The Immortal Circus: Final Act (Cirque des Immortels) (3 page)

“No. We have a company that wants out of their contracts. And now, I'm in charge of them.”

Mel didn't say anything for a while after that. Like me, she was trying to let the information settle in. Like me, she didn't want to believe any of it was true. In the last twenty-four hours, I'd not only learned my boyfriend had betrayed me, but I had watched him get his throat slit. I'd learned my entire family was dead by my doing. And now, I had a show to run.

“I have to be on in an hour,” I said, my voice dull, my heart numb. “Otherwise I die. And so will you.”

Mel opened her mouth like she wanted to protest. Then she saw the look on my face and changed her mind.

“What do you need me to do?” she asked instead.

I tried to steel my voice, tried to find some humor in the situation. I failed on both counts.

“Help me into Mab's corset.”

An hour before the last show of the night, I’m in front of Mab's trailer. She has the entire double-wide to herself, though now that she's not here it seems ridiculous to cart it around all the time. There are two doors on the side, and I stand before the one that used to lead to her office. I rest my hand on the latch, and I close my eyes, not certain if I'm praying or begging.
Please just be there.

I open the door.

A broom closet stares back at me.

My heart sinks and I slam the door shut, making the entire trailer rock. It's not like I expected her to be there, but I dunno, maybe she had sensed that something was wrong, that Lilith was acting up again. Maybe she would have wanted to check in—it was the day of Tapis Noir after all, and she hadn't been here for nearly a month.

But no, no magical entry to the Winter Court, no office plucking itself out of the darkness. No skull and crystal sconces, no desk, no shelf of esoteric books. No Mab.

I head over to the other door and yank it open. The overpowering scent of mothballs and dusty fabric billows out.

This second door appeared the same day I inherited the show. Inside is a drag queen's paradise. If said drag queen is also into bondage.

Corsets and leotards and thigh-high boots line each wall, while the clothes rack in the middle is taken up by feather boas and fishnets and spiked ringmaster coats. Every color, every style, from Tank Girl punk to glamorous diva. Even though there are more clothes in here than I'd ever expected to own, I know it is only a small selection of Mab's collection. These are her hand-me-downs. And somehow, magically, they are all in my size.

Ironic, seeing as she's easily a head shorter than me and has tits the size of cantaloupes.

I step inside and rummage through the racks. I settle on a glittery coat made up of emerald mirror shards, high-heeled boots that lace up to my thighs, and a black leather leotard with gold swirls over one shoulder. Maybe, years ago, I would have taken the time to admire myself, the transformation from ordinary Midwestern girl into limelight starlet. But there's no magic, no wonder. As I yank on a pair of fishnet stockings, all I can think about are my lines and the hours ticking away to Tapis Noir. A small voice in the back of my head asks how I'll decide whom to kill. Mortal blood will only last a short time—if I want to stave off the visions for a while, I need someone with magical proclivities. I can only hope Mel found a way to invite a Shifter or witch or someone else beyond the mundane Montanans.

My stomach rumbles and my pulse quickens with the thought.

The rest of me wants to vomit.

I stare at myself in the vanity mirror after the coat is on. There's more makeup lined against the glass than I know what to do with—vials of foundation and eye shadow and body glitter, all of it neatly arranged with a meticulous hand. I start applying foundation like Mel showed me, then paint on my eyebrows and rouge my cheeks. I watch that quiet Midwestern girl suffocate into obscurity under layers of paint and deceit. When I'm done, I straighten my blonde hair and grab a whip from the pile on the side table. I don't put on any of the jewelry in Mab's brimming cabinet. Instead, I loop a simple obsidian pendant around my neck. Penelope's necklace, hewn from the walls of Mab's underground kingdom.

I wrap my fingers around the cool stone and feel the static trickle of magic. But no visions consume me, no messages from Kingston reach across the boundary between life and death. It's nothing more than a relic of what I've lost. As I stare at the woman in the mirror—a figure who is confident and seductive and everything I am not—I need every reminder I can get. I'm still the girl Mab screwed over. I'm only playing her game until I get my revenge. And if playing dress up keeps me alive long enough to get back at her, I'll damn well do it.

