The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

by Kahler, A. R.

  Then she goes back over to Richard — who is, of course, practicing with knives. Eight of them. They're even on fire. I stay in the corner to fumble around on my own. I try. Over and over. But I don’t have the coordination, and with every failed attempt, the image of Mab’s angry face grows in my mind. Then I just start freaking out that in this case, getting fired might actually mean getting incinerated. An hour later, Vanessa tells me to head out before I frustrate myself. A bit too late for that. I drop the balls into their prop trunk and wander off, sorely tempted to find Kingston and have him Matrix me.

  I don’t, of course. Instead, I make my way back to the trailers and find Sheena sitting by herself under the awning of the dining area, a book in one hand and a mug in the other. I’ve only spoken with her once, in my first week here. She took me aside after dinner and asked to read my tea leaves. As I drank down the bitter tea, we made small talk about life and art and how nice it was to get away. When she read the dregs, her eyebrows furrowed, and she said my future was hazy, like my past. Then she started talking about all the indie bands she’d seen on tour, and asked what sort of music I liked. We hadn’t spoken much since then, but she smiled at me whenever she saw me. For me, that made her my friend. I sit down beside her, and it’s not until I clear my throat that she looks up and notices me there.

  “Oh, Vivienne. Sorry.” She holds up the book. “Got carried away.”

  “It’s fine,” I say. I’ve been trying to figure out how to broach the subject all day, and I still haven’t gotten an idea. So I just ask straight out, “Why are you hiding that you’re a faerie? I mean, you’re in good company.”

  She does a little half-smile and puts the book down. It’s then that I notice the coffee cup is empty, but she’s still cradling it like it’s the nectar of life.

  “Well,” she says. “That’s a political matter. I’m kind of a refugee.”

  A few months ago, I’d have no clue what she was talking about. Now I was catching on.

  “You’re from the Summer Court,” I say, because it’s not really a question.

  She smiles at me, and her cheeks dimple. “Yes,” she says. “A few years ago, I found myself on the losing end of a deal with a satyr. My only option was to flee, but in Faerie, there’s nowhere to go. Mab found me and offered me sanctuary in exchange for my services to the show.”

  “And let me guess: the Summer Court still has a warrant out for your arrest.”

  Sheena laughs at this. “I’d say arrest is a nice way of putting it. Eternal torture and servitude is more accurate.”

  “Thus the human disguise.”

  She nods, and her smile slips. “I don’t know how you manage to do it. Human skin is so…suffocating.”

  “Are you worried?” I ask. “That someone will sell you out? Now that you’re in the open.”

  “Not really,” she says. The smile she gives me is horribly sad. “Mab and I sorted that out when I signed on. If I’m ever taken from the troupe against my will, my life is immediately forfeit.”

  “You mean your contract will kill you if you’re stolen?”

  “Yes,” she says. “There are many worse things than death.”

  And now we’re edging close to the subject I’ve wanted to ask her about all day. I still don’t have a nice segue, so I just ask.

  “Like what happened to Roman?” I whisper.

  “Yes,” she says. “Though his death was quick in comparison to what to my own fate would be. He was just a half-blood, not a traitor like me.”

  I pick the next words carefully. Sheena seems to be the first person who is honestly willing to talk about what’s been going on. I don’t want to mess this up.

  “So…your safety’s clearly important to Mab. Why would she jeopardize all that? What was she asking you to do?”

  “Big questions,” Sheena says. “And I can’t answer the first because I truly do not know. As to what she wanted from me, well…in my contract, she has the right to call upon my skills whenever she deems it necessary. Today was such a time.”

  “And those skills are?”

  “I’m a medium.”

  “You’re like Miss Cleo?”

  “No,” she says with a laugh. “When I’m in my true form, I can communicate with the recently deceased, before they pass on. I can catch the last few moments of their life, ask them questions. In the case of murder, I can see who or what killed them.”

  “But you said you were blocked from Roman?”

