The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels) (5 page)

“What do you
mean?”

Penelope
rustles around in the nightstand beside her bed and pulls out a necklace. It’s
a simple silver chain, and on it hangs a diamond that glints as black as night.
She loops the chain in one palm and holds it out to me.

“This,” she says.

It’s the
second time in twenty-four hours that someone’s handed me something without
explanation.
Fool me twice…
I eye it, not moving to take it from her.

“It won’t
hurt you,” she says with a small smile. “One of Mab’s jewelers made it for me.
It’s hewn from the very walls of her castle.”

I still don’t
move.

“What’s it
do?” I ask.

“So
suspicious,” she says, though the smile doesn’t fade. “It’s a memory stone. It
allows me to record and recollect my history. Otherwise, I’d have trailers and
trailers of diaries.”

“You sure you
want me to know all that?”

She laughs.

“It will only
show you what I want it to.”

She motions
her hand once more. I take a deep breath. Hopefully she’s never been to the
Tapis Noir…

The stone
drops into my palm. It’s warm and tingling and as the heat spreads up my arm,
the world grows black.

A few blinks
and my vision clears. The light is dim and pale blue, like all the light is
diffusing through blocks of snow. Penelope is standing beside me, but she’s
barely there, just a flicker of a figure. When I glance down, my hands are just
as ghostlike. We’re in a hall made of arching black stone. Blue flames flicker
along the wall, the fires contained within giant crystals. Plush white carpet
lines the hallway, and although the air is as warm as the trailer, everything
looks frozen, from the glossy walls to the way the carpet piles like freshly
fallen snow.

“This was the
main hall,” Penelope says. Her voice is clear, but seems to be coming from far
away. I look at her apparition as she talks. Her lips don’t move.

I blink, and
now she’s standing a few feet away. Another blink, and she’s even farther. I
move to catch up. The motion is jerky, like I’m a character in a broken film
reel. I only see the hall blink past in flashes.

Moments later
we stand before a large set of doors. They spread from wall to ceiling to
floor, made of dark black wood inlaid with silver in curling thorned filigree.
She pauses, one hand pressed to the door. She looks at me.

“Would you
like to see the birth of the circus?”

I can’t
imagine any other reason to be here, so I respond with a muted, “Yeah.”

She looks
back to the door, a staccato flicker of her head.

Then she’s
gone.

I look at the
door that stands easily three times my height. I put a hand to the wood. I
push.

I’m inside.

If the hall
was large, this room is beyond comprehension. To say it’s a cavern is an
understatement, but that’s the only thing my mind can connect it to. The
ceiling domes up, way up, hun
dreds
of feet above. The
entire thing is illuminated by crystals and flickering lights that zip around
like fireflies. The light falls like snow, dusting down to the floor and fading
into the white carpet. Stalactites and stalagmites reach down and up like teeth
on all sides, their surfaces carved and inset with silver like the doors. More
tiny lights flicker around the formations. And there, sitting right in the
center amid a wall of silver stalagmites, is a throne the height of a house.
The actual seat rests a good twenty feet from the ground, sitting atop a
disturbingly thin spire of stone. The chair back is silver and crystal, the
arms ebony and ice. Mab sits there in a dress of white silk and fur. A crown of
black ice sits atop her head.

“Your
Majesty?” a young girl asks. She stands at the foot of Mab’s throne. A few
steps closer and I can see her clearly. It’s a younger Penelope, with the same
blazing red hair and porcelain features. There’s a doll in her hand, one with
wings and glittering green eyes. Then the doll twists its head toward me, and I
jump back.

“We have
traveled the world together, yes? And you’ve enjoyed it?” Mab asks. I can’t
help but stare in awe at this incarnation of Mab. She looks every inch a regal
queen, from the crown on her head to the hem of her dress that dangles ten feet
below the edge of her throne. She is nothing like the debaucherous Mab I know,
but there’s a power they both share, a presence that tells me they are without
question one and the same.

“I have, my
Lady,” Penelope says. Her voice is perfectly composed — not a hint of fear or
doubt.

“But you’ve
grown lonely,” Mab purrs. “You desire friends.” She seems to regard the doll in
Penelope’s hand. “Real friends.”

The young
Penelope pauses. Apparently, even at an early age, she knew Mab’s offers
usually had a hook. Or twenty.

“Yes, my
Lady.”

“Then perhaps
I have a solution.”

Mab waves a
hand and the carpet at the young Penelope’s feet ripples, as though the floor
is trying to push its way through. Peaks form and colors melt across the fabric
as the carpet becomes a series of tents in blue and black. Tiny shadows move
about the tents, and I can hear the sound of applause.

“What is it?”
the young Penelope asks.

“Your new
home,” Mab replies. “I have decided our show is too informal. My scouts in the
mortal realm have confirmed that Philip Astley’s show is a great success, and I
feel it is in our best interest to follow suit. We are creating a circus.”

