The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

“You don’t seem to care if I stay or not,” I say. The words grate against my pride, but I can’t help but voice them.

“You know that’s not true,” he says.

I put down the balls and look at him. He’s looking at me, a slight smile on his lips. Is it just my imagination, or is he looking at me differently? It’s almost as if he’s looking at me like he knows I have some sort of secret. Like I’m worth noticing for more than comic relief.

The words I want to say sound childish in my head, but I don’t care. I’m tired of not knowing.

“Why?” Why do you care? Why is this happening? Why does everyone seem to be against me? Why am I suspected of murder? A thousand other questions are also left unasked. But I know he can’t or won’t answer.

He looks away.

“I know it’s hard,” he says. “The first couple weeks. The troupe’s been together for years and we’re cliquey as fuck. But that doesn’t mean people don’t care about you.”

People like you? I want to ask.

“I highly doubt anyone else in the troupe has had the same welcome. Being suspected of murder isn’t exactly friendly.”

He looks at me.

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“What?”

“That Mab suspects you.”

I throw up my hands and can’t help but laugh. “What are you talking about? Of course she does. Why else would she say she suspects me? Why else would she put me under house arrest and threaten to kick me out of the troupe if I don’t learn how to juggle? She hates me. And what if she’s right? What if I did do it? I can’t remember my past! What if I’m blacking out the memory of killing everyone as well?”

It’s a thought I wouldn’t let myself entertain before, one that shakes the very core of who I think I am. What if I really am the killer? Like one of those Russian sleeper cells, just awaiting activation.

Kingston shakes his head.

“You’re not the murderer. I wouldn’t believe that for a second. Do you really think Mab — cunning as she is — would put her cards on the table like that?”

I don’t say anything. I haven’t been here long enough to have even the slightest idea of what Mab would do. And I have a feeling that that wouldn’t change even if I stayed here another thousand years. Which might be a very strong possibility.

“She’s using you,” he finally says. His voice is flat, like he’s not entirely pleased with it himself. “You’re a diversion.”

“A diversion?”

“Of course. If she places the blame on you, the real killer might think they’re off the hook. They’ll get messy.”

“Yeah, well, they only have a couple days left. After that, I won’t be around to play scapegoat.”

“I won’t let her kick you out,” Kingston says. There’s a promise in the way he says it. As much as I want to laugh it off, I don’t doubt for a minute he’s telling the truth. I’ve seen him go head-to-head with Mab. He could hold his weight. But could he hold his ground while defending me?

“Why?” I ask again.

He doesn’t answer. For a moment, all I can do is stare at him, wonder if he’s really willing to be my knight in shining armor or if he's just being macho. The desire to reach out and touch him slugs me in the chest, but I hold back. There's still that inkling that I should be royally pissed at him.

“Have you ever killed someone?” I ask.

He leans back. “Why the hell would you ask me that?”

“Because I wanted to make sure you wouldn’t burn me alive if I ever tried to kiss you.”

“Funny,” he says, and he picks up one of the balls, starts rolling it around in his palm again. Smooth, I think. There goes that moment.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Neither of us says anything for what feels like the longest while. But he isn’t standing up to leave. Maybe I didn’t fuck it up entirely. Maybe he’s just making sure I meant it.

“I take it that’s a no on the kiss, then?” I finally say. I try to keep my voice light, but — to continue his metaphor — now that my cards are on the table, I feel horribly exposed. Besides, isn’t this supposed to be his role? Shouldn’t he be the one trying to win over me?

“I’m too old for you,” he says. The statement is fast and well practiced, so smooth it doesn’t sound genuine. It also isn’t an answer.

“You don’t look like it.”

“Yeah, well, that’s Mab’s magic for you. All glitz and glamour. Nothing real.” The bitterness in his voice is overpowering.

“So,” I say. “How long do I have to wait?”

“Until?”

“Until I’m old enough for it not to be so creepy.”

He actually laughs at this, an outburst that sounds like half a sob. He looks at me.

“You’re serious?”

I nod. I’m not smiling. It’s the most honest I’ve been with him since signing on to this venture.

“I’m three hundred and forty-one.”

The numbers drop like guillotines, but he doesn’t look away from me as he says them. Clearly, he’s judging my response. I try to keep my face composed, and my response is as witty as I can make it.

“You don’t look a day over two hundred,” I say. “Must be all the popcorn.”

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling nonetheless. Again, he looks at me like I’m amusing. But there’s something else behind it. Surprise?

“What did you do?” I ask. “Why did you join?” Most of our performers were in a bind, Mab had said. What could Kingston have done?

“Well,” he says. “I used to live in Salem.”

“Oh.”

He takes a deep breath and stares off at something past the bleachers. “Yeah. Oh. A little over three hundred years ago, I was being burned at the stake. I’d accidentally lit someone’s pig on fire, which sounds much funnier in hindsight. At the time, when I didn’t realize I actually was the type of person all the menfolk were burning, it freaked the shit out of me. I was found out, given a trial befitting the times, and found guilty.

“So there I am, bound to a pole in the town square, getting called every possible name for a bastard heathen. I was crying because I knew I was guilty and going to hell, but I didn’t want to die. But that doesn’t really mean anything to them, you know? Anyway, Mab must have been watching for some time, because a minute or two after they lit the kindling — bitch let me roast for what seemed like eternity — everything just…stopped.”

He pauses and looks at me, clearly making sure I’m still following along. I am. Either he’s a good storyteller or I’ve got a vivid imagination: I can practically smell the wood smoke.

“I mean, it’s like being in a movie. Everything’s on pause. I still remember there was a rotten tomato hovering like a foot away from my face. And then she appears out of nowhere in a puff of black smoke. Didn’t look anything like she does now. She was in her PVC boots and mohawk phase, even had a British flag as a belly shirt. Think Tank Girl but infinitely more badass. Certainly made the right impression.”

I let the image of Mab dressed as a true punk seep in. It’s quite at odds with her current glamorous self.

“She offered me a job then and there. Work for her and she’d not only set me free, she’d let me get