The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels) (9 page)

“Vivienne,”
Kingston said, and I was too entranced by everything to realize he already knew
my name. His eyes were deep brown, the color of coffee, and there was something
about the way his lip curved in the corner that made it look like he was on the
verge of a joke. He was stunning. “It’s nice to meet you. Mab said you’d be
joining us soon.”

I remember
glancing back to Mab, who was smiling but had a look in her eyes that said,
quite clearly, no more.

Kingston
cleared his throat and took my hand. His touch was warm. He was in jeans and a
worn Icelandic-style sweater, and there was a thick paperback on the table next
to him. I tried to smile, but my heart was still racing from whatever it was
that came before this. His touch wasn’t helping any, either.

“Nice to
meet you,” I said.

For the
first time in a long time, I actually meant it.

A few miles
pass us by, and I’m starting to feel more awake. The caravan of trucks stops at
a gas station around nine, and we all get out, stretch our legs, and head
straight for the Dunkin’ Donuts for coffee and sugar. Kingston’s in there with
Mel. They both look like they’re coming off some bad trip, with dark circles
under their eyes and a shake to their hands as they hold their coffee cups. In
the fluorescent lighting, their skin looks like paper. The high from Penelope’s
revelation wears off. Here I was, thinking I’d run in and do something brave
and stupid like kissing Kingston without so much as a hello. But they both look
like they’re five steps from the grave. Not the time for large acts of
desperation.

“You guys
look like shit,” I say as I walk up to them. “You feeling okay?”

“What do you
think?” Kingston says.

He starts to
leave, and Melody and I follow. We sit on a concrete bench out front, one
overlooking the highway and the sun that’s already burning through the haze of
traffic. Kingston fishes around in his pocket and pulls out a pack of unmarked
cigarettes. He takes one out and brings it to his lips, cups the other hand
around it like he has a lighter, though I know it’s just a feint. The smoke
that curls out smells like cinnamon and brimstone. His eyes practically flutter
with happiness, though he still looks bone tired. We watch the rest of the
troupe mill around for a while. Lilith’s near the dog park, doing somersaults
in the grass while Poe stretches in the sun. When no one says anything, I speak
up.

“I saw
something last night.” There’s no one around, and Mab’s still in her black Jag
E-Type, but I’m whispering nonetheless. I don’t care what Penelope was trying
to hint at; these two are my only friends. “I tried to tell you after the act.
But there was a guy in the crowd. Blond, seemed pissed off at everything.” I
look at Kingston but he’s concentrating on his cigarette. He just doesn’t want
to admit he should have listened. “After you found Mab, she came out and took
him backstage.”

“So that’s
what you were doing,” Melody says. I stare at her. “What? I was talking with
Heath last night. He said you came in looking for Mab.”

Are there
any safe secrets in this troupe?
I look at Kingston and remember Lilith’s
outburst. I wonder how long it will take for it to get back to him. I wonder if
he’ll still talk to me after he knows. I take a few sips of coffee and then
continue.

“Yeah, well,
I found her. She and this guy, they were talking out back. Something about some
treaty being broken.”

“They’re
always looking for some reason to shut us down,” Kingston finally says.

“Who?”

“The Summer
Court. Only other time we had to pack up like last night was’83. Mab was
raging for weeks.”

’83. So maybe
Penelope wasn’t joking about his love life. I can’t help but stare at him and
try to figure out if even his twenty-four-year-old body is one of his
illusions. It’s not something I have brain power to think about. Melody nods
and takes another nibble from her doughnut. She’s hunched over herself, elbows
on knees, brown hair falling over her eyes. Give her some emaciated ribs and she’d
easily pass for a junkie.

“But why?” I
ask. “We’re just a circus.”

Kingston
laughs and Mel chuckles, which once more turns into a hack she tries to hide
behind a drink of coffee.

“
Just
a circus?” he asks. “You really think that’s what this whole operation is?”