  “Yes,” she says, and her eyes look down to the ground. “His spirit was there. I could sense it. But it was blocked. I couldn’t reach it.”

  “I take it that’s never happened before.”

  She laughs, “It should be impossible. Like everything else going on.”

  The show goes up that night without a hitch. Anyone on the outside wouldn’t have noticed a thing. But for those of us within the troupe, well, it felt different. There’s an energy before a show — an excitement and expectation — like every time has the potential to feel like the first. Not so this time around. The clouds came in shortly after dinner; the sky grew heavy, mirroring our mood. There was no pre-show circle and cheer. There was no pep talk from Mab to rally our spirits after the horrendous morning. No. She was absent, appearing only to introduce the show and to do her postintermission whip act. No one knew where she spent the rest of the time, and no one was about to ask.

  I watched the jugglers from the side aisle. Vanessa and Richard flipped and cartwheeled and threw clubs and knives and flaming torches high in the air, cartwheeling around before coming together for the dramatic catches. Not a single club was dropped, and when they took their bow, their faces gleamed like they’d been a duo act all along. The entire thing made my stomach clench. There was no way in hell I’d ever be that good. No way. Not in a week.

  When the magic show was up, Melody appeared onstage with a ton of makeup to cover whatever was ailing her, and Kingston played up his part of fumbling magician with panache. For their final trick, he waved his wand in the air, chanting a gibberish spell he told the crowd would make Melody grow ten feet tall before their very eyes. “A feat,” he said, “defying the laws of her seemingly prepubescent nature.” But rather than change height, she disappeared in a puff of pink smoke and laughing applause. Kingston bowed and walked offstage. I followed.

  “How’s she feeling?” I ask when I find him backstage.

  “Horrible,” he says. He flops down on a trunk and peels off the cape, tossing it onto the table beside him. This time, the serpent tattoo is curled over his stomach, the head nestled between his shoulder blades and the tail spiraled around his navel.

  “Where is she?” I ask.

  “Back in bed,” he says. “I sent her straight back to her trailer. I don’t want her getting any worse.”

  He bites his lip. It doesn’t make him look cute or childish. It makes him look like every worry in the world is stacked on his shoulders.

  “You really care about her, don’t you?” I ask. I want to reach out and comfort him, tell him it will all be okay. But I don’t, because I can’t be sure about that, and I’ve already gotten myself neck-deep from one lie today.

  “She’s like a sister,” he says. “I don’t know what I’d do if she got hurt.” His voice hitches.

  That does it for me. I sit down beside him and, before I can think better of it, put an arm around his shoulders. He stiffens and then leans into me, his hair tickling my chin. He smells like talc and spice and I want to remember that scent forever. I don’t want to have to let him go.

  “She’ll be okay,” I say, praying it’s not a lie. “It’s just a cold.”

  “Don’t you get it?” he says, but his words aren’t at all harsh and he doesn’t push away. He just sounds tired. “She can’t get sick. She is contractually obligated not to get sick, just like the rest of us. She’s being targeted.”

  Things click, things that I don’t want making sense.

  “You think she’s next,”
I say.

  He doesn’t answer, just nods and takes a deep, slow breath.

  “This is fucked up,” he says. “We’re just sitting around like ducks waiting to be picked off.”

  Something burns inside of me, and before I realize what I’m saying, the words tumble out of my mouth.

  “I’ll protect you. I’ll protect both of you.”

  He leans away from me then and gives me a wry smile.

  “That’s cute. Heroic, even. But if Mab can’t protect us, what hope do you have?”

  CHAPTER NINE: TOO CLOSE

  I’m wandering around a few hours after the show. The punters are gone, and the lot is empty of cars. A couple performers are outside at the pie cart having cake and coffee and trying to make light conversation, but I don’t stick around very long to listen in. My feet feel antsy. The need to wander is tugging at me, but there’s nowhere to go. Besides, I don’t want to go far after this morning’s horrifying reality check. The sky above is completely clouded over, and the air tastes like rain. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something flash, and I shrug it off as lightning. I kick the popcorn box at my feet, trying to convince myself to pick it up and throw it out. I’m still trying to figure out how, precisely, I’m going to protect everyone, and kicking this box around the big top is about all the answer I’ve found so far. Another flash goes up, this one a soft blue that lasts for more than a split second. I look toward it. Down at the beach, someone is shooting off fireworks.

