The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

nature.” But rather than change height, she disappeared in a puff of pink smoke and laughing applause. Kingston bowed and walked offstage. I followed.

“How’s she feeling?” I ask when I find him backstage.

“Horrible,” he says. He flops down on a trunk and peels off the cape, tossing it onto the table beside him. This time, the serpent tattoo is curled over his stomach, the head nestled between his shoulder blades and the tail spiraled around his navel.

“Where is she?” I ask.

“Back in bed,” he says. “I sent her straight back to her trailer. I don’t want her getting any worse.”

He bites his lip. It doesn’t make him look cute or childish. It makes him look like every worry in the world is stacked on his shoulders.

“You really care about her, don’t you?” I ask. I want to reach out and comfort him, tell him it will all be okay. But I don’t, because I can’t be sure about that, and I’ve already gotten myself neck-deep from one lie today.

“She’s like a sister,” he says. “I don’t know what I’d do if she got hurt.” His voice hitches.

That does it for me. I sit down beside him and, before I can think better of it, put an arm around his shoulders. He stiffens and then leans into me, his hair tickling my chin. He smells like talc and spice and I want to remember that scent forever. I don’t want to have to let him go.

“She’ll be okay,” I say, praying it’s not a lie. “It’s just a cold.”

“Don’t you get it?” he says, but his words aren’t at all harsh and he doesn’t push away. He just sounds tired. “She can’t get sick. She is contractually obligated not to get sick, just like the rest of us. She’s being targeted.”

Things click, things that I don’t want making sense.

“You think she’s next,” I say.

He doesn’t answer, just nods and takes a deep, slow breath.

“This is fucked up,” he says. “We’re just sitting around like ducks waiting to be picked off.”

Something burns inside of me, and before I realize what I’m saying, the words tumble out of my mouth.

“I’ll protect you. I’ll protect both of you.”

He leans away from me then and gives me a wry smile.

“That’s cute. Heroic, even. But if Mab can’t protect us, what hope do you have?”

Chapter Nine: Too Close

I’m wandering around a few hours after the show. The punters are gone, and the lot is empty of cars. A couple performers are outside at the pie cart having cake and coffee and trying to make light conversation, but I don’t stick around very long to listen in. My feet feel antsy. The need to wander is tugging at me, but there’s nowhere to go. Besides, I don’t want to go far after this morning’s horrifying reality check. The sky above is completely clouded over, and the air tastes like rain. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something flash, and I shrug it off as lightning. I kick the popcorn box at my feet, trying to convince myself to pick it up and throw it out. I’m still trying to figure out how, precisely, I’m going to protect everyone, and kicking this box around the big top is about all the answer I’ve found so far. Another flash goes up, this one a soft blue that lasts for more than a split second. I look toward it. Down at the beach, someone is shooting off fireworks.

The time it takes for my mind to decide between popcorn box and fireworks is infinitesimal. I head to the beach.

Once I’ve left the pitch behind and am halfway down the sloping lawn, I hear the music. It gets louder with every footstep, and the fireworks are growing more chaotic. Brilliant flashes and bursts are going up every second. But they aren’t making any noise, and nothing’s flying higher than the shrubs that are blocking my view. Must just be ground flares or something.

I slow down when I reach the shrubs. The music is loud — some pop song with a heavy dance beat that reminds me a bit too much of the music from Noir. I still can’t hear any noise from the fireworks, even though I can’t be more than a few yards from their detonation point. When I clear the shrubs, I stop.

Kingston is standing in the sand, barefoot and wearing a pair of dark cargo shorts and nothing else. There aren’t any fireworks.

He’s dancing along to the music, his eyes closed or half-lidded, the sweat making his body shine. His feet trace circles in the sand and his arms sweep around. One hand reaches out, stretching to the lake, and curls of light snake from his forearm and flare over the ground. He looks different, somehow. His hair is matted, sand is covering his bare calves. And that’s when I realize what’s different. His tattoo is moving.

The serpent is undulating across his skin, twining from neck to shoulder, curling around his arms, as sinuous as the dance Kingston is weaving. Lights pulse from his fingertips, arcing over his body. Every movement of his arms is traced by light, every thrust of his hand and kick of his leg throws sparks over the sand. He is wild and feral, yet his movements are deliberate and controlled, like some form of tai chi on crack. The music is pulsing, pulsing, and he responds.

I know I’m not meant to be seeing this. I don’t really know what it is I’m seeing, but it seems personal, private, and the last thing I want is for him to open his eyes, see me there, and stop. I could watch him move all night.

Right before I tear my eyes away, though, he stops and cups his hands at his stomach. His head tilts back to the sky. The music is still throbbing wildly and I want to dance, want him to dance, but something’s changing now. The serpent tattoo gathers at his stomach. As he pulls his hands up, the serpent moves, like he’s holding it in his hands. He brings his arms above his head and the tattoo writhes up one arm, curls around his wrist, and, in a flood of silver-gold ink, spills into the sky.

I gasp. I can’t help it. And that’s when Kingston opens his eyes and looks straight into mine. He lowers his arms and the glowing feathered serpent floats in the air above him, curling like a snake in water.

“How long have you been watching?” he asks.

I can hear his voice perfectly, and it’s only then that I realize the music has faded out. There isn't a stereo to be seen.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask instead. I can’t keep my eyes off the creature hovering and twisting above his head. Its path leaves traces of light behind my eyelids every time I blink.

“Practicing,” he says. He follows my gaze and grins. “Vivienne,” he says. “Meet Zal.”

The serpent-dragon-thingy turns to regard me. And winks.

“What is it?” I ask. I start walking forward, my feet sinking into the sand. I’m drawn to the apparition like a moth to the flame.

“My familiar,” he says. The serpent drifts down and wraps around Kingston’s outstretched arm, almost like it’s perching there. “All witches have one.”

I’m only a few feet away now. I can see every glittering scale on the thing. Its body is the palest gold, and the feathers sprouting from its head are teal and mint and dusty rose. Its eyes are golden yellow, like amber. They’re the only part of the thing that seems solid. Kingston reaches his free hand over and strokes the snake’s mane. I swear it purrs.

“But what is it?” I say again.

“A Quetzalcoatl,” he says. “I found him while we were doing a tour in Mexico. Mab was in one of her better moods and said it was time I found my familiar. I’d only been with her for a year or two by then, and I still didn’t really know what it means to be, well, a witch.” His lip twitches in a smile, as though he’s still not used to the word. “Anyway, she took me…somewhere. First, we were walking down some back alley in Mexico City and then, bam. We’re in the middle of a tropical jungle straight out of National Geographic. And right in front of us was this temple, older than old. Aztec, she said. And hidden from mortals by their priests. It looked like a pyramid, but the sides were entirely made up of steps and there was some sort of pavilion up top. She made me walk up alone. When I got there, I found him curled up on top of an obsidian mirror.”

The serpent makes its purring noise again, rubbing its head against Kingston’s pec. Kingston smiles and