The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels) (4 page)

“Trust me,
dear, he isn’t to your taste.”

It’s Mab. She
stands beside me with a grin on her lips and a drink in her hand, watching as
her black-masked patrons bite and lick and bleed her guest.

“What…what is
this?”

“If you’re
interested,” she says, ignoring the question, “there’s a delightful young man
next to the birdcage. Twenty-one, wishes to be a dentist…”

“I don’t…”
The man being drained is writhing in ecstasy or agony. More and more
black-masked patrons come in to bow at his side, and bring their lips to his
bleeding flesh like some lustful Communion. No one comes to his aid; no one
seems to notice anything is even wrong. Around him, couples and groups are
locked in limbs and lips as they sway to the hypnotic music. No one in a white
mask is clothed or alone, not that I can see.

“In that
case, what about the young woman being entertained on the hoop over there? I
don’t judge. Besides, she’s much too young for Stephanie.”

“I’m not…” I
glance over to where she’s pointing, to the girl hanging naked on one of the
hoops, her arms bound above her head and a woman running her hands over her
chest and back. Red lines trace themselves into her skin, but she doesn’t seem
to be in pain. If she is, she likes it.

“You see,
Vivienne,” Mab says. She takes a sip from her glass. “We are the peddlers of
dreams. Some people come to see a show, but for many, that isn’t enough. Their
dreams are darker, less…publicly recognized. And as I said, I am a
humanitarian. This is my way of giving them what they truly, deeply desire.
This is how we get the strongest dreams of all.”

“You’re
killing them,” I say. I can barely see the man on the chaise longue through the
crowd of hungry patrons.

Mab shrugs.

“Not everyone
wishes to live forever.” She sets her glass down on the table and takes a
half step forward. Then she stops and looks back. “Although we cater to all
wants here — even voyeurism — I might recommend leaving. The party’s just
beginning, and I doubt you’d want to be here when the Night Terrors arrive.”
She winks like it’s our little joke and slips into the crowd, disappearing in
the sea of black masks and ball gowns.

A cool breeze
blows at the back of my neck. I turn. There, like a deeper shadow on the wall,
is the entrance. I move toward it and then close my eyes. The music behind me
is a hook, an anchor. The fire in me burns, wants to lose itself in the throng.
But all I can picture is the bleeding man. I try to block out how his blood
would taste, how his skin would feel beneath my fingertips. I bite my lip until
I taste my own blood and force myself to leave the tent. When the flap closes
behind me, the cool air hits me like a snap to my senses. I drop my mask on the
table and head to my trailer.

I don’t look
back.

By the time
I’m a few steps away, I’m running.

“How’d it
go?” Melody asks.

She’s sitting
on a lawn chair in front of the trailer, right outside the door to my bunk.
She’s got a shit-eating grin on her face and a book in her hands.

“I hate you,”
I say. I put a hand on my door.

“I warned
you,” she says. “It’s for your own good.”

“What do you
mean?” I ask. “I just watched…” I pause, trying to find the right words. 
“Actually, I have no fucking clue what I just watched.”

“Probably
exactly what you think you did.”

“What
was
that?”

She gives me
a small smile.

“You know
those stories you heard growing up? All those fairy tales about shadows in the
woods and monsters under your bed?”

I nod slowly.

“Yeah, well,
that’s the Winter Court. They’re the creatures you’re taught to fear. Once
every couple of sites, Mab throws a party for her most beloved subjects.”

“Now you’re
just being a bitch.”

“What?”

“You
seriously expect me to believe that Mab —
Mab
, who is currently wearing
a teddy as an evening gown — is the queen of the faeries? Like Shakespeare’s
Queen of the Faeries?”

“She’s older
than Shakespeare,” she says as though it’s obvious. “She just liked him well
enough to let him write about her.”

I sigh and
lean against the trailer, which makes the whole thing rock a little. Hopefully
it didn’t wake anyone up.

“This place
is fucked up,” I say.

“What was
your first clue? Signing your name in blood?”

I close my
eyes. The memory is vivid, the sear of pain as my name inked itself on the
final line on a blurry page of contractual obligations. I hear the creak of
Mel’s chair as she stands and steps over to me. She puts her hand on my
shoulder.

“I know how it
feels. Most of these performers, they’ve been here thirty or forty years. They
forget what it feels like to be the new girl. I’ve only been here for five.
Some days the first day feels like yesterday.”

I force away
the images of the tent and try to focus instead on this moment, on the kindness
in her words. This is the first time we’ve really gotten the chance to talk, at
least without Kingston around. I want to hate her for giving me the ticket, but
it’s hard to be mad at someone who’s actually seriously
seeing
you when
no one else does. Would she still look at me that way if she knew what I
thought of her boyfriend? I try to shove my guilt and the question down to a
place neither of us can see it.

I open my
eyes.