The young
Penelope leans in to examine the tents.

“Imagine it,”
Mab says. She floats down from her throne and kneels down opposite Penelope.
“An entire show filled with people like yourself — fey and mortals and
divinities. Every act a sensation, every performer a new friend.”

As I listen,
I can’t help but wonder if this softer side of Mab still exists, or if it’s
been hardened over the years. Could she really have created an entire show for
Penelope? Or was that only a ruse to make Penelope feel better about being
forced to join?

A voice calls
out from the corner of the room.

“I hate it.”

I jerk up and
see her striding toward us. She’s in a lacy purple dress and her black hair is
tied with ribbons, but there’s no mistaking her face. It hasn’t changed a
single bit. And there, prowling from the shadows, is her familiar.

Lilith and
Poe.

She walks
straight to the circus and stomps on one of the tents. The tents fade
instantly. So, too, does the vision.

I blink and
we’re back in the trailer. “What was…what was
she
doing there?” I ask.

Penelope
reaches over and plucks the necklace from my hand, returning it to her
nightstand before replying.

“Lilith has
been with Mab for many, many years. I was the first to tour the world with her,
but Lilith existed within Mab’s court long before I did.”

I shake my
head.

“But she
looks exactly the same. Why did you grow up?”

She shrugs
and smiles, though there’s no happiness there.

“I’ve never
asked,” she replies.

“Why did she — ”

A loud crash
sounds outside, one that makes the glass makeup jars on her vanity tremble. We
both jump to our feet in the same instant. She glances out the window.

“The king pole,”
she says. “It’s fallen.”

Then she
rushes past me and out the door. I’m not far behind.

The tent is a
tangle of steel and cables. The canvas walls and roof are gone, but one of the
four king poles — the central poles that hold up the highest points of the tent
— is on its side. People are shouting and Penelope and I are running full out.
The Shifters are already trying to lift the thing, which is easily two stories
long, from where it’s toppled onto the bleachers. That’s when I see her, hiding
under the tangled mess: Lilith. The king pole is barely two feet above her. Poe
is mewling, just clear of the wreckage.

There are
other crew members yelling at her to get out, but no one’s willing to take the
chance to go after her. The pylons are slowly crushing down on the bleachers,
shifting inch by precarious inch. If she doesn’t get out of there fast, she’ll
be jelly. Trouble is, anyone trying to get in might just disturb the whole
thing and make it crush sooner.

Something in
me takes over. I duck into the maze of aluminum and steel and make my way
toward her. She’s curled in a fetal position, I can tell that much. But with
all the yelling and groaning of steel, I can’t tell if she’s making any noise.
She sure as hell isn’t moving. I swing through the mess until I’m just a foot
away. Lilith’s shaking, her black dress covered in dust and rubble. One arm is
bleeding. Above us, the massive king pole hovers precariously, pitched between
a crunching pile of bleacher bits. The thing shudders and eases an inch closer to
my head. I hunch down even further and try to reach for her.

“Lilith,” I
say. She doesn’t move, so I call her name again, a little more harshly this
time. She looks up. “Lilith, we have to go now.”

“Scared,” she
says. Her green eyes are wide and her face is completely ashen. “Scared scared
scaredy cat.”

“Come on,” I
say as the king pole shifts again. “Please.”

“Can’t.” She
curls tighter. “Scaredy cat scaredy cat scaredy cat.”

And that’s
when something clicks.

“Poe misses
you,” I say. “He wants you to come out.”

Her head
tilts up again. “Poe? Kitty kitty?”

“Yes,” I say,
extending my hand further. “Poe misses you, but he’s too scared to come in
here. He wants you to come out and play with him. He wants you to take my
hand.”

A screech
rends through the air and I flinch as cold metal touches the back of my neck.
Lilith doesn’t seem to notice. She’s looking at me, her expression still dazed.

“Please,” I
say. “Poe misses you. Now.”

“Okay,” she
says. And she takes my hand. My vision explodes.

Fire fire roaring fire

fire burning fire killing fire

laughing fire fire blood and red and

fire blood and fire fire fey and faerie blood —

I scream
aloud as the hallucination tears me apart, and then I’m stumbling and falling
and letting go and it’s gone. It’s gone and the world is white white white as
color slowly seeps back around the edges and my head splits apart like a
cleaver is carving it in two. Faces first, then voices. Faces looking down.
Kingston and Penelope and Melody and someone’s got a hand on my forehead. Ice water
trickles down my skin and down my neck and under my skin into my bones, and I
close my eyes and wait for the water to drown me, dreaming of scaled skin and
burning blood.

I
s she awake
yet?”

“Not yet.
Wait…yep, there she is.”

