by A. R. Kahler
“What will happen?” I ask again.
“If I die, and there isn’t a replacement on hand, the circus dies. And everyone still working here goes down with the ship.”
I bite my lip. It sucks. I try not to deal in the deaths of innocents. But it could be much worse.
“So we just need to keep you guys up and running.”
She looks outside, to the tent that stands like a skeleton, to the evening that should play host to a few hundred patrons. It couldn’t be a more desolate view if it tried.
“I don’t know if that will be a possibility much longer. I only have a day or two left.”
Three
The night goes poorly. I guess I can’t expect it to go any better, and worse probably isn’t feasible. Your quasi friend saying she’s about to die isn’t exactly a good party starter.
Kingston never shows, and when I ask Melody why he isn’t there, magicking up the tent since the Shifters aren’t around to do it anymore, she says it’s against the rules. No magic in the sight of mortals. And although we seem to be in the middle of nowhere, there are still a few punters waiting around in the parking lot despite the fact that we’re clearly not ready. I want to run out and tell them to fuck off. No show here. But I also know that they’re the only things keeping us going. Even if that’s not much to go on.
So the night wears on. Melody tries cooking up a giant pot of macaroni and cheese for the performers who are left. I end up doing most of the work, since she can barely lift the empty pot, let alone when it’s filled with water. She doesn’t talk about the glory days. She doesn’t mention touring with my mom. The minutes and hours tick by in relative silence, only the background noise of the radio filling the gaps.
I can see it in her eyes, though—she wants to talk. She wants to think of something brighter than this. When things seemed possible. Life seemed eternal. Summer seemed like a yearly promise.
But she can’t say it. Any of it.
Because I have killed all of those things.
I may not have written her contract, but as I watch the few lone performers come up and grab plates of food from the window, their breath catching in the air like ghosts, I know I wrote the final chapter. And, spoiler alert, it doesn’t end well. It probably doesn’t help that the music playing through the kitchen’s speakers is some angsty guitar shit. Or that, now that the oven is off and the clock is ticking deeper into evening, the cold stretches through the room with sharp claws. Melody’s breath is more ragged. Her silences more structured. At first, I don’t know why I wait there with her throughout the meal. I don’t know why I help with the dishes—something I think I’ve maybe done twice in my life. I’m made to be out hunting, killing. I’m meant to be doing something important. So why have I let myself waste the night away, when the Pale Queen is out there ravaging the land, delighting in the victory that is Oberon’s defeat?
“We should call it a night,” Melody says when everything’s put away. She pours herself a mug of tea while she says this, her back to me. I glance out the window and something new grips me. Panic.
That’s when I realize why I’ve stayed in here: I don’t want to step out that door into the midnight-like air.
I don’t want this moment of warmth to be over.
The last few hours have allowed me to forget that my fight isn’t yet done. I could have died down in that Summer cell—the fact that Kingston brought me back tells me that I’m still needed. And for once in my life, I don’t want to be needed. I don’t want to keep fighting. I stare out the window and try to find the spark, the desire to fight, to get revenge. It’s not there. Just an emptiness, a need.
I’m not scared of leaving because of the fight. I’m scared because—for the first time in my life—I don’t think I have any fight left in me.
The thought sends a shudder through me, and I grip the edge of the counter and tell myself it’s just the cold.
But it’s not just the cold.
I’m no longer the all-powerful woman I was yesterday. I no longer fight with wit and weapons and magic. I’m just a regular mortal. No more, and probably a lot less. If I go out there and take down the Pale Queen, it’s going to be without any of my old tricks. It’s going to be as a puny mortal. I was trained as an assassin, trained to know when and where to strike and when to withdraw. The Pale Queen has already proven it’s not a fight I’m going to win.
Melody is one step toward the door when it slams open and Kingston steps in. If he’s surprised to see me, he’s too frazzled to show it.
“Where the hell have you been?” I ask before he can open his mouth. It’s always best to be on the offensive with him.
