The Immortal Circus: Final Act (Cirque des Immortels)

by Kahler, A. R.

  “Where are we?” I ask. Because the more I look, the more I realize this definitely isn’t the mortal world; the sky isn’t a sky at all, but a ceiling of smooth rock, and the earth beneath my feet is obsidian and cobblestone. I don’t know where the notion comes from, but I’m suddenly not certain if the city is actually very vast or if I have become very small.

  “This is my kingdom,” she says. “Well, what’s left of it.”

  And that’s when my eyes adjust enough to see that not all the lights are from windows. There are fires in the city, their smoke disappearing into the velvet horizon. Things click: Mab’s armor, the scent of burning—hell, the messy hair.

  “You were attacked,” I say.

  “Yes,” Mab says. I can’t tell if she’s angry because her kingdom was under siege or because her pride is hurt admitting someone got the better of her. “Oberon has crossed a line, this time. When Prince Oberos attacked our tent, he wasn't acting under his father's command. That, I could almost forgive. But this? This is too far.”

  “I thought you liked being at war,” I say tersely, watching the outskirts of the city burn. “What was it you said to me? That it keeps things fun?”

  “There is a difference between being at one another’s throats and directly attacking my territory, Vivienne—not that I would expect you to understand such things.” She says it like I’m a child, but I don’t raise my guard. No matter how bristly she’s being, I know it’s because she’s on the defensive. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Oberon scared her.

  “So let me guess,” I say. “This was another demon’s doing?”

  “Two, actually.” She says it so flippantly, like I’m an idiot for asking.

  Lilith’s taunt dances through my head: “You think the end will come with me. But no, the end will come with three.” Three more demons. Three more adversaries I can't hope to defeat.

  “Did you kill them?” I ask.

  “No,” she says. “One does not simply kill a demon. Mainly because they cannot be killed. Not by ordinary measures, at least.” She glances at me from the corner of her eye. Clearly, I’m not one of those ordinary measures.

  “So why did you bring me here?” I ask. “You’re no longer under attack, and I’ve got a show to run. And a boyfriend to rescue. And a bound demon to bring back. What exactly were you hoping to add to my plate?”

  Her lips purse like those of a naughty pinup girl. “Ooh, Vivienne, you’ve gotten quite snappy in my absence. I can’t help but say I enjoy it.”

  I bite my tongue—literally—and wait for her to continue.

  “In any case, you are correct. The demons appeared and flexed their muscles. I flexed mine in return. A stalemate was reached, and then they fled.”

  “And?”

  “And,” she says, “that is why I brought you here. I need your help.”

  “With what?” I say. “You clearly had it under control. I need to get back to my job.” Because in the back of my mind, I’m already imagining the hundred different ways Lilith could be torturing Austin. Even without Kassia breaking free, the little girl is more than enough to make nightmares seem tame. I nearly got my head beaten in the last time I crossed her.

  “Your lover is fine,” Mab says. It doesn’t even surprise me that she can read my thoughts. “I’ve made sure time will pass slowly until you return to the mortal world—barely seconds will have passed when you reemerge. I can also assure you that Lilith won’t kill him in your absence; she knows how valuable Austin is to you, which makes him valuable to her. At worst, he’ll be tied up and used as a hostage later on. He’ll probably even still have all his limbs.”

  “How can you talk like that?” I begin, but she cuts me off before I can begin my tirade.

  “Because I am queen,” she says, “and being a queen means I must accept certain casualties on a daily basis. Right now, Austin is one such potential casualty. But so long as he is useful to Lilith, he is safe. Relatively speaking. You would be wise to remember such things, before your emotions get the better of you.”

  I’m not about to tell her that having emotions is probably one of the most defining differences between her and me—one that I intend on keeping—but the temptation is difficult to resist.

  “Years ago,” she continues, “you were Oberon’s prime assassin. You were his Oracle. Right now, I need those skills more than ever.”

  “You know I locked those powers away,” I say. My voice doesn’t hold one tenth of the resolve I’d intended. “You said so yourself; it’s part of the contract.”

