The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

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.