The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels) (6 page)

The first few
acts go off without a hitch. The jugglers begin strong and don’t drop a single
club or dagger. The contortionists follow, dancing their beautiful duet of
entwining limbs and arching backs. I can practically feel the crowd’s
excitement as each act gives way to the next, the anticipation growing with
every performer. Three violet lengths of fabric lower from the ceiling,
rippling like water as the aerialists ascend and begin twisting and dancing
high above, their white costumes flickering in the spotlights. I can remember
only one of their names — Arietta Skye, a girl no older than me with brown hair
and eyes the color of the ocean. She seems to lead the other two in their
dance. She is the first to roll in a dizzying drop toward the ground, and she
is the one who smiles the widest.

 I applaud
louder than usual as Kingston and Melody take the stage. When they take their
bow, I distinctly catch Kingston winking at me. Then he’s waving and running
offstage. It’s not until the next act — Spanish Web — that I realize I’m still
blushing.

It’s during
the flying trapeze act that I notice her. At first, I thought it was just a
shadow moving high up in the cupola. But then I squint and make out a figure
moving up among the narrow catwalks strung between the lights. Lilith. I shake
my head, trying not to wonder how she can stomach being up there when just yesterday
she was nearly killed by the very poles she’s dangling from. I’m surprised no
one else is pointing up at her, but then again, she’s wearing all black. I have
a feeling that she’s done this so many times before, she knows no one else is
going to see her.

That one
glance makes my head ring. The scent of smoke fills my nostrils like an
afterthought. Nothing’s burning, though, and the moment I look away from her,
it’s gone.

The trapeze
artists climb their two tiny rope ladders that attach to the foot-wide platforms
high up above. They are dressed in dark, shimmering outfits that remind me of
dragonfly wings, and the dim blue lights onstage make them look otherworldly.
Mist seethes along the ground as the music changes to something deeper, slower,
more ambient and foreboding. It’s all strings and drumbeats now. The singer,
Gretchen, hums into her microphone as the first performers grab on to the
trapeze and swing out above the crowd’s heads. There’s no net below them.
No
one dies in this circus,
Kingston had said. Every act is a testament to
that promise.

The fliers
swing out, then back to their platforms. A simple swing. Then as one of the
fliers lands and poses on one platform for the mild applause, the other is
inverting himself and latching his legs on the bar. He swings toward the other
platform with his hands free. The man who just took a swing changes places with
a girl, who launches herself over the space, swinging toward the inverted man
who arcs toward her with open hands. The girl releases her grip at the swing’s
apex, flips twice in midair, and latches on to the man’s wrists. They glide
gracefully over to the platform, where she dismounts and waves. He grabs hold
of a tether to keep from swinging out again, one arm raised in salute. The
applause is deafening.

But this is
just the intro. Another man swings out from the other platform, flying through
the air. He inverts as well, while a young man is readying himself on the free
trapeze. With perfect timing, he launches himself off, arcs up and over the crowd,
flips not twice, but three times in midair, right before his partner expertly
catches his wrists and swings him back to safety. The crowd goes wild.

I feel a huge
grin on my face as the energy of it all catches me up in its thrall. When I
glance down, practically beaming at the crowd as though it was
me
up
there, risking life and limb for their entertainment, I see that not everyone
is enjoying the show as much as I am. Across the ring from me, sitting almost
precisely in the middle of the bleachers, is a man in his thirties with sharp
blond hair and angular features. I can’t tell much about him, except that he’s
staring straight up at the performers with a frown on his face. I look up,
wondering if maybe one of the aerialists is giving the crowd the finger — apparently
it’s happened before — but everything’s as it should be. I look down again.

That when I
realize he’s not looking at the performers. He’s looking past them, into the
cupola.

At Lilith.

The man’s
gaze flickers to me, and it feels like vertigo slaps me in the face, twists
around my stomach. I look away, look up to the fliers that are readying for
another trick, and try to force the sickness back down. Each trapeze has a man
swinging out toward the other, then back to their platforms. As they swing
back, they invert, grab the hands of the waiting girls, and swing out again.
Both girls release at the same time, one flying high over the other; the lower
girl curls tight into a ball, the one above spreads in a wide
X.
They
both reach the awaiting partner at the same time. Grips catch in a snap of
chalk dust. But the lower girl only locks one hand. The other hand slips. In
that horrifying moment, I know she’s fucked. The crowd gasps.

It’s only a
second. Only one terrible second as gravity connects and her swing pulls her
back down to the earth. That one tentative grip slips, and then she’s
plummeting to the ground.

Someone in
the audience screams, or maybe it’s many people, I don’t know. All I know is
that the girl only falls for a moment, then she gives a jerk, like something’s
snagged her, and her descent immediately slows. She lands lightly within the
mist, clearly shaken but doing her best to smile and pose. Something flashes as
she turns to face all sides of the crowd, which is now applauding as fervently
as though she’d landed the trick. I see her safety lines. Two long black cables
stretch from her waist up into the cupola. They caught her and kept her from
landing in the dirt in an explosion of blood and bone. She unclips the cables
and they slink back up into the heavens.

Except I know
without a doubt that we don’t use safety lines because no one in this circus
messes up. Ever. Either Kingston or Mab is covering an accident that shouldn’t
have happened.