I raise an
eyebrow. “What else would it be? We travel around the country in a blue and
grey tent, putting on shows. Sounds like a circus to me.”

“Viv,” Melody
says when her coughing fit’s over. “We’re talking about Queen Mab here. The
Faerie Queen of legend, ruler of the Winter Court. You really think she just
gave up ruling an entire kingdom to wander the mortal world and put on a show?”

I shrug.
“Everyone gets bored, right?”

Mel shakes
her head and shares a what-an-idiot look with Kingston. Then she looks back at
me with a grin on her face.

“Time for a
lesson in supply and demand,” she says. “What do faeries live on?”

“I dunno.
Honey?”

Kingston
laughs again and continues where Melody left off.

“Not quite.
Faeries live off
dreams.
Why do you think faerie tales exist in the
first place? The fey are secretive as hell; if they wanted to remain anonymous,
they would. So why would a group that prefers to stay away from mankind let
mankind even know they exist?”

“I…”

“Right,” he
says. “You don’t know. Faerie tales are like seeds.” He waves a hand, and the
smoke trailing from his cigarette curls into itself, forms a tight little
nut-shape floating in the air. “We tell them to kids because it makes their
imaginations run wild with thoughts of magic and the supernatural.” The
smoke-seed breaks open, tendrils sprouting wildly like vines. “Those thoughts
feed the fey. Without them, they die.”

I interrupt
him. “What happened before humans?”

“I’ve never
asked,” Kingston says, an eyebrow raised. “The point is,” he continues, the
tree of smoke-vines before him beginning to fade and wilt, “over time, faerie
tales started to lose their ability to inspire. Kids believed them, but adults
stopped. Technology overtook the story.” The smoke fades out entirely, blown
away in a gust of wind. “The stories weren’t enough. So, Mab decided to be
proactive. A more in-your-face approach.”

“She made
us,” I say.

“She made
us,” Kingston continues. “We spark people’s imaginations, get adults dreaming
of the impossible. And those dreams, all those hopes and fantasies, they feed
the fey.”

Melody
spreads her arms wide. “We are the lunch ladies of the faerie world. The Dream
Traders.”

She chuckles
and coughs again, which stifles the humor of her statement.

“Okay, I’ll
buy it,” I say. “But if that’s the case, why would the Summer Court want us to
stop?”

Kingston gets
an evil grin and takes one last, long drag on his cigarette, then flicks it to
the curb. It turns into a moth and flutters away before ever hitting the
concrete.

“Because,” he
says, “if you hadn’t noticed, Mab’s a woman of business. All those dreams we
procure, all that magical faerie food? It’s reserved. All for the Winter Court.
Which, of course, means Summer is hungry. And pissed.”

“Can’t they
make their own damn show?” I say.

“Come on,”
Kingston says. “Faeries are proud. The Summer King would never stoop to
imitating his enemy.”

“Besides,”
Mel says, “The name
Cirque du Soleil
was already taken.”

We reach the
new site a few hours later, in some town whose name I missed in between
napping. It’s on a beach, I get that much. The trucks park a few hundred yards
from the shoreline in what looks like an old soccer field. I jump out of the
cab and stretch my legs. Poe slinks beside me and vanishes under the truck;
Lilith slides out behind him.

“Lilith,” I
say, quietly, once the door is shut. “What did Mab say to you last night? After
you left?” She’s looking at me with a blank expression on her face. “You know,”
I continue, “after she met with the bad man. We were hiding under the truck.” I
crouch down to emphasize the point. She smiles, and I try to smile too. Her
smile quickly fades.

“You’re
mean,” she says. The sober tone is back. “You help me, make me think you’re my
friend. But you want to take him from me. You’re bad. Bad. Just like bad man.”

Then she
turns and runs off, cartwheeling toward the tide. I watch her go with a sinking
feeling in my stomach. Just looking at her brings the scent of brimstone back
to my nostrils. That, and the fact that when I looked into those green eyes, a
part of me felt like I should be screaming.