“I’ve got
your back,” she says.

“Thanks,” I
say.
Would you still, if you knew how I feel about Kingston?

“Of course.”

She smiles
and steps back, walks over and picks up the book from where she dropped it on
the ground. Then she turns to me.

“That’s why
I’m going to tell you to be careful.”

“What do you
mean? You’re the one who gave me the ticket.”

She shakes
her head.

“You had the
black mask. At worst, you’d have seen a couple mortals get eaten in some
sexually frustrating way. I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about
earlier.”

“You think people
will suspect me?”

“I think
you’re liable to make them suspect you. I know that look,” she says. “Today,
when we were practicing. It’s the
I think I can be a heroine
look. But
shit’s going down and people are getting hurt, and the last thing you should be
doing is getting involved. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

She sighs.“I
wish I was fey.”

“Why?”

“Because
then, you telling me you'll stay out of trouble would be binding. Like,
contractually so.”

“I won’t get
involved. You’re right. Mab’s got it covered.”

Melody just
laughs and walks over to the trailer facing mine.

“My second
piece of advice is to work on your lying. Otherwise you won’t make it another
month.”

She looks
over to where the VIP tent is. I follow her gaze. There are shadows moving in
the field, dark, lumbering shapes that I can tell without doubt are far from
human.

“Mab told you
about the Night Terrors?” Mel asks.

I nod.

“Yeah, that’s
them now. I wouldn’t recommend lingering if you’re hoping for some decent
sleep.” She winks. “‘Night, doll.”

Then she steps
into her bunk without looking back.

Once she’s
safely inside her trailer, I look down the row at the door I know is
Kingston’s. The light’s off. It’s late, yeah, and he could be fast asleep. But
for a moment, I can’t help but wonder if the reason he didn’t want me to go to
Noir was because he didn’t want me to see him behaving like…like the others.
The question is: Am I glad I didn’t see him, or just disappointed?

I can still
feel the music in my veins as I undress and get under the covers. For the first
time since I signed on, my bunk door is locked. There’s also a pocketknife
hiding under my pillow, though I have a sinking suspicion that it wouldn’t do
much good if Kingston was wrong and I was the next target. In spite of all that
— in spite of all the fear I know I should be feeling — I’m not scared. The
music from the tent pulses, drowning out everything except the most primal
instincts. As always, the circus still feels safe. Like how home should be, not
that I really have anything to compare it to. I close my eyes and try to sleep.
When that doesn’t work, I stare at the thin light splashed across my ceiling,
and try to ignore the muffled snores coming from the bunk next to mine. I want
sleep to come, want to forget everything about the Tapis Noir, everything from
the shit-show that was today. But I can’t. Every time I close my eyes, I see the
man being eaten alive. Every time I close my eyes, his face becomes Kingston’s.

I can’t tell
if the image repulses or arouses me.

That alone
scares me more than Sabina’s murder or whatever creatures Mab invited over for
dinner.

T
he sun is
just rising above the woods to the east, but the pie cart is already bustling
as the cast and crew ready for the next jump. Off to one side, mulling over
cups of coffee and cigarettes, are the Shifters, no longer decked out in suits
and sleek sunglasses. Instead, everyone is covered in ink and piercings and
ragged denim. The men have mohawks or no hair at all, and the girls have
multicolored dreads. On jump days, they play tent crew. Odd to think that
seeing them like this seems more normal than when they’re dressed up. One of
them nods when he sees me glance over, and I nod before looking back to my
friends. Melody is wrapped in a gray knit shawl, and Kingston wears his
university hoodie. Each is nursing a coffee and cinnamon roll.

When I woke
up this morning, the VIP tent and all its inhabitants were gone. The parking
lot on the other side of the road, however, still has a few cars waiting like
tombstones. I don’t mention it. To her credit, Melody says nothing about our
encounter or the ticket. Kingston doesn’t give her the chance.

“I still say
you should tell her,” he whispers.

“They’re just
nightmares,” Melody says, giving her head a shake. “Everyone gets those.”

“Really?” he
asks, then looks at me. It’s enough to make my heart do a double-step. It
doesn’t help that when I see him, I can only picture him in place of the man on
the chaise longue. “Been dreaming much lately, Vivienne?”

I take a
drink of my coffee and try not to wince at the bitterness. These carnies like
it
strong.

“Not that I
recall.” Thankfully. I can only imagine what my mind would have come up with
after yesterday.

“Precisely,”
Kingston says.

I sigh. “Let
me guess, that’s in the contract, too?”

“For most of
us,” he replies.

Maybe I
should retract my previous cold-heart-warm-six-pack assumptions about him. He’s
looking at Mel with real concern in his eyes, that brotherly type affection
that makes my insides melt. He really does care about her. I can tell from that
one exchange that he would do pretty much anything to keep her safe. I try to
tell myself that’s a good thing, that I can be attracted to him for something
more important than his body and charm. But it only drives one deafening point
home: all that love and affection is directed toward someone else. So far, I’m
still thinking I’ll be lucky if I reach good friend status.