I peel my
eyes open, which feels like rubbing burning sandpaper inside my temples. It
takes a moment, but after a few blinks the dim light solidifies into something
I can make out. Kingston hovers overs me, Melody at his side. We’re in my tiny
trailer room, and I’m lying on the bed. They’re both looking down like they’re
expecting me to grow horns or die. Or both.

“Morning,
sunshine,” Kingston says. He touches my shoulder, and once more that cool
ice-water sensation slides across my skin and seeps into my head. It feels like
bliss.

I shift under
his touch and stare up at those brown eyes. For once, I have his attention. All
it took was nearly getting crushed to death and an act of stupid heroics. I
smile, and he smiles back.

“What
happened?” I ask, because I’m afraid if we keep smiling at each other I’ll
forget that Mel is still in the room.

“We were
going to ask you the same thing, doll,” Melody says. Her eyes are even more
shadowed than before, especially in this light. Is it just my near-death
experience, or are her fingers shaking?

“What do you
mean?” I ask. I try thinking back, but it’s all a blur. Something deep down
feels fire, feels burning, but I can’t put my finger on it. Like steam, it just
floats around in my subconscious, smoldering invisibly.

“Well,”
Kingston says, removing his healing touch. “We all saw you jump into the wreck
and pull Lilith out. But we don’t understand why you were screaming when you
got her out of there. Then you passed out.” He traces a finger down my arm. I
shiver, but not from any magic he might possess.

“No
injuries,” he says, almost to himself. “No trauma. So why did you faint?”

“I don’t…I
don’t remember.”

Still, the
memory nags at me. I’ve got Lilith’s huddled form in my mind. I remember taking
her hand, and then…that’s it.

“Maybe she’s
just got a weak stomach,” Melody says. She chuckles, which turns into a cough.
Kingston glances at her; his eyebrow cocks in a strange mix of concern and
curiosity. She holds up a hand until the coughing fit stops. “Sorry,” she says.
“Must be coming down with something.”

“Must be,”
Kingston says. “You better not die before our act tonight.” He turns back to
me.

And that’s
when I notice that they’re both in costume. Melody’s not wearing her tuxedo
coat or wig, but she’s in her tight pinstripe trousers and a clean button-down.
Kingston is in a white shirt and black sequined slacks. The tip of his tattoo
is curled around his bicep. I blink because I’m pretty certain that’s not where
the tail was last time. I push myself up to sit, which just makes my head swim
even more.

“What time is
it? How long have I been out?”

“A full day,”
Kingston says softly. “We’re already at the next site.”

“No way,” I
say, sinking back down onto the bed. “Shit.”

“The show’s
in an hour,” Melody says. She slips something into my hand. “But Mab’s giving
you the night off.”

I look at the
ticket stub in my hand.
Cirque des Immortels
is in swirling black ink on
the front of the dusty purple card stock, my seat number and row are on the
back. VIP seating, nice.

“She doesn’t
ever give people the night off,” Melody says, nodding to the ticket in my hand.
“Let alone reward them for it. She must be impressed.”

She and
Kingston share a look.

“You’re
sure
you can’t remember anything?” he asks.

“I wish,” I
say. The absence of memory sears.

Melody leaves
a few minutes later, when a particularly strong coughing fit sends her out the
door in search of tea and honey. Kingston stares after her with a look on his
face that tells me he feels he should follow. He doesn’t, though. And after a
moment of looking at the door, he turns back to me.

“That was
brave,” he says. He’s leaning against my desk, almost in arm’s reach. The scent
of his musky cologne fills the trailer. I realize that, for the first time,
we’re alone in a room together. The thought makes my heart beat faster. He
smiles, and it’s not the usual sarcastic grin. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

I don’t know
what to say to that, so I let out a half-chuckle, and look down at the
admissions ticket.

I hear him
shift, and then he’s standing next to the bed. Next to me. I don’t look up. I
know if I do I’ll be tempted to say or do something I’d regret later.

He puts his
hand on my shoulder. The ticket stops spinning in my hands but my pulse speeds
up. What would Mel say if she knew we were alone like this? I can’t hurt her,
not after all the kindness she’s shown me. But after what he said yesterday, a
large part of me is holding on to the hope that they aren’t a thing.

“You surprise
me,” he says. I look up at him.

“Is that a
good thing?” I counter. I’d probably fuck things up if I said anything remotely
serious or tried to be smooth. But there’s something in his eyes, something in
our closeness that makes me want to reach out and touch him, even if every part
of me knows it’s a horrible idea. I can’t stop telling myself that he’s looking
at me differently than the way he’s looked at Mel. I try to convince myself
it’s just from fainting.

“I’m not sure
yet,” he says. He studies me like he’s actually trying to figure me out. No
one’s looked at me that intensely since I started here. The silence between us
grows, and I don’t want to do anything to make it end. He looks at me and I
look at him and his hand is still on my shoulder. His touch makes my skin
tingle. He bites his lower lip.

