The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

“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.

* * *

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.