‘You don’t get it—’
‘When you get on that stage, just tell them who you are,’ I say. ‘Tell them something about yourself. Tell them your story.’
‘I’m a Blotter, little Twist.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You’re a Blotter. And you’re here, at the Circus at the Edge of the World. It’s an excellent story.’
‘What? So I’m supposed to go up there and say, “Hi, everyone, I’m Jay, I’m a Blotter. I’ve probably killed some of your friends and family. It’s nice to meet you.”’
‘Well, I probably wouldn’t open with that,’ I say. ‘But that’s the general idea.’
He rubs his face and groans. ‘This is so fucked up.’
‘If you don’t do it, we’ll have to leave, and that will be worse. Come on.’ I get up. ‘We should go.’
‘These Darlings have a lot of guns. You realise they’re going to shoot me if they find out I’m a Blotter, right?’
‘It’s a risk we have to take.’
He laughs, and it warms something inside of me. I have only seen him laugh a few times, but I like it. It lightens his whole face. There’s something innocent and boyish about it, and it makes me wonder what he would be like if he hadn’t gone through that ceremony that turned his blood into ink. It makes me wonder what he would be like if he hadn’t been forced to be a monster.
‘Yeah, you’re taking a real fucking risk, little Twist,’ he says.
I smile. ‘They won’t hurt you. I won’t let them.’
‘Great. I’ve got myself the world’s smallest, most annoying bodyguard.’ Slowly, he pulls his legs from the Edge of the World and comes to stand beside me. His amusement dies. ‘But it’s them you should be worried about. If anyone tries anything with me, I’ll kill them. Understand?’
I ignore the lick of doubt in my stomach. ‘No one is going to get hurt.’
He shakes his head and mutters, ‘Naïve,’ under his breath as we walk away from the Edge and head back through the graffitied makeshift homes. He tenses as we get closer to the red-and-black tent in the centre of camp, his lips hardening. ‘This is so fucked up.’
‘It’ll be okay.’
I duck through the entrance into a backstage area, breathing in the familiar scent of memories and wet paint. Jay’s eyes dart around the small space when he follows me inside, taking in the racks of old clothes, the open paint tins, the candle flickering on the table, and the flap that leads into the auditorium.
We’re not in there long before Lucy—a teenager from Draft Three with straight dirty blonde hair and a long oval face—comes in. ‘Elle! I’m so glad you’re back. Sylvia was worried you weren’t going to show. Are you—?’ Her eyes widen as they take in the sheer size of Jay and the scowl on his face. She shuffles from one foot to another, fiddling with the pockets of her beige trousers. ‘Well, we’re . . . er . . . ready for you in there whenever you are.’
Jay stares at the rippling red-and-black material as she disappears into the auditorium. There’s a vein throbbing in his neck.
‘I could leave,’ he says.
‘You could stay.’
We look at one another. Then he breathes out sharply through his nose.
‘If anyone gets hurt out there, it’s on you, little Twist.’
‘No one is getting hurt. You can do this.’
He runs a hand over his mouth, shakes his head, and then strides into the auditorium. I don’t know if I’m relieved or worried. Heartbeat thumping in my ears, I peer through the crack and watch as he walks into the bright spotlight.
If he looks up, he may see the source of it, the tangible ball of energy, writhing beneath the roof of the tent. The story I am creating. But he doesn’t. He scans the forty or so faces on the tiered benches, his hands plunged into the pockets of his jeans. His shoulders are hunched, and I see his biceps straining against the sleeves of his hoodie.
I take a deep breath, and I hope—not for the first time—that I am right about him.
‘Come on, Jay,’ I whisper.
He rubs the back of his neck.
Then he opens his mouth.
Chapter Seventeen
Jay
My mouth is dry. I open it. No sound comes out.
Bright light shines in my eyes. Through it, I can just about make out the crowd. I can smell them too. Warm bodies and damp clothes. They’re watching. Waiting. And the wait feels like a tangible, heavy thing. It’s suffocating.