He gives me a once-over, then looks back to Melody.
“It has to be tonight,” he says.
The Quetzalcoatl tattoo is once more inked through his skin, the head of it just reaching up over his collarbone. It shifts, and I swear it looks at me and glares.
“What has to be tonight?” I ask.
Melody slumps against the counter. Her mug trembles, even with both her hands gripping it.
“We can’t,” she whispers. “It would make us vulnerable.”
He steps forward, past me—like I’m not even there—and puts a hand on her shoulder. I have seen Kingston be many things. Demanding. Seductive. Terrifying. But I have never seen him look like this. Soft. He hunches down to look her in the eyes, one hand going to her chin, every movement so gentle, so loving, it breaks my heart. Because he never looked at me that way.
Because no one has.
“We have to,” he says. His thumb strokes her cheek. “We’re running out of options.”
“I can hold out longer.”
“I know,” he replies. “But I don’t want you to have to.”
“Hello?” I say. “Still here.”
His eyes tighten, but he doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t look away from Melody.
“It’s going to happen soon,” he continues. “And we need to be prepared for it when it does.” Then he leans forward and kisses the top of her forehead. They both close their eyes. I feel like I should close mine; this is too intimate for me to be witnessing. This is a moment years in the making, and I am just an interloper.
“What are you guys talking about?” I feel like a groupie, saying that. Powerless. But that’s what I am—maybe I need to get used to this sensation.
Melody nods against his hand. A tear falls down her cheek, and he smooths it away.
“It will be okay,” he whispers to her.
She sniffs. “I know. It’s not that. I just . . . I hate being . . .”
“I know,” he replies, and kisses her forehead again.
When he stands and looks at me, his eyes are slightly red as well.
“I demand to know what you’re talking about,” I say. My hands are on my hips, and I’m doing my best to adopt Mab’s usual icy demeanor.
Even though it’s clear he’s on the edge of tears, when he sees me, he laughs. I drop my hands.
“How far the proud have fallen,” he mutters. He looks to Melody, who’s still slumped against the counter, not looking at either of us. Then he turns and walks out the door.
It doesn’t slam shut—he holds it open for me, still not answering my question, but clearly inviting me to follow. Which I do. I do my best to hold my head high, like this is all my choice, like I’m in control. We all know the facade is transparent.
It’s even colder than it was when I left my trailer, and I’m once more reminded that I’m only in a T-shirt. He doesn’t offer me his leather jacket, though. He barely looks at me twice when he starts walking across the grounds. Toward the chapiteau.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask. “What’s happened since I left?” I don’t say was captured. It doesn’t sound as dignified.
He doesn’t answer. But his tattoo curls around his neck to continue glaring at me. And to think, I have that to thank for my rescue earlier. We walk past the chapiteau, past the empty promenade of tra
ilers and half-erected stalls. Everything looks like some carnie wasteland. Except it isn’t abandoned. Not entirely. There are still people milling about in the derelict entrance, people in coats and hats and gloves.
“What are they doing in here?” I ask. But once more, he doesn’t answer, and if not for the fact that I’m weak and freezing, I would have grabbed his arm and forced him to tell me. I know what he’s doing: he’s showing me that he’s in control. That, for once, the power has shifted back to him.
“When you got Oberon killed,” he says after we’ve left the punters behind, “the Fey he had guarding us retreated back to Summer. That was the first sign that something was wrong. But we didn’t pay it much attention, because it meant we could pick up and move on.”
He doesn’t mention that he couldn’t move the circus earlier because my mother was here, and staying in one spot was the only way to keep her safe. It hadn’t been enough to save her—I was always her biggest threat. Unlike Oberon, I followed through.
We stop at the edge of the circus grounds, beside a trailer, and stare out at a field. They always manage to pick places in the middle of nowhere. But they always draw a crowd. At least, they used to be able to.
“So we came here. Oberon’s guards never showed up again, but it didn’t matter. We’d already lost half the troupe after the move. We’re crumbling from the inside out.”