Outside the trailer, I hear one of the crew calling out places, and I push myself away from the vanity and stride over to the door. My heart is hammering—even after a few weeks of doing this, I'm still no more comfortable in the role than I was the first night.

That, and because when the final curtain falls, I'm going to have to commit murder.

I'm so distracted as I open the door that I almost miss the apparition floating outside it. When I see him, my breath catches in my throat.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask. I pause inside the door, not willing to step out into the sunlight. Even though I know it offers no protection, the idea of having a door to slam in the Summer King's face is a mild comfort.

“And to think, this is the girl who cowered in my kingdom.” Oberon's voice is milk and honey, every comforting memory laced into a single pitch. Yet as I stare at him, at his teak skin and curling beard and brown pinstripe suit, all I can think of is the fervor in his eyes when he slit Kingston's throat.

“Don't make me ask again, Oberon,” I say.

His hazel eyes are serious; they are the only parts of him that seem solid. The rest—from his bare feet to the antlers curling from his hair—is translucent. I can see the trailers and the tent through his wavering form.

“I am not truly here,” he says, spreading his arms as though it should be obvious. “This is merely a shade. But we need to talk, you and I. You have been ignoring my summons.”

Oh yes, his
summons:
notes left on browning leaves or messages of flowers sprouting in the grass outside my trailer. All of them begging me back to his kingdom like some lovesick stalker. All of them save for the last.
That
note was written in what looked like blood, on a piece of birch bark no bigger than my hand.

Don't make me do this,
it read.

I never bothered to inquire further. I burned it like the rest.

“I can't leave the troupe,” I say. “Or haven't you heard? Mab gave me her role.”

He eyes me up and down, and I get the distinct impression he's undressing me in his mind—not like there's much to undress; Mab's wardrobe doesn't leave anything to the imagination. Apparently, in my past life, I had been Oberon's lover. And weapon. And captive. The thought of it still makes me a little nauseated.

“So I see,” he muses. His eyes don't leave my chest. “The resemblance is striking.”

“What do you want?” I ask again. This brings his gaze up.

He sighs, as though what he's about to say truly troubles him.

“I'm afraid I can no longer sit idly by,” he says. He watches the grass at his feet, which slowly twines up around his ankles. “Now that Mab has returned to her kingdom, it is clear that she is unwilling to give up the demon Kassia. A truce is no longer an option.”

“You attacked us first,” I say.

“That was my son,” he replies. “
I
never had a thirst for blood.”

His lip twitches when he says it. The bastard knows precisely which buttons to push.

“If you're just here to say you're declaring war, you can fuck off. We already know.”

“Oh no, Vivienne,” he says, his eyes darting up to mine. Was he
really
just looking down my corset again? “War was declared long ago. This is a declaration of intent. Mab's actions have forced me to resort to less…appetizing measures. I must fight fire with fire, as it were.”

“Get on with it. I have a show to run.”

I've yet to meet a faerie that could get to the point.

“You hold the demon and the key to the Dream Trade,” he says. “But now that Mab is out of the picture, you are, in essence, vulnerable. Unless you hand over Kassia, I will be forced to consider this company a spoil of war, one I shall take without hesitation. You swore yourself to me, don't you remember?”

I grin.

“I'm mortal: an oath means nothing. Besides, we both know you can't attack. You're weak. As you said, Mab controls the Dream and the demon.”
And me.
“What could you possibly have to match that?”

“Is that your choice, then? Side with Mab and defy the Summer King?”

I say nothing. It's not a choice I'm able to make; it's already been made for me, and he knows it.

He sighs heavily. The grass at his feet wilts.

“Then I'm afraid you will have to suffer along with your queen. I would have been merciful, Vivienne. My children, however, will not. They will make sure you burn with the rest of your troupe.”

Then, in a flurry of dead grass, the apparition disappears.