T
he tent gets
set up that night. I half-expect Mab to come out and demand that Kingston
magic the tent back to standing, but much to my surprise — and Kingston’s,
apparently — he’s been given the night off. Melody, Kingston and I sit on the
beach and watch the moon rise over the water while behind us, lit by giant
floodlights that turn everything the color of bone, the tent rises like a
monstrous skeleton. The sound of the waves is accented with thuds and clangs
and curses from the tent crew as they work their graveyard shift.

We don’t
really talk, the three of us. Instead, we share two bottles of red wine and
sink back into the sand. After the day we’ve had, there’s really not much space
to say anything. All any of us are after is the calm that comes from good
company and contented silence. Halfway through the first bottle, Melody lays
her head in Kingston’s lap and stares at the stars while he runs his fingers
absentmindedly through her hair. Something turns over in my chest when I see
that, some memory of comfort and love I can’t quite place, but I don’t say
anything. Now that I know it’s entirely platonic, I’m only filled with the hope
that maybe, someday, he’ll act like that with me. I’m already tipsy before I
can start thinking how I feel about this, this sudden knowledge that I have a
sliver of a chance with Kingston. I can’t tell if it makes things easier or
worse.

 “I really
don’t know what’s wrong with you,” he whispers to Mel, and he seriously sounds
sorry about it, like it’s all his fault. She reaches up and touches his arm.

“Don’t
worry,” she says with a small smile. “I’ll be fine.”

I turn back
to watch the tide, my head filled with thoughts I wish I could share but can’t
bring myself to voice. The man from the Summer Court, Lilith’s disapproving
glare. My contract. It hasn’t even been a month and I feel more confused than
when I started, like maybe things were simpler before I came here. Whatever
“before here” actually entailed.  The wine is not making it any easier to
think.

A few minutes
later, I look back over at the two of them, watching him run his fingers through
her hair. Mel’s eyes are closed and her chest is rising and falling in rhythm
with the tide. She looks peaceful like that, fast asleep. Even peaceful when
she lets out a soft snore. Kingston’s looking out at the moon, his eyes
distant. I’d give anything to switch places with Melody, to have him run his
fingers through my hair.

He looks to
me and smiles. Just that is enough to make my stomach warm.

“Why do you
look at her like that?” I whisper, the wine making me bolder than I should be.
Melody doesn’t stir.

“Like what?”
he asks. He doesn’t stop twining his fingers through her hair. Yeah, I’d give
anything to switch spots.

“Like you’re
responsible for her.”

“You wouldn’t
understand.”

I huff and
lean back into the sand.

“I could be
here a while,” I say. “You might as well get used to the fact that if I don’t
understand now, I will eventually.”

“What do you
mean?”

I think back
to my conversation with Penelope, though the memory is a swirl of wine.

“I don’t know
how long my contract is,” I say.

He says
nothing to that, but he doesn’t look away. It’s me that has to avert my gaze;
there’s an intensity in those coffee-colored eyes I just can’t match.

“I
am
responsible for her,” he finally says.

“What?”

“Melody. I’m
responsible for her.”

“She’s
twenty-two,” I say.

“Age is
deceiving,” he replies. I know he’s not just talking about Mel. He looks away.
“I found her, much like — ” he stutters, “much like Mab found you. If not for
me, she wouldn’t be here.” He brings his gaze back down and traces a finger
along Mel’s forehead. Maybe it’s the drink, but I swear a faint blue light
swirls beneath her skin, a pattern I barely glimpse before it’s gone. “If not
for me,” he whispers, so soft I can barely hear it, “she wouldn’t be getting
sick.”

“It’s not
your fault,” I say, though the defense sounds weak. He doesn’t say anything, so
I try to make an actual point of it. “I mean, Mab brought me here and some
crazy shit’s gone down, but I don’t regret it.”