  The time it takes for my mind to decide between popcorn box and fireworks is infinitesimal. I head to the beach.

  Once I’ve left the pitch behind and am halfway down the sloping lawn, I hear the music. It gets louder with every footstep, and the fireworks are growing more chaotic. Brilliant flashes and bursts are going up every second. But they aren’t making any noise, and nothing’s flying higher than the shrubs that are blocking my view. Must just be ground flares or something.

  I slow down when I reach the shrubs. The music is loud — some pop song with a heavy dance beat that reminds me a bit too much of the music from Noir. I still can’t hear any noise from the fireworks, even though I can’t be more than a few yards from their detonation point. When I clear the shrubs, I stop.

  Kingston is standing in the sand, barefoot and wearing a pair of dark cargo shorts and nothing else. There aren’t any fireworks.

  He’s dancing along to the music, his eyes closed or half-lidded, the sweat making his body shine. His feet trace circles in the sand and his arms sweep around. One hand reaches out, stretching to the lake, and curls of light snake from his forearm and flare over the ground. He looks different, somehow. His hair is matted, sand is covering his bare calves. And that’s when I realize what’s different. His tattoo is moving.

  The serpent is undulating across his skin, twining from neck to shoulder, curling around his arms, as sinuous as the dance Kingston is weaving. Lights pulse from his fingertips, arcing over his body. Every movement of his arms is traced by light, every thrust of his hand and kick of his leg throws sparks over the sand. He is wild and feral, yet his movements are deliberate and controlled, like some form of tai chi on crack. The music is pulsing, pulsing, and he responds.

  I know I’m not meant to be seeing this. I don’t really know what it is I’m seeing, but it seems personal, private, and the last thing I want is for him to open his eyes, see me there, and stop. I could watch him move all night.

  Right before I tear my eyes away, though, he stops and cups his hands at his stomach. His head tilts back to the sky. The music is still throbbing wildly and I want to dance, want him to dance, but something’s changing now. The serpent tattoo gathers at his stomach. As he pulls his hands up, the serpent moves, like he’s holding it in his hands. He brings his arms above his head and the tattoo writhes up one arm, curls around his wrist, and, in a flood of silver-gold ink, spills into the sky.

  I gasp. I can’t help it. And that’s when Kingston opens his eyes and looks straight into mine. He lowers his arms and the glowing feathered serpent floats in the air above him, curling like a snake in water.

  “How long have you been watching?” he asks.

  I can hear his voice perfectly, and it’s only then that I realize the music has faded out. There isn't a stereo to be seen.

  “What are you doing out here?” I ask instead. I can’t keep my eyes off the creature hovering and twisting above his head. Its path leaves traces of light behind my eyelids every time I blink.

  “Practicing,” he says. He follows my gaze and grins. “Vivienne,” he says. “Meet Zal.”

  The serpent-dragon-thingy turns to regard me. And winks.

  “What is it?” I ask. I start walking forward, my feet sinking into the sand. I’m drawn to the apparition like a moth to the flame.

  “My familiar,” he says. The serpent drifts down and wraps around Kingston’s outstretched arm, almost like it’s perching there. “All witches have one.”

  I’m only a few feet away now. I can see every glittering scale on the thing. Its body is the palest gold, and the feathers sprouting from its head are teal and mint and dusty rose. Its eyes are golden yellow, like amber. They’re the only part of the thing that seems solid. Kingston reaches his free hand over and strokes the snake’s mane. I swear it purrs.

  “But what is it?” I say again.

