The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels) (3 page)

Melody whirls
past me, and I follow her and the line of performers out into the night. The
moment I’m out of the tent, the air seems to drop ten degrees, sending lines of
goose bumps over my arms. Melody and the others are already gathered near the
backstage tent. It’s a small, pavilion-style thing that looks like it should be
holding a barbeque rather than a bunch of props and costumes. I wander back
toward her. I’ve seen the juggling act enough to have it memorized. And
besides, my cotton candy won’t miss me.

As I’m
walking around the side of the tent, I catch the faintest hint of movement
under the bleachers. The bottom of the tent sidewall has been pulled up to
allow for more ventilation, and clambering among the wires and discarded
popcorn boxes is a girl dressed all in black. The kid is watching the show from
between the audience’s feet, completely hidden from the crowd. I’m about to
duck under and drag her out — she probably thought she could just get a free
show — when she turns her head and I see the familiar green eyes that never
fail to give me the chills. Lilith, Mab’s right-hand man. Well, girl. She
doesn’t look older than twelve. She’s short, with curly black hair, green eyes,
and a roundness to her face that makes her look cherubic and somewhat lost.
I’ve never seen her doing anything in the show, either in the ring or behind
the scenes. Hell, I practically never see her period. But wherever she is, Mab
isn’t too far away. The one time I saw them together, Mab practically petted
Lilith’s head like a kitten.

She glances
back at me and smiles a grin of pure childlike delight, then goes back to
watching the show. That’s when I notice another small movement as her cat, Poe,
slinks around his master’s feet. The tabby curls up around Lilith’s ankles and
watches me with calm yellow eyes. I shiver and turn away, quickly making my way
toward the backstage tent. When I reach Melody, she’s already halfway into her
next costume. Her blushing makeup and enormous Marie Antoinette pink wig make
her look like some fetishistic baby doll. The pinstripe suit isn’t helping
much, either. I wonder how long it will take me to get used to seeing her in
costume — the contrast between pink Lolita and refined hippie is still jarring.

“Hey, Viv,”
she says as I approach. “Gonna watch the new act?”

“Of course,”
I say. “Got nothing else to do.”

I pause as
Kingston walks over. He’s got his cape in one hand, magic wand in the other.
He’s in sequined trousers and shiny shoes…and nothing else. My eyes catch on
the single drip of sweat slowly edging down his chest toward his
aggravatingly perfect abs. The head of his feathered-serpent tattoo is angled
down one pec. The rest of its body curls over his shoulder and behind his back,
its tail twisting over one hip and disappearing into his trousers.
My face
is up here,
I can nearly hear him say, and I tear my eyes back toward
Melody, praying neither of them caught it. He’s a magician, and magicians
aren’t supposed to look like heavily inked Calvin Klein models. They’re
supposed to be, like, old and wrinkled and wear funny clothing. It’s not fair.

“How’s it
going?” he asks, tossing the cape down on a crate beside him before helping
Melody get her other arm into her tux. I’m still refusing to stare at him, but
my eyes keep lingering on places they shouldn’t. He has those lines at his
hips, the
come fuck me
lines, I seem to remember someone calling them.
Yeah, Mel would have my head.

“I’m all
right,” I say, trying to keep my voice detached.

The two of
them move like they came out of the same womb. Melody said she’s only been here
for five years, but they move in such sync that I’d have expected longer. Just
watching them makes the guilt squirm in my gut. Kingston is with her; I
shouldn’t be staring at him like a fangirl. But it’s not like he’s making it
any easier. God made shirts for a reason.

“Speaking of
new acts,” I say, trying to keep myself from thinking in third-wheel terms.
“What was with Mab’s new introduction?”

If I hadn’t
been looking at them so intently, I would have missed the brief flick of
understanding that passes between them. Then Kingston is looking at me, his
eyes carefully guarded. He still hasn’t shaved his stubble.

“
Tapis
Noir
,” he whispers. “The Black Carpet event.”

I raise an
eyebrow. There’s something in the way he says it that makes butterflies hatch
in my stomach.

“The what?”

He looks
around to make sure no one’s listening in. No one is; they’re all practicing
and psyching themselves up for their acts. Even so, he leans in a little bit,
and Melody tilts her head closer.

“The Black
Carpet event. It only happens once every couple of stops, on the new moon.
It’s…for VIPs. A sort of after-party.”

“Cool,” I
say, because that’s really all my brain can come up with. Thinking smart when
he’s leaning this close is difficult. “Do we get in?”

“You don’t
want in,” he says quickly. “It’s not for people like…like you.”

“Concessionaires?”

“No, Viv.
Mortals.”

