The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels) (11 page)

I don’t, of
course. Instead, I make my way back to the trailers and find Sheena sitting by
herself under the awning of the dining area, a book in one hand and a mug in
the other. I’ve only spoken with her once, in my first week here. She took me
aside after dinner and asked to read my tea leaves. As I drank down the bitter
tea, we made small talk about life and art and how nice it was to get away.
When she read the dregs, her eyebrows furrowed, and she said my future was
hazy, like my past. Then she started talking about all the indie bands she’d
seen on tour, and asked what sort of music I liked. We hadn’t spoken much since
then, but she smiled at me whenever she saw me. For me, that made her my
friend. I sit down beside her, and it’s not until I clear my throat that she
looks up and notices me there.

“Oh,
Vivienne. Sorry.” She holds up the book. “Got carried away.”

“It’s fine,”
I say. I’ve been trying to figure out how to broach the subject all day, and I
still haven’t gotten an idea. So I just ask straight out, “Why are you hiding
that you’re a faerie? I mean, you’re in good company.”

She does a
little half-smile and puts the book down. It’s then that I notice the coffee
cup is empty, but she’s still cradling it like it’s the nectar of life.

“Well,” she
says. “That’s a political matter. I’m kind of a refugee.”

A few months
ago, I’d have no clue what she was talking about. Now I was catching on.

“You’re from
the Summer Court,” I say, because it’s not really a question.

She smiles at
me, and her cheeks dimple. “Yes,” she says. “A few years ago, I found myself on
the losing end of a deal with a satyr. My only option was to flee, but in
Faerie, there’s nowhere to go. Mab found me and offered me sanctuary in
exchange for my services to the show.”

“And let me
guess: the Summer Court still has a warrant out for your arrest.”

Sheena laughs
at this. “I’d say
arrest
is a nice way of putting it. Eternal torture
and servitude is more accurate.”

“Thus the
human disguise.”

She nods, and
her smile slips. “I don’t know
how
you manage to do it. Human skin is
so…suffocating.”

“Are you
worried?” I ask. “That someone will sell you out? Now that you’re in the open.”

“Not really,”
she says. The smile she gives me is horribly sad. “Mab and I sorted that out
when I signed on. If I’m ever taken from the troupe against my will, my life is
immediately forfeit.”

“You mean
your contract will kill you if you’re stolen?”

“Yes,” she
says. “There are many worse things than death.”

And now we’re
edging close to the subject I’ve wanted to ask her about all day. I still don’t
have a nice segue, so I just ask.

“Like what
happened to Roman?” I whisper.

“Yes,” she
says. “Though his death was quick in comparison to what to my own fate would
be. He was just a half-blood, not a traitor like me.”

I pick the
next words carefully. Sheena seems to be the first person who is honestly
willing to talk about what’s been going on. I don’t want to mess this up.

“So…your
safety’s clearly important to Mab. Why would she jeopardize all that? What was
she asking you to do?”

“Big
questions,” Sheena says. “And I can’t answer the first because I truly do not
know. As to what she wanted from me, well…in my contract, she has the right to
call upon my skills whenever she deems it necessary. Today was such a time.”

“And those
skills are?”

“I’m a
medium.”

“You’re like
Miss Cleo?”

“No,” she
says with a laugh. “When I’m in my true form, I can communicate with the
recently deceased, before they pass on. I can catch the last few moments of
their life, ask them questions. In the case of murder, I can see who or what
killed them.”

“But you said
you were blocked from Roman?”

“Yes,” she
says, and her eyes look down to the ground. “His spirit was there. I could
sense it. But it was blocked. I couldn’t reach it.”

“I take it
that’s never happened before.”

She laughs,
“It should be impossible. Like everything else going on.”

The show goes
up that night without a hitch. Anyone on the outside wouldn’t have noticed a
thing. But for those of us within the troupe, well, it felt different. There’s
an energy before a show — an excitement and expectation — like every time has
the potential to feel like the first. Not so this time around. The clouds came
in shortly after dinner; the sky grew heavy, mirroring our mood. There was no
pre-show circle and cheer. There was no pep talk from Mab to rally our spirits
after the horrendous morning. No. She was absent, appearing only to introduce
the show and to do her postintermission whip act. No one knew where she spent
the rest of the time, and no one was about to ask.

I watched the
jugglers from the side aisle. Vanessa and Richard flipped and cartwheeled and
threw clubs and knives and flaming torches high in the air, cartwheeling around
before coming together for the dramatic catches. Not a single club was dropped,
and when they took their bow, their faces gleamed like they’d been a duo act
all along. The entire thing made my stomach clench. There was no way in hell
I’d ever be that good. No way. Not in a week.