For a few moments I can only stand there, staring at the space the shade of Oberon had occupied. I can't help but compare his words to Lilith's and feel the bile rise in my throat. I glance at the mountains on the horizon, half-expecting to see a demonic fire raging and burning its way toward us. But the mountains are static and beautiful in the evening light, a tear against the fabric of the sky. Everything is peaceful.

“Five minutes!” someone shouts to my right, making me jump. I jog to my room and grab the top hat from its stand—a cast-iron cat—both of which appeared magically on my dresser the night I returned to the show. I glance at the ruby on the hat's brim. It glows with a diabolical inner light, the cracks shining like frozen lightning. I brush my finger across it and nearly yelp when a small shard comes off, a piece smaller than my pinky nail. The magical barrier keeping Kassia locked up is weaker than I feared. But there's no time to panic or try to fix it; I pocket the glinting piece and run to the back curtain.

The whole troupe is already assembled there, game faces on. I spot Melody in her tight pinstripe suit and pink Marie Antoinette wig. Now that Kingston's gone, she's transitioned from magician's assistant to a magician herself—after all, she spent her entire life surrounded by Kingston's tricks. She knows his act better than anyone else, even if she does lack his magic. When I step next to one of the acrobats, the troupe's preshow chatter dies down to silence.

I try not to let it affect me, try to pretend I don't even notice. I stand there gripping my silver-studded whip in one hand and wearing a perfectly painted expression of ease on my face. At least, that's what I hope it looks like. I've always had “resting bitch face,” and for once it's paying off.

One of the tech crew gives me the thumbs up. I take a deep breath. Showtime. Before nerves can catch up to me, I stride through the black curtain, and the dazzling lights of the center ring turn burn all my thoughts away.

Everything onstage is glitter and brilliance; I can feel the hundred sets of eyes trained on me, can feel the anticipation as it builds, as dreams unfurl and weave into the chapiteau. It's impossible to see the audience through the glimmering spotlights trained on me, but I can see the shards of light cast over the crowd like a disco ball, my coat reflecting every miniscule movement. With one hand, I remove my hat and sweep it to the crowd, bowing down low. When I stand I try to adopt Mab's poise, her seductive smile. Tonight's not just a show. Tonight, I have darker business to do.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Cirque des Immortels,” I call, my voice rising over the silent crowd. My pulse slows as routine draws in, as I speak the words Mab left on a notecard on my pillow, followed by the postscript, “
Don't cock it up, dear.”

“Tonight, we have a show to ensnare and entwine, filled with acts to allure you, hellish and divine. Tonight—tonight only—we offer you this, a night of ecstasy, a night of bliss. For once our show is over and through, for the very select—the most special of you—to our backstage, we cordially invite, to wine, to dine, and…delight. Curious? You should be. Just ask, and you'll know, but for now, sit back, relax, and enjoy our show.”

Then I raise my whip and give it a single crack. The lights drop to darkness in an instant. As the next act's music begins, I run offstage.

I don't know when the Tapis Noir tent was erected, but when I step outside after the opener it's there, at the edge of the pitch, glowing purple against the oncoming night. The tent is a miniature version of the big top, complete with a black pennant hanging limp at its peak, but this tent is ringed by bodyguards in Armani suits and sunglasses—the Shifters' other role.

The sight of it makes my gut roil; I can't tell if it's with disgust or hunger.

I spot Melody over by the changing tent. A dove sits on each of her shoulders; the one on the left picks at invisible crumbs in her wig.

“Is everything ready?” I ask her as soon as I'm near.

She glances around—she's taking this incognito thing a little too far—and nods.

“I sent out a couple special invites a few days ago,” she says, reaching up to feed one of the pigeons a cracker. “Turns out Missoula has its fair share of magical folk, though most fly under the radar. I tried to go for the ones with bad track records—y'know, child eaters and the like. I figured it would sit better with you. Also figured they'd have a better chance of showing up.”

“How will I know?” I ask.
How will I know who is mortal and who is magical? How will I know who to kill?

She gives me a sad grin. “You're psychic,” she says. “I have no doubt you'll be able to pinpoint exactly who's up for dinner.”

“Are you going?” I ask. Because for some reason, even though I've done it before, the idea of going in alone is terrifying.

