step inside, tracing the lines of his jaw and arch of his eyebrows. There’s a familiarity in that geometry, one that hints of lives once lived, curves once kissed. But it’s just a ghost of sensation; I can’t find the emotion, just the nagging feeling that I
should
feel more.

“Did you wash behind your ears?” Melody asks, not looking up from her book.

“Lilith came in.”

Mel looks up, an eyebrow cocked.

“What?”

I shake my head and throw the bloodied clothes in a grocery bag I’m using as a hamper. There’s nowhere else in the room to sit, so I push her legs aside and sit on the bed. Right beside Austin. I half-expect to feel the tingle of static between us, the heat of an old flame. But there’s nothing. Just a void carved out between us, a blankness threatening to devour.

“She’s getting worse,” I say, forcing my thoughts toward Lilith. I still can’t say “Kassia” aloud—against the contract—but I stumble around it. “The thing inside her. It’s getting stronger. I don’t think we have much time left.”

“What did she say?”

“That she was going to play soon. And that I wouldn’t want Austin around when she did.”

Melody shudders.

“Well, I guess we just hope that when that happens you’ll be able to fight her off.…” Her sentence trails off as she locks her eyes on me, her brow furrowing like I’ve got something cryptic written across my face.

“What?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer at first, just sets her book on the desk and stands, that quizzical expression not leaving her features.

“I wonder,” she says. “Do you know if your powers are genetic or magical?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Both?”

“In that case.” She reaches out to touch my face, then stops herself, her hand hovering by my cheek. “Sorry. I should ask permission first. Do you mind?”

“If you pet me?”

She chuckles.

“Sort of.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Then her hand touches my skin.

Heat blooms under her touch, wraps itself under my flesh and through my bones. There’s a tingle to it, like peppermint or electricity, and it reaches through every vein, heats every bone. Then the sensation slips away, sucked back into her hand, and I’m left a little colder than before.

But the magic doesn’t stop once it leaves my body.

Melody is already changing. Her face remolds as her body shifts—subtle things, like a slight widening of the shoulders and hips, a barely perceptible lengthening in height. Her jagged brown hair turns blonde and grows as her skin pales into my hue. It takes only seconds for her to assume my shape. When she steps back, I feel like I’m looking into the mirror.

“Impressive,” I say, because that’s really all I can say. “Are my boobs really that big?”

She grins with my lips. “I took liberties.” Even her voice is mine.

“What did you just do?” I ask, bringing my hand to my face. The fact that she doesn’t mirror me makes it even more surreal.

“Well, normally we can just shift into an impersonation of something—sort of like a bad photocopy. But if we want to really
become
someone else, we have to…ah, it’s hard to explain. It’s sort of like getting a copy of your DNA.”

“Like in the
Animorphs
?”

“The what?”

“It’s a…never mind. Literature from before your time I guess.”

She shrugs. “In any case, this is about as close to being you as is possible without actually being you. Which means…”

It clicks.

“If my powers are genetic, you can replicate them.”

She smiles wider. I’m pretty certain my teeth aren’t that white, either. Coffee addict and all.