If this were a
movie, I think this must be the part where tragedy and heroism bring us
together and we make a really stupid decision. One of us has a moment of
weakness, forgets the relationship-thing due to overwhelming passion, and then
it’s nothing but lips and discarded clothes and murmurs of love —

Kingston
shakes his head and steps back.

“I better get
going,” he says. “Wouldn’t want any rumors about us, you know.” He winks and
heads to the door. Before stepping through, he turns back and gives me the grin
I’m starting to love. “And, Viv, I know my act is good, but try not to faint
before intermission.” He chuckles and leaves me sitting there.

He’s just
toying with you,
I try to convince myself. But my body’s not listening. I
stare at the door for a while and feel the after-trace of his hand on my
shoulder. I tell myself that there are more important things to think about,
like finding the killer and keeping Kingston and Mel safe, and figuring out why
I fainted in the first place. More important things. I stand up and  search my
shelves for a clean shirt. There are much more important things than a guy I
barely know. A guy who’s gorgeous and strong and could set my ass on fire if he
wanted. A guy who I’m now only ninety percent certain is dating my best friend.
Right.

I can still
smell his cologne.

An hour
later, I’m milling about in the promenade with the rest of the punters. Stalls
and booths of every kind flank each side of the makeshift road that leads up to
the blue-and-black tent.
Cirque des Immortels
blazes in acid-purple neon
above the gaping maw of an entrance. I’m in my everyday jeans and T-shirt,
nothing to set me apart from the rest — no
Crew
splashed across my back,
no tower of cotton candy in one hand. Tonight, I’m just like everyone else. I
hadn’t realized how appealing that thought would be.

I grab a box
of popcorn from the concessionaire booth and am saved from making small talk;
today it’s run by a new girl from the nearby town, someone I haven’t met and
maybe never will. All she sees is a girl with a VIP pass that entitles her to
free food and drink. Even that small act of anonymity makes me feel a little
more at home. Being surrounded by people who know you 24/7 isn’t something I’m
used to. Small memories of another life flutter through my head like moths — all
grey images and tearstains — and then I’m leaping out of the way to make room
for a stilt walker.

It's dressed
like a giant black rabbit trundling around on eight-foot-tall legs, except the
rabbit head is actually a raven’s. And when the beast walks past me, I
distinctly see the eye blink. A whole line of walkers moves through the crowd.
All the creatures are like some tame sort of nightmare, their legs nimbly stepping
around and over the people below. Kids are calling and screaming and laughing,
and even the adults stare up in wonder as the creatures roam and pirouette and
leap. They’re all headed in the same direction. To one side of the promenade
there’s a wooden archway set up between concession booths. The stilt walkers
narrowly duck under a sign as they vanish down the side alley.
Freakshow
,
the sign reads
.

 
I
grin in spite of myself. Although they are technically hired as tent crew,
sometimes, when they’re really bored or want to shake things up, the Shifters
set up their small carnival-styled area to put on their own show. It’s like a
two-for-one deal. For once, my luck seems to be swinging toward the positive.

I take a step
toward it, but then the music inside the tent changes, and the jugglers come
out into the promenade twirling clubs of fire. They shout at the top of their
lungs, “Show begins in five minutes!”

I’d kill to
see what the Shifters are putting on at this site. Last time, Roman made
himself rotund and covered every inch of his torso in tattoos, so he resembled
an old-school globe. But the ticket in my hand burns at the thought of some kid
stealing my seat. I follow the throng toward the black entrance curtains. I’ll
catch the freaks at intermission.

“You’ve
never seen anything like this before,” Kingston said. Two days in, and he and
Melody were still the only ones who talked to me, but it was better than
nothing. We stood at the back of the tent. He was in his costume and I wore a
new pair of jeans and T-shirt that had miraculously appeared in my bunk the
night I settled in. The performers were running in and out of the tent to catch
their cues. To me, it all looked like well-orchestrated chaos. Kingston
motioned for me to sneak closer, so I did, standing beside him and peering out
through a crack in the curtain. Even then I was horribly aware of his
proximity. I could see the contortionists doing their dance onstage, their
white costumes sparkling in the magenta lights above as they folded themselves
on top of each other, balancing on elbows and chins, tips of toes curling under
shoulders. I looked over to Kingston, who had a smile on his face even though
he’d already admitted to seeing the show a thousand times. He looked over at me
and caught my stare. “You’re a part of this, now. It’s your home.”

I looked
out again and watched the contortionists stand and take their bows, bathing in
the applause. I closed my eyes and imagined myself out there; I could feel the
pulse of fear and adrenaline and ecstasy, the mix of fight-or-flight that
somehow pushes performers to entertain. The roar of the audience filled me.
Home.