There’s buzzing above my head. What is that? It sounds like bees. I look up, and the spotlight burns my eyes.
This isn’t going to end well.
I should have just killed the Twist. This is what you get, Jay. You followed your cock to the end of the world, and now you have to tell a story in a Circus tent to a bunch of terrorists.
I feel her eyes on me, boring into the back of my head. I glance over my shoulder, and she has that irritating look on her face again. She believes I’m going to actually do this. Am I?
I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what comes next. I’m at a fork in a road. I don’t know what lies in either direction, so how am I supposed to pick?
Someone coughs, bringing my attention back to the benches. I’m sweating. It’s too fucking hot. I open my mouth to speak again. And I close it. It’s not that the words are stuck; it’s that they’re not there at all. I can’t do this.
I can’t tell stories in Circuses. I’m a Blotter. I’m bound by ink to the world and the gods and the One True Story. I serve the Creators. I do what is written. Why can’t she see that?
She has no idea how the world really works. She’s infuriating. So why do I want so badly to fall on my knees in front of her, to explore every inch of her with my tongue?
And why now, standing here in this ridiculous fucking situation, do I want so badly to live up to that wonder in her eyes?
I can’t do it. The moment they find out what I am, shit is going to go down. She’s naïve to think otherwise.
An insect lands on the back of my neck, and I swat it. There’s shuffling on the benches. I scan the crowd and spot a couple of guns. The closest is in a holster on Raven’s belt. She’s leaning forwards on her knees, hands dangling between her legs in a show of relaxation. But her eyes are trained on me. She doesn’t trust me.
When this all goes to shit, I’m going for her first.
I rub my mouth. I’m actually going to do this, aren’t I?
‘I’m Jay.’
The crowd stills.
And I can’t fucking do it. I can’t tell them a story. Of course I can’t. This isn’t me. But the Twist said I was the story. I know it’s a terrible idea, but I slowly unzip my hoodie. Taking a deep breath, I pull it off and drop it to the floor.
I show them my story. And they see it.
They see my tattoos. They see the life that’s mapped out in ink on my skin. They see my connection to the Creators—the gods that have forsaken them. And they see what I am. A Blotter. A killer. An enemy.
Movement erupts around me, but I’m across the floor with my arm around Raven’s neck before she can raise the gun. I drag her into the spotlight.
‘Guns down, or I kill her.’
There’s a bang as someone tries to land a shot on me from the benches. I shove the barrel of Raven’s gun into her chin, and this time, everyone stills.
‘I said, guns down,’ I say.
‘You arsehole,’ says Raven. ‘I knew there was something off about you, Blotter. What was Elle—?’
‘Shut it.’
This is a fucking mess. I don’t know what to do. I’m surrounded. I could take Raven’s gun and use her as a shield as they rain the bullets down on me. But I’m just standing here like an idiot, as if I’m waiting for something. As if I’m waiting for her.
The back of my neck prickles, and the scent of leather and honey washes over me.
‘Jay, it’s okay. Let her go.’
My throat tightens. She was the one who got us into this stupid mess, and she�
�s talking to me as though I’m out of control. I’m not. If I were, half of this Circus would already be dead. And if I let Raven go, I’m going to be the one who gets shot.
‘Not a good idea, little Twist.’
She stands in front of me, and there’s a silent plea in her eyes. ‘Please, Jay. Let her go.’
I exhale. Then I shove Raven forwards.
Immediately, four women jump down from the benches and surround me. Raven raises her gun.
‘On your knees, Blotter.’
Elle nods, and I don’t get it. I don’t understand why she’s so calm. Can she not see the situation we’re in right now?
‘It’s okay, Jay,’ she says again. And that’s when it hits me. She planned this. Of course she did. She brought me here. She twisted the truth with her words. She tricked me, and she led me into a trap because she knew it was the only way she could overpower me.
Everything is faraway. I’m underwater. The Circus blurs around me. My pulse drums in my ears and blocks out whatever shit Raven is saying. I’m hot. I’m cold. Blotters kill because they have to—there’s no emotion in it. But right now, rage surges through my body, and it’s unfamiliar, but it makes sense.