The word
hangs in the air like a concrete veil, separating me from him and Melody and
the rest of the troupe. It’s not something that I thought would ever be used
against me. Not until I came here. I’m just a mortal, a normal, while the
rest…they’re something else entirely. I'm still not entirely certain
what.

“I see,” I
say. Though, of course, I don’t. All I can see is that it’s one more reason
Kingston and Mel are more suited for each other. And another reason I’ll always
be an outsider with the two of them.

“Just stay
away from it,” Melody says. “Trust me. I’ve only been once and that was more
than enough.”

“What about
you?” I ask Kingston. Is it my imagination, or does that actually make him
blush?

“A gentleman
never tells,” he says. Then he stands up straight and grabs the cloak from the
crate. “Come on, Melody. We’re next.” I hadn’t even noticed the music inside
the tent change or the roar of applause. Before I can wonder if I managed to
piss him off, he’s dragging Melody across the grass and toward the back
curtain. They disappear under the flap, but not before Melody throws me a quick
apologetic glance.

I look around
the backstage area at the performers completely lost in the routine of the
show. The jugglers are changing into new costumes, the fire eaters are
organizing their torches. Everything is so smooth, so refined. So absolutely
unaware of my existence. Mab hired me with the promise of greatness, but this?
So far, the only people who seem to notice me are Melody and Kingston. And even
that’s not saying much. Especially not when he’ll never notice me the way I
want him to.

Suddenly, the
memory of Sabina’s corpse flashes across my vision. The broken smile and the
blood. It makes my skin grow cold. It reminds me that not being noticed right
now may be a good thing.

T
he night air
is cold as the crowd leaves the main tent. They file toward the parking lot on
the other side of the road, their chatter loud and excited. Only a few of them
linger back by the chapiteau, fingering their tickets with nervous anticipation.
A new, smaller tent has been constructed on one side of the dirt promenade,
though I never saw it go up. It glows in the darkness like a black lotus. The
interior flickers in shades of violet and crimson, and music filters out. It’s
a heavy downbeat that has a pulse, an urgency that tugs at my hips, but no one
moves toward it. I can’t help but stare like the rest of the loitering guests.

“Fancy a go?”
says a voice at my side.

I nearly
jump.

“Mel,” I say.
She’s changed out of her costume and is now in pink pajama bottoms and a long,
tattered knit cardigan, her thumbs poking out from the sleeves. She’s also
grinning like a fool.

“Well?” she
asks, nodding to the new tent.

“Are you?” I
ask, my heart suddenly thumping in my chest in time to the music. There’s a
ring of men and women in black suits surrounding the tent. They’re all wearing
sunglasses. Did Mab hire bodyguards? What sort of after-party requires
bodyguards?

“Hell no,”
she says, “but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t invited.”

She holds up
a small purple ticket.
Cirque des Immortels
is scrawled across the front
in heavy black ink.

“Won’t they
notice?” I say, gesturing toward the guard. Rebelling isn’t in my nature — I’m
always the one who gets caught. But something about the tent is calling to me.
It’s promising me things I can’t imagine, but would surely regret missing.
Somehow I know that rebelling is precisely what the Tapis Noir is all about.

Melody eyes
the guards before laughing.

“The
Shifters? Please. So long as you’ve got a ticket, they don’t give a fuck who
goes in.”

I glance back
to the bodyguards and try to imagine the Shifters dressing up in suits, which
is nearly impossible. The Shifters are the tent crew and part-time freak show.
Most of them looked like they were part of a biker gang. I wonder what Mab had
to do to get them into Armani suits.

Mel holds the
ticket out. I hesitate. Then, because that small tugging voice inside of me is
really digging the edge of danger thing, I take it. On the back, there’s a
small block of handwritten script.

You
are cordially invited to the Tapis Noir,

our
premier, no bounds after-party.

Indulge
and enjoy irresponsibly.

 xx Mab

Performer
is stamped down the left-hand side.

“Just make
sure you get the right mask,” she says as I study the card.

“What do you
mean?”

She leans in
close and whispers in my ear, as though she doesn’t want any of the punters — the
more endearing name we used for the public — to hear. “The black mask. If you
get a white one, turn around and leave. Immediately.”

I slip the
ticket in my pocket.

“Why do I
have a feeling this is more than just a party?” I whisper as she steps back.
Why do I have the feeling I
want
it to be more than a party? And why do
I want Kingston to be there?

She just
grins and shrugs. “Hey, we already warned you, not that that means anything.
The rest, well…you’ll just have to find that out for yourself. You won’t forget
it, that’s for sure.”