For some
reason, I look away from the girl on the ground — Jillian is her name, I think —
and catch sight of the blond man across from me. He’s still not clapping, but
at least he’s looking down now, still scowling. He looks disappointed that the
girl is alive.

Although
intermission follows immediately after the flying trap, I don’t wait until the
end of the act. I awkwardly make my way toward the aisles and bolt out the
exit, heading around the tent toward the backstage. Despite the fact that
someone almost died, no one seems to notice something went wrong. People are
changing or stretching or relaxing. That’s when I notice Kingston standing
beside the backstage curtain. He’s peering out through the crack like when we
watched the contortionists together. His fingers are clenched into fists.

“What was
that?” I ask when I reach him. He jumps slightly but doesn’t make a sound. When
he sees it’s me, his fingers relax just a little. He really should wear a shirt
backstage. His abs are distracting, even at the worst of times.

“Wait,” he
whispers. “Just in case.” He turns back and continues to watch through the
curtain. A few moments pass while I watch the performers mingling backstage,
and then the audience breaks into loud applause. He steps aside just before the
trapeze artists run through the back curtain. The girl who fell spots Kingston
and wraps him in a hug.

“Thank you,”
Jillian says. There are tears in her eyes and her makeup is smudged.

Kingston just
returns the hug and whispers something in the girl’s ear that I can’t hear.
Then the rest of the trapeze artists are circling us, asking what happened. I
can’t tell if they’re asking Kingston or Jillian, but it’s Jillian who answers.

“I don’t
know,” she says.

The guy who
caught her — Peter — chimes in.

“Everything
felt good from my end,” he says. “That was a perfect toss.”

“I know,”
Jillian says. She shakes her head. “It felt perfect. But then…I don’t know.
Right when I was about to catch, something just…just took my breath away.”

“What did you
smell?” Kingston asks. I stare at him. The question seems ridiculously out of
place.

Jillian rubs
her arms. Peter steps up behind her and wraps his own muscular arms around her.
She leans back into him, but she’s still shaking. It takes her a while to
answer.

“Lightning,”
she finally says. “It smelled like lightning and cut grass.”

Kingston’s
face darkens.

“They
wouldn’t dare,” he whispers. “I have to find Mab.”

“What is it?”
Peter asks.

“Summer,”
Kingston says.

The small
crowd gasps. I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Take her to
her trailer,” Kingston says to Peter. “Watch her. If anything changes, find me
immediately.”

“Am I in
danger?” Jillian asks. Her voice trembles.

“Keep her out
of sight,” Kingston replies, looking only at Peter. Then he’s off, heading
toward the trailers.

The trapeze
artists disperse the moment Kingston leaves. Jillian’s practically carried off
by Peter and the rest follow in a half-circle behind. I don’t wait around. I
jog over to Kingston’s side.

“What’s going
on?” I ask him again. He doesn’t slow.

“This doesn’t
concern you, Vivienne,” he says.

I reach out
and grab his arm, force him to stop. He turns. His eyes burn and I nearly let
go. But I don’t. I’m not going to just stand around and wait for someone to
include me. I don’t know where this inner fire came from, but I’m not going to
fight it. After all, it already saved Lilith’s life. Maybe it’ll save someone
else’s, like a heroic sixth sense.

“I’m part of
this troupe,” I say. “What’s going on?”

I can see the
frustration in his eyes, the immediate desire to push me away. I steel myself
for the outburst, but it doesn’t come.

“Summer,” he
finally says. “They’re here.”

If this
wasn’t clearly a serious situation, I’d make some witty comment about it being
obvious it was summer, seeing as how it’s eighty degrees even after dark. He must
notice I’m clueless because he doesn’t wait for me to say anything.

“The Summer
Court. Mab’s rivals. They’re here. They’re interfering.”

“You think
they tried to kill Jillian,” I say. Pieces are clicking together in my head.

“I think
they’re trying to make a point. Which means we need Mab. Now. Before they make
any more.”

He turns to
go but I grab him again. Touching him is addictive and, in this instance,
allowed.

“How do you
know?” I ask. “What if she just fell?”

“That doesn’t
happen,” Kingston says, not even turning around. “Besides, even
I
could
smell Summer magic at work. I just needed Jillian’s confirmation.”

We’re nearly
to Mab’s trailer when he turns around.

“Please,
Vivienne. Stay out of this. You don’t need any more attention. Just go back to
the show.” His eyes are pleading, and he doesn’t give me time to refuse. He
turns and heads around the corner of a trailer. I don’t follow.

Instead, I
turn around and head back toward the front of house. I don’t stop until I catch
sight of the blond-haired guy who was sitting across from me. He didn’t make it
hard; he’s standing at the concessions booth right in front of the tent,
looking over our DVDs with the mildest amount of interest. He’s tall and thin —
taller than me — in a grey pinstripe suit that makes him even more angular. I stand on the other side of the promenade and watch from the popcorn
queue. The man keeps glancing around, but he doesn’t seem to notice me noticing
him.

Mab comes out
from the crowd before I reach the cashier. The man in the suit puts down the
brochure he was pretending to read and smiles, but it's not even close to
friendly — it's the grin of a man looking forward to a conflict. Mab doesn’t
even return the forced affection. She strides right over to the blond guy with a
grim look on her perfectly painted face. A few people stop and stare and make
like they’re about to approach her for an autograph, but there’s a darkness to
her presence, something that radiates
don’t fuck with me.
And the whip
at her waist only pushes that point home.