The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

see why Mab doesn’t just have Kingston magic the tent into the giant semis that carry our load. Apparently, she’s against using magic in broad daylight. That said, as I watch Roman jump into one of the semi cabs, I can see he’s already bulked up to twice his normal weight. Shapeshifters: the perfect grunts.

The very mention of Tapis Noir brings back memories I don’t want. It’s not just the thought of what I saw in the tent, but what my mind brought up in the darkness after. Scenarios I’m too ashamed to admit even to myself: Kingston in a black mask and torn pants, me in white, and I don’t care if he’s biting or if the roles are reversed. Kingston on a hoop, on the sofa, his skin soft and hard and glowing in the candlelight. I feel the heat rise to my face and turn away, pretending to study the table of fruit beside me.

So much for focusing on his caring personality.

“You feeling okay?” he asks.

“Fine,” I say, grateful my voice doesn’t give a pubescent crack.

“You better not be getting sick, too.”

“I’m fine,” I say. When I think my cheeks aren’t as red anymore, I look back at him, trying to push aside the image of him completely naked. My love life prior to joining the circus is a blur like everything else, but I know without a doubt that Kingston isn’t the type of guy I’d go for. Or, if I’m being honest, he isn’t the type that would go for me. He’s in control. He’s powerful. And, without a doubt, he’s out of my league. And very much in love with someone else. I try not to be that much of a masochist. This time it doesn’t appear to be working.

“Really?” he asks. “Because you look like Melody does every time she sees someone she wants to fuck.” He’s grinning as he says it, which just makes the fading blush brighten anew. Then his smirk fades, and I worry for a brief moment things have clicked and he’s read my thoughts.

“Shit,” Kingston says, glancing over my shoulder and then studiously regarding his mug. “Penelope,” he mutters.

I sigh. “No rest for the wicked.”

“There you are, my darlings,” Penelope says from behind me. I turn around, a smile already plastered on my face.

Even in faded jeans and a hoodie, she looks like she’s onstage, a feat I’ve never understood. I can’t help but wonder how long she stared in her mirror this morning, making sure she looked just disheveled enough. I don’t want to believe it comes naturally; it would make people like me hopeless. She smiles and reaches out to wrap an arm over my shoulders. I can’t make out her perfume, but I’d be willing to bet Ocean is somewhere in the title.

“Which of you lovelies would like to help me with the front of house?” she asks as soon as she lets me go.

“I’m on costumes this site, I’m afraid,” Kingston says. Though he’s so quick about it, I can tell not one bit of him is sorry. “Vivienne should be free.”

“Yeah,” I say. Technically speaking, I should be helping load up the concession stands. The first time I tried, however, it became wildly clear that the Shifters not only had it under control, but saw me as a hindrance rather than a help. I was now the proverbial floater, which meant a morning talking business and sideshow fashion with Penelope. “I’d love to help.”

I can’t help but notice Kingston’s smirk as Penelope guides me away. In truth, it’s probably for the best. I have a feeling that being around Kingston when he’s in one of his flirtatious moods would be dangerous. Especially after what my mind was dreaming up last night.

Melody was right; I need to get much, much better at lying. Otherwise I’ll never be able to look Kingston in the eye again.

It’s not until we’re halfway to Penelope’s trailer that something Kingston said strikes a funny chord. “You look like Melody when she sees someone she wants to fuck.” Those aren’t the words I’d expect him to say, not about his own girlfriend. Not while smiling. I take a deep breath and try to calm the sudden quickening in my pulse. Now’s not the time to start thinking I had it all wrong. That hope is far too dangerous right now.

* * *

Front of house is mostly administrative work. While the rest of the crew is loading the trucks, Penelope and I sit in the shade inside her trailer, the hum of the air conditioner almost drowning out the thuds and clangs of the demolition outside. The performers’ trailers are just that — double-wide trailers divided into even smaller cubicles. Mine has a bed that wouldn’t pass for a twin, a desk, and enough shelf space for a few pairs of clothes and the huge rubber boots Kingston recommended I buy at our first site, in case of a mud show. Penelope’s space is twice the size. It’s nearly half a trailer, with a queen bed in one corner and a large vanity with a fish tank against the other wall. In the middle, bolted to the floor, is a table covered in receipts and ticket stubs and a small laptop playing some sort of classical shit.

“So,” she says as I sort the ticket stubs into piles based on show time and seating area. She’s typing something into the laptop, and even though I can’t see the screen, I don’t doubt for one second that she’s just checking her email. How long has it been since I’ve checked mine? Once the thought passes, it fades like mist in the sun, replaced by Penelope’s voice. “How are you enjoying our troupe so far?”

“It’s great,” I say. “The people are really nice.” I hope it doesn’t sound as fake as it feels.

“Mmm,” she says. “I’m glad to hear that. You’re making friends, yes?”

I nod, then realize she isn’t looking. “Yeah. Mostly Kingston and Melody.”

She smiles and I look at her for a moment, trying to pinpoint her age. There are tiny crows’-feet at the edge of her eyes, almost perfectly hidden beneath her foundation.

“They’re a lovely pair,” she says, giving one of the keys a sharp tap and then looking up at me. Our eyes meet, and her smile becomes inquisitive. “I have to wonder…do you miss your family? Your old friends?”

I look back at the ticket stubs and try to focus on reorganizing them. My mind goes as blank as my face.

“I don’t really have a family,” I say.

A beat passes, and I know without looking up that she’s staring at me even more intently, and the thought makes my face go red.

“Everyone has a family, Vivienne.”

I close my eyes.

The words I want to say aren’t forming in my head. All I can visualize is an empty apartment and grey concrete and feeling cold…and hunted. I try to imagine my mother, but she’s just a blur of brown hair and reprimands. My dad isn’t even an impression. It never really bothered me before, the fact that I couldn’t recall much about my past. I just didn’t think about it. After all, what you can’t remember can’t haunt you. I was always one of those focus on the present types.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and then she’s standing behind me, her arms wrapped around my chest in a tight hug. It takes a lot of self-control to not push her away. “I didn’t mean…I didn’t know you were an orphan.” She hesitates. “Like me.”

I take the bait, if only to shift the attention. “Like you?” Up close, her perfume is positively suffocating. Cloying, I think is the right word.

She lets go of me and sits on the side of her bed, staring at the bubbling fish tank.

“I was Mab’s first act,” she says. Her blue eyes have gone hazy, like a fog swept over the sea. “She found me when I was but a babe. My parents…well, I don’t remember my parents. They left me there in the sand, waiting for the tide to come in and wash me away. Mab saved me and raised me in the Winter Court as her own.”

“Why would your parents do that?” I ask. I can imagine her, a swaddled baby on the side of the sea, crying at a grey sky as the rain pelts down and the foam of the tide pulls farther in. And then there’s Mab, dressed in black and gossamer purple, sweeping down just in time to rescue the struggling thing from drowning.

Penelope smiles, and it’s easily the saddest smile I’ve ever seen. She doesn’t say anything, just raises one hand and flexes her fingers. Scales ripple from her flesh, glimmering pale-blue and soft. A shake of the wrist, and they’re gone.

“We Shifters, we can’t always control our forms, especially not as children.” She looks at me. “I was lucky. In my day, children like me were considered changelings — faeries switched with mortal babies. They believed that the only way to get their true child back was to burn the impostor. Or worse.”