  She turns and faces me, and when she crosses her arms over her chest I can’t help but think that she’s actually, finally, looking at me as an equal. The instant switch is unsettling.

  “I am the Faerie Queen,” she says evenly. “I wrote your contract. What makes you think I couldn’t change it?”

  I can’t speak. For a moment, I can’t even take a breath; her statement is a punch to the gut, an unraveling of a thousand illusions that kept my world neatly bound in place. Terrible, yes, but held together.

  “You could…undo it?” I ask. All of this hassle to find out about my past, to work around the contracts that kept my history hidden, and now she’s willing to just snap her fingers and negate all of it?

  Mab nods.

  “But…but the things I did. The things that happened because you wouldn’t let me break my terms…” Kingston died because of this; I’m ringmaster because of this. So many people died because you kept me in the dark.

  “This is no time to commiserate, Vivienne,” she says, snapping me from the reverie before my righteous rage can build. “This is war. You wanted your powers locked away when we first met. I gave you that. Up until now, I have had no reason to renegotiate your contract. But now, the collective good is more important than your own wishes.”

  “You mean your wishes outweigh mine,” I say. The rage might not have built, but it’s still there, simmering beneath the surface. If it wouldn’t spell my downfall, I’d happily bitch-slap the smug smile off her face. Her laugh doesn’t make it any better.

  “As per usual, my wishes and the needs of my people are one and the same.”

  I grit my teeth. “Get to the point, Mab. Why did you drag me to Faerie? What do you need me for?”

  “What bothers me about the attack,” she says, as though she’s completely glossed over the last few minutes of conversation, “is that the demons didn’t actually try to destroy me. They just lit a few sparks in the city before vanishing. Moreover, they said something quite disturbing before they left. Something about this being my doing, as though I had a hand in their existence. And they called Oberon their father.”

  “That’s what Cortis said, too,” I say. “The demon who attacked us. But that’s insane. Demons are from hell, right? How could Oberon be their father? He’s just a faerie.”

  Mab shakes her head.

  “There is still a great deal you need to know,” she says. She turns and begins walking down the path. “But like most things, it would be easier to show you. Come. It’s time you learned how Kassia was created.”

  * * *

  The ridge we’re on quickly becomes a path, one edged with stunted trees straight out of some Hollywood horror flick. We follow it down and are instantly engulfed in the shadows of the wood. Mab says nothing as we walk, which means I have plenty of time to let her words sift through my thoughts. Kassia was created? I never gave her history much thought—a demon was a creature from hell, simple as that—but the idea that someone would go and make such a monster is beyond me. And Oberon somehow made three more. As we near the walls of the city, faint lights begin to flicker through the boughs.

  “Are those some sort of faeries?” I ask, pointing to a light that dances around my head. Anything to keep myself from wondering why Oberon would create more maniacs like Kassia. And then wondering what repercussions that would entail—if one demon could end the world, what could four do?

  Mab gives them a cu
rsory glance.

  “No. They’re our version of fireflies. You do know what fireflies are, yes?”

  “Sorry for asking,” I mutter, and we continue the rest of the way in silence.

  The scent of burning gets stronger the closer we get to the city. Great obsidian walls rise up before us, barely visible through the black and grey trees. The smoke is thicker here—it lies on the ground in swirls like sleeping greyhounds, pooling as heavy as fog. With it comes the telltale burn of brimstone. I wonder if there’ll ever be a time in my life where that’s not a frequent smell.

  Between the shadows of one tree and the next, Mab changes, her leather armor shifting into a long black silk dress with a collar of white fox fur. I glance down at my own jeans and T-shirt. Just another reminder that I’m a peon entering her kingdom—the tent may have been my domain, but here, I’m pretty much nothing. A few feet from the wall that encapsulates the city, I can see the burn marks and scratches in the stone; it looks like someone launched flaming cannonballs at the defenses. Mab doesn’t pause. She raises one hand and flicks her wrist, and white light spears through the smooth wall before of us. The light cracks down in a jagged line, shatters again at the top to form two more arching bolts of light that outline double doors. Then, when she lowers her hand, the doors fold open with a grumble of stone and magic.

