The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

by Kahler, A. R.

  A voice calls out from the corner of the room.

  “I hate it.”

  I jerk up and see her striding toward us. She’s in a lacy purple dress and her black hair is tied with ribbons, but there’s no mistaking her face. It hasn’t changed a single bit. And there, prowling from the shadows, is her familiar.

  Lilith and Poe.

  She walks straight to the circus and stomps on one of the tents. The tents fade instantly. So, too, does the vision.

  I blink and we’re back in the trailer. “What was…what was she doing there?” I ask.

  Penelope reaches over and plucks the necklace from my hand, returning it to her nightstand before replying.

  “Lilith has been with Mab for many, many years. I was the first to tour the world with her, but Lilith existed within Mab’s court long before I did.”

  I shake my head.

  “But she looks exactly the same. Why did you grow up?”

  She shrugs and smiles, though there’s no happiness there.

  “I’ve never asked,” she replies.

  “Why did she — ”

  A loud crash sounds outside, one that makes the glass makeup jars on her vanity tremble. We both jump to our feet in the same instant. She glances out the window.

  “The king pole,” she says. “It’s fallen.”

  Then she rushes past me and out the door. I’m not far behind.

  The tent is a tangle of steel and cables. The canvas walls and roof are gone, but one of the four king poles — the central poles that hold up the highest points of the tent — is on its side. People are shouting and Penelope and I are running full out. The Shifters are already trying to lift the thing, which is easily two stories long, from where it’s toppled onto the bleachers. That’s when I see her, hiding under the tangled mess: Lilith. The king pole is barely two feet above her. Poe is mewling, just clear of the wreckage.

  There are other crew members yelling at her to get out, but no one’s willing to take the chance to go after her. The pylons are slowly crushing down on the bleachers, shifting inch by precarious inch. If she doesn’t get out of there fast, she’ll be jelly. Trouble is, anyone trying to get in might just disturb the whole thing and make it crush sooner.

  Something in me takes over. I duck into the maze of aluminum and steel and make my way toward her. She’s curled in a fetal position, I can tell that much. But with all the yelling and groaning of steel, I can’t tell if she’s making any noise. She sure as hell isn’t moving. I swing through the mess until I’m just a foot away. Lilith’s shaking, her black dress covered in dust and rubble. One arm is bleeding. Above us, the massive king pole hovers precariously, pitched between a crunching pile of bleacher bits. The thing shudders and eases an inch closer to my head. I hunch down even further and try to reach for her.

  “Lilith,” I say. She doesn’t move, so I call her name again, a little more harshly this time. She looks up. “Lilith, we have to go now.”

  “Scared,” she says. Her green eyes are wide and her face is completely ashen. “Scared scared scaredy cat.”

  “Come on,” I say as the king pole shifts again. “Please.”

  “Can’t.” She curls tighter. “Scaredy cat scaredy cat scaredy cat.”

  And that’s when something clicks.

  “Poe misses you,” I say. “He wants you to come out.”

  Her head tilts up again. “Poe? Kitty kitty?”

  “Yes,” I say, extending my hand further. “Poe misses you, but he’s too scared to come in here. He wants you to come out and play with him. He wants you to take my hand.”

  A screech rends through the air and I flinch as cold metal touches the back of my neck. Lilith doesn’t seem to notice. She’s looking at me, her expression still dazed.

  “Please,” I say. “Poe misses you. Now.”

  “Okay,” she says. And she takes my hand. My vision explodes.

  Fire fire roaring fire

  fire burning fire killing fire

  laughing fire fire blood and red and

  fire blood and fire fire fey and faerie blood —

  I scream aloud as the hallucination tears me apart, and then I’m stumbling and falling and letting go and it’s gone. It’s gone and the world is white white white as color slowly seeps back around the edges and my head splits apart like a cleaver is carving it in two. Faces first, then voices. Faces looking down. Kingston and Penelope and Melody and someone’s got a hand on my forehead. Ice water trickles down my skin and down my neck and under my skin into my bones, and I close my eyes and wait for the water to drown me, dreaming of scaled skin and burning blood.

