The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

“I know how it feels. Most of these performers, they’ve been here thirty or forty years. They forget what it feels like to be the new girl. I’ve only been here for five. Some days the first day feels like yesterday.”

I force away the images of the tent and try to focus instead on this moment, on the kindness in her words. This is the first time we’ve really gotten the chance to talk, at least without Kingston around. I want to hate her for giving me the ticket, but it’s hard to be mad at someone who’s actually seriously seeing you when no one else does. Would she still look at me that way if she knew what I thought of her boyfriend? I try to shove my guilt and the question down to a place neither of us can see it.

I open my eyes.

“I’ve got your back,” she says.

“Thanks,” I say. Would you still, if you knew how I feel about Kingston?

“Of course.”

She smiles and steps back, walks over and picks up the book from where she dropped it on the ground. Then she turns to me.

“That’s why I’m going to tell you to be careful.”

“What do you mean? You’re the one who gave me the ticket.”

She shakes her head.

“You had the black mask. At worst, you’d have seen a couple mortals get eaten in some sexually frustrating way. I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about earlier.”

“You think people will suspect me?”

“I think you’re liable to make them suspect you. I know that look,” she says. “Today, when we were practicing. It’s the I think I can be a heroine look. But shit’s going down and people are getting hurt, and the last thing you should be doing is getting involved. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

She sighs.“I wish I was fey.”

“Why?”

“Because then, you telling me you'll stay out of trouble would be binding. Like, contractually so.”

“I won’t get involved. You’re right. Mab’s got it covered.”

Melody just laughs and walks over to the trailer facing mine.

“My second piece of advice is to work on your lying. Otherwise you won’t make it another month.”

She looks over to where the VIP tent is. I follow her gaze. There are shadows moving in the field, dark, lumbering shapes that I can tell without doubt are far from human.

“Mab told you about the Night Terrors?” Mel asks.

I nod.

“Yeah, that’s them now. I wouldn’t recommend lingering if you’re hoping for some decent sleep.” She winks. “‘Night, doll.”

Then she steps into her bunk without looking back.

Once she’s safely inside her trailer, I look down the row at the door I know is Kingston’s. The light’s off. It’s late, yeah, and he could be fast asleep. But for a moment, I can’t help but wonder if the reason he didn’t want me to go to Noir was because he didn’t want me to see him behaving like…like the others. The question is: Am I glad I didn’t see him, or just disappointed?

* * *

I can still feel the music in my veins as I undress and get under the covers. For the first time since I signed on, my bunk door is locked. There’s also a pocketknife hiding under my pillow, though I have a sinking suspicion that it wouldn’t do much good if Kingston was wrong and I was the next target. In spite of all that — in spite of all the fear I know I should be feeling — I’m not scared. The music from the tent pulses, drowning out everything except the most primal instincts. As always, the circus still feels safe. Like how home should be, not that I really have anything to compare it to. I close my eyes and try to sleep. When that doesn’t work I stare at the thin light splashed across my ceiling, and try to ignore the muffled snores coming from the bunk next to mine. I want sleep to come, want to forget everything about the Tapis Noir, everything from the shit-show that was today. But I can’t. Every time I close my eyes I see the man being eaten alive. Every time I close my eyes, his face becomes Kingston’s.

I can’t tell if the image repulses or arouses me.

That alone scares me more than Sabina’s murder or whatever creatures Mab invited over for dinner.

Chapter Three: Mer Girl

The sun is just rising above the woods to the east, but the pie cart is already bustling as the cast and crew ready for the next jump. Off to one side, mulling over cups of coffee and cigarettes, are the Shifters, no longer decked out in suits and sleek sunglasses. Instead, everyone is covered in ink and piercings and ragged denim. The men have mohawks or no hair at all, and the girls have multicolored dreads. On jump days, they play tent crew. Odd to think that seeing them like this seems more normal than when they’re dressed up. One of them nods when he sees me glance over, and I nod before looking back to my friends. Melody is wrapped in a gray knit shawl, and Kingston wears his university hoodie. Each is nursing a coffee and cinnamon roll.

When I woke up this morning, the VIP tent and all its inhabitants were gone. The parking lot on the other side of the road, however, still has a few cars waiting like tombstones. I don’t mention it. To her credit, Melody says nothing about our encounter or the ticket. Kingston doesn’t give her the chance.

“I still say you should tell her,” he whispers.

“They’re just nightmares,” Melody says, giving her head a shake. “Everyone gets those.”

“Really?” he asks, then looks at me. It’s enough to make my heart do a double-step. It doesn’t help that when I see him, I can only picture him in place of the man on the chaise longue. “Been dreaming much lately, Vivienne?”

I take a drink of my coffee and try not to wince at the bitterness. These carnies like it strong.

“Not that I recall.” Thankfully. I can only imagine what my mind would have come up with after yesterday.

“Precisely,” Kingston says.

I sigh. “Let me guess, that’s in the contract, too?”

“For most of us,” he replies.

Maybe I should retract my previous cold-heart-warm-six-pack assumptions about him. He’s looking at Mel with real concern in his eyes, that brotherly type affection that makes my insides melt. He really does care about her. I can tell from that one exchange that he would do pretty much anything to keep her safe. I try to tell myself that’s a good thing, that I can be attracted to him for something more important than his body and charm. But it only drives one deafening point home: all that love and affection is directed toward someone else. So far, I’m still thinking I’ll be lucky if I reach good friend status.

Before he can say anything else, the Shifter guy who nodded to me is tapping Melody on the shoulder.

“You ready for tear-down?” he asks. He’s got at least a dozen piercings in his left ear alone, and his mohawk is tipped with light blue. I think his name is Roman. Melody glances to the Shifter leader and then back to her untouched breakfast.

“Yeah,” she says. She yawns again and hands Kingston the roll. “Ladies,” she says with a small curtsy, then turns and follows Roman to the rest of the group.

“Why are we leaving so early?” I ask.

Kingston takes a quick glance around. Then, without so much as a twitch of his nose, the spare roll goes up in a puff of fire and smoke. He flicks the ashes to the ground and looks back at me.

“Mab’s always itchy the day after Noir. Doesn’t like lingering.”

“So I see.”

I look over his shoulder to where the Shifters are already disassembling. A few of them have begun pulling down the sidewalls from the tent, while the rest have gone inside to start tearing down the bleachers. I still don’t