“You going to practice?” Kingston asks, clearly trying to keep the conversation light. We can see the pie cart from here, and people are slowly starting to meander off to wash their plates and practice or take a quick run into town. I see that Richard and Vanessa have a table to themselves, and seem deep in discussion.
“I don’t think there’s a point in practicing anymore,” I say. It feels stupid, worrying about learning how to juggle when one of my only friends is practically in a coma and we’re all at risk of getting murdered. But, as Mab said, the show must go on, with or without us. Just the thought of being thrown back to the outside world makes my stomach flip. I try not to count the days I have left on my fingers.
He takes a deep breath. “If you want, I could help out.”
The weight of what he says stuns me for a moment. Sure, I’d entertained the idea, but having him actually offer to mess with my mind makes me pause.
“I thought you said you didn’t do that anymore.”
He looks away, toward Melody’s door. “I’ll do what I have to to keep you around. Even if Mab said what she did in anger, she can’t negate it. Faeries can’t lie.”
“It’s not important,” I say, though I’m touched by his words. There’s more to this guy than I first thought. “I kind of think there are bigger things at stake.”
He sighs. “Maybe.”
“Why is it such a big deal?” I say. “The Dream Trade, I mean.”
The question’s been nagging at me ever since he mentioned it, and after last night’s spying venture, it sounds like there’s more to it than just sustenance. It almost sounded like some drug cartel, the way the Summer Court was willing to kill just to have it stop. But they’re just dreams. Surely there are other ways of making people imagine.
Kingston takes a bite of his apple and stares up at the sun. “I told you, dreams are what keep the faeries alive. If people didn’t dream about them, they wouldn’t exist.”
“So they’re figments of our imagination?”
He chuckles. “Ask Mab that and find out. No, it’s more like a symbiotic relationship.”
“Last night when I was in the woods, the guy said the Dream Trade must stop. What if this isn’t about killing us? What if the Summer Court just wants Mab to stop hogging all the faerie food?”
Kingston grins at me. “I’m sure Mab already thought of that, and it’s really not so cut and dry.” He tosses the apple aside and stands, reaching his hand down to me. I take it; his grip is warm and slightly sticky. He pulls me to standing. “It’s time you saw the Wheel,” he says.
I don’t question. He doesn’t let go of my hand as he takes me around to another trailer. His touch tingles, and I don’t know if it’s magic or my imagination or some combination of both. I half-expect him to take me to some invisible, hidden door, but it’s just another bunk like any other. Door number zero.
“Now,” he says, looking over his shoulder with a conspiratorial grin, “You can’t tell anyone I showed you this. Technically speaking, Mab and I are the only ones allowed in.”
I glance around. There’s no one nearby — they’re all at lunch or practice. I’m hoping my streak of rebellious bad luck isn’t still with me.
“Maybe we shouldn’t — ” I begin. “I don’t want her more pissed off.”
“Pussy,” Kingston says. He squeezes my hand, though, and pulls open the door, stepping inside and dragging me in behind him.
The door closes silently, and at first it’s as dark as Mab’s trailer. It smells of hay and barn wood and summer heat. Kingston snaps his fingers and a flame appears, balancing on the tip of his index finger.
The flame floats out of his hand and disperses to all corners of the room, lighting a couple dozen candles along the way. The room glows with warm light, its contents slowly coming into focus.
It’s about ten feet square — much larger than the trailer, which makes me think we’re not actually in the trailer at all — and the walls are wood. The floor is cobblestone with tufts of hay scattered across the smooth grey stones. The room is entirely bare except for a single structure in the middle of the room. It’s wood and round and clunky and covered in threads. A loom.
It’s so ordinary it’s a letdown — not that I’ve seen any looms in real life. I could easily imagine Rumpelstiltskin sitting on one side, turning a pile of straw into gold. But there’s no one there. Still, the giant wheel — easily my height — turns slowly on its own, pulling a myriad of strings into place, the shuttle sliding back and forth at a lazy pace. Kingston takes me around to one side, to where the completed pattern is working itself out and draping into a large wicker basket.