“Afraid not. I heard some of the off-duty Shifters mumbling about crashing the party, so I'm going to be throwing a bonfire as a distraction. No one can say no to free booze.” She smiles, like she's including herself in that statement. “Good thing I have direct access to Mab's checking account—all these benders are getting pricey.”

I smile in spite of myself. Then the smile drops at the thought of the last time I went to the after-party, the night Kingston and I made our getaway. Just the thought of him makes regret twine through my chest like his feathered serpent tattoo.

“What happens if none of them show?” I ask. “What if it's just a bunch of mortals?”

Mel shrugs.

“Blood is blood. Pick anyone with a white mask and you're safe. If they're not magical, it'll still hold you over. Just not for as long.”

“How do you know all of this?” I ask. It sounds petulant, but I'm grateful she does.

“Kingston,” she says. She glances to the tent behind me. “Speaking of, almost my time to go on. Catch you on the flip side.”

She clasps me on the shoulder as she jogs away, the pigeons somehow vanished in the folds of her cape. I don't watch her go, and I don't stick around. Unlike Mab, I don't have an act to myself. I'm just a glittery opener, a figurehead for the ship.

I head back to my trailer to change for the Tapis Noir. I may not enjoy the idea of murder, but there's no way I'm getting blood on these heels.

Sure enough, Mab actually has a standing wardrobe in the dressing room trailer labeled “Tapis Noir.” Inside is a collection of clothing I wouldn't have been comfortable wearing in front of Kingston, let alone a crowd of strangers. Lace panties and sheer bodices and garters in every color drape silkily over the hangers. I practically expect the wardrobe to sigh with earthly delight the moment I open the door.

A blush rises on my cheeks at the selection. It's difficult to remind myself that this, too, is part of the job, and I might as well dress for the part. I pull out a few of the less-revealing articles and change. In the back of my mind, I can just imagine what Kingston would say if he saw me. I'm positive he'd have liked it.

The punters stand in a huddle before the main tent. I watch unseen from the sidelines, a few Shifters arranged around me wearing lace and leather and carrying unlit fire torches and fans. The woman beside me is only wearing body paint and a few long metal claws tipped in kerosene-soaked wicks. I no longer feel so scandalous wearing lingerie and fishnets.

“Dinnertime,” says the painted woman. I glance at her; she has a wicked smile and blazing blue eyes, her skin dark mocha. I nod and calm my fluttering heart.

There's a flare of brightness as the members of my entourage light their wicks in unison, and then we're striding out into the promenade to the beat of seductive rock music. The fire-dancers writhe around me, keeping me mostly hidden. I know Mab used magic to make her grand entrance at the previous Tapis Noirs, but I'm going with what I've got. Which is to say, not much. I'm just grateful that none of the Shifters “accidentally” lights me on fire.

The huddle of punters destined for the party crowd even closer as we approach. I repeat my lines over and over in my head, praying I won't mess them up.

The fire-dancers part and twine around the huddled crowd, snaring them in a fiery circle. I take a deep breath and try to summon Mab's likeness—the seduction and poise, the cool mystique. Then I force on a smile I'd reserved for the bedroom and stare right into the eyes of a pink-shirted man at the front of the crowd. I wink.

“Good evening, my loves,” I sweep my eyes around to take them all in. Somehow, impersonating Mab gives me strength, allows me to step outside of myself. With this makeup and these clothes, I'm no longer Vivienne Warfield. I'm no longer recognizable, even to myself. I am an acolyte of the Faerie Queen. I am the seductress. “I trust you all have your tickets?” I let the words purr from my lips.

The punters nod, some of them pulling out the dusty-violet tickets Mel stapled to the regular admissions slip. The others just stare at me with wide eyes. I can feel them undressing me, can feel their imaginations burning with furious fantasies. And some part of me, a part I never knew I had, delights in it. My smile widens.

“Then follow me. The fun is just beginning.”

I saunter away, trying to look graceful on five-inch stilettos and a beaten dirt path. The fire-dancers swirl around us, herding the punters toward the purple tent. I don't look back, but I know the crowd is close on my heels. I can smell their anticipation like cologne.

