“Now that your terms are settled, I’ll show you around the company. You’ll find that we are a very warm, open community here.” She swept around the desk and put a hand on my shoulder. “Are you ready?”
She helped me to my feet and opened the door to the trailer. It was still pouring outside, but the moment she stepped out there was a large lacy umbrella in her hand, the type you’d expect to see Morticia holding in the Addams Family. She held it out for me, and when I stepped out into the rain, the door shut behind us on its own accord.
She led me around the trailers, pointing out who lived where and what the daily schedule was like, when to wake up for breakfast, and when my turn for washing pots would be. The exact memory was hazy; sometimes, when I thought back, I remembered blood on the knees of my jeans. Other times, I just remember them being ragged.
“And this,” she said, leading me to a small tent pitched up next to what she called the pie cart, “is Kingston. Consider him your tutor, if you will.”
“Vivienne,” Kingston said, and I was too entranced by everything to realize he already knew my name. His eyes were deep brown, the color of coffee, and there was something about the way his lip curved in the corner that made it look like he was on the verge of a joke. He was stunning. “It’s nice to meet you. Mab said you’d be joining us soon.”
I remember glancing back to Mab, who was smiling but had a look in her eyes that said, quite clearly, no more.
Kingston cleared his throat and took my hand. His touch was warm. He was in jeans and a worn Icelandic-style sweater, and there was a thick paperback on the table next to him. I tried to smile, but my heart was still racing from whatever it was that came before this. His touch wasn’t helping any, either.
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
For the first time in a long time, I actually meant it.
A few miles pass us by, and I’m starting to feel more awake. The caravan of trucks stops at a gas station around nine, and we all get out, stretch our legs, and head straight for the Dunkin’ Donuts for coffee and sugar. Kingston’s in there with Mel. They both look like they’re coming off some bad trip, with dark circles under their eyes and a shake to their hands as they hold their coffee cups. In the fluorescent lighting, their skin looks like paper. The high from Penelope’s revelation wears off. Here I was, thinking I’d run in and do something brave and stupid like kissing Kingston without so much as a hello. But they both look like they’re five steps from the grave. Not the time for large acts of desperation.
“You guys look like shit,” I say as I walk up to them. “You feeling okay?”
“What do you think?” Kingston says.
He starts to leave, and Melody and I follow. We sit on a concrete bench out front, one overlooking the highway and the sun that’s already burning through the haze of traffic. Kingston fishes around in his pocket and pulls out a pack of unmarked cigarettes. He takes one out and brings it to his lips, cups the other hand around it like he has a lighter, though I know it’s just a feint. The smoke that curls out smells like cinnamon and brimstone. His eyes practically flutter with happiness, though he still looks bone tired. We watch the rest of the troupe mill around for a while. Lilith’s near the dog park, doing somersaults in the grass while Poe stretches in the sun. When no one says anything, I speak up.
“I saw something last night.” There’s no one around, and Mab’s still in her black Jag E-Type, but I’m whispering nonetheless. I don’t care what Penelope was trying to hint at; these two are my only friends. “I tried to tell you after the act. But there was a guy in the crowd. Blond, seemed pissed off at everything.” I look at Kingston but he’s concentrating on his cigarette. He just doesn’t want to admit he should have listened. “After you found Mab, she came out and took him backstage.”
“So that’s what you were doing,” Melody says. I stare at her. “What? I was talking with Heath last night. He said you came in looking for Mab.”
Are there any safe secrets in this troupe? I look at Kingston and remember Lilith’s outburst. I wonder how long it will take for it to get back to him. I wonder if he’ll still talk to me after he knows. I take a few sips of coffee and then continue.
“Yeah, well, I found her. She and this guy, they were talking out back. Something about some treaty being broken.”
“They’re always looking for some reason to shut us down,” Kingston finally says.
“Who?”
“The Summer Court. Only other time we had to pack up like last night was’83. Mab was raging for weeks.”
