numerous performers come and go, their past sins atoned for. But not one of them left happy, I can tell you that.”
“Why?”
“Because what they were running from — all of them — was something from within. They may have joined to escape incarceration or execution, but their demons never left.”
“I don’t have any demons,” I say. I’m not liking where the conversation turned. Mainly because I’m not convinced anything I say is true.
“Darling, everyone has demons. Yours have just gone quiet.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it was part of the contract.”
“Perhaps,” she says. “But where has that gotten you?” She gestures to the room. “You might not know, but Mab does. And it sounds like your demons need reconciliation rather than ignorance.”
I don’t say anything to that. Her words sink down into my bones, binding themselves to memory. She has a point. Whatever I was running from is still there, still haunting my movements. I rub my hands together and try to force out the uncertainty. For the first time since I came here, when I think back to my past, deep inside I feel unclean.
Mab wasn’t lying when she said I’d be put under Penelope’s custody. I’m not allowed to leave her trailer except to use the Porta-Potty on the edge of the grounds, and even then, Penelope goes outside her trailer to keep an eye on me. It weirds the hell out of me the first time I go to pee and realize she’s timing me, but when I get back to her bunk she acts entirely nonchalant, as if she was just outside enjoying the sunshine. She even opens the trailer door for me and waits a bit before coming in herself. That said, there’s one freedom I want that I’m strictly denied. I’m not allowed to go check in on Melody.
“She’s fine,” Penelope assures me as she boils the electric kettle for afternoon tea. “If anything was amiss, we would know.” She smiles warmly. “Trust me, in a company this small, it’s impossible for the welfare of another to slip through the cracks. Now, English Breakfast or Earl Grey?”
By the time the tent’s been torn down and packed away, I’ve emailed all of the refunded tickets and spent a good chunk of time staring at the Internet, hoping it would entertain me. Any other day, I’d have been overjoyed having an afternoon of sitting in the AC, wasting time online.
Except now, I’m realizing that I can’t really enjoy myself online because all these little things are adding up in ways that make my skin crawl. I don’t know what my email address is. There aren’t any blogs I know I read regularly. I don’t remember my Facebook account or anything else. Did I even
When Penelope closes the lid of the laptop, I’m almost relieved to be torn away from the damning screen. I blink a few times and stare up at her. What was I just looking at?
“Time to hit the road,” she says.
By the time we’re in the cab of one of the trucks — just her and me, this time — I can’t even remember what I’d been worrying about.
We reach the next site at midnight. We’ve driven halfway across the Midwest, down interstates clogged with cars and back roads that seemed more mud than concrete. Now, we’re somewhere in Nebraska, on a plot just off the edge of the highway. As our truck heads down the dirt road toward our site, I catch a glimpse of a farmhouse and a few tractors. We really are in the middle of nowhere this time. How the hell does Mab expect to sell tickets all the way out here? The caravan stops at the edge of the cleared field and Penelope parks. The cars are parked facing the same way, lights still on and many engines still running. There’s a crowd of people assembling in the headlights, a mob of performers silently staring at the dark field.
“What’s going on?” I ask. I reach for the handle but then realize that Penelope isn’t moving. Her knuckles are white on the steering wheel, and in the green light of the dashboard, her face looks even more sallow than this morning. She doesn’t look terribly beautiful now.
“It’s him,” she whispers. “He’s here.”
I look back out, almost ask what she’s talking about. Then I see him.
There’s a man standing in the middle of the cleared plot. His hair is so blond it’s white, his skin is just as pale, and he’s in a sharp grey suit with lines like razors. It’s the man from the show, the man from the Summer Court.
And one of his arms is looped around Kingston’s chest, the tip of a dagger pressed to his throat.
EPISODE FOUR
Chapter Twelve: Burning Up
I don’t wait. I jump out of the cab and run the short space to the mob of performers. All I can see is Kingston. All I can see is the tiny line of blood dripping down his neck. My world goes red. Someone tries to grab my arm as I run forward, but I push him off.
“Get off him,” I growl.
I stand at the front of the assembled mob, a few steps ahead of everyone else. My white-knuckled fists are clenched at my sides and there’s a burning in the pit of my stomach that threatens to overwhelm me. I am half a second shy of going ballistic on a guy who could probably kill me with a thought.
He glares at me.
“Who, child, are you?” he asks. His voice is deep. Precisely the same as I remember when I was hiding underneath the semitrailer, listening to him and Mab argue.
“Someone you don’t want to fuck with,” I say. I don’t know where the words come from. The man’s got a knife pressed to Kingston’s throat; I’m in no position to play chicken. My skin tingles as the fight or flight response kicks in, all gears shifted to fight.
“Vivienne,” Kingston whispers. “Please, don’t…”
The bastard pulls him in tighter.
“Vivienne?” he mutters into Kingston’s ear. Then he looks at me with a devilish grin. “Ahh, I see. The wicked witch has a suitor.”
“Fuck you,” Kingston says, which just causes the man to dig the knife in deeper. Another line of blood trickles down his neck. His chin is raised high, as though he can squeeze his way out of this. That’s when I notice that Zal, too, seems to be pierced from the knife. The tattoo is squirming underneath the blade, stuck like a butterfly on a pin.
“And he likes her!” he calls out with a laugh. “The witch fell in love.”
Kingston squeezes his eyes shut and says nothing.
“You weren’t listening to me,” I say. I take a half step forward. The tingling in my hands grows stronger, feels like pins and needles coiling beneath my skin. “Let him go.”
“Now, now,” the man says. He turns the knife just a little bit. “Let’s not be too hasty. I’m not here for him. I’m waiting for…her.” He looks past me, past the troupe, to where Mab is pulling in.
The black Jag pulls up beside one of the semis. Her headlights go out. Then, the headlights of every truck in
