The sight of it makes my gut roil; I can't tell if it's with disgust or hunger.
I spot Melody over by the changing tent. A dove sits on each of her shoulders; the one on the left picks at invisible crumbs in her wig.
“Is everything ready?” I ask her as soon as I'm near.
She glances around—she's taking this incognito thing a little too far—and nods.
“I sent out a couple special invites a few days ago,” she says, reaching up to feed one of the pigeons a cracker. “Turns out Missoula has its fair share of magical folk, though most fly under the radar. I tried to go for the ones with bad track records—y'know, child eaters and the like. I figured it would sit better with you. Also figured they'd have a better chance of showing up.”
“How will I know?” I ask. How will I know who is mortal and who is magical? How will I know who to kill?
She gives me a sad grin. “You're psychic,” she says. “I have no doubt you'll be able to pinpoint exactly who's up for dinner.”
“Are you going?” I ask. Because for some reason, even though I've done it before, the idea of going in alone is terrifying.
“Afraid not. I heard some of the off-duty Shifters mumbling about crashing the party, so I'm going to be throwing a bonfire as a distraction. No one can say no to free booze.” She smiles, like she's including herself in that statement. “Good thing I have direct access to Mab's checking account—all these benders are getting pricey.”
I smile in spite of myself. Then the smile drops at the thought of the last time I went to the after-party, the night Kingston and I made our getaway. Just the thought of him makes regret twine through my chest like his feathered serpent tattoo.
“What happens if none of them show?” I ask. “What if it's just a bunch of mortals?”
Mel shrugs.
“Blood is blood. Pick anyone with a white mask and you're safe. If they're not magical, it'll still hold you over. Just not for as long.”
“How do you know all of this?” I ask. It sounds petulant, but I'm grateful she does.
“Kingston,” she says. She glances to the tent behind me. “Speaking of, almost my time to go on. Catch you on the flip side.”
She clasps me on the shoulder as she jogs away, the pigeons somehow vanished in the folds of her cape. I don't watch her go, and I don't stick around. Unlike Mab, I don't have an act to myself. I'm just a glittery opener, a figurehead for the ship.
I head back to my trailer to change for the Tapis Noir. I may not enjoy the idea of murder, but there's no way I'm getting blood on these heels.
* * *
Sure enough, Mab actually has a standing wardrobe in the dressing room trailer labeled “Tapis Noir.” Inside is a collection of clothing I wouldn't have been comfortable wearing in front of Kingston, let alone a crowd of strangers. Lace panties and sheer bodices and garters in every color drape silkily over the hangers. I practically expect the wardrobe to sigh with earthly delight the moment I open the door.
A blush rises on my cheeks at the selection. It's difficult to remind myself that this, too, is part of the job, and I might as well dress for the part. I pull out a few of the less-revealing articles and change. In the back of my mind, I can just imagine what Kingston would say if he saw me. I'm positive he'd have liked it.
* * *
The punters stand in a huddle before the main tent. I watch unseen from the sidelines, a few Shifters arranged around me wearing lace and leather and carrying unlit fire torches and fans. The woman beside me is only wearing body paint and a few long metal claws tipped in kerosene-soaked wicks. I no longer feel so scandalous wearing lingerie and fishnets.
“Dinnertime,” says the painted woman. I glance at her; she has a wicked smile and blazing blue eyes, her skin dark mocha. I nod and calm my fluttering heart.
There's a flare of brightness as the members of my entourage light their wicks in unison, and then we're striding out into the promenade to the beat of seductive rock music. The fire-dancers writhe around me, keeping me mostly hidden. I know Mab used magic to make her grand entrance at the previous Tapis Noirs, but I'm going with what I've got. Which is to say, not much. I'm just grateful that none of the Shifters “accidentally” lights me on fire.
The huddle of punters destined for the party crowd even closer as we approach. I repeat my lines over and over in my head, praying I won't mess them up.