  EPISODE TWO

  CHAPTER FOUR: SPOTLIGHT

  Is she awake yet?”

  “Not yet. Wait…yep, there she is.”

  I peel my eyes open, which feels like rubbing burning sandpaper inside my temples. It takes a moment, but after a few blinks the dim light solidifies into something I can make out. Kingston hovers overs me, Melody at his side. We’re in my tiny trailer room, and I’m lying on the bed. They’re both looking down like they’re expecting me to grow horns or die. Or both.

  “Morning, sunshine,” Kingston says. He touches my shoulder, and once more that cool ice-water sensation slides across my skin and seeps into my head. It feels like bliss.

  I shift under his touch and stare up at those brown eyes. For once, I have his attention. All it took was nearly getting crushed to death and an act of stupid heroics. I smile, and he smiles back.

  “What happened?” I ask, because I’m afraid if we keep smiling at each other I’ll forget that Mel is still in the room.

  “We were going to ask you the same thing, doll,” Melody says. Her eyes are even more shadowed than before, especially in this light. Is it just my near-death experience, or are her fingers shaking?

  “What do you mean?” I ask. I try thinking back, but it’s all a blur. Something deep down feels fire, feels burning, but I can’t put my finger on it. Like steam, it just floats around in my subconscious, smoldering invisibly.

  “Well,” Kingston says, removing his healing touch. “We all saw you jump into the wreck and pull Lilith out. But we don’t understand why you were screaming when you got her out of there. Then you passed out.” He traces a finger down my arm. I shiver, but not from any magic he might possess.

  “No injuries,” he says, almost to himself. “No trauma. So why did you faint?”

  “I don’t…I don’t remember.”

  Still, the memory nags at me. I’ve got Lilith’s huddled form in my mind. I remember taking her hand, and then…that’s it.

  “Maybe she’s just got a weak stomach,” Melody says. She chuckles, which turns into a cough. Kingston glances at her; his eyebrow cocks in a strange mix of concern and curiosity. She holds up a hand until the coughing fit stops. “Sorry,” she says. “Must be coming down with something.”

  “Must be,” Kingston says. “You better not die before our act tonight.” He turns back to me.

  And that’s when I notice that they’re both in costume. Melody’s not wearing her tuxedo coat or wig, but she’s in her tight pinstripe trousers and a clean button-down. Kingston is in a white shirt and black sequined slacks. The tip of his tattoo is curled around his bicep. I blink because I’m pretty certain that’s not where the tail was last time. I push myself up to sit, which just makes my head swim even more.

  “What time is it? How long have I been out?”

  “A full day,” Kingston says softly. “We’re already at the next site.”

  “No way,” I say, sinking back down onto the bed. “Shit.”

  “The show’s in an hour,” Melody says. She slips something into my hand. “But Mab’s giving you the night off.”

  I look at the ticket stub in my hand. Cirque des Immortels is in swirling black ink on the front of the dusty purple card stock, my seat number and row are on the back. VIP seating, nice.

  “She doesn’t ever give people the night off,” Melody says, noddin
g to the ticket in my hand. “Let alone reward them for it. She must be impressed.”

  She and Kingston share a look.

  “You’re sure you can’t remember anything?” he asks.

  “I wish,” I say. The absence of memory sears.

  Melody leaves a few minutes later, when a particularly strong coughing fit sends her out the door in search of tea and honey. Kingston stares after her with a look on his face that tells me he feels he should follow. He doesn’t, though. And after a moment of looking at the door, he turns back to me.

  “That was brave,” he says. He’s leaning against my desk, almost in arm’s reach. The scent of his musky cologne fills the trailer. I realize that, for the first time, we’re alone in a room together. The thought makes my heart beat faster. He smiles, and it’s not the usual sarcastic grin. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I let out a half-chuckle, and look down at the admissions ticket.

  I hear him shift, and then he’s standing next to the bed. Next to me. I don’t look up. I know if I do I’ll be tempted to say or do something I’d regret later.