Before he can
say anything else, the Shifter guy who nodded to me is tapping Melody on the
shoulder.

“You ready
for tear-down?” he asks. He’s got at least a dozen piercings in his left ear
alone, and his mohawk is tipped with light blue. I think his name is Roman.
Melody glances to the Shifter leader and then back to her untouched breakfast.

“Yeah,” she
says. She yawns again and hands Kingston the roll. “Ladies,” she says with a
small curtsy, then turns and follows Roman to the rest of the group.

“Why are we
leaving so early?” I ask.

Kingston
takes a quick glance around. Then, without so much as a twitch of his nose, the
spare roll goes up in a puff of fire and smoke. He flicks the ashes to the
ground and looks back at me.

“Mab’s always
itchy the day after Noir. Doesn’t like lingering.”

“So I see.”

I look over
his shoulder to where the Shifters are already disassembling. A few of them
have begun pulling down the sidewalls from the tent, while the rest have gone
inside to start tearing down the bleachers. I still don’t see why Mab doesn’t
just have Kingston magic the tent into the giant semis that carry our load. Apparently,
she’s against using magic in broad daylight. That said, as I watch Roman jump
into one of the semi cabs, I can see he’s already bulked up to twice his normal
weight. Shapeshifters: the perfect grunts.

The very
mention of Tapis Noir brings back memories I don’t want. It’s not just the
thought of what I saw in the tent, but what my mind brought up in the darkness
after. Scenarios I’m too ashamed to admit even to myself: Kingston in a black
mask and torn pants, me in white, and I don’t care if he’s biting or if the
roles are reversed. Kingston on a hoop, on the sofa, his skin soft and hard and
glowing in the candlelight. I feel the heat rise to my face and turn away,
pretending to study the table of fruit beside me.

So much for
focusing on his caring personality.

“You feeling
okay?” he asks.

“Fine,” I
say, grateful my voice doesn’t give a pubescent crack.

“You better
not be getting sick, too.”

“I’m fine,” I
say. When I think my cheeks aren’t as red anymore, I look back at him, trying
to push aside the image of him completely naked. My love life prior to joining
the circus is a blur like everything else, but I know without a doubt that
Kingston isn’t the type of guy I’d go for. Or, if I’m being honest, he isn’t
the type that would go for me. He’s in control. He’s powerful. And, without a
doubt, he’s out of my league. And very much in love with someone else. I try
not to be that much of a masochist. This time it doesn’t appear to be working.

“Really?” he
asks. “Because you look like Melody does every time she sees someone she wants
to fuck.” He’s grinning as he says it, which just makes the fading blush
brighten anew. Then his smirk fades, and I worry for a brief moment things have
clicked and he’s read my thoughts.

“Shit,”
Kingston says, glancing over my shoulder and then studiously regarding his mug.
“Penelope,” he mutters.

I sigh. “No
rest for the wicked.”

“There you
are, my darlings,” Penelope says from behind me. I turn around, a smile already
plastered on my face.

Even in faded
jeans and a hoodie, she looks like she’s onstage, a feat I’ve never
understood. I can’t help but wonder how long she stared in her mirror this
morning, making sure she looked just disheveled enough. I don’t want to believe
it comes naturally; it would make people like me hopeless. She smiles and
reaches out to wrap an arm over my shoulders. I can’t make out her perfume, but
I’d be willing to bet
Ocean
is somewhere in the title.

“Which of you
lovelies would like to help me with the front of house?” she asks as soon as
she lets me go.

“I’m on
costumes this site, I’m afraid,” Kingston says. Though he’s so quick about it,
I can tell not one bit of him is sorry. “Vivienne should be free.”

“Yeah,” I
say. Technically speaking, I should be helping load up the concession stands.
The first time I tried, however, it became wildly clear that the Shifters not
only had it under control, but saw me as a hindrance rather than a help. I was
now the proverbial floater, which meant a morning talking business and sideshow
fashion with Penelope. “I’d love to help.”

I can’t help
but notice Kingston’s smirk as Penelope guides me away. In truth, it’s probably
for the best. I have a feeling that being around Kingston when he’s in one of
his flirtatious moods would be dangerous. Especially after what my mind was
dreaming up last night.

Melody was
right; I need to get much, much better at lying. Otherwise I’ll never be able
to look Kingston in the eye again.

It’s not
until we’re halfway to Penelope’s trailer that something Kingston said strikes
a funny chord.
“You look like Melody when she sees someone she wants to
fuck.”
Those aren’t the words I’d expect him to say, not about his own
girlfriend. Not while smiling. I take a deep breath and try to calm the sudden
quickening in my pulse. Now’s not the time to start thinking I had it all
wrong. That hope is far too dangerous right now.