“This,” he says, “is what all the fuss is about.”
I stare at it.
The fabric the loom produces is beautiful, sure. It’s a rainbow piece of cloth covered in twisting patterns and colorful swirls, but it doesn’t look special. Probably not worth creating an entire circus for. Definitely not worth killing over. Sabina’s and Roman’s and Melody’s bodies flash through my mind. All that suffering and loss, all for a bit of pretty silk?
“That’s it?” I say. I can’t help but sound disappointed. I was picturing some beautiful golden Wheel of Fate or something encrusted with diamonds. Something more up Mab’s alley. This? This is just something out of a heritage museum. It’s borderline pathetic.
“I knew you’d say that,” Kingston says. “Which is precisely why I brought you here.”
A pair of tiny scissors appears in his hands. The blades glint in the candlelight. He reaches down into the basket and snips, pulling out a tiny square of cloth. It’s barely the size of a thumbnail.
“This,” he says, holding the square with the scissor blades like a tiny morsel, “would sell in the Night Market for a minor favor or a day’s worth of subjugation.” He holds it out. “But I’ll give you a taste for free.”
“It’s a scrap of fabric.”
“Just touch it,” he says. I reach out. He drops the tiny blue square of cloth in my palm.
Lights explode across my vision and suddenly I’m no longer in the trailer; I’m soaring through the clouds, light shining from the heavens. My arms are stretched out to the sides and I’m giddy, laughing, bubbling with happiness. I swoop down, break cloud cover and smile at the brilliant green fields that stretch all the way to the horizon. I bank right, coast into a beam of soft sunlight —
And I’m back. My arms are stretched out to the sides and there’s a giant grin on my face. I quickly drop my hands and try to force away the dopey smile. Definitely not quickly enough.
“Flying dream, eh?” he says. “Should have thought as much. Blues usually are.”
I look down at the fabric in my hand. The tiny bolt is now grey. The moment I move, it dissolves into ash.
“One use only, I’m afraid,” he says.
“What was that?”
“A dream,” he says. “Energy. Pure, creative, spontaneous energy. Mortals experience it as visions. For the fey, it’s like oxygen.”
I look at the loom.
“So this, what, converts dreams into fabric?”
Kingston shrugs. “Something like that. It solidifies energy, focuses it into something tangible. I’ve seen Mab store it in crystals and books and skulls, whatever takes her fancy. This is just easier to regulate. She can sell by the yard and make a killer profit.”
“You make her sound like some sort of drug lord,” I say.
“What’s the point of drugs if not to dream?” he says, and I can’t think of any way to counter that.
“Anyway, that’s the Trade. Mab converts all dreams in the tent into this, which she then sells or distributes to the other fey. Her own Court gets a discount, while Summer is taxed. But they need it, so they pay. Mortals don’t dream as much as they used to, and Summer’s still putting all their effort into the publishing industry…which wasn’t their best idea.”
I watch the loom weave its slow pattern, imagining it working double-speed whe
n the tent is full and imaginations soaring.
“I still don’t see why it’s such a big deal,” I say.
“It’s sustenance for them,” Kingston says. He moves in a little closer. “Entire civilizations have been destroyed for less. Religion, ideology, love.” He looks at me, a wild glint in his eyes. “Love is usually the one everyone feels is worth dying over.”
“Have you ever been in love?” I ask. I don’t know where the words come from. I only know I want him to answer without words, the way I’d like to draw him close and breathe him in.
“Have you?”
I reach out, my hand only an inch from his arm.
And then there’s a knock at the door. Kingston jerks back and walks over to it. Damn my shitty luck.
“Should I hide?” I ask. Even as I say it, I know there’s nowhere to hide in the space.