The fire-dancers part and twine around the huddled crowd, snaring them in a fiery circle. I take a deep breath and try to summon Mab's likeness—the seduction and poise, the cool mystique. Then I force on a smile I'd reserved for the bedroom and stare right into the eyes of a pink-shirted man at the front of the crowd. I wink.
“Good evening, my loves,” I sweep my eyes around to take them all in. Somehow, impersonating Mab gives me strength, allows me to step outside of myself. With this makeup and these clothes, I'm no longer Vivienne Warfield. I'm no longer recognizable, even to myself. I am an acolyte of the Faerie Queen. I am the seductress. “I trust you all have your tickets?” I let the words purr from my lips.
The punters nod, some of them pulling out the dusty-violet tickets Mel stapled to the regular admissions slip. The others just stare at me with wide eyes. I can feel them undressing me, can feel their imaginations burning with furious fantasies. And some part of me, a part I never knew I had, delights in it. My smile widens.
“Then follow me. The fun is just beginning.”
I saunter away, trying to look graceful on five-inch stilettos and a beaten dirt path. The fire-dancers swirl around us, herding the punters toward the purple tent. I don't look back, but I know the crowd is close on my heels. I can smell their anticipation like cologne.
We round the curve of the tent and there, right beside the dark velvet flap, is a table covered in satin and an array of white and black masks. A male and female bodyguard flank each side of the entrance. One of them holds out a mask for me. It is black lace and black silk, a spiderweb of shadow. Black for predator, white for prey. I slip it on as I slip into the fold, letting the world of dust and mortals vanish behind me.
The interior of the tent is already filled with black-masked patrons. They're all in formal attire—black suits and red gowns, sleek hair and violent smiles. I’m sure Melody didn't invite them, but seeing them here gives me hope. If the denizens of Mab's Court know about this, chances are good that she'll be here too. She doesn't seem like the type who'd ever miss a party. Especially not a party like this.
After all, this party is about dreams—the darker dreams, the ones only mentioned in sighs and whispers—and Mab needs all the Dream she can get if she wants to win the war.
I sweep into the crowd and head straight to a table laden with crystal flutes of champagne. Aerialists dangle from fabric and hoops, each wearing little more than rhinestones and fishnets. A man wearing leather straps and bondage boots contorts from chains strung over the chaise lounge, while a trio of women in matching black panties balance atop each other in the opposite corner. Everywhere I turn is a hidden nook of shadowy chairs and throw pillows, candelabras and champagne, decadence and debauchery. And fueling the performers, running beneath and through them, is a pulse of music, a beat that makes my heart race and fire burn in my veins.
I grab a glass of champagne and survey what is now my kingdom, a palace of sex and seduction and murder; and when the first of the punters comes in wearing a white mask, I feel the entire frequency change pitch as the predators recognize the approach of prey. Before she can take two steps inside the tent, a group of men and women approach her and guide her over to a champagne fountain. No one enters the tent without immediately acquiring an escort. No one comes to this party without getting everything they asked for. And more.
I watch from the sidelines with a slight grin on my face. Somehow, now that I'm here, the idea of this is no longer terrifying, no longer toeing the edge of revulsion. The Tapis Noir feels like a part of me, an extension, and its presence sings to me with power.
“Shall we?” I ask. My voice sounds smoky, like Mab's, and not for the first time I wonder if maybe, in adopting this role, I'm not just acquiring her job, but her attributes.
He nods and takes my hand. His touch his hot; his eyes don't leave me as I lead him over to the champagne table and hand him a drink.
There's no small talk, not that we could hold a conversation over the devouring bass. He downs his champagne and stares at me and I run a hand around his waist, pulling him close, letting our hips brush. Something seems to cloud over his eyes when he sets the champagne flute down, a haze that I'm positive is less from the alcohol and more from the ambiance. I feel his pulse quicken, can practically smell the pheromones snaking from his skin. My chest is on fire, anticipation thick in my lungs like smoke. I feel the light flickering at the edge of my vision, the tingle in my fingertips—the echo of my hungry powers. He cocks an eyebrow and every ounce of resolve shatters. There's no more need to wait. He's already as good as mine.