Front of
house is mostly administrative work. While the rest of the crew is loading the
trucks, Penelope and I sit in the shade inside her trailer, the hum of the air
conditioner almost drowning out the thuds and clangs of the demolition outside.
The performers’ trailers are just that — double-wide trailers divided into even
smaller cubicles. Mine has a bed that wouldn’t pass for a twin, a desk, and
enough shelf space for a few pairs of clothes and the huge rubber boots
Kingston recommended I buy at our first site, in case of a mud show. Penelope’s
space is twice the size. It’s nearly half a trailer, with a queen bed in one
corner and a large vanity with a fish tank against the other wall. In the
middle, bolted to the floor, is a table covered in receipts and ticket stubs
and a small laptop playing some sort of classical shit.

“So,” she
says as I sort the ticket stubs into piles based on show time and seating area.
She’s typing something into the laptop, and even though I can’t see the screen,
I don’t doubt for one second that she’s just checking her email. How long has
it been since I’ve checked mine? Once the thought passes, it fades like mist in
the sun, replaced by Penelope’s voice. “How are you enjoying our troupe so
far?”

“It’s great,”
I say. “The people are really nice.” I hope it doesn’t sound as fake as it
feels.

“Mmm,” she
says. “I’m glad to hear that. You’re making friends, yes?”

I nod, then
realize she isn’t looking. “Yeah. Mostly Kingston and Melody.”

She smiles
and I look at her for a moment, trying to pinpoint her age. There are tiny
crows’-feet at the edge of her eyes, almost perfectly hidden beneath her
foundation.

“They’re a
lovely pair,” she says, giving one of the keys a sharp tap and then looking up
at me. Our eyes meet, and her smile becomes inquisitive. “I have to wonder…do
you miss your family? Your old friends?”

I look back
at the ticket stubs and try to focus on reorganizing them. My mind goes as
blank as my face.

“I don’t
really have a family,” I say.

A beat
passes, and I know without looking up that she’s staring at me even more
intently, and the thought makes my face go red.

“Everyone has
a family, Vivienne.”

I close my
eyes.

The words I
want to say aren’t forming in my head. All I can visualize is an empty
apartment and grey concrete and feeling cold…and hunted. I try to imagine my
mother, but she’s just a blur of brown hair and reprimands. My dad isn’t even
an impression. It never really bothered me before, the fact that I couldn’t
recall much about my past. I just didn’t think about it. After all, what you
can’t remember can’t haunt you. I was always one of those
focus on the
present
types.

“I’m sorry,”
she says, and then she’s standing behind me, her arms wrapped around my chest
in a tight hug. It takes a lot of self-control to not push her away. “I didn’t
mean…I didn’t know you were an orphan.” She hesitates. “Like me.”

I take the
bait, if only to shift the attention. “Like you?” Up close, her perfume is
positively suffocating.
Cloying
, I think is the right word.

She lets go
of me and sits on the side of her bed, staring at the bubbling fish tank.

“I was Mab’s
first act,” she says. Her blue eyes have gone hazy, like a fog swept over the
sea. “She found me when I was but a babe. My parents…well, I don’t remember my
parents. They left me there in the sand, waiting for the tide to come in and
wash me away. Mab saved me and raised me in the Winter Court as her own.”

“Why would
your parents do that?” I ask. I can imagine her, a swaddled baby on the side of
the sea, crying at a grey sky as the rain pelts down and the foam of the tide
pulls farther in. And then there’s Mab, dressed in black and gossamer purple,
sweeping down just in time to rescue the struggling thing from drowning.

Penelope
smiles, and it’s easily the saddest smile I’ve ever seen. She doesn’t say
anything, just raises one hand and flexes her fingers. Scales ripple from her
flesh, glimmering pale-blue and soft. A shake of the wrist, and they’re gone.

“We Shifters,
we can’t always control our forms, especially not as children.” She looks at
me. “I was lucky. In my day, children like me were considered changelings — faeries
switched with mortal babies. They believed that the only way to get their true
child back was to burn the impostor. Or worse.”

I swallow and
stare at her and can’t help but wonder just how many other Shifters were killed
by their own parents by mistake.

“What was it
like in Mab’s Court?” I ask. I want to steer the subject as far away from
murder as possible. After last night, the idea of Mab’s nightmarish home is
both intriguing and terrifying. I can’t imagine someone like Penelope, someone
clearly more comfortable in posh digs, growing up surrounded by such lecherous
monsters. Maybe that’s why she pretty much keeps to herself. Ignorance is
bliss.

I should
know.

“It was so
long ago,” Penelope begins, and I expect her to wave the question away. She
doesn’t. “But Mab’s Court isn’t something one can simply forget. She made sure
of it.”