He just looks at me and shakes his head with a smile that makes me feel idiotic. He opens the door. It’s Lilith. She barely gives me a second glance as she steps into the room.
“Saw you, saw you come here,” she says. “Important, important.” She goes up on tiptoes to whisper something in his ear, something that makes his eyes go wide. If he looked pale before, now he looks positively ghostly.
“Show me,” he says, and jumps out the door. Lilith goes right after him. Neither of them look back to see if I’m following, but I run over and hop out the door into the blinding sun. They’re already sprinting toward the chapiteau. I follow.
Lilith takes us around to the far side of the tent, the one facing the woods. Poe is sitting beside one of the support stakes, staring at the blue wall panel with a bristle to his fur. Lilith slows down when she gets there. It takes me a moment to figure out what caused Kingston to raise a hand to his mouth. Then I see it. There, in the seam between the blue and grey panels, is a rip. Not just a tiny tear, but a good eight-foot gash that starts just above arm’s reach and stops a few inches above the grass.
“No,” Kingston whispers over and over, like a terrible mantra. I look away from the rip and stare at him. Lilith is kneeling at his side, one hand out to pet Poe, the other reaching up to lace around Kingston’s fingers. He looks mortified.
After a moment of standing there, I ask the question digging at me.
“What’s the big deal?”
He looks at me like I’ve just spoken the worst of heresies.
“Get Mab,” he says through his fingertips. “Get her. Now.”
I know that look, ‘the sky is falling’ darkness, and I turn without question and run straight toward Mab’s trailer.
Mab’s door opens immediately after the first knock.
She stands before me in a leather vest and a black mesh undershirt that reaches her knee-high leather boots. Her leggings are black leather as well, and her waist is cinched with a belt of tiny silver skulls. Behind her, the trailer is swathed in shadows and candlelight and the scent of moss and pine. She leans out the door toward me. I step back, almost dropping into a curtsy.
“Mab,” I say. “Kingston…Kingston told me to get you. The tent — ”
“What about the tent?” she asks, cutting me off. She steps down and the door closes behind her. “What else could possibly go wrong today?”
“There’s a rip.”
She actually flinches back at this, as though I’ve slapped her across her rouged cheekbones. One hand goes to her chest, the other reaches out and grabs me by the shirt. She pulls me in close. “Show me.”
I lead her across the grounds, over to where Kingston and Lilith are still standing. Neither of them has moved. Even Poe is transfixed by the rip.
Mab releases my shirt and steps past the two of them, one hand just barely touching the tent, her fingers flinching back as though it’s on fire. She hovers there a moment, her face unreadable, and none of us dares to breathe, let alone ask what’s going on. It’s just a fucking rip in the seam, I want to say, but clearly there’s more to it than that. Like most things in this company, I have no doubt there’s more to this than meets the eye.
“We tear down now,” Mab says. Her voice is quiet, and there’s a waver in her words. That note of fear is enough to make me believe the worst. She was calm for the murders, for the confrontation with the Summer Court’s herald. Whatever this is, it’s worse than all of that, and I have a terrible feeling it’s only the beginning of the end.
CHAPTER ELEVEN: SOONER OR LATER
I can bring you somewhere safe,” she said. She offered her hand, and I took it. I don’t remember why I had been in the alley, and I don’t know what had brought me to listen to a strange woman in the middle of Detroit. All I remember is that when she smiled, I believed her. Nothing could have been worse than what lay behind me.
She led me down the street, not saying much. People passed by us with umbrellas and raincoats and didn’t look at us twice, even though we should have looked out of place. They may have been dark shadows moving through the mist and rain. But Mab and I, we were something darker, something hidden in the corners of sight. When I think back, the one thing I remember is the greyness, the melancholy, and the splash of crimson that was Mab’s dress. Then we turned the corner and stepped into another world.