’83. So maybe Penelope wasn’t joking about his love life. I can’t help but stare at him and try to figure out if even his twenty-four-year-old body is one of his illusions. It’s not something I have brain power to think about. Melody nods and takes another nibble from her doughnut. She’s hunched over herself, elbows on knees, brown hair falling over her eyes. Give her some emaciated ribs and she’d easily pass for a junkie.
“But why?” I ask. “We’re just a circus.”
Kingston laughs and Mel chuckles, which once more turns into a hack she tries to hide behind a drink of coffee.
“Just a circus?” he asks. “You really think that’s what this whole operation is?”
I raise an eyebrow. “What else would it be? We travel around the country in a blue and grey tent, putting on shows. Sounds like a circus to me.”
“Viv,” Melody says when her coughing fit’s over. “We’re talking about Queen Mab here. The Faerie Queen of legend, ruler of the Winter Court. You really think she just gave up ruling an entire kingdom to wander the mortal world and put on a show?”
I shrug. “Everyone gets bored, right?”
Mel shakes her head and shares a what-an-idiot look with Kingston. Then she looks back at me with a grin on her face.
“Time for a lesson in supply and demand,” she says. “What do faeries live on?”
“I dunno. Honey?”
Kingston laughs again and continues where Melody left off.
“Not quite. Faeries live off dreams. Why do you think faerie tales exist in the first place? The fey are secretive as hell; if they wanted to remain anonymous, they would. So why would a group that prefers to stay away from mankind let mankind even know they exist?”
“I…”
“Right,” he says. “You don’t know. Faerie tales are like seeds.” He waves a hand, and the smoke trailing from his cigarette curls into itself, forms a tight little nut-shape floating in the air. “We tell them to kids because it makes their imaginations run wild with thoughts of magic and the supernatural.” The smoke-seed breaks open, tendrils sprouting wildly like vines. “Those thoughts feed the fey. Without them, they die.”
I interrupt him. “What happened before humans?”
“I’ve never asked,” Kingston says, an eyebrow raised. “The point is,” he continues, the tree of smoke-vines before him beginning to fade and wilt, “over time, faerie tales started to lose their ability to inspire. Kids believed them, but adults stopped. Technology overtook the story.” The smoke fades out entirely, blown away in a gust of wind. “The stories weren’t enough. So, Mab decided to be proactive. A more in-your-face approach.”
“She made us,” I say.
“She made us,” Kingston continues. “We spark people’s imaginations, get adults dreaming of the impossible. And those dreams, all those hopes and fantasies, they feed the fey.”
Melody spreads her arms wide. “We are the lunch ladies of the faerie world. The Dream Traders.”
She chuckles and coughs again, which stifles the humor of her statement.
“Okay, I’ll buy it,” I say. “But if that’s the case, why would the Summer Court want us to stop?”
Kingston gets an evil grin and takes one last, long drag on his cigarette, then flicks it to the curb. It turns into a moth and flutters away before ever hitting the concrete.
“Because,” he says, “if you hadn’t noticed, Mab’s a woman of business. All those dreams we pro
cure, all that magical faerie food? It’s reserved. All for the Winter Court. Which, of course, means Summer is hungry. And pissed.”
“Can’t they make their own damn show?” I say.
“Come on,” Kingston says. “Faeries are proud. The Summer King would never stoop to imitating his enemy.”
“Besides,” Mel says, “The name Cirque du Soleil was already taken.”
We reach the new site a few hours later, in some town whose name I missed in between napping. It’s on a beach, I get that much. The trucks park a few hundred yards from the shoreline in what looks like an old soccer field. I jump out of the cab and stretch my legs. Poe slinks beside me and vanishes under the truck; Lilith slides out behind him.
“Lilith,” I say, quietly, once the door is shut. “What did Mab say to you last night? After you left?” She’s looking at me with a blank expression on her face. “You know,” I continue, “after she met with the bad man. We were hiding under the truck.” I crouch down to emphasize the point. She smiles, and I try to smile too. Her smile quickly fades.