  “A Quetzalcoatl,” he says. “I found him while we were doing a tour in Mexico. Mab was in one of her better moods and said it was time I found my familiar. I’d only been with her for a year or two by then, and I still didn’t really know what it meant to be, well, a witch.” His lip twitches in a smile, as though he’s still not used to the word. “Anyway, she took me…somewhere. First, we were walking down some back alley in Mexico City and then, bam. We’re in the middle of a tropical jungle straight out of National Geographic. And right in front of us was this temple, older than old. Aztec, she said. And hidden from mortals by their priests. It looked like a pyramid, but the sides were entirely made up of steps and there was some sort of pavilion up top. She made me walk up alone. When I got there, I found him curled up on top of an obsidian mirror.”

  The serpent makes its purring noise again, rubbing its head against Kingston’s pec. Kingston smiles and ruffles its feathers.

  “The moment I saw him, I knew he was my familiar. It just clicked. He’s been with me ever since.” He glances at me and his grin widens. “You can pet him, if you want. He doesn’t bite.”

  It’s stupid how much I trust Kingston. I reach out and pet the thing without hesitation. It feels like warm static beneath my fingertips, just the barest amount of solidity.

  “He’s beautiful,” I say, because there’s really not much else to say when looking at something that probably descended from a god. “Why do you keep him as…why is he your tattoo?”

  Kingston shrugs. “Keeps him nearby. A familiar is an animal extension of a witch’s soul, so it made sense. Besides, people tend to stare when he's out.”

  I look from the golden creature to the space on Kingston’s chest where it usually resides.

  “I think people stare no matter what,” I say. The words tumble from my mouth before I can stop them. My face immediately heats up in a violent blush. Thankfully, he just laughs while I desperately try to change the subject.

  “Why are you out here?” I ask again, because I know in my gut he hasn’t really answered.

  Kingston looks down and kicks the sand at his feet like a little boy.

  “When I practice…it’s the only time I feel like I have any control over all this anymore. You know?”

  I nod. I do know. It’s the same reason I’m out here, the same reason my tired body refuses to give in and sleep. Someone we care about is in danger and there’s nothing — nothing — we can do about it.

  Kingston stares at me. Not in a quizzical way, and not in a joking way. He’s looking at me like he knows precisely what I’m doing on the beach. Like that’s throwing him for a loop. I’m suddenly al
l too aware of my pulse and how it’s speeding up. What a first kiss this would be, standing on the beach and bathed in the light of his godly familiar. He catches the current and takes a half step toward me. My heart sticks in my throat. His heat is unbearable, the scent of his cologne fills me as he leans in.

  It begins to rain.

  And I’m not talking a romantic drizzle, I’m talking about a full-on downpour, like God decided to fuck with me and turn the tap on full blast. Kingston’s head shoots up and Zal starts writhing around above his head again. I am soaked to the bone in seconds. When Kingston speaks, I can barely hear him through the din. He looks disappointed and also a little embarrassed.

  “We should get you inside,” he says, putting a hand on my arm. His touch is hot. I can practically hear the rain sizzling off his skin. “Don’t want you getting pneumonia.”

  I bite my tongue. Go figure. Go fucking figure. But I’m not about to act desperate. Not now, not when his familiar’s watching like an expectant house cat.

  “Right,” I say.

  We don’t say anything else as he guides me back up to the trailers, but his hand doesn’t stray from my arm, not until we get back to my bunk and he opens the door. Once I’m inside, he snaps his fingers. I’m dry immediately.

  I can’t really describe how he looks, standing on the bottom step of my trailer, his hair dripping rivers down his soaked body, and every inch of him glowing in Zal’s golden light. One hand is on the door frame, like he’s trying to hold himself up. Or back. I’m not sure which. And I want nothing more than to lean over and kiss him goodnight, but I don’t.

  “Goodnight,” I say.

  “Goodnight,” he replies.

  Then he raps his hand on the frame once and steps down. I close the door before I can change my mind about the whole kissing thing. A part of me hopes that he’ll knock. I even wait by the door a few breaths, just in case.