As if on cue,
fire leaps up around us. I wince at the instant heat, then realize it’s one of
the fire-breathers standing on a pedestal. More fire-dancers appear in the
crowd — women with claws of fire or flaming hula hoops, men with torches and
poi and flaming rope darts. None of them are wearing more than a few scraps of
leather and rings of steel. If that. One of the fire-clawed women is only
adorned in swirls of black body paint. Melody’s grin widens.

“That’s you,”
she says, patting me on the shoulder. She begins to walk away and calls back,
“Have fun.”

I don’t have
time to second-guess. The crowd of punters huddles closer together, their faces
glowing red in the flame. The air smells of kerosene and dust and heat and
something that makes my stomach churn with excitement and an inexplicable
feeling. I huddle in between a man in a tweed suit and a woman in jeans and a
shawl. I’m staring with as much awe as the rest of them as the fire dancers
whirl and manipulate the flames they twine about their bodies. One of the men
blows a huge cloud of flame over the promenade in front of us. When the fire
billows out, Mab is standing on the walkway.

It’s not a
Mab I’m comfortable calling my boss.

She’s wearing
what looks like a cross between a corset and some Victoria’s Secret nightgown —
a tube of white silk with black lace over the bust and black stripes down the
seams. The dress barely reaches her thighs, and from there down she’s in sheer
black stockings and diamond-encrusted black stilettos. The worst part is, she
pulls it off flawlessly. She has the perfect model physique, the curves to
kill, the agelessness and allure. Her fingers are covered in rings that look
like talons and skulls, and it’s only after a second look that I realize the
heels of her shoes are black spinal columns. In one hand is a black half-mask,
also covered in diamonds. She gives us all a smile I’d prefer she reserved for
the bedroom.

“Follow me,
my lovelies. The Black Carpet awaits,” she says. Then she turns and heads
across the grass. She doesn’t look back to see if we follow. But we do. We
follow her like she’s a provocative pied piper. The fire-dancers continue to
twirl around us in a pyrotechnic escort.

She leads us
around the tent to an entry hidden in the back. There are guards on each side
of the velvet flap. Beside the entry is a table covered in purple satin and a
variety of masks. Mab walks straight through the entry, then sticks out a hand
to gesture us in with one ring-encrusted finger. The music pulses in my gut
even from here. I feel like I’m waiting outside some L.A. nightclub, not
standing in a field in the middle of nowhere. Not that I knew what being
outside an L.A. nightclub felt like.

The crowd
files in one-by-one, handing the guards their ticket in exchange for a mask. So
far, everyone ahead of me is given a white mask, which makes the panic start to
slide through my veins. Melody’s warning rings in my ear. She wouldn’t put me
into a dangerous situation, though, right?

It’s not
for people like you…for mortals.

I grip the
ticket tighter. The music from inside the tent vibrates through my bones,
growing louder every time someone pushes aside the flap and enters the
dimly lit interior. I can’t make out anything inside. Minutes scrape by and
then I’m standing up front. My heart’s in my chest as I hand over my ticket.
For a brief moment, I wonder if being caught and turned away would be worse
than being let in.

The guard
examines it and pushes up her sunglasses.

“Vivienne?”
she asks.

I gulp. I
don’t really recognize her — she’s got pink hair and brown eyes and a slight
figure. A single silver ring is in her nose. I know I’ve seen her, but the
Shifters tend to keep to themselves. A couple hellos were all I got when I
signed on, and after the first day, our paths never really crossed.

“Yeah.”

She chuckles
and looks to the guard on the other side, a tall dark man with vibrant red
dreads pulled back in a ponytail.

“Kids grow up
fast, don’t they?” the guy says.

The woman
slips the card into her pocket and hands me a mask. Black.

“Have fun,”
is all she says. I look down at the mask in my hands, then step forward through
the curtain.

It’s like
stepping into another world.

The tent is
enormous on the inside. The draping walls and roof are beautiful strips of
purple and black. Sconces and chandeliers of glass and iron hang from the
ceiling, flickering with firelight. Aerialists dangle and pose from hoops and
slings, each wearing less than the last. Everywhere I turn there are half-naked
bodies, men in suits without shirts, women in corsets and torn evening gowns,
all of them in black masks. The masks have curving noses or devil horns, all of
them looking like demons in some sort of erotic masquerade. The floor of the
tent is covered in black rugs and plush chaise longues, leather armchairs, and
glass tables. In one corner, a girl is inverting herself on a tall pole; in
another, a contortionist wearing little more than string and mesh is twisting
her body on a table covered in wineglasses. Underneath it all, underneath the
moving and sweating and grinding, the music pulses like another frantic heart.

