Three Slices (17 page)

“Who’s there?” I growl.

No one answers, but I’m not alone, not really. The little girl’s words echo in my mind:
Magic, time, tenacity, sacrifice. The locket will draw her to you.
I have all five things but no idea how to apply them. Is this what will secure my future caravan? Because I have Merissa, my ruby beauty, and the lady from the portrait isn’t even a Bludwoman. She’s human.

It doesn’t matter now—I’m hunting. I drop the locket and chain in my breast pocket, pocket number one, and stand. As I stalk through the field of spinning stars,, I draw my claws over the wallpaper, not minding that I’m scoring it, hoping to reach the cozy orange at the bottom. Something rustles again, furtive, towards the back of the wagon, where the bed is. I can walk silently when I wish it, and so I do, because if whatever has intruded on my privacy is killable, I’m going to kill it.

This corner of the room is silent and dark, untouched by the lanterns’ warmth. Tall armoires and knobby tables loom, cutting the space into a million shadows. I drop to hands and knees and sniff the ground for some sign of trespass. Silence builds, like the ghost is waiting, worried, like maybe I’m not the most dangerous thing in the room. There’s a scrape under the bed, and I dive for it, my talons raking the wooden boards and clutching...nothing.

Air from an open trapdoor.

I knock the bed over and hunt for clues, but there’s no odor, no hair, no nothing. Whoever has been here must use the same powder I do to mask their scent. I’m too smart to stick my head out; I’ll investigate from outside with weapons in hand once I’ve secured my home. Growling, I yank the door closed and latch it. For good measure, I right the bed, shove it to the other side of the room, and drag a heavy armoire over to completely cover the escape hatch cut into my floor. The only person in this caravan who should be able to budge it from below is the strong lady, and her shoulders wouldn’t even fit through the hole. But someone has been here, and I know neither why nor whom.

A harsh knock on the door startles me out of my furious befuddlement.

“What?” I roar.

“Thought you might like some dinner, but not if it gets my head bitten off,” Merissa calls through the door, but I can tell she’s at least vaguely amused.

We are predators, after all, and a predator defends its den to the death.

“Just a moment, love,” I yell, stepping before the mirror to clean off the dust I’m sure I accumulated poking around, literally and euphemistically, in the prop wagon.

The mirror is a heavy, old-fashioned thing in an ornate oval frame, set into the typical wagon faucet and ewer. We’re not tapped into the aquifer yet, most likely, but there’s enough water in the sink to wipe off the grime. When I look up, I see the little girl’s face as if through a clear pond.

“Whatever she gives you, don’t take it,” she whispers.

When I blink, she’s gone.

“Bloody ghosts,” I mutter, deeply troubled and with every hair on my body standing at attention. I whip out the locket, but the portrait is gone, the tarnished metal clips cradling nothing. “Bloody disappearing ghost women!”

“Stain? Who’re you talking to?”

I make a play of laughing as I swagger to the door, but I’m shaken to the core. Did I imagine the portrait? And the ghost? Am I going mad? No matter; I’ve known plenty of mad people, and they seem to get along fine. But still...the world is off kilter, and I’d like to find my footing.

I toss open the door and grin. “Just talking to myself, lass. Best company there is.”

She laughs with me, but it doesn’t reach her eyes as she peers around me into the darkness. “You’re leaving the lamps on?”

“Ah, no. Just a moment.” I hurry around the room, blowing out the lights until nothing is left but the buzzing of the electrics, and it reminds me of an animal almost dead that won’t quite die.

Once we’re outside, I let my handkerchief drop so I have reason to kneel and peer under the wagon, but there’s no sign of my intruder or any damage. When I stand, she takes my hand, our fingers laced together and swinging.

