by Chloe Adler
“Iphigenia,” says Aurelia.
“Yes, Mama?”
“If I were to lose you, I don’t know what I’d do.” Aurelia’s voice is raised. She must know that both Alistair and I can hear her.
“You’re not going to lose me.”
“Rhys is not a stray. Do you hear me?” she hisses. “I know how much you like to collect them.”
“I thought you loved Armageddon.”
She sniffs. “That cat found you, like most animals. But Iphigenia, my home is not a zoo, and if you had your way. . .”
Iphi sighs, “Yes, Mother.”
“Good. Then put Rhys on your list of strays-not to pick up.”
“Mother!”
“Subject closed.”
Wow, her mother is ripe. I have to choke back my reaction, which would be to defend her against this rampant shaming. What a lovely quality to possess, caring about animals and the less fortunate. Her mother makes it sound more like a curse. If Gramps didn’t have to live with this woman I’d get in her face about the way she’s treating her daughter, and to insist that I’m anything but a stray... anymore.
“How’s your brother?” Grandpa asks. The question throws me, and my mouth gapes while I think of an innocuous lie.
I haven’t told him. I haven’t told anyone, except my cousins. Though they’re more like brothers to me than Nolan ever was. Plus they’re cops, keen on helping our family and completely trustworthy. Straightening, I pretend to adjust the dresser. “Fine. We haven’t talked in a while.”
“What? Why? You two are practically conjoined twins.”
I shrug, keeping my back to him. “You know, people grow apart. Interests change.” I hate lying to him but the truth is so much worse.
I came to this town on a mission. But Iphigenia is much, much more than I expected. After meeting her, though . . . Well, hopefully she’ll turn out to be only a small part of this mess.
Chapter Two
Iphigenia
Early the next evening I’m backstage getting ready for my performance. Since our circus is seasonal, I mostly teach during the off-season. But during the summer, I love to shine. And though I am proficient on several aerial apparatuses, my favorite is the silks. Out of all of the apparatuses, “silks” are the most ridiculously named. Two long pieces of material hang from a single point in the ceiling, but they’re not made of silk. Fabric is the closest to what they really are, but of course that doesn’t sound nearly as sexy.
“Iphi, up in ten,” the house manager, Rodrigo, calls.
“Sure thing.” I finish sticking on the last of the little purple jewels around my eyes with spirit gum.
Every year the circus has a different theme and this year it’s an underwater one. So I designed a mermaid costume. The base is a shimmering pink-and-blue bodysuit. I painted scales over tights in the same colors. Completing the outfit, my superhero-style cape glimmers with hues one shade darker than the bodysuit and tights. My hair is twisted up into a topknot, in which is nestled a bright-pink seashell. I’ve teased out a few curls to cascade down one side.
Peeking out at the audience from behind the curtain, I spot Rhys sitting in the front row. He’s talking with someone to the right—a man with surfer-scruffy blond hair. In SoCal, he should blend into the background, but he has piercing blue eyes, arresting even from a dozen yards away. Just spying Rhys and his mystery companion there in the audience causes my hands to sweat and bile to tickle my mouth. Ew. On Rhys’s other side are two more hotties talking to each other. Do good-looking men flock to Rhys, or did he stop at a beefcake modeling convention on his way here?
The music starts and I take the twenty seconds to check my hair in the mirror next to the curtain, reclipping a few sparkly pins. I pout at my reflection. Shoot, my lips aren’t glittery enough. Should I run back to my dressing room to add more silver lipstick? No, no time.
Pulling in a deep breath of air, I smooth my costume over my body, blink prettily at myself, and raise a shoulder like I’m posing for a photo. What the heck? I’ve never done that before. Geez, Iphi, pull it together, this is about skill and strength, not how pretty you look. With a huff, I spin away from the mirror, keeping my eyes trained ahead to avoid the pull of looking back at myself one more time. I’ve been the circus’s opening act for years now. Where have these jitters come from?