  Once we’re inside, the doors close behind us with a thud, and I realize why this is called the Winter Court. The buildings within aren’t just made of obsidian—there’s stonework, sure, but the rest is ice. Ice as black as pitch or clear as glass pierces up all around us, carved into towers, arched over into bridges. Stone and ice form every facade, every winding path. Everything is angular and jagged and sharp—not even the wisps of snow built up in the corners have softened the landscape. Like Mab, the city is seductive in its untouchability, sleek as a jaguar and just as fierce. The air drops about twenty degrees the moment we step into the city; my next breath comes out in a puff. I glare at Mab’s fox shrug and wish I’d been advised to bring a jacket.

  Again, she doesn’t speak as she guides me through the city streets. Now that the scent of burning is gone, I’m struck by the distinct lack of smell. The city simply doesn’t smell or feel like it’s lived in. There are a few lights glimmering in icy towers high above us, but the streets are empty, the air blank: no scent of cookfires, no rumbling of voices. It feels like walking through a frozen city of the dead.

  She leads me through the winding streets, our feet tapping against the path like it’s made of glass. I try to keep my weight low, walking carefully so I don't slip. The last thing I need is to make more of a fool of myself in front of her and the rest of her kingdom. Which, I’m starting to realize, is just about as cheery and welcoming as Oberon’s Summer Court.

  Is all of Faerie this bleak? I’m reminded of the Wildness, the realm ungoverned by either monarch. Maybe that’s where all the happy faerie parties are. Maybe being under the rule of Mab or Oberon naturally dampens the mood.

  “Where are we going?” I finally ask. My voice echoes in the air, carrying farther on the cold than I’d intended.

  “You still have Penelope’s necklace?” she asks.

  “Yeah.” My hand goes to my chest, my fingers wrapping over the warm stone.

  “Then you’ll know what my jewelers can do. There is a very special piece I want you to see. One that will shed light on our predicament.”

  I’ve grown used to the way Mab works; as we walk down back allies and corridors, I don’t ask what she’s talking about, don’t push for more of an explanation. She’s not one who gets to the point—a trait I think all faeries share—so if I have to follow her into the bowels of her kingdom to learn why she brought me here, I’ll do it. I just hope she kept her word and Austin’s still okay.

  We pass apothecaries with their windows filled with glowing vials and bundles of herbs and organs in jars, pass bakers and tailors and a shop with a sign labeled ARS ARCANA. The window of that shop is curtained shut, but my skin tingles as we pass the pentacle-encrusted door.

  “This is the market district,” she says over her shoulder. “Anything and everything you’ve ever dreamed of can be found here. Even the things your dreams deny you.” As she says this, we pass by a red-curtained shop that I’m almost entirely certain is a brothel, judging from the very enthusiastic noises coming from within. Her timing is, as always, perfect. I think she must practice giving tours like this.

  We finally stop in front of a fairly nondescript door, at least at first glance. When she knocks, I realize that what I thought were wooden planks is actually tarnished silver—the entire door was crafted to look plain, though up close it’s clear it’s been made from a single piece of hammered metal. The attention to detail and overt attempts at deception tell me we’ve reached the jewelers.

  A hidden window in the door opens immediately after her knock. I catch sight of a man’s eye before there’s a nervous gasp and the window slams shut. The door opens.

  “Your Majesty,” says the man behind the door. There’s something about him that seems off. It’s not his dirty leather work apron or the goggles covered in magnifying glasses on his forehead, nor is it the frazzled curly brown hair or dark brown eyes. He bows low, revealing a column of black tattoos on his neck that disappear down the collar of his aged linen shirt. They look like runes.

  It’s only when he stands and his weary eyes lock on me that I realize what seems different. He’s not like Mab or the rest of the Fey I’ve met—he looks tired, worn through by the years. There are lines at the edges of his eyes and a shake to his delicate, blackened fingers.