It’s a beautiful evening after a strange, beautiful day, and the caravan is drenched in the pink light of a lazy sunset. Laughter rides the breeze, leaking out the open door and windows of the dining car. We’ll set up the caravan tomorrow morning and perform until dawn tomorrow night, but for now, the carnivalleros can rest and relax after a long day of traveling. Two hungry bludbunnies lurk at the step, trying their damnedest to bypass biology and learn how to take the stairs. Merissa and I stoop in tandem, snatch them up by the ears, and knock them out against the corner before hanging them from the waiting meat hooks. It’s my first time adding meat to the human’s food supply in Bailey’s caravan, and Merissa writes my name in chalk on the blackboard next to my first hash mark.

STAIN, it says.

She’s never called me Criminy, and I long to hear it on her lush lips.

I’ve never known her last name, and I wish to whisper it into my pillow.

Up the stairs and into the wagon we go, and I’ve never seen it so crowded. Dozens of humans, daimons, freaks, and a precious few Bludmen crowd the space, jostling for their favorite tidbits and seats.

“Find us a bench, will you, Stain?” Merissa flaps a hand at me, and I give her a small bow and head for the black-painted corner. Catarrh and Quincy are there, as well as the hawkish old costumer, a beautiful blonde woman with red-painted lips, and a mournful sort of fellow with auburn hair.

I pause, unsure of the best way to make friends rather than enemies, and Merissa appears at my side and inclines her head towards a space on the bench.

“Folk, this is Mr. Stain, our new magician. Stain, this is Mrs. Cleavers, the costumer; Charlie Dregs, the puppet master, and Tabitha Scowl, occasional mermaid and part-time bearded lady.”

“Pretend bearded lady,” the blonde woman says, her eyes skimming me hungrily, and she does look rather nice without the fake beard.

I smile and shake hands and mutter politenesses, and as I settle my coattails and sit again, Merissa slides a teacup of blood in front of me. “And you know Catarrh and Quincy, naturally.”

“Naturally,” I say, swirling my blood around as I consider.

Because here is the question: When a ghost tells you not to drink something, do you drink it?

Merissa nudges my elbow. “Drink, silly,” she says, and I decide I damn well won’t.

“Pardon me just a moment, pet.” I scoot out of the bench like a greased weasel and head for the drink buffet, where Laraby is pouring himself a colorful daimon brew and laughing with Mademoiselle Caprice.

“You’re looking blue, my friend,” I say, smacking him on the back in the way of strong males being friendly.

“Had a bit of help there,” he says, grinning. His skin is at least four shades more brilliant than the last time I saw him, and he seems a far more cheerful fellow. “Well done with Phaedro, by the by. Quite a show there.”

“Just goes to prove I make a far better friend than an enemy.” With my back to the room, I select a vial from the cauldron, pop the cork, and guzzle it in a few gulps.

“My, my, monsieur. Impatient, are we?” Mademoiselle Caprice says.

I snatch another vial and down it, too. “A long day’s travel makes a fellow thirsty, ma chère.” But her knowing smile tells me her finely attuned daimon senses know exactly what I’ve been up to. She most likely feeds on lust in addition to the crowd’s applause. With a wink and a smile, I slip the empty vials into my coat and return to my table.

“What was that all about?” Merissa asks.

“I helped Laraby with his act and wanted to hear how he was getting along.”

“Daimons and Bludmen? Disgusting,” Catarrh says.

“Something tells me they think the same thing about you lads.”

Quincy hisses at me, and Catarrh knocks his head against his brother’s in warning.

“Drink your blood before it gets cold, dear,” Merissa says sweetly.

For possibly the first time in my life, a cup of blood strikes me as utterly unappetizing. It’s fresh enough, but that doesn’t matter. Whether it’s safe or not, whether it’s cold or warm, I’m not touching that teacup. Instead, I knock it over with my elbow while reaching for Merissa’s hand.

She squeals and surges out of the booth before the murky red gunk can splatter her green dress. “Never considered you clumsy,” she says, and she sounds like a scolding nursemaid.

“Yes, well, it’s been a rather challenging week, my love. Duels to the death and such.” My most devoted, eyelash-batting gaze only serves to infuriate her, but she reins it in and stuffs her frustration into a tight and brittle smile.

“Let me get you another cup then, darling.”