On stage, Alexis, our ringmaster, is working the crowd. “Tonight you’re in for a treat. Our amazing Iphigenia, the Flying Seraphim, will be performing a brand-new, never-before-seen silks act. Put your hands together and welcome our young phenom to the stage!”
It’s true, I lied to Mother last night, but in my defense it was a white lie. I just didn’t want to worry her. My palms are slick again, which is not what you want when you’re about to climb twenty feet into the air. I dunk my hands in a bucket of rosin, suck in a large breath of air, and rub them furiously together before stepping into the spotlight.
I’ve been performing in the circus for so long that it’s easy to filter out the applause. I paste a smile on my face and sweep my eyes over the audience, but I never really see them. I can never pick out any one person as my gaze blurs and roams. Their mouths move but I never really hear any sound. It’s a routine, practically a meditation. With it, my brain disconnects as my body arrives on stage.
Yet my traitorous body strays from the routine tonight. My gaze unblurs and picks out Rhys in the front row. He’s composed, a sly smile enhancing his stunning features.
Now that I’m close enough to sense them, his emotions are an almost tangible swirl. He’s more excited than anything, a thrill he shares with the audience. But Rhys is worried, too. Strangers often hope they’ll see a calamity—though most would have the good grace to be embarrassed if I called them on it—but Rhys is genuinely concerned for my safety. There’s a warm thread of something else winding through his thoughts, too. He’s picturing himself alone in the theater, watching me. Wait, no, not alone. The handsome man to the right of him is there, too. What on earth? But I have no time to dwell on that right now.
With an improvised flourish, I twirl and remove my cape, tiptoeing over to the expansive, flowing material. Serlon, the circus’s owner, had this apparatus designed specifically for our underwater themed show. The blue-green material shimmers and sparkles under the hot lights. Hand over hand I climb, not using my legs at all until I’m partway up. I focus on relaxing my face into a smile, making it look easy. It’s anything but. Gathering enough strength to do this particular move took me years of methodical, extensive training. My arm muscles tense and contract while the muscles on my back ripple, pulling in toward my spine. I used to find the shouting deafening, but now it blots out the world, smoothing out everything but my body and the feel of the silks around it.
Holding on to the fabric, I shoot my lower body into the air feet first and hook a knee over the top, above my hand. Two blissful moments of rest. Wrapping the fabric around my waist with one hand, I begin executing a series of moves, dropping a leg to throw the thick material over it and stopping to hold a pose. Aerial is a mix of strength and poise. An artist hits a pose to relax, but those are the moments when the audience cheers.
It’s true that I’ve never done this exact routine in this exact order for an audience before, but most of these tricks I know by heart. I shift and soar between each pose, climbing and dropping, spinning, and freezing. Most performers, including myself, use an excruciatingly long drop for their finale.
So for my own, I fly up the silks to the apex of the tent. The pounding of my heart drowns out all other sound. I raise my head to the roof so no one will see me smacking my bone-dry lips.
Thump, thump, thump goes my heart.
I haven’t done a starfish drop in more than a year. The last time I did one, a Tracker cut the silks and I plummeted to the floor thirty feet below. That moment of free fall lasted far too long as my both my heart and my body somersaulted over each other all the way down.
Here, now, jagged barb
s of icy fear keep me poised above for a beat too long as my limbs chill and then go numb.
I spent the first six months after my fall avoiding the drop altogether, then the next six practicing it again and again. First from a short height, then incrementally higher—but never in a live performance.
Relax the face, relax the face, I chant in my head as I let go and tumble down. This time the fall takes on a personality. She is fickle and taunting, and I flail, pinwheeling in the air instead of the elegant descent with sleek lines I’d planned.
No, this won’t do. I start at my face, relaxing my pinched expression, teasing out the furrows between my brows, reminding myself to breathe. Check. One hand crosses over the other as I find my rhythm. Check. Foot after foot I tumble, descending while the ground blurs. Arms and legs in line with the body, but not so rigid that I turn into a board. Check. Tuck the elbows and point the toes. Check.