“You’re mean,” she says. The sober tone is back. “You help me, make me think you’re my friend. But you want to take him from me. You’re bad. Bad. Just like bad man.”
Then she turns and runs off, cartwheeling toward the tide. I watch her go with a sinking feeling in my stomach. Just looking at her brings the scent of brimstone back to my nostrils. That, and the fact that when I looked into those green eyes, a part of me felt like I should be screaming.
CHAPTER SEVEN: BYE BYE BABY
The tent gets set up that night. I half-expect Mab to come out and demand that Kingston magic the tent back to standing, but much to my surprise — and Kingston’s, apparently — he’s been given the night off. Melody, Kingston and I sit on the beach and watch the moon rise over the water while behind us, lit by giant floodlights that turn everything the color of bone, the tent rises like a monstrous skeleton. The sound of the waves is accented with thuds and clangs and curses from the tent crew as they work their graveyard shift.
We don’t really talk, the three of us. Instead, we share two bottles of red wine and sink back into the sand. After the day we’ve had, there’s really not much space to say anything. All any of us are after is the calm that comes from good company and contented silence. Halfway through the first bottle, Melody lays her head in Kingston’s lap and stares at the stars while he runs his fingers absentmindedly through her hair. Something turns over in my chest when I see that, some memory of comfort and love I can’t quite place, but I don’t say anything. Now that I know it’s entirely platonic, I’m only filled with the hope that maybe, someday, he’ll act like that with me. I’m already tipsy before I can start thinking how I feel about this, this sudden knowledge that I have a sliver of a chance with Kingston. I can’t tell if it makes things easier or worse.
“I really don’t know what’s wrong with you,” he whispers to Mel, and he seriously sounds sorry about it, like it’s all his fault. She reaches up and touches his arm.
“Don’t worry,” she says with a small smile. “I’ll be fine.”
I turn back to watch the tide, my head filled with thoughts I wish I could share but can’t bring myself to voice. The man from the Summer Court, Lilith’s disapproving glare. My contract. It hasn’t even been a month and I feel more confused than when I started, like maybe things were simpler before I came here. Whatever “before here” actually entailed. The wine is not making it any easier to think.
A few minutes later, I look back over at the two of them, watching him run his fingers through her hair. Mel’s eyes are closed and her chest is rising and falling in rhythm with the tide. She looks peaceful like that, fast asleep. Even peaceful when she lets out a soft snore. Kingston’s looking out at the moon, his eyes distant. I’d give anything to switch places with Melody, to have him run his fingers through my hair.
He looks to me and smiles. Just that is enough to make my stomach warm.
“Why do you look at her like that?” I whisper, the wine making me bolder than I should be. Melody doesn’t stir.
“Like what?” he asks. He doesn’t stop twining his fingers through her hair. Yeah, I’d give anything to switch spots.
“Like you’re responsible for her.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
I huff and lean back into the sand.
“I could be here a while,” I say. “You might as well get used to the fact that if I don’t understand now, I will eventually.”
“What do you mean?”
I think back to my conversation with Penelope, though the memory is a swirl of wine.
“I don’t know how long my contract is,” I say.
He says nothing to that, but he doesn’t look away. It’s me that has to avert my gaze; there’s an intensity in those coffee-colored eyes I just can’t match.
“I am responsible for her,” he finally says.
“What?”
“Melody. I’m responsible for her.”
“She’s twenty-two,” I say.
“Age is deceiving,” he replies. I know he’s not just talking about Mel. He looks away. “I found her, much like — ” he stutters, “much like Mab found you. If not for me, she wouldn’t be here.” He brings his gaze back down and traces a finger along Mel’s forehead. Maybe it’s the drink, but I swear a faint blue light swirls beneath her skin, a pattern I barely glimpse before it’s gone. “If not for me,” he whispers, so soft I can barely hear it, “she wouldn’t be getting sick.”