When the
magic show was up, Melody appeared onstage with a ton of makeup to cover
whatever was ailing her, and Kingston played up his part of fumbling magician
with panache. For their final trick, he waved his wand in the air, chanting a
gibberish spell he told the crowd would make Melody grow ten feet tall before
their very eyes. “A feat,” he said,
“
defying the laws of her seemingly
prepubescent nature
.
”
But rather than change height, she
disappeared in a puff of pink smoke and laughing applause. Kingston bowed and
walked offstage. I followed.

“How’s she
feeling?” I ask when I find him backstage.

“Horrible,”
he says. He flops down on a trunk and peels off the cape, tossing it onto the
table beside him. This time, the serpent tattoo is curled over his stomach, 
the head nestled between his shoulder blades and the tail spiraled around his
navel.

“Where is
she?” I ask.

“Back in
bed,” he says. “I sent her straight back to her trailer. I don’t want her
getting any worse.”

He bites his
lip. It doesn’t make him look cute or childish. It makes him look like every
worry in the world is stacked on his shoulders.

“You really
care about her, don’t you?” I ask. I want to reach out and comfort him, tell
him it will all be okay. But I don’t, because I can’t be sure about that, and
I’ve already gotten myself neck-deep from one lie today.

“She’s like a
sister,” he says. “I don’t know what I’d do if she got hurt.” His voice
hitches.

That does it
for me. I sit down beside him and, before I can think better of it, put an arm
around his shoulders. He stiffens and then leans into me, his hair tickling my
chin. He smells like talc and spice and I want to remember that scent forever.
I don’t want to have to let him go.

“She’ll be
okay,” I say, praying it’s not a lie. “It’s just a cold.”

“Don’t you
get it?” he says, but his words aren’t at all harsh and he doesn’t push away.
He just sounds tired. “She
can’t
get sick. She is contractually
obligated
not
to get sick, just like the rest of us. She’s being
targeted.”

Things click,
things that I don’t want making sense.

“You think
she’s next,” I say.

He doesn’t
answer, just nods and takes a deep, slow breath.

“This is
fucked up,” he says. “We’re just sitting around like ducks waiting to be picked
off.”

Something
burns inside of me, and before I realize what I’m saying, the words tumble out
of my mouth.

“I’ll protect
you. I’ll protect both of you.”

He leans away
from me then and gives me a wry smile.

“That’s cute.
Heroic, even. But if Mab can’t protect us, what hope do you have?”

I
’m wandering
around a few hours after the show. The punters are gone, and the lot is empty
of cars. A couple performers are outside at the pie cart having cake and coffee
and trying to make light conversation, but I don’t stick around very long to
listen in. My feet feel antsy. The need to wander is tugging at me, but there’s
nowhere to go. Besides, I don’t want to go far after this morning’s horrifying
reality check. The sky above is completely clouded over, and the air tastes
like rain. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something flash, and I shrug it
off as lightning. I kick the popcorn box at my feet, trying to convince myself to
pick it up and throw it out. I’m still trying to figure out how, precisely, I’m
going to protect everyone, and kicking this box around the big top is about all
the answer I’ve found so far. Another flash goes up, this one a soft blue that
lasts for more than a split second. I look toward it. Down at the beach,
someone is shooting off fireworks.

The time it
takes for my mind to decide between
popcorn box
and
fireworks
is
infinitesimal. I head to the beach.

Once I’ve
left the pitch behind and am halfway down the sloping lawn, I hear the music.
It gets louder with every footstep, and the fireworks are growing more chaotic.
Brilliant flashes and bursts are going up every second. But they aren’t making
any noise, and nothing’s flying higher than the shrubs that are blocking my
view. Must just be ground flares or something.

I slow down
when I reach the shrubs. The music is loud — some pop song with a heavy dance
beat that reminds me a bit too much of the music from Noir. I still can’t hear
any noise from the fireworks, even though I can’t be more than a few yards from
their detonation point. When I clear the shrubs, I stop.

Kingston is
standing in the sand, barefoot and wearing a pair of dark cargo shorts and
nothing else. There aren’t any fireworks.

He’s dancing
along to the music, his eyes closed or half-lidded, the sweat making his body
shine. His feet trace circles in the sand and his arms sweep around. One hand
reaches out, stretching to the lake, and curls of light snake from his forearm
and flare over the ground. He looks different, somehow. His hair is matted,
sand is covering his bare calves. And that’s when I realize what’s different.
His tattoo is moving.