I guide him over to a sofa along one velvet wall and push him atop it, straddling him in the same motion.
The rest of the tent disappears in the haze of lust. I pull his shirt over his head, his mask knocking askew. Then my hand is in his hair, pulling his head back, baring his neck, his collarbones, the lines of his chest. He moans as I slowly kiss down his temple and jaw, to the base of his neck; I feel his dreams trace against my lips, his every erotic fantasy played out before his eyes. The dreams spiral around us, intangible threads of gold and crimson light. But I want more. I need more. Heat and desire flush beneath his skin, practically glowing as my hunger takes over. His back arches when I yank his head further back, let my teeth drag against his flesh. The moans become a gasp.
The hunger, the hunger. My breath is quick in my lungs, and every inch of me burns with need. The need to press closer, dig deeper. I undo the top button of his jeans with my free hand. My fingers trail lower, scratch long red marks against the soft skin of his pelvis. His gasp deepens. Our hips pulse to the music.
I let my other hand drop from his hair to the base of his neck. My fingers curl against his throat, his moans vibrating against my palm as I slide my body down. Light blinds at the edges of my vision, burns away everything—every doubt, every fear, every hesitation. I drag my teeth right below his ribs.
The light burns it all, replaces everything with hunger.
I clamp my fingers tight around his throat and dig my teeth into his flesh.
Blood fills my mouth. Light burns.
And as the man groans and pulses light into my lips, I float in blinding ecstasy.
* * *
“That was quite a show, love.”
The voice filters through the light, a shadow of ink staining oblivion black. The tent throbs back into focus, each heartbeat bringing clarity. I kneel on the ground before a man lying limp on a sofa, his jeans undone and a trail of blood flowing down his naked torso. Even from here I can see his upturned eyes, his mouth frozen open in the last moment of bliss.
I lick my lips and taste the iron of his blood, feel the final flourish of another dream twining down my throat.
And standing beside the man, dressed in an elegant black evening gown, is Mab.
Her long hair flows over her shoulders in obsidian waves, highlighting the deep V of her dress. At once, her outfit is modest and scandalous—the neck that dips to her belly button, the long slit that slashes from above her right hip to reveal bare legs and pale skin, the sleeves that drip past her fingertips. Her green eyes glitter with amusement, her grin both wicked and pleased.
I push myself to standing, suddenly acutely aware of all the skin I'm showing and the blood staining my white bra crimson.
“Mab,” I say. The word is a gasp.
She curtsies. The movement is almost mocking.
“It's good to see you taking so naturally to your duties,” she said, the smile not once leaving her lips.
“You didn't give me much choice.”
“Nor did you,” she says. “But the past is the past, after all.”
Her shrug is elegant, dismissive. Around her, the other patrons are engaged in their own nefarious acts—I can barely hear the music over the sounds of moans and stifled screams. In spite of that, in spite of the body lying at my feet, all I can focus on is her. She is the axis on which this room turns, and there's nothing I can do to escape her orbit.
I hold back the urge to wipe away the blood that dribbles down my neck, keep my hands from crossing over my chest in a semblance of modesty. She can't know she already has me on the defensive.
“I need to talk to you,” I say. I make my voice firm. I am the ringmaster. I am the queen of this show.
She laughs. “This is hardly the place for talking.”
“It's about Oberon,” I say. “I think he's up to something. He came to me and warned me—”
She waves her hand, and my lips clamp shut of their own accord.
“Oberon is always threatening and scheming,” she says. “He is a king. That is what kings do.”
I want to tell her about the visions, about Lilith's warning, but I can't open my mouth. My obvious struggle brings a smile to her face. It's not a smile I'd consider comforting.