  He puts his hand on my shoulder. The ticket stops spinning in my hands but my pulse speeds up. What would Mel say if she knew we were alone like this? I can’t hurt her, not after all the kindness she’s shown me. But after what he said yesterday, a large part of me is holding on to the hope that they aren’t a thing.

  “You surprise me,” he says. I look up at him.

  “Is that a good thing?” I counter. I’d probably fuck things up if I said anything remotely serious or tried to be smooth. But there’s something in his eyes, something in our closeness that makes me want to reach out and touch him, even if every part of me knows it’s a horrible idea. I can’t stop telling myself that he’s looking at me differently than the way he’s looked at Mel. I try to convince myself it’s just from fainting.

  “I’m not sure yet,” he says. He studies me like he’s actually trying to figure me out. No one’s looked at me that intensely since I started here. The silence between us grows, and I don’t want to do anything to make it end. He looks at me and I look at him and his hand is still on my shoulder. His touch makes my skin tingle. He bites his lower lip.

  If this were a movie, I think this must be the part where tragedy and heroism bring us together and we make a really stupid decision. One of us has a moment of weakness, forgets the relationship-thing due to overwhelming passion, and then it’s nothing but lips and discarded clothes and murmurs of love —

  Kingston shakes his head and steps back.

  “I better get going,” he says. “Wouldn’t want any rumors about us, you know.” He winks and heads to the door. Before stepping through, he turns back and gives me the grin I’m starting to love. “And, Viv, I know my act is good, but try not to faint before intermission.” He chuckles and leaves me sitting there.

  He’s just toying with you, I try to convince myself. But my body’s not listening. I stare at the door for a while and feel the after-trace of his hand on my shoulder. I tell myself that there are more important things to think about, like finding the killer and keeping Kingston and Mel safe, and figuring out why I fainted in the first place. More important things. I stand up and search my shelves for a clean shirt. There are much more important things than a guy I barely know. A guy who’s gorgeous and strong and could set my ass on fire if he wanted. A guy who I’m now only ninety percent certain is dating my best friend. Right.

  I can still smell his cologne.

  An hour later, I’m milling about in the promenade with the rest of the punters. Stalls and booths of every kind flank each side of the makeshift road that leads up to the blue-and-black tent. Cirque des Immortels blazes in acid-purple neon above the gaping maw of an entrance. I’m in my everyday jeans and T-shirt, nothing to set me apart from the rest — no Crew splashed across my back, no tower of cotton candy in one hand. Tonight, I’m just like everyone else. I hadn’t realized how appealing that thought would be.

  I grab a box of popcorn from the concessionaire booth and am saved from making small talk; today it’s run by a new girl from the nearby town, someone I haven’t met and maybe never will. All she sees is a girl with a VIP pass that entitles her to free food and drink. Even that small act of anonymity makes me feel a little more at home. Being surrounded by people who know you 24/7 isn’t something I’m used to. Small memories of another life flutter through my head like moths — all grey images and tearstains — and then I’m leaping out of the way to make room for a stilt walker.

  It's dressed like a giant black rabbit trundling around on eight-foot-tall legs, except the rabbit head is actually a raven’s. And when the beast walks past me, I distinctly see the eye blink. A whole line of walkers moves through the crowd. All the creatures are like some tame sort of nightmare, their legs nimbly stepping around and over the people below. Kids are calling and screaming and laughing, and even the adults stare up in wonder as the creatures roam and pirouette and leap. They’re all headed in the same direction. To one side of the promenade there’s a wooden archway set up between concession booths. The stilt walkers narrowly duck under a sign as they vanish down the side alley. Freakshow, the sign reads.

  I grin in spite of myself. Although they are technically hired as tent crew, sometimes, when they’re really bored or want to shake things up, the Shifters set up their small carnival-styled area to put on their own show. It’s like a two-for-one deal. For once, my luck seems to be swinging toward the positive.

  I take a step toward it, but then the music inside the tent changes, and the jugglers come out into the promenade twirling clubs of fire. They shout at the top of their lungs, “Show begins in five minutes!”