The serpent
is undulating across his skin, twining from neck to shoulder, curling around
his arms, as sinuous as the dance Kingston is weaving. Lights pulse from his
fingertips, arcing over his body. Every movement of his arms is traced by
light, every thrust of his hand and kick of his leg throws sparks over the
sand. He is wild and feral, yet his movements are deliberate and controlled,
like some form of tai chi on crack. The music is pulsing, pulsing, and he
responds.

I know I’m
not meant to be seeing this. I don’t really know what it is I’m seeing, but it
seems personal, private, and the last thing I want is for him to open his eyes,
see me there, and stop. I could watch him move all night.

Right before
I tear my eyes away, though, he stops and cups his hands at his stomach. His
head tilts back to the sky. The music is still throbbing wildly and I want to
dance, want him to dance, but something’s changing now. The serpent tattoo
gathers at his stomach. As he pulls his hands up, the serpent moves, like he’s
holding it in his hands. He brings his arms above his head and the tattoo
writhes up one arm, curls around his wrist, and, in a flood of silver-gold ink,
spills into the sky.

I gasp. I
can’t help it. And that’s when Kingston opens his eyes and looks straight into
mine. He lowers his arms and the glowing feathered serpent floats in the air
above him, curling like a snake in water.

“How long
have you been watching?” he asks.

I can hear
his voice perfectly, and it’s only then that I realize the music has faded out.
There isn't a stereo to be seen.

“What are you
doing out here?” I ask instead. I can’t keep my eyes off the creature hovering
and twisting above his head. Its path leaves traces of light behind my eyelids
every time I blink.

“Practicing,”
he says. He follows my gaze and grins. “Vivienne,” he says. “Meet Zal.”

The
serpent-dragon-thingy turns to regard me. And winks.

“What is it?”
I ask. I start walking forward, my feet sinking into the sand. I’m drawn to the
apparition like a moth to the flame.

“My
familiar,” he says. The serpent drifts down and wraps around Kingston’s
outstretched arm, almost like it’s perching there. “All witches have one.”

I’m only a
few feet away now. I can see every glittering scale on the thing. Its body is
the palest gold, and the feathers sprouting from its head are teal and mint and
dusty rose. Its eyes are golden yellow, like amber. They’re the only part of
the thing that seems solid. Kingston reaches his free hand over and strokes the
snake’s mane. I swear it purrs.

“But what
is
it?” I say again.

“A
Quetzalcoatl,” he says. “I found him while we were doing a tour in Mexico. Mab
was in one of her better moods and said it was time I found my familiar. I’d
only been with her for a year or two by then, and I still didn’t really know
what it meant to be, well, a witch.” His lip twitches in a smile, as though he’s
still not used to the word. “Anyway, she took me…somewhere. First, we were
walking down some back alley in Mexico City and then, bam. We’re in the middle
of a tropical jungle straight out of
National Geographic
. And right in
front of us was this temple, older than old. Aztec, she said. And hidden from
mortals by their priests. It looked like a pyramid, but the sides were entirely
made up of steps and there was some sort of pavilion up top. She made me walk
up alone. When I got there, I found him curled up on top of an obsidian
mirror.”

The serpent
makes its purring noise again, rubbing its head against Kingston’s pec.
Kingston smiles and ruffles its feathers.

“The moment I
saw him, I knew he was my familiar. It just clicked. He’s been with me ever
since.” He glances at me and his grin widens. “You can pet him, if you want. He
doesn’t bite.”

It’s stupid
how much I trust Kingston. I reach out and pet the thing without hesitation. It
feels like warm static beneath my fingertips, just the barest amount of
solidity.

“He’s
beautiful,” I say, because there’s really not much else to say when looking at
something that probably descended from a god. “Why do you keep him as…why is
he your tattoo?”

Kingston
shrugs. “Keeps him nearby. A familiar is an animal extension of a witch’s soul,
so it made sense. Besides, people tend to stare when he's out.”

I look from
the golden creature to the space on Kingston’s chest where it usually resides.

“I think
people stare no matter what,” I say. The words tumble from my mouth before I
can stop them. My face immediately heats up in a violent blush. Thankfully, he
just laughs while I desperately try to change the subject.

“Why are you
out here?” I ask again, because I know in my gut he hasn’t really answered.

Kingston
looks down and kicks the sand at his feet like a little boy.

“When I
practice…it’s the only time I feel like I have any control over all this
anymore. You know?”

I nod. I do
know. It’s the same reason I’m out here, the same reason my tired body refuses
to give in and sleep. Someone we care about is in danger and there’s nothing —
nothing
—
we can do about it.

