The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

discarded popcorn boxes is a girl dressed all in black. The kid is watching the show from between the audience’s feet, completely hidden from the crowd. I’m about to duck under and drag her out — she probably thought she could just get a free show — when she turns her head and I see the familiar green eyes that never fail to give me the chills. Lilith, Mab’s right-hand man. Well, girl. She doesn’t look older than twelve. She’s short, with curly black hair, green eyes, and a roundness to her face that makes her look cherubic and somewhat lost. I’ve never seen her doing anything in the show, either in the ring or behind the scenes. Hell, I practically never see her period. But wherever she is, Mab isn’t too far away. The one time I saw them together, Mab practically petted Lilith’s head like a kitten.

She glances back at me and smiles a grin of pure childlike delight, then goes back to watching the show. That’s when I notice another small movement as her cat, Poe, slinks around his master’s feet. The tabby curls up around Lilith’s ankles and watches me with calm yellow eyes. I shiver and turn away, quickly making my way toward the backstage tent. When I reach Melody, she’s already halfway into her next costume. Her blushing makeup and enormous Marie Antoinette pink wig make her look like some fetishistic baby doll. The pinstripe suit isn’t helping much, either. I wonder how long it will take me to get used to seeing her in costume — the contrast between pink Lolita and refined hippie is still jarring.

“Hey, Viv,” she says as I approach. “Gonna watch the new act?”

“Of course,” I say. “Got nothing else to do.”

I pause as Kingston walks over. He’s got his cape in one hand, magic wand in the other. He’s in sequined trousers and shiny shoes…and nothing else. My eyes catch on the single drip of sweat slowly edging down his chest toward his aggravatingly perfect abs. The head of his feathered-serpent tattoo is angled down one pec. The rest of its body curls over his shoulder and behind his back, its tail twisting over one hip and disappearing into his trousers. My face is up here, I can nearly hear him say, and I tear my eyes back toward Melody, praying neither of them caught it. He’s a magician, and magicians aren’t supposed to look like heavily inked Calvin Klein models. They’re supposed to be, like, old and wrinkled and wear funny clothing. It’s not fair.

“How’s it going?” he asks, tossing the cape down on a crate beside him before helping Melody get her other arm into her tux. I’m still refusing to stare at him, but my eyes keep lingering on places they shouldn’t. He has those lines at his hips, the come fuck me lines, I seem to remember someone calling them. Yeah, Mel would have my head.

“I’m all right,” I say, trying to keep my voice detached.

The two of them move like they came out of the same womb. Melody said she’s only been here for five years, but they move in such sync that I’d have expected longer. Just watching them makes the guilt squirm in my gut. Kingston is with her; I shouldn’t be staring at him like a fangirl. But it’s not like he’s making it any easier. God made shirts for a reason.

“Speaking of new acts,” I say, trying to keep myself from thinking in third-wheel terms. “What was with Mab’s new introduction?”

If I hadn’t been looking at them so intently, I would have missed the brief flick of understanding that passes between them. Then Kingston is looking at me, his eyes carefully guarded. He still hasn’t shaved his stubble.

“Tapis Noir,” he whispers. “The Black Carpet event.”

I raise an eyebrow. There’s something in the way he says it that makes butterflies hatch in my stomach.

“The what?”

He looks around to make sure no one’s listening in. No one is; they’re all practicing and psyching themselves up for their acts. Even so, he leans in a little bit, and Melody tilts her head closer.

“The Black Carpet event. It only happens once every couple of stops, on the new moon. It’s…for VIPs. A sort of after-party.”

“Cool,” I say, because that’s really all my brain can come up with. Thinking smart when he’s leaning this close is difficult. “Do we get in?”

“You don’t want in,” he says quickly. “It’s not for people like…like you.”

“Concessionaires?”

“No, Viv. Mortals.”

The word hangs in the air like a concrete veil, separating me from him and Melody and the rest of the troupe. It’s not something that I thought would ever be used against me. Not until I came here. I’m just a mortal, a normal, while the rest…they’re something else entirely. I'm still not entirely certain what.

“I see,” I say. Though, of course, I don’t. All I can see is that it’s one more reason Kingston and Mel are more suited for each other. And another reason I’ll always be an outsider with the two of them.

“Just stay away from it,” Melody says. “Trust me. I’ve only been once and that was more than enough.”

“What about you?” I ask Kingston. Is it my imagination, or does that actually make him blush?

“A gentleman never tells,” he says. Then he stands up straight and grabs the cloak from the crate. “Come on, Melody. We’re next.” I hadn’t even noticed the music inside the tent change or the roar of applause. Before I can wonder if I managed to piss him off, he’s dragging Melody across the grass and toward the back curtain. They disappear under the flap, but not before Melody throws me a quick apologetic glance.

I look around the backstage area at the performers completely lost in the routine of the show. The jugglers are changing into new costumes, the fire eaters are organizing their torches. Everything is so smooth, so refined. So absolutely unaware of my existence. Mab hired me with the promise of greatness, but this? So far, the only people who seem to notice me are Melody and Kingston. And even that’s not saying much. Especially not when he’ll never notice me the way I want him to.

Suddenly, the memory of Sabina’s corpse flashes across my vision. The broken smile and the blood. It makes my skin grow cold. It reminds me that not being noticed right now may be a good thing.

Chapter Two: Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This)

The night air is cold as the crowd leaves the main tent. They file toward the parking lot on the other side of the road, their chatter loud and excited. Only a few of them linger back by the chapiteau, fingering their tickets with nervous anticipation. A new, smaller tent has been constructed on one side of the dirt promenade, though I never saw it go up. It glows in the darkness like a black lotus. The interior flickers in shades of violet and crimson, and music filters out. It’s a heavy downbeat that has a pulse, an urgency that tugs at my hips, but no one moves toward it. I can’t help but stare like the rest of the loitering guests.

“Fancy a go?” says a voice at my side.

I nearly jump.

“Mel,” I say. She’s changed out of her costume and is now in pink pajama bottoms and a long, tattered knit cardigan, her thumbs poking out from the sleeves. She’s also grinning like a fool.

“Well?” she asks, nodding to the new tent.

“Are you?” I ask, my heart suddenly thumping in my chest in time to the music. There’s a ring of men and women in black suits surrounding the tent. They’re all wearing sunglasses. Did Mab hire bodyguards? What sort of after-party requires bodyguards?

“Hell no,” she says, “but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t invited.”

She holds up a small purple ticket. Cirque des Immortels is scrawled across the front in heavy black ink.

“Won’t they notice?” I say, gesturing toward the guard. Rebelling isn’t in my nature — I’m always the one who gets caught. But something about the tent is calling to me. It’s promising me things I can’t imagine, but would surely regret missing. Somehow I know that rebelling is precisely what the Tapis Noir is all about.

Melody eyes the guards before laughing.

“The Shifters? Please. So long as you’ve got a ticket, they don’t give a fuck who goes in.”

I glance back to the bodyguards and try to imagine the Shifters dressing up in suits, which is nearly