The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels) (23 page)

Kingston sits next to me later on, when some of the troupe has wandered off to the beach. Melody and Sara are chatting on the other side of the table, the new girl leaning in just a little closer than socially acceptable for a first chat. Kingston seems amused by this as he slides his hand in mine.

“About earlier,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“For kissing me, or for kissing Lilith?” The rest of my memories might be a tumble of fire and screaming, but those two stand out clear and strong.

“You know I just did that so she’d help us.”

I look away. “Turned out well.”

He puts his hand on my cheek and makes me look at him. He smiles, a little sad.

“Witches don’t apologize very often, V,” he says. “Don’t make me regret it.”

I don’t know what I’m more surprised by — the new nickname or the fact that he actually seems to mean it — but I don’t care. I lean in and kiss him. I close my eyes and let the rest of the world melt away under his cinnamon lips. Melody whistles. Without opening my eyes, I flip her off. She laughs, and I chuckle too, pulling Kingston tighter, never wanting him to go away.

I lie in my tiny twin bed, curled against Kingston, with one arm wrapped tightly over his smooth, bare stomach. I can just imagine his tattoo curling beneath my hands. His breathing is slow and deep and I listen to it like I would the waves of the ocean. I smile and nuzzle my face against his neck. His scent is so familiar, his body fits so well against mine. It’s easy to forget the horrors of the past couple days when I’m next to him, easy to convince myself that none of it ever happened. When I told him what Melody said about not dating within the troupe, he just laughed and said it was because she was the only gay acrobat, and her view would probably be changing rapidly with Sara’s arrival. Then he drew me down onto my bed and kissed me, and that seemed like answer enough.

I try not to think of the past few days. It’s easier that way. I try to ignore the way my hands tingle when they wrap around him, try to block out the awful light that swept through me on the battlefield: the bloodlust, the innate knowledge of how to kill. The power that seared through my fingertips. I focus instead on his breathing, on his scent. Deep down, some small part of me knows without a doubt that this isn’t over, that I’ve only stumbled over the tip of the iceberg that holds Mab’s secrets. And it’s not what she’s keeping from me that scares me; it’s what I’m keeping from myself that makes my blood run cold.

No. Focus on his breath. Focus on how his muscles move beneath his skin and how right this feels, how normal.

Normal.
Things can go back to normal…

When I close my eyes, sleep laps over me in warm, grey folds.

I dream.

My pulse is racing. We’re crouched in a shabby room in some old apartment complex, the browning wallpaper peeling off and curling on the linoleum. I can barely breathe, but it’s not me gagging. Every joint in my body is tensed and like iron, the knife in my hands gripped in white knuckles. The blade bleeds.

My sister’s face stares up at me, brown eyes open, mouth open. Curly brown hair, red dripping between her fingers that clutch at her chest. There’s blood on my hands, blood on my jeans, blood pooling on the floor around us. Blood and iron and all I can smell is brimstone, all I can see is flame and white.

“Vivienne, please,” she says. She’s gagging blood between her words. She’s crying. “Don’t.”

I’m sobbing. I have to do this, I have to do this, I have to do this.

“I’m sorry,” I say, over and over again. The walls move in closer, the light in my head blinds. I want to claw it all away, want to rip apart the howls inside my skull. I can’t get rid of the visions, can’t make the sounds of fire and death disappear. I can’t fight it, just like I couldn’t fight the other visions. I’ve seen everything, everything, and I never want to see it again. There are things no one should see. No one should see. No one should ever know. I’ve seen it. I know.

And worse, I know in that blinding light that I’m the only one who can stop it.

And I will fail.

Claire isn’t fighting anymore. She never fought. Never would. I was the fighter, the older sister. I was the one who had to protect us: from Dad, from Mom, from
this.
I couldn’t. I failed. I tried so hard and I failed her, and now this is the only way to keep her safe. She’s flat on the floor and her eyes are searching mine, her mouth trying to voice the words I’ve already seen her say.
I know how this ends. I’ve always known. There’s no escaping the visions. There’s no changing what I’ve seen myself do.

“Why?” she gasps.

“I’m saving you,” I say, sobbing, as I slide the knife in once more, this time between her ribs. She gasps, her eyes wince shut, and my whole body is shaking as I try to hold the light in. She’ll never understand, she’ll never run. She’d never escape what I’ve seen, the fire and brimstone and burning blood. She’d never escape a death worse than this. I lean down and press my head against her chest. Her blood pools against my lips as I whisper into her silent heart.

“I’m saving you from what’s to come.”

K
ingston sits across the desk from Mab. Both stare at each other in silence. Perched between them on a curling iron stand is Mab’s top hat; it’s covered in black sequins and raven feathers, and in the center is a bright red ruby that casts the trailer in a bloody light. There is no other illumination save the stone, no sound save the howl of wolves in the distance.

Finally, after what seems like hours, Kingston breaks the silence.

“You can’t keep her in there forever,” he says.

“That was never my intention,” Mab replies. She wears a dress of black cobweb and velvet. Her hair shines with a thousand dark pearls. She doesn’t look like a queen who recently lost half her kingdom, she looks like a goddess awaiting her tribute.

“Then why?” Kingston says. “Why capture her in the first place? Why not just let her loose and be done with all this?”