Smile, Iphi. Keep breathing. Check.
My mind clings to the mechanics as the dread slips away.
After a few feet, it’s seamless. The crowd is on its feet, though silence still reigns in my head. A few feet from the ground, I push myself straight out and unwrap my body. I’ve worked long and hard on this dismount. Holding tightly to the fabric with my hands, I push myself off with my feet, and I twist mid-air into a double flip before landing like an Olympic gold medalist, my hands raised high above my head.
The sounds of the audience bleed back in as I take my bow. Everyone is standing and screaming, but that group of men in the front row—Rhys and his companions—they’re staring at me with more than simple appreciation. A flush that has nothing to do with physical exertion covers my face.
As I exit backstage, the other performers pat me on the back and congratulate me. I go back to rest in my dressing room before my final act. I’m the circus opener and closer. Give them something to make them stay and then give them something to make them come back. That’s me.
The part I play in this circus is not lost on me. The circus pulls in its share of lecherous men and Serlon doesn’t hide the fact that he uses whatever it takes to pack the seats. It’s not why I chose to be in the circus, but it’s a fact nonetheless. Until tonight, it was just a means to an end: skimpy outfits mean we don’t all go home broke.
Tonight is different. Tonight I’m pleased to be wearing this skintight outfit that highlights all my curves. Though Rhys and his merry men would have been captivated regardless, the outfit mirrors my confidence. Respect for my craft poured off them. But that wasn’t the only reason they couldn’t look away. That I don’t want them to, though, will make the closing act all the more interesting.
Chapter Three
Caspian
Watching Iphigenia perform was intoxicating. She flitted up those silks like a butterfly. Effortlessly, weightlessly. My breath caught every time she dropped, especially at the end, when her face quite nearly met the floor. I jumped out of my seat and so did my brothers.
Rhys, who has been eying me throughout her performance, leans over. “I told you so.”
Since we moved here, only Rhys has been on surveillance duty when she’s practiced. It’s the first time the rest of us have gotten a chance to see her perform, though I’ve seen plenty of her elsewhere. I can’t help but wonder if Rhys is interested in Iphigenia for more than just her act—perhaps for something beyond “the job”? The way he’s looking at me, it’s like he’s trying to plant a seed. We’ve shared women before, after all. The three of us would make quite the tableau together . . . though the picture in my head falls apart a breath later. Not every woman wants to be our centerpiece.
We make our way outside after the show amid the throngs of people exiting.
“You weren’t lying,” Thorn adds. “Do you think she could teach me some of those tricks?”
“Looking for another death-defying sport to add to your repertoire? She could try. That’s her full-time job the rest of the year, teaching aerial. But,” Rhys looks him up and down and snickers, “your body weight alone . . .”
Thorn gestures at his bulk. “What? So I’m not a Slim Jim like you. More weight to pull myself up with.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” I say.
“Is it always this crowded?” Dominic waves around the tent.
“I don’t know. I’ve only seen the rehearsals. But it is opening night,” Rhys says.
“Of course. And that girl is quite a draw. So, how should we approach this?”
“Meeting her?” asks Rhys.
Dominic nods.
“Less is probably more right now. After all, this is her night.”
“Truth.”
We file outside to more than one appreciative female giggle.
“One for each of us,” a girl croons to her posse.
I don’t blame them, and it wouldn’t be the first time we’ve dated in a group. Women tend to notice us when we’re all out together, and when they find out we’re all brothers—well, we don’t go home alone if we don’t want to. It’s fun for everyone—until they discover that we are actually a different species. Then eyebrows go up and uncomfortable questions get asked. Maybe that won’t be as much of a problem in the Edge, the original Signum enclave.