I meet Elle’s eye. She sees the expression on my face.
‘Jay, no!’
I lunge at her. There’s a bang, and my arm drops to my side. I smell ink and metal and gunpowder. I’m vaguely aware of pain in my shoulder, but the room is still swimming.
I can’t believe she did this to me.
Movement catches my eye from the benches and snaps me back. There’s a woman with a raised pistol, and I realise my blood is spilling down my arm. Raven kicks me from behind, and I fall onto my knees. She shoves the barrel of her gun into the back of my neck as I start to get up. I still.
‘Easy there, sweetheart.’ The woman who shot me makes her way down the benches.
She’s tall and slender, and she’s dressed in a long red tailcoat. Her sleek black hair hangs in a low ponytail beneath a black top hat. She walks with a limp and has a cane in one hand that clicks against the floor with each step.
Her lips curl into a smile that doesn’t quite meet her dark eyes.
‘I know your kind,’ she says. ‘I know you think you’re not going to die right now because that’s not how your Ending was written, was it, honey? But here’s the thing: the rules don’t apply out here. Do they?’
The Darlings stamp their feet in agreement. This is a fucking nightmare. I can’t control my breathing, and it’s not because I’m afraid or because I’ve been shot. It’s because of her. Because she surprised me again. Because she betrayed me.
I swear to the Creators, once I’ve gotten out of this, she’s going to pay for it.
‘Sylvia,’ says the Twist.
‘Welcome home, love,’ says the woman in the hat. ‘You and I need to have a chat once we’ve dealt with this. Things have changed around here since you left. I can’t imagine what you were thinking, bringing a Blotter here.’
She puts her cane beneath my chin, so I have to meet her eyes.
‘And I can’t imagine why you would have come here, sweetheart. Do you know we lost three members of our family recently? Scarlett, Johnny, and dear little Jade. She was six years old.’
Something changes in the air. A whisper passes through the crowd.
‘Sylvia,’ says Elle, ‘You need to—’
Sylvia raises her hand, and two Darlings grab Elle’s arms. Her eyes lock onto mine. She looks as if she’s trying to tell me something. Whose side is she on? I have no fucking clue what’s going on.
Sylvia traces a tattoo on my shoulder with her cane, and I’m forced to focus on her again. ‘I wonder how many you’ve killed, Blotter.’ She pushes the bullet wound, and I hiss through my teeth as more ink spills down my arm.
‘Do that again, and there’ll be one more,’ I say.
‘Are there any more of your kind on the way, sweetheart?’ asks Sylvia.
I stare at her. If she thinks I’m going to answer her questions right now, she’s as insane as the Twist.
‘I’ll take that as a no.’ Sylvia looks at Raven over my shoulder.
‘Stop,’ says Elle.
I get ready to move.
‘I said stop.’ Elle’s voice is quiet, yet somehow it fills the room. Sylvia’s expression changes as she looks at Elle properly for the first time. ‘Or have you forgotten?’ Her eyes are blazing. ‘Have you forgotten the story of the heart thief and the woman who chased her to the edge of the earth, only to find her heart belonged with the thief all along?’
The two women holding Elle’s arms glance at each other over her head. Then, tentatively, they release her. Elle steps forwards.
‘Or perhaps you have forgotten the couple who lived in darkness until their baby opened her eyes and cast light from her irises more powerful than a thousand suns.’
The woman to my left moves back. A man shifts in the crowd.
‘Do you not remember the girl who blew the dandelion clock so her sister could follow the trail of flowers that grew in the pavement?’
The women grabbing my arms glance at Elle, then Sylvia, then they release me.
‘Or have you forgotten about the woman who was bound to the world, until she fell in love with a star? How she followed the map in the constellations to a place where the sky met the earth.’
‘Fuck’s sake,’ mutters Raven. She moves the gun from my neck, and I exhale as she steps back.