“It’s not your fault,” I say, though the defense sounds weak. He doesn’t say anything, so I try to make an actual point of it. “I mean, Mab brought me here and some crazy shit’s gone down, but I don’t regret it.”
I look back to the tent, to the Shifters milling around. The sides are being pulled up now, the skeleton gaining skin.
“This is better than whatever I came from,” I say, though even as the words are leaving my mouth, I know it’s not true. I have no idea what I came from. I can’t even remember what street I lived on. The thought infuriates me for a moment, makes me want to scream at the top of my lungs and rip everything apart. And then it’s gone, and I don’t know what I was thinking about in the first place.
He laughs, and I look over.
“What?” I ask. What were we talking about?
He’s smiling. It looks genuine.
“You’re cute,” he says. “Drunk is a good look on you.”
“I’m not drunk,” I say. I realize a little too late that it sounds slurred. I chuckle and fall back in the sand.
“Get some sleep,” he says.
I don’t want to, but after all the running around today and the lack of sleep last night, it’s hard to resist.
I close my eyes and listen to the waves as I sway with the heaviness of wine. I want to tell him he’s beautiful, that he isn’t responsible for everyone. That Melody’s lucky no matter what because she has him looking out for her. I don’t say any of this; the words just won’t piece together. I’m drifting when I feel something brush through my hair. I don’t open my eyes to see if the fingers are real or just my imagination. Melody’s lucky she has you. When sleep comes, it washes everything to grey.
“Shit,” Kingston says, and I’m pulled from dreams of nothing. The sun is just rising, the pale light making everything pink and purple and beautiful. But that’s not enough to mask the screams coming from the tent. I sit up, sand stuck to every inch of me. Both Melody and Kingston are pushing themselves to standing.
“You don’t think?” Mel asks, and Kingston closes his eyes. Although he looks much more well-rested than yesterday, there’s a weariness around his eyes that seems to grow by the minute. If it weren’t for the screaming, I’d be sorely tempted to tell him to go back to sleep.
“I don’t want to find out,” he says.
My heart is sinking into the dirt. A crowd gathers by one of the trailers, and the scene from a few days ago is playing on loop in my head.
“Come on,” I say, and head toward the chaos.
The two of them are right behind me, and it’s not ’til I’m running up the grassy slope toward the field that I realize Melody’s lagging behind. I turn back. No, not lagging, limping. One arm is around Kingston, her face twisted with pain. She must have slept wrong or something. I don’t slow down. I want to see this before Mab takes over.
When I reach the trailers and push my way to the front of the crowd, I’m immediately glad I haven’t eaten anything yet.
It’s Roman. He’s naked, except for socks and boxers, like he’d been killed in his sleep. Except he was clearly awake for this; his eyes and mouth are wide open and his body is arched back, supported by six swords piercing his spine, the tips just poking out the front of his torso. He’s covered in thick blood that drips down his arms and pools on the grass below. His powder-blue mohawk is stained purple. Flies are already gathering.
I push aside the nausea and look around, scan the crowd, try to find someone who’s missing, something out of place. But everyone’s there, and everyone looks horribly shocked. Everyone except for Lilith, who’s nowhere to be seen.
The crowd parts like a sobbing Red Sea the moment Mab arrives. She isn’t even trying to look mortal, now. She glides over the ground like a wraith, the grass beneath her long, black, smoke-like dress turning to ice. Her green eyes are blazing, and I swear her nails are talons.
“What is the meaning of this?” she hisses, and the crowd draws back. She moves forward and reaches out, her hand hovering an inch above Roman’s face. “Roman,” she whispers, the intensity of her rage dimming with her words. “Who did this to you?”
She turns back to the crowd and points. Again, they part, all of them except Sheena, the purple-haired girl who was working the novelties booth two nights ago. She seems rooted to the spot, her eyes locked on Mab’s. I can tell she’s not afraid, but she looks wary.
The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels) Page 8