Well, almost all brothers. According to the family tree, Rhys is just a cousin. But after spending so much time with us, he acts more like a Vidal than a Rees. Growing up, he even took our last name—because we teased him mercilessly for being Rhys Rees, or so I thought at the time. But now I suspect it was because he considered himself one of us. And he is one of us, one of my brothers. After all, his “real” brother left him. We didn’t.
“Hey, man.” Rhys clips me on the shoulder. “Can you quit eying the local talent? We’re here for Iphi.”
I snort. As if anyone else here holds a candle to Iphi’s flame. Another example of the physical types misunderstanding us creative types. I’m about to school him when Iphi comes into view.
There she is. The girl is radiant, still in her sexy-as-hell outfit, except her cape covers some of the view. I can’t say I’m not happy to see that, as the idea of random men leering at her does not sit well. She doesn’t look like she just expended massive amounts of energy exhibiting inordinate strength. She looks refreshed and relaxed. Perhaps she’s like Rhys and Thorn in that way. After Rhys teaches a class or after Thorn goes skydiving, they’re both bouncing off the walls with energy for a while. It’s like working out is food for their souls. Or maybe she’s hopped up on adrenaline.
The moment our gazes lock, a surge of warmth floods my system. The sensation is almost overpowering. And we haven’t even spoken . . . yet. I recognize the woman she’s talking to from surveillance. Chrys is taller but alike enough that no one would miss the familial resemblance. She doesn’t notice our exchange and keeps talking. All too soon, Iphi looks away and back at her eldest sister.
A low growl sounds to my left. I throw out my arm to stop Thorn from leaping forward. After a moment, he settles. The four of us talk amongst ourselves, mindful of Iphi’s privacy.
“Does she know?” asks Dominic.
“I don’t think so.” Like all of us, Rhys is engaged in the conversation, but his gaze keeps straying toward Iphi.
“How can that little slip of a girl have so much power?” growls Thorn. “And why is she so damn sexy?”
“Hey, guys,” I throw my arms up, “let’s not objectify her.” Aloud, anyway.
“You’re right,” says Dominic. “That’s never a good starting point. We need to offer her our respect and our protection.”
“Only because we need her,” says Thorn.
I narrow my eyes. “That’s not the point.”
“How so?”
I run my hands through my hair. “I mean, that’s not the reason we should treat her with respect.”
“Caspian is right, she’s earned it,” says Rhys.
“From you maybe,” Thorn snarls. “But we haven’t even met her yet.”
“Simmer down.” I
place a hand on my brother’s shoulder. If it was a stranger touching Thorn, he might fly into a rage, but he quiets down and takes a step back.
“Fine, I’ll see how everything plays out. For now.” Thorn crosses the tree trunks he calls arms over his chest.
Iphigenia throws out her hands, apparently reenacting something from her show for her sister. I like her full name, it suits her. Even if she weren’t a person of interest in our case, I’d still want to get to know her. The way she carries herself with such confidence, yet her eyes remain open and smiling. Rhys is already hooked. Now I can see why.
Chapter Four
Iphigenia
“Wow.” Chrys’s voice is high and breathy. “Just wow. Iphi, you were amazing. That was your best routine yet. And that fall and dismount at the end? Girl, you could easily get a job with Cirque du Soleil.”
“You think?” I’m having a difficult time focusing on my sister’s words, given the proximity of Rhys and his friends. And the blond one in particular, the way he’s been looking at me, sends goose bumps over my body. There’s a soft intensity to his gaze, more welcoming than predatory, and I can’t help reacting to it.
She touches my shoulder, bringing me back, and then pulls me in for a hug. “Absolutely.”
When I pull away there are actual tears in her eyes, which pings me right to my core. Her reaction adds to the guilt surging through me for being distracted by Mr. Sex Hair. She doesn’t have to say a word; her pride pierces me and I can’t help standing up a little straighter. I toss my head to dislodge his image and refocus.
Chrys is my oldest sister and she’s been through so much. She spent the largest portion of her life drifting through Mom’s shadow. Until she met her honey—who steps up and throws an arm around her shoulders.