The tent rose above us in the neon-lit park, all blue and wild and vibrant, Cirque des Immortels roaring in acid-green lights. It was color and sound, reds and blues and yellows, tufts of fire and spinning clubs. Music cartwheeled through the crowd that laughed and pointed in the broad avenue leading up to the tent. I stopped, speechless, and watched as giants on stilts trundled past, stared at the woman clothed in only a python standing beside a sign for a freak show. Mab put a hand on my shoulder, but she didn’t make me move. The place smelled of popcorn and cotton candy and something else, something that defied scent. Something that smelled like energy and excitement.
“Welcome,” she said. “Welcome to your new home.”
There’s a pause after Mab’s declaration. She stands there, staring at the rip in the tent, and none of us dares to breathe. Finally, she turns around and crouches low so she’s at Lilith’s level. Poe prowls around her feet, rubbing against her leather boots. She ignores him.
“Lilith, baby,” she whispers, “Auntie Mab needs you to tell the Shifters to come at once. When you’ve done that, I need you to go into my trailer with Poe and hide until I find you.”
“Hide?” Lilith says, cocking her head to one side like a broken bird.
“Yes, sweetie,” Mab says. She reaches out and pets Lilith’s head. The exchange makes me cringe. “I fear the bad man might be nearby, and we don’t want him finding you.”
She stands as Lilith scampers away, Poe at her heels. She looks at Kingston and me, takes a deep breath, and then hesitates. Mab never hesitates. Mab is assured, confident, powerful. Once more, I feel the end drawing near. In spite of the heat, my skin is covered in goose bumps. I want nothing more than to grab Kingston’s hand for support, but he still looks shell-shocked and worlds away. Besides, I can’t show weakness. Not now. Not in front of Mab.
“Kingston,” she finally says. “It is becoming increasingly clear that someone is trying to destroy us. I fear we may have a spy in our Court.” Am I imagining it, or did her eyes flicker to me? “After teardown, you will go ahead to the next site. Take no one, tell no one. Once there, you will use every enchantment at your disposal to make the ground hallowed. Do I make myself clear?”
Kingston swallows hard and nods.
“Vivienne,” Mab says, turning her serpent’s gaze to me. “I am putting you under surveillance. You will be placed under Penelope’s watch until this situation has been sorted and your name cleared. Yes?”
“I…” I falter under her gaze, but there’s a feeling of indignation in me that flares for just a moment. She’s the one that brought me here. She’s the one who promised I’d be safe. And now I’m the one she suspects is behind all this? “Why?”
Mab takes one slow, dangerous step forward. She is taller than me by only a few inches
, but her anger makes her taller.
“Given your past,” she says with a decided twist to the word, “you are a suspect individual.” Her eyes bore into me, and I have the sense she’s seeing something I can’t. Memories seep into my head, the color red on my knees the day she led me here, the feeling of needing to run, to get as far away as fast as I could. I clench my fists. Was I running from myself?
Then she steps aside and begins to walk away and the train of thought derails into nothingness. “Besides,” she says, not even turning back. “Lilith has already told me you were sneaking around last night. If you don’t want to be a suspect, I propose you refrain from suspicious activities.”
The fire in me wants to run after her, wants to grab her arm and demand she tell me what the hell she’s talking about. But before I can make what would probably be the worst — and last — mistake of my life, Kingston puts his hand on my shoulder and the rage dies down.
“Come on,” he whispers. “Let’s get out of here before the Shifters arrive.”
With that, he draws me away from the tent and leads me toward the pie cart.
“I always find problems are easier to deal with over coffee,” he says, handing me a mug. I didn’t miss the slight hand-wave over the rim as he passed it over, so I’m more than suspicious as I take a sip. Unlike the last time he magically spiked my drink, this one doesn’t taste like battery acid. I try not to wince as I take a few long gulps, hoping either the caffeine or magical alcohol helps settle my nerves. Neither does.
“What was she talking about?” I finally ask. “What did she mean, given my past?”
The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels) Page 12