“Oh, but that wouldn’t be gentlemanly, poppet.” I stand, sidestep the blood, and swing her around to sit beside Tabitha at the other, clean table. “Do allow me to tidy up my own mess. I’ll bring you another cup, shall I?” And before she can splutter an answer, I’m headed for the cook’s window for an old towel, wondering what the hell she’s about.

When I turn back holding two teacups, two vials, and a rag, she’s gone, and Tabitha is laughing so hard, she’s puce.

“Women,” Catarrh says with a disgusted shake of his head.

“You shouldn’t blame women for Merissa’s behavior any more than women should blame men in general for yours, you cheating, murdering sociopath,” I say, mopping up the blood.

Because this is not a lovers’ spat. This is me being strange because ghosts are ordering me about. And Merissa being strange because she’s up to no good.

9.

I
SLEEP
alone, wrapped in uncertainty. Whether or not she intends me harm, I would still prefer to be wrapped up in Merissa. What relationship ever bloomed without some secrets, without some dangerous games? We are, after all, Bludmen. Apex predators, tigers in tailcoats and cougars in corsets. I never asked for complete honesty, but I’m also not enthusiastic about having mysterious things dropped in my drink.

I don’t chase her, nor does she seek me out.

The ghost doesn’t make another appearance, but I find I’m very glad I overpaid her.

In short, nothing happens, and then it is morning.

Setup day around the caravan is both very similar and very different wherever one goes, and I cheerfully take part in the process. Casca, the strong lady, is glad for my help sinking the poles for the tightrope walker, considering the old man isn’t strong enough to heft his own timbers. His little granddaughters watch patiently, and the moment the wire rope is ready, they scamper straight up to practice their arabesques while he pretends to take his rest with a snifter of whisky.

The freaks are glad for both my magic and my muscles as they set up their tent, and I learn quickly how to pull the stage down from my own wagon’s wall. It’s hollow, and Phaedro had packed it to the gills with trapdoors, tricks, and traps. As I paw through his old trunks, an excitable child arrives to watch me, buzzing like a bumblebee in ill-fitting clothes and an aviator’s cap, and carrying a ladder and a tool bag large enough for him to sleep in.

“Need something, lad?” I ask, not exactly unpleasantly, but in a way that says I’m not on duty as an act yet and won’t stand for quite so much staring.

“I’m here to paint your wagon, sir,” he says, holding up two pots of paint.

I nod and smile. “You’re a bit young, aren’t you?”

“My name is Vil, sir, and I’ve the steadiest hand outside of London. Do the odd jobs for Master Bailey, you see.” With both hands and a grunt, he hefts his leather bag and drops it with a clank.

“Go on, then.” He leans the ladder against the wagon and quickly sets to work with his brushes and far more concentration than I expected of one so young. “Tell me, Vil. You ever seen Master Bailey?”

“No, sir. No one has. Not in ten years gone. But we get paid regular through his window and no one gets beaten, which tells me it’s much better here than elsewhere.”

We lapse into a professional silence as he works, and I go back to rummaging through Phaedro’s trunks. All the best things I’d hoped to find are gone. No grimoires, no potions and powders to keep my stores healthy. A proper magician should have a cabinet of supplies, but all I find are props, cheap tricks, and clever illusions—nothing of substance.

“Bugger,” I growl to myself, knowing there must be something more.

“You don’t like the color, sir?”

My annoyance fades when I look up. “No, lad. The color’s fine. Looks much better with Phaedro’s name painted out.”

With a sigh of relief, the boy clambers down from his perch with his pot of paint in hand and wet brush in his mouth. Without asking for any help, he tugs his ladder to the other end of the wagon and starts a series of glorious curlicues that magically connect into my name. Pride rushes into me, and I allow myself a grin before tamping it back down again. It doesn’t pay to look cocky when contemplating a hostile takeover.

“What else should it say, sir?”

I look up.
Criminy the Great
scrolls across the wagon in a shower of stars.

“It’s perfect, lad,” I say. And it is.

For now.