  I’d kill to see what the Shifters are putting on at this site. Last time, Roman made himself rotund and covered every inch of his torso in tattoos, so he resembled an old-school globe. But the ticket in my hand burns at the thought of some kid stealing my seat. I follow the throng toward the black entrance curtains. I’ll catch the freaks at intermission.

  “You’ve never seen anything like this before,” Kingston said. Two days in, and he and Melody were still the only ones who talked to me, but it was better than nothing. We stood at the back of the tent. He was in his costume and I wore a new pair of jeans and T-shirt that had miraculously appeared in my bunk the night I settled in. The performers were running in and out of the tent to catch their cues. To me, it all looked like well-orchestrated chaos. Kingston motioned for me to sneak closer, so I did, standing beside him and peering out through a crack in the curtain. Even then I was horribly aware of his proximity. I could see the contortionists doing their dance onstage, their white costumes sparkling in the magenta lights above as they folded themselves on top of each other, balancing on elbows and chins, tips of toes curling under shoulders. I looked over to Kingston, who had a smile on his face even though he’d already admitted to seeing the show a thousand times. He looked over at me and caught my stare. “You’re a part of this, now. It’s your home.”

  I looked out again and watched the contortionists stand and take their bows, bathing in the applause. I closed my eyes and imagined myself out there; I could feel the pulse of fear and adrenaline and ecstasy, the mix of fight-or-flight that somehow pushes performers to entertain. The roar of the audience filled me. Home.

  The first few acts go off without a hitch. The jugglers begin strong and don’t drop a single club or dagger. The contortionists follow, dancing their beautiful duet of entwining limbs and arching backs. I can practically feel the crowd’s excitement as each act gives way to the next, the anticipation growing with every performer. Three violet lengths of fabric lower from the ceiling, rippling like water as the aerialists ascend and begin twisting and dancing high above, their white costumes flickering in the spotlights. I can remember only one of their names — Arietta Skye, a girl no older than me with brown hair and eyes the color of the ocean. She seems to lead the other two in the
ir dance. She is the first to roll in a dizzying drop toward the ground, and she is the one who smiles the widest.

  I applaud louder than usual as Kingston and Melody take the stage. When they take their bow, I distinctly catch Kingston winking at me. Then he’s waving and running offstage. It’s not until the next act — Spanish Web — that I realize I’m still blushing.

  It’s during the flying trapeze act that I notice her. At first, I thought it was just a shadow moving high up in the cupola. But then I squint and make out a figure moving up among the narrow catwalks strung between the lights. Lilith. I shake my head, trying not to wonder how she can stomach being up there when just yesterday she was nearly killed by the very poles she’s dangling from. I’m surprised no one else is pointing up at her, but then again, she’s wearing all black. I have a feeling that she’s done this so many times before, she knows no one else is going to see her.

  That one glance makes my head ring. The scent of smoke fills my nostrils like an afterthought. Nothing’s burning, though, and the moment I look away from her, it’s gone.

  The trapeze artists climb their two tiny rope ladders that attach to the foot-wide platforms high up above. They are dressed in dark, shimmering outfits that remind me of dragonfly wings, and the dim blue lights onstage make them look otherworldly. Mist seethes along the ground as the music changes to something deeper, slower, more ambient and foreboding. It’s all strings and drumbeats now. The singer, Gretchen, hums into her microphone as the first performers grab on to the trapeze and swing out above the crowd’s heads. There’s no net below them. No one dies in this circus, Kingston had said. Every act is a testament to that promise.

  The fliers swing out, then back to their platforms. A simple swing. Then as one of the fliers lands and poses on one platform for the mild applause, the other is inverting himself and latching his legs on the bar. He swings toward the other platform with his hands free. The man who just took a swing changes places with a girl, who launches herself over the space, swinging toward the inverted man who arcs toward her with open hands. The girl releases her grip at the swing’s apex, flips twice in midair, and latches on to the man’s wrists. They glide gracefully over to the platform, where she dismounts and waves. He grabs hold of a tether to keep from swinging out again, one arm raised in salute. The applause is deafening.