There’s a
hand on my arm and I look over to see Mab staring down at me — there’s no mistaking
her, even with her mask.

“
Tsk tsk
,
Vivienne,” she says, and I know she’s about to tell me off for entering
uninvited. Like I said, I always get caught. But all she says is, “This is no
place for nudity.” She grins. “Mask on at all times. Please.” She winks and
turns away. I reach up and tie the mask to my face.

For a while I
just stand there, completely at a loss. This isn’t anything I’m used to. I seem
to be the only one, though. The white-masked punters are completely enthralled
by the music and scandal, drawn into a world I couldn’t have prepared myself to
be a part of. I watch as one man laughs amid a group of black-masked men and
women, completely oblivious to the fact that the performers are pulling his
clothes off one article at a time. A woman across from me reaches up and is
pulled onto one of the steel hoops, smiling as her heels fall into a punch bowl
with a clatter. And on the sofas…there’s much less clothing and much more
giggling and grinding. Even behind the mask, I can feel myself blushing.

It’s not
until someone bumps into me from behind that I realize I’m still standing by
the tent’s entrance. Every time someone in a white mask comes in, someone in
black comes forward to pull them deeper. No one does that to me, probably
because I’m already in the black. I walk to one side of the tent and grab a
glass of red wine, watching the sin unfold and kind of wishing I’d taken
Kingston’s advice and stayed far, far away. I take a drink and hope the wine
will help me accomplish just that.

A topless
woman with a white mask comes up to the wine table and reaches out, grabs the
front of my shirt, and pulls me closer.

“Are you on
the menu too?” she whispers, her words slurred. How are these people already so
drunk?

“Not
tonight,” I say.

She
exaggerates a pout, but lets go and turns away. I take another drink of the
wine and try to sink back into the shadows. But everything in the tent is
shadow and candlelight and bass. There’s no getting away from it. After a few
more minutes of feeling like a horrible voyeur, I decide this really isn’t my
scene, that Kingston was right. This
wasn’t
for people like me, though I
have no idea how being mortal plays into it. I set the glass down and turn
away, head to the exit. Only there is no exit. I spin around and try to find
the black curtain, but it’s not there. Just purple and black walls.

“Going
somewhere?” a man beside me asks, snagging my sleeve with a finger. He’s
wearing a black mask, but I’ve never seen him before. He’s tall, very tall, and
lithe. His eyes are shining blue behind his mask, and there’s a blue feather
boa around his bare shoulders. His muscular chest and stomach are covered in
intricate tattoos.

A woman
slides up next to him, also in a black mask. She’s wearing a V-necked red dress
that dips dangerously below her navel. I focus on her eyes, which are warm
amber. If those tits are real, I’ll eat my wineglass.

“She must be
new,” the Playboy model says. She reaches out and slides one sharp finger under
my chin. The man’s hand reaches up to my shoulder, though it doesn’t stay there
long. For some reason, I don’t have the will to push it away when his touch
slides toward my chest. They’re both so close I want to back away, but there’s
nowhere to go, and I have a feeling it would be worse than bad manners if I
did. I don’t move and try not to flinch as their touches grow bolder.

“Mab told me
about you,” the woman continues, “her latest
acquisition
to this
menagerie. I’m quite surprised she let you in, considering…” but she doesn’t
say why, just smirks and steps back, scratching my skin in the process.

I don’t rub
the spot, just keep focused on her eyes. The man’s hand has found its way to my
hip. His touch is colder than ice.

 “Come on,
Fritz. Let’s enjoy the party.” She puts an arm over his shoulder and he wraps
an arm around her waist, and then they’re sliding back into the crowd. The
tingle of his fingertips still clings to my skin like frostbite.

I look
around. It hadn’t hit me how many people there were in the tent; the people in
black masks far outnumber the white. Mab’s been inviting people in, and it’s
clear from their garb that they know the occasion well. I watch as two men in
black masks and torn suits tilt a white-masked guy’s head back, pouring wine
down his throat. Oh yes, they know the occasion well. The music pulses, the
heat grows. Something deep down inside of me is growling. It doesn’t want to be
sitting in a corner. It feels the music. It wants out. It wants to play.

On a chaise
longue in front of me, a man is stripped naked, except for his porcelain mask.
Black-masked men and women caress his arms and thighs and neck with fingers and
tongues. The man groans as one of the men bites into his hip. The sight of it
makes my heart thud faster, and my fingers grip tighter at my side. A small trail
of blood drips down his pale skin but he doesn’t seem to notice. In fact, he
reaches down and runs his fingers through the man’s hair as he laps up the
blood, slowly, slowly licking.