‘Or perhaps you have forgotten the group of travellers on the night of the storm where the winds howled like wolves and lightning forked the sky.’ Her voice lowers, and the fabric of the tent begins to flap. ‘When mechanical men with compasses for hearts vowed to track them to the ends of the earth.’
Rain patters against the roof. A crack booms across the sky. And a chill creeps down my spine. Because there’s no weather here. This place exists outside the realm of the Creators.
‘How they were afraid, because the only way they could be safe would be to stray from the paths they had walked their whole lives.’
A cold wind howls around the tent.
‘But they did it anyway. Because they had heard that somewhere off the trodden path was a place where they could be safe.’
Light flashes outside, and Elle turns away from Sylvia to face the crowd.
‘And perhaps you have forgotten the girl. The girl with stories that raged through her veins like fire. The girl they smuggled with them to the edge of the earth.’ Her voice is raised above the sounds of the storm. ‘The girl who created the Circus.’
Rain pounds against the roof like metal bullets.
‘Perhaps you have forgotten who you are, who you were. Perhaps you have forgotten how your stories started. But I have not. You all lived the story that was written for you until that one moment you did not.
‘And I have a new story for you.’
Thunder rolls across the sky, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
‘It’s about a man with his life mapped out in ink on his skin, who was bound to the Creators, who was supposed to kill a Twist. But instead, he carried her through a wild and deadly hurricane and came with her to the Circus at the Edge of the World.’
She points at me. ‘This is not our way. This is not our story. We are here because we are different from them. And different is good. ‘
Her chest rises and falls hard, and my heart pounds.
‘This man is different too.’
The impossible storm rages outside the tent. I don’t know if it’s the lightning or something inside of her that makes her eyes blaze like stars. I no longer notice anyone else. I no longer feel the pain in my shoulder. I just see her. Wild. Beautiful.
Terrifying.
She steps towards me and extends a hand. My fingers curl around hers.
There is a crash of thunder as I stand up.
And then an eerie silence falls over the tent.
‘Tell them your story, Jay.’
I swallow hard. My mouth is dry. My chest tightens. The words that are sticking in my throat are wrong. And I need to shut up. I need to get the fuck out of here. But I don’t. I can’t.
Because of her.
‘I’m Jay.’ My voice is quiet, but the Circus listens. ‘It’s true. I’m a Blotter. The Creators’ ink runs in my veins.’ I suck in a deep breath. ‘But I didn’t do what was written. I followed a Twist to the Edge of the World.’
And then I say the thing I’ve been thinking since I met her—the thing that is wrong. The thing that will be the end of me.
‘And I’m different.’
Part Two
Chapter Eighteen
Elle
I duck under the fabric.
The auditorium is empty, but the spotlight still beams onto the centre of the stage. Dust and dandelion seeds dance through it, glittering like the snowflakes in the Citadel’s winter gardens. Jay sits on the front bench, half-hidden by shadow, and stares at it.
I smile, because not everyone can see the source of the light and he clearly can. It’s a pulsating ball of energy that hovers beneath the roof of the high-top. The story. Our story. The one we have been growing here at the Circus, untouched by the Creators. It’s brighter than it was earlier, bigger, more excited. Because stories are hungry—even ours.
Perhaps my stories fed it. But I think it was Jay. A Blotter defying the Creators and coming to the Circus at the Edge of the World. It is a good story. He will be useful to our cause. I feel it.
I cannot tell what he is thinking though. His head is angled upwards, displaying the hard line of his jaw and a streak of ink on his cheek. His legs are spread, his bad arm dangling between them. He’s ripped off the sleeve of his hoodie and tied it around the bullet wound. His good hand grips the bench beside him.
Perhaps the heavy rise and fall of his chest means his thoughts are consumed by the Circus and the stories and his revelation to the crowd. Perhaps he’s confused by what he’s looking at. Perhaps he’s just angry he got shot. I can’t imagine Blotters are often harmed.
I’m not sure if he’s aware of my presence as I watch him, although a part of me thinks he must be. He is a Blotter. His reflexes are fast—he killed five men with ease, and he had Raven in his grip before she even had chance to raise her gun.
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