I look back
to the tent, to the Shifters milling around. The sides are being pulled up now,
the skeleton gaining skin.

“This is
better than whatever I came from,” I say, though even as the words are leaving
my mouth, I know it’s not true. I have no idea what I came from. I can’t even
remember what street I lived on. The thought infuriates me for a moment, makes
me want to scream at the top of my lungs and rip everything apart. And then it’s
gone, and I don’t know what I was thinking about in the first place.

He laughs,
and I look over.

“What?” I
ask. What were we talking about?

He’s smiling.
It looks genuine.

“You’re
cute,” he says. “Drunk is a good look on you.”

“I’m not
drunk,” I say. I realize a little too late that it sounds slurred. I chuckle
and fall back in the sand.

“Get some
sleep,” he says.

I don’t want
to, but after all the running around today and the lack of sleep last night,
it’s hard to resist.

I close my
eyes and listen to the waves as I sway with the heaviness of wine. I want to
tell him he’s beautiful, that he isn’t responsible for everyone. That Melody’s
lucky no matter what because she has him looking out for her. I don’t say any
of this; the words just won’t piece together. I’m drifting when I feel
something brush through my hair. I don’t open my eyes to see if the fingers are
real or just my imagination.
Melody’s lucky she has you.
When sleep
comes, it washes everything to grey.

“Shit,”
Kingston says, and I’m pulled from dreams of nothing. The sun is just rising,
the pale light making everything pink and purple and beautiful. But that’s not
enough to mask the screams coming from the tent. I sit up, sand stuck to every
inch of me. Both Melody and Kingston are pushing themselves to standing.

“You don’t
think?” Mel asks, and Kingston closes his eyes. Although he looks much more
well-rested than yesterday, there’s a weariness around his eyes that seems to
grow by the minute. If it weren’t for the screaming, I’d be sorely tempted to
tell him to go back to sleep.

“I don’t want
to find out,” he says.

My heart is
sinking into the dirt. A crowd gathers by one of the trailers, and the scene
from a few days ago is playing on loop in my head.

“Come on,” I
say, and head toward the chaos.

The two of
them are right behind me, and it’s not ’til I’m running up the grassy slope
toward the field that I realize Melody’s lagging behind. I turn back. No, not
lagging, limping. One arm is around Kingston, her face twisted with pain. She
must have slept wrong or something. I don’t slow down. I want to see this
before Mab takes over.

When I reach
the trailers and push my way to the front of the crowd, I’m immediately glad I
haven’t eaten anything yet.

It’s Roman.
He’s naked, except for socks and boxers, like he’d been killed in his sleep.
Except he was clearly awake for this; his eyes and mouth are wide open and his
body is arched back, supported by six swords piercing his spine, the tips just
poking out the front of his torso. He’s covered in thick blood that drips down
his arms and pools on the grass below. His powder-blue mohawk is stained
purple. Flies are already gathering.

I push aside
the nausea and look around, scan the crowd, try to find someone who’s missing,
something out of place. But everyone’s there, and everyone looks horribly
shocked. Everyone except for Lilith, who’s nowhere to be seen.

The crowd
parts like a sobbing Red Sea the moment Mab arrives. She isn’t even trying to
look mortal, now. She glides over the ground like a wraith, the grass beneath
her long, black, smoke-like dress turning to ice. Her green eyes are blazing,
and I swear her nails are talons.

“What is the
meaning of this?” she hisses, and the crowd draws back. She moves forward and
reaches out, her hand hovering an inch above Roman’s face. “Roman,” she
whispers, the intensity of her rage dimming with her words. “Who did this to
you?”

She turns
back to the crowd and points. Again, they part, all of them except Sheena, the
purple-haired girl who was working the novelties booth two nights ago. She
seems rooted to the spot, her eyes locked on Mab’s. I can tell she’s not
afraid, but she looks wary.

“Come here,
girl,” Mab says.