  He’s mortal.

  “What brings you to us so late in the night?” His voice is antiquated as well, like he’s speaking in some Shakespearean play. He glances at me again. “Especially with such an unusual guest.”

  In that moment, I have a gut feeling that this man knows more about me than he’s letting on.

  “I have no doubt you felt the attack?” Mab says, though she raises an eyebrow like she’s actually harboring a great deal of doubt.

  The man looks confused. “Attack? Oh! I thought we had an earthquake.”

  “William,” Mab says calmly. “You must remember: We don’t have earthquakes in Faerie.”

  “Ah, yes, right.” He glances into the alley behind us. Almost like he expects we’ve been followed. “Well, do come in.” He pulls the door open a little bit wider and lets us slip inside. The moment we’re in he slams it shut, and I look over my shoulder to see a series of intricate locks and clockwork mechanisms sliding into place and securing us inside.

  The man notices my look and shrugs.

  “Many would give all the Dream in the world for what we hold down here,” he explains. “We must protect it every way we can.”

  He doesn’t sound proud as he says it. He sounds a little terrified, as though this fact grates on him every day of his existence. It would sure explain his twitchiness.

  “I need to access the special collections,” Mab commands. “Urgently.”

  “Of course. Follow me, my queen,” he says, bowing past Mab and me. Without another word, he leads us down the hall.

  Unlike in Oberon’s kingdom, the tunnel he leads us down isn’t warm or inviting—no torches in the walls, no strata or carpets of grass under our feet. No. This hall is as black as the city, and the light comes from icy-blue and sea-green panes of crystal set in the walls. Everything glints with false dampness. The smooth stone beneath our feet glimmers like an oil slick dotted with shards of stone and metal findings.

  The deeper we go into the tunnel, the more the air smells like old smoke, and a metallic tang sticks to the top of my mouth. The path is long and winding and, at times, I catch sight of something glinting beneath the obsidian surface of the walls, flashes of iridescence that look like the runes inked down William’s spine. We must protect it every way we can, he said—I’ve no doubt the runes are one more magical defense. Which makes me wonder why he hi
mself is covered in them.

  The air gets steadily warmer as we walk, and with every step the sound of hammering gets louder—at first, it sounds like steady chimes, but the further on we go the louder and heavier it gets. Another band of runes flashes in the walls, a ring that circles floor to ceiling. My skin tingles as we pass through.

  William takes us down a corridor to the right, and from here the ambiance of the tunnel changes. The crystal panes on the walls here are amber, the floor beneath our feet suddenly covered in a lush red carpet. Even the stone of the walls changes, a slow and steady shift from sleek obsidian to striated tiger’s-eye.

  “This is the collections hall,” Mab says beside me. It doesn’t take long to figure out why. Five steps in and alcoves appear in the walls, each ensconced in a thin pane of glass. I’ve never been one for anthropology, but I have no doubt that the items displayed within those alcoves are very old and very precious. The hall itself is a costumer’s wet dream, and the sights make even me catch my breath. To my right is a jewel-encrusted scabbard embossed with Nordic scrollwork. Across from it is a mannequin bust covered in pearl necklaces and a choker with a red rosary-type pendant.

  “That was Queen Elizabeth the First’s,” Mab whispers in my ear. “If it weren’t for me, she never would have worn pearls in the first place. Every monarch in history owes her fashion sense to me. And my jewelers, of course. Fashion truly does influence the age.”

  William seems to shrink in on himself a bit more at this. “We strive to produce only the best, my queen,” he says. Somehow, he manages to make it sound self-deprecating.

  Mab points to a gold band with an embossed serpent, its rim encrusted with lapis lazuli and mother-of-pearl. “I gave that to Cleopatra when she prayed for an easy childbirth. Serpents were very en vogue at the time, but even more so after she sported it.” She pauses. “Sometimes I wonder if she would have killed herself via asp if I’d not given it to her. Still, I do love the poetry of it.”