We round the curve of the tent and there, right beside the dark velvet flap, is a table covered in satin and an array of white and black masks. A male and female bodyguard flank each side of the entrance. One of them holds out a mask for me. It is black lace and black silk, a spiderweb of shadow.
Black for predator, white for prey.
I slip it on as I slip into the fold, letting the world of dust and mortals vanish behind me.

The interior of the tent is already filled with black-masked patrons. They're all in formal attire—black suits and red gowns, sleek hair and violent smiles. I’m sure Melody didn't invite them, but seeing them here gives me hope. If the denizens of Mab's Court know about this, chances are good that she'll be here too. She doesn't seem like the type who'd ever miss a party. Especially not a party like this.

After all, this party is about dreams—the darker dreams, the ones only mentioned in sighs and whispers—and Mab needs all the Dream she can get if she wants to win the war.

I sweep into the crowd and head straight to a table laden with crystal flutes of champagne. Aerialists dangle from fabric and hoops, each wearing little more than rhinestones and fishnets. A man wearing leather straps and bondage boots contorts from chains strung over the chaise lounge, while a trio of women in matching black panties balance atop each other in the opposite corner. Everywhere I turn is a hidden nook of shadowy chairs and throw pillows, candelabras and champagne, decadence and debauchery. And fueling the performers, running beneath and through them, is a pulse of music, a beat that makes my heart race and fire burn in my veins.

I grab a glass of champagne and survey what is now my kingdom, a palace of sex and seduction and murder; and when the first of the punters comes in wearing a white mask, I feel the entire frequency change pitch as the predators recognize the approach of prey. Before she can take two steps inside the tent, a group of men and women approach her and guide her over to a champagne fountain. No one enters the tent without immediately acquiring an escort. No one comes to this party without getting everything they asked for. And more.

I watch from the sidelines with a slight grin on my face. Somehow, now that I'm here, the idea of this is no longer terrifying, no longer toeing the edge of revulsion. The Tapis Noir feels like a part of me, an extension, and its presence sings to me with power.

Then a man comes in, a man in grey jeans and red flannel and a close-cropped Mohawk, and I feel something twinge in my chest. My smile grows. Even from here I can feel it, the pulse of magic in him. It practically hums in his veins. I sidle away from the champagne table and hold out my hand; no one else comes to his side—no one else would dare deny me my quarry. His brown eyes fix on my hand, then my chest, then my eyes. His lip twitches into a grin.

“Shall we?” I ask. My voice sounds smoky, like Mab's, and not for the first time I wonder if maybe, in adopting this role, I'm not just acquiring her job, but her attributes.

He nods and takes my hand. His touch his hot; his eyes don't leave me as I lead him over to the champagne table and hand him a drink.

There's no small talk, not that we could hold a conversation over the devouring bass. He downs his champagne and stares at me and I run a hand around his waist, pulling him close, letting our hips brush. Something seems to cloud over his eyes when he sets the champagne flute down, a haze that I'm positive is less from the alcohol and more from the ambiance. I feel his pulse quicken, can practically smell the pheromones snaking from his skin. My chest is on fire, anticipation thick in my lungs like smoke. I feel the light flickering at the edge of my vision, the tingle in my fingertips—the echo of my hungry powers. He cocks an eyebrow and every ounce of resolve shatters. There's no more need to wait. He's already as good as mine.

I guide him over to a sofa along one velvet wall and push him atop it, straddling him in the same motion.

The rest of the tent disappears in the haze of lust. I pull his shirt over his head, his mask knocking askew. Then my hand is in his hair, pulling his head back, baring his neck, his collarbones, the lines of his chest. He moans as I slowly kiss down his temple and jaw, to the base of his neck; I feel his dreams trace against my lips, his every erotic fantasy played out before his eyes. The dreams spiral around us, intangible threads of gold and crimson light. But I want more. I need more. Heat and desire flush beneath his skin, practically glowing as my hunger takes over. His back arches when I yank his head further back, let my teeth drag against his flesh. The moans become a gasp.