As Sheena
steps forward, the troupe looks at her with fear and anger in their eyes, and I
feel my own pulse start to race. Mab’s narrowed it down. Mab knows the killer,
Mab is about to tell the world. My heart is hammering in my ears. It was Sheena
all along. But why?

Sheena walks
straight up to Mab and stares up into the eyes of hell, her head held high. I
have to give it to the girl; she’s keeping calm even though every single one of
us knows she’s about to turn to dust. Every nerve and muscle in me tightens,
ready to fire as judgment is dealt.

“I should
have done this the first time,” Mab says. She raises a hand…

…and steps
aside, leaving a space for Sheena to approach the body.

“My Queen?”
Sheena asks.

“It must be
done,” Mab replies.

Something
crosses Sheena’s features, hesitation and loathing, but she nods anyway. Her
eyes close, her fingers clench into fists. And then she changes.

It’s not
Shifter magic, which — according to Kingston — isn’t really magic at all, but
something else entirely. Sheena’s body shivers like static on a screen, a flash
of purple light and smoke, and then she’s no longer there. In her place is a tiny
hovering orb of violet light. It takes a moment for the truth to hit, but
there’s no mistaking that Tinkerbell-esque glow. She’s a fucking faerie.

I expect some
great wave of magic, maybe for Roman to start speaking in tongues from his bladed
bed, or for sparks of lightning to shoot out. But nothing happens. There’s a
haze of smoke around the orb that seems to wrap around the body, but it’s so
faint in the light of day that I can’t really see it. A few moments pass, and
then I blink and the girl is standing there again, all purple hair and blue
jeans. She looks down at the ground.

“I’m sorry,
my Queen,” she whispers. “I cannot divine. Someone has hidden his sight from
me.”

Mab hisses
and the air around her grows dark, just for a moment.

“The Summer
King,” she seethes. “It must be him.”

Sheena bows
and steps back into the crowd. People edge away from her like she’s diseased,
but I see the flickers in a few people’s eyes — the recognition, the longing.
Sheena’s not the only fey hiding in our midst, but she’s clearly the only one
who’s been outed. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why she looks like her
dirtiest of secrets has just been aired. After all, it’s not like Mab makes any
attempt at hiding what
she
is.

“What is
this?” someone asks, and I look over to see the guy next to me — one of the
jugglers, the one I don’t know — take a half step forward. “Mab, what’s going
on?”

She studies
him for a moment. I can’t stop staring at the blood dripping down from Roman’s
pinky.

“It would
seem,” she says, “that the Summer Court is trying to force us down. Which,” — she
raises her voice — “Will. Not. Happen. Do you hear me, Oberon? My show
will
go on.”

I expect
thunder to crackle or clouds to gather, but there’s no retaliation, no mark
her words were heard. Everyone seems to be holding their breath, myself
included.

“This…this
wasn’t part of the contract,” the juggler continues. He takes a deep breath and
looks around for support, but no one’s looking him in the eye. He’s sweating,
but he doesn’t back down. He’s got guts. Mab raises an eyebrow. “You told us
we’d be immortal so long as the contracts stood.” He takes another breath and I
can feel everyone’s hackles rise.

 Behind me, I
catch Kingston whispering under his breath, “Don’t do it, you fucking idiot. Don’t
do it.”

 
“Sabina’s
dead. Now Roman. None of us are safe. Which means…which means our contracts are
void.”

Mab smirks,
but there isn’t even a drop of humor there. She takes a step forward.

“Is that so,
Paul?” she says. Her voice is ice. “You believe your contract is forfeit?”

There’s a
curl in Mab’s words that promises something horrible, but Paul isn’t stopping
now that he’s gained steam. I have a sinking suspicion he’s been waiting to say
this since Sabina had her throat sliced open.

“Yes,” he says.
“Your part of the deal was immortality. I’m not going to sit around and wait
for that to be proven false again.”