Mab pulls the hat closer to her and examines the ruby. Angry flames dance within.

“Because,” she says. “It is not yet time. The show is not ready.”

“You mean Vivienne isn’t ready,” Kingston replies. His voice is dangerous and low.

“I fail to see a difference,” she says.

“I won’t let you use her,” Kingston says. “Not like this. She can’t take on Kassia. She’s too
young.
”

Mab just chuckles and tosses the hat toward Kingston. Kingston catches it and turns it within his hands. The very thing makes his palms tingle with uncomfortable warmth. He smells brimstone.

“My dear friend,” Mab says, “don’t tell me you’ve grown soft. You know how little faith I have in love.”

Kingston looks over the hat to his queen. He says nothing, but his cheeks flush. This is answer enough.

“This show would play out no matter what,” Mab says. She stretches back in her chair and smiles. “I’ve merely done what I can to ensure it plays out in my favor. It cannot be stopped. Not by you, and not by me.”

Kingston peers into the stone that holds all that’s left of Kassia, the strength and sulfur that grows stronger by the day. Even now, he can imagine the tiny cracks appearing in the stone’s surface. Even now, he can feel her hatred. It has always been there, the threat of the final battle. But it had been easy to ignore; it had been easy to pretend this really was just a show, just a way to cultivate dreams. Kingston had managed to ignore the darker aspects for years, had allowed himself to pretend that Lilith was just a girl and Poe was just her cat and he himself was just a stage magician. Until Vivienne showed up. Until the final clock began to tick.

“She’s dreaming again,” Kingston whispers. “For the past few nights. She talks in her sleep.”

“And what does the dreamer say, my friend?”

“The end,” Kingston says. He looks into the depths of Kassia’s hatred and shivers against the flame. “She sees the end.”

“Well then,” Mab says. She reaches over and snaps the hat from Kingston’s hands. “It would appear our Vivienne is almost ready to remember who she is. Your work is almost done.”

Kingston says nothing. Mab drums her fingers against the desk. Moments pass.

“It’s time, love,” Mab says. Her dress shimmers into the sharp black and violet of her ringleader outfit. She stands and places the hat on her head. The ruby glows like the mouth of hell. “Places.” She smiles and holds out a hand to help Kingston stand. Kingston hesitates. Then he takes her hand and rises.

“The show goes on,” he says. There’s a flatness in his voice. He knows that no matter what, he is her puppet. He always has been, and always will be.

Mab winks at him.

“Oh, love, that’s an understatement. You have
no
idea what I’ve got in store.”

L
ike all good shows, this one couldn’t have come about without the support and collaboration of a multitude of people. I couldn’t hope to list them all, but I’ll try to name a few. In no particular order…

To my parents and family, for keeping me afloat in more ways than one and not (publicly) questioning my dreams of A) running away to the circus, B) becoming a writer, and C) gallivanting across foreign countries. Which, of course, pretty much dictated the inevitable D) living as a broke artist.

To my agent, Laurie McLean, for having more faith in my work than I ever thought possible. Superheroes exist—she is proof. And to Pam van Hylckama Vleig, for adding her magic to the mix.

To my amazing team at 47North, who got this show on the road in six short weeks, and my editor David Pomerico, who decided a book about demented, murderous circus faeries was
clearly
a good

idea. You guys are miracle workers.

To Devyn, for 2 a.m. intercontinental plotting. Without him, this show wouldn’t exist. And Mab wouldn’t be nearly as fabulous.

To Adam, for reading this in a circus tent in Norway and demanding more.

To my circus family the world over: Julie, Mags, M.A., Zay, Allison, Rodolfo, Charmaine…everyone with Aerial Angels, Spinal Chord Projects, Aerial Edge, Circus Smirkus, Xanti, and SHOW, for making me feel at home no matter where I was. I love you all.

To Bea, for always being my artiste extraordinaire.

To my Scottish writing friends, for all the critiques and coffee and advice on what author photo I should put on my private jet.

To the YARebels past and present, for understanding my crazy.

To the amazing bloggers, tweeters, readers, and Internet friends who’ve supported both me and my work, with a special shout-out to Rockstar Book Tours for the greatest blog tour on Earth.

To Lendrick, for helping me find the space to breathe.

…I couldn’t have done this, any of this, without you. Thank you.

You’re the true stars of this show.

The first two books in The Immortal Circus trilogy—Alex Kahler’s debut novels for adults—have been international bestsellers in serial form.
Martyr
, the first book in his post-apocalyptic YA fantasy series called The Hunted, will be published by Spencer Hill Press in the fall of 2014.

Like Viv and the troupe, Kahler is a wanderer. As an aerialist, he has toured with circuses across America and Europe. Travel enables him to experience the wild and wonderful world, from drumming with Norse shamans to dangling from unexpected rafters. He received his master’s in creative writing from Glasgow University. Kahler writes, climbs, and spins dreams in Seattle.

This book was originally released in episodes as a Kindle Serial.
Kindle Serials launched in 2012 as a new way to experience serialized
books. Kindle Serials allow readers to enjoy the story as the
author creates it, purchasing once and receiving all existing episodes
immediately, followed by future episodes as they are published.
To find out more about Kindle Serials and to see the current
selection of Serials titles, visit
www.amazon.com/kindleserials
.