“Besides, I'm not here to speak of the Summer King or war. Like you, I'm here to unwind. And to bring joyous tidings.”
That makes me stop trying to speak. Mab doesn't bring joyous tidings. Mab brings cyanide and riding crops. Still, I can't speak. Her magic has me tongue-tied.
“I feel so terribly about your loss,” she says. She glances down at the man on the sofa. “Though it does seem like you're dealing with Kingston's absence splendidly. In any case, I know the ache of an absent lover. I know how difficult it can be to focus on one's duties when the heart is broken.” Her smile turns wicked. “And I am, as I'm sure I've said before, a humanitarian at best.”
She holds her hand out to the side. From the shadows steps a man in a full black mask. He is tall and tan, wearing an impeccable grey suit with a skinny black tie. My heart beats frantically. Something about the set of his shoulders is familiar.
“Consider this a consolation prize,” she says. “A peace offering, if you will. You've lost one man you love.” She walks over and pulls the mask off the stranger's face. “So I've brought you another. Meet your newest concessionaire.”
My knees buckle.
I know him—the short brown hair, the blue eyes, the strong jaw. I know him better than I know myself, and I know he shouldn’t be here. Anywhere but here.
“Austin,” I whisper, my lips suddenly my own.
Mab smiles.
“An even trade: one boyfriend for another. Enjoy his company, Vivienne. I expect you have much catching up to do, and all the time in the world in which to do it.”
Episode Two
Chapter Four: Faithfully
“Austin,” I say again. The word feels lodged in my throat, a name of barbs and lost syllables.
He doesn’t move. He just stares straight ahead, his blue eyes focused on a point somewhere beyond my bloodied shoulder. I turn my attention to Mab, who’s somehow now nursing a glass of sparkling pink champagne in one well-manicured hand.
“What did you do to him?” I ask. “Why won’t he talk?”
“It’s just the dust, dear,” she says. She strides forward and places a hand on my shoulder, so our faces are barely a foot away. Even though I’m glaring down at her, I feel like a mouse in a trap. “Don’t worry. In a few hours the magic will wear off and he won’t remember a thing about this party. I thought I’
d give you some time to clean up.”
“You’re too kind,” I say bitingly. I feel the weight of resolve settle into my gut—there’s no point arguing this. There’s no point trying to fight. Her previous words echo in my head: This is what happens when you fuck with the Faerie Queen. It seems her revenge was far from complete; I don’t need to push her into enacting more. “Why are you doing this?” I ask. “Why did you have to get him involved?”
“What?” she asks, stepping back with false concern on her face. “Do you not want him? If not, I’m sure I can find someone here who would. Just let me get him a white mask.”
“No. No, he…he can stay.” I bow my head. “I just want to know what he’ll know. When he wakes up, what will he remember?”
“Everything except this little party, I’m afraid.” Her voice says she is anything but sad about it. “Now that your witch is out of the picture, the magic that hid Austin’s memory of you is wearing thin. When Prince Charming over here wakes, he’ll remember everything that happened before you joined, and everything after. Though your reunion last month may be a hazy dream—he was, after all, very much under the influence at the time. The poor boy’s brain is likely as stable as Swiss cheese.”
Suddenly, I no longer want to warn her about the Summer King’s threat, I don’t give a shit about Lilith’s promises of destruction. Mab has already cost me everything. When Kingston died, I thought I had nothing left to lose. Mab is proving it’s quite the opposite.
And some raging part of me wants to make sure that, someday, somehow, she knows this feeling.
“Will he remember his contract?” I ask.
She smiles. “But of course. He wanted to join the show to be with you. And who am I to stand in the way of star-crossed lovers? He will remember signing on because it was his choice. As I said, I think he will make a fine concessionaire.” She eyes him up and down. “I might even be persuaded to let him keep the suit as uniform.”
The Immortal Circus: Final Act (Cirque des Immortels) Page 4