Kingston
stares at me. Not in a quizzical way, and not in a joking way. He’s looking at
me like he knows precisely what I’m doing on the beach. Like that’s throwing
him for a loop. I’m suddenly all too aware of my pulse and how it’s speeding
up. What a first kiss this would be, standing on the beach and bathed in the
light of his godly familiar. He catches the current and takes a half step
toward me. My heart sticks in my throat. His heat is unbearable, the scent of
his cologne fills me as he leans in.

It begins to
rain.

And I’m not
talking a romantic drizzle, I’m talking about a full-on downpour, like God
decided to fuck with me and turn the tap on full blast. Kingston’s head shoots
up and Zal starts writhing around above his head again. I am soaked to the bone
in seconds. When Kingston speaks, I can barely hear him through the din. He
looks disappointed and also a little embarrassed.

“We should
get you inside,” he says, putting a hand on my arm. His touch is hot. I can
practically hear the rain sizzling off his skin. “Don’t want you getting
pneumonia.”

I bite my
tongue. Go figure. Go
fucking
figure. But I’m not about to act
desperate. Not now, not when his familiar’s watching like an expectant house cat.

“Right,” I
say.

We don’t say
anything else as he guides me back up to the trailers, but his hand doesn’t
stray from my arm, not until we get back to my bunk and he opens the door. Once
I’m inside, he snaps his fingers. I’m dry immediately.

I can’t
really describe how he looks, standing on the bottom step of my trailer, his
hair dripping rivers down his soaked body, and every inch of him glowing in
Zal’s golden light. One hand is on the door frame, like he’s trying to hold
himself up. Or back. I’m not sure which. And I want nothing more than to lean
over and kiss him goodnight, but I don’t.

“Goodnight,”
I say.

“Goodnight,”
he replies.

Then he raps
his hand on the frame once and steps down. I close the door before I can change
my mind about the whole kissing thing. A part of me hopes that he’ll knock. I
even wait by the door a few breaths, just in case.

He doesn’t.

I stay in my
bunk ’til one, when the chapiteau is dark and everyone is definitely fast
asleep. I’m still antsy after seeing Kingston, and my head is ringing with his
words.
It makes me feel like I have some control over all this.
I may
not have any magic or a divine familiar, but I’m not about to sit around and
wait. No, I’m not going to be that person anymore. When my watch beeps at one,
I don my raincoat and head to the pie cart to pour myself a mug of lukewarm
coffee. I sit under the canopy of the dining area and watch the trailers. I try
not to shiver and try not to look suspicious in case anyone braves the weather
to use the Porta-Potties on the edge of the field. No one does. I’m alone for
the first cup, and then the second. Kingston’s trailer is dark, and I have no
doubt he’s asleep after our earlier encounter.

I check my
watch. One thirty. I pull the raincoat tighter and head out, wandering over to the
sparse woods on the other side of the trailers. I crouch the entire time, but
no one’s out. I find a place among the undergrowth where I’m pretty certain I
can blend in with the tree trunk behind me, and I watch. Melody’s trailer is right
in front of me. I wasn’t just being overzealous when I told Kingston I’d
protect them. I keep my word.

I sit and I
wait. I don’t know what I expected when I psyched myself into guard duty, but
it wasn’t the reality of getting soaked to the bone and having pine cones
digging into my ass. I shiver, but I don’t move. I watch Melody’s door and it’s
only when I check my watch and see that only twenty-three minutes have gone by
that I start to wonder if this is even necessary. If Kingston suspected
something, he’d be on guard and would have enchanted or hexed the door to make
it impenetrable or something like that. Hell, maybe Zal was patrolling the
woods right now, if he could do such a thing. Kingston was right; if Mab
couldn’t protect us — and if I didn’t trust Kingston’s magic — what chance did
I have? Still, as uncomfortable as it is, I feel better sitting out here in the
rain with the owls. At least I’m
thinking
that I’m doing more than I
would if I were back in my warm, cozy trailer. I shove the thought away and try
to shift my weight off whatever twig is getting a little too personal with my
personal space. The rain pours. The trailers stay dark. Nothing happens.

I’m about to
call it a night at 1:59 when something crosses my path. My heart leaps into my
throat, but I keep quiet. A moment later, I realize it’s not a person or Zal or
a wandering faerie. It’s Poe. The cat curls up at my feet and I reach out to
stroke it. Its fur tingles like static under my touch.

“Lilith,” I
hiss into the rain. “Where are you?”

I can barely
hear my own voice over the sound of water falling through the trees, but
something above me snaps and I jerk my head to the branches above. There’s a
shadow moving around up there, though I can’t really make it out. She says
nothing, but I can tell it’s Lilith. The figure waves, and I wonder if I’ve
been forgiven for liking Kingston, or if she’s forgotten entirely. At least we
have the same idea of whom to protect. I settle back down and keep watch.