“Melody already told me all this,” I say.
“Right. But she didn’t tell you that moving made her weaker. Or that without a full cast, the magic that holds us together is incomplete. Even having the tent half built weakens the magic. If we were to be attacked right now, we’d be annihilated.”
“So get more performers. Magic the tent up—you brought me back from the brink of death. I think constructing a tent would be child’s play for you.”
He looks at me with this small grin that makes it clear he thinks I’m an idiot. “It doesn’t work like that. The circus . . . it’s not just a show. You have to think of it as a body, and everyone involved is a different organ. If the lungs go, it doesn’t matter how fast the heart pumps. The kidneys will never take over for the brain if it falters. And so, it doesn’t matter how much magic I have—I can’t do the job of the Shifters. And they couldn’t do the job of the performers. It’s magic, and it’s complex, and every single thread of the web must be in place or it falls apart. A few performers gone, we can manage—we have before. An attack, we can fend off, just like a body fighting a virus. But we’re bleeding out. Without the Shifters, we don’t have a tent. Without a tent, we don’t have a place to perform. And without a place to perform, we have no way to do our duty. The magic no longer holds up. I’d hire new performers, and new Shifters, but Mab’s the only one who can make those decisions, and she’s a little distracted at the moment.”
Like I needed any more proof the place was created by a faerie. They’re the only creatures in the world so hell-bent on pointless protocol and minutia.
“So what was that about with Melody? What are we doing tonight?”
He sighs.
“Tapis Noir.”
Despite the cold, my body immediately flushes with the thought. Tapis Noir, the black carpet event. Small tent. Naked bodies. Intoxicating music . . . The last time I’d been, I had a rather hot threesome with Eli and some bro-dude. All before waking from the haze of lust and realizing the tent was filled with mortals being devoured by Fey and their supernatural guests.
Even through the memory of the blood and the screams, I’m more turned on than not. I really am screwed up.
“Why is that a bad thing?” I ask.
The event brings in darker Dream for Mab’s kingdom—the circus might inspire flights of fancy, but the after-party is a chance for hidden desires to spread their oily wings. And as I’ve learned, the more taboo the Dream, the more powerful it is.
He runs a hand through his hair, pulling out the band for his scraggly man-bun in the process. His hair is longer than mine. Stop thinking of it falling in your face while he was on top of you! But, obviously, that becomes all I can think about the moment the image crosses my mind. At least then I was warm.
“Because,” he says, drawing my thoughts back to the present. It must just be the idea of the Tapis Noir. Now, sex is all I can think about. If nothing else, it’s a great avoidance mechanism. “We can only hold it on the circus grounds, which are incomplete. We’re vulnerable. A formal invitation to mortals and Fey is a bad idea—there’s no way to ensure everyone is loyal to Mab. All it would take is one fanatic . . .” He shakes his head. “We don’t even have the Shifters to act as guards. There are only a handful left, and they would rather play than protect the event.”
“So . . . don’t do it.”
“We have to. We need the Dream.”
“I think Mab will be okay if a little Dream goes unharvested.”
“No. The Dream fuels the tithe between Melody and the circus and Winter. It can’t replace a functioning show, but it can bolster us for a bit. In case . . .”
“In case they attack,” I reply. He nods.
“I’ve done what I can to prop this place up. Keep out the threats. It’s not enough. I’m spread too thin.”
He brushes his foot across the grass in front of him, and it’s then I see the magical wards he’s placed over the ground—they flare at his touch, green and blue and glowing like neon. My heart drops; I should have felt them. I should have sensed the trace of them. It’s just one more sign that my powers have abandoned me.
I turn my focus back to him.
“Does it ever frustrate you that this entire magical system is based on one faerie’s convoluted idea of order?” I ask.
“Every damn day. But I don’t really have much choice in the matter. I’m stuck, and I’m destined to go down with the ship.”
“And here you’re so close to retirement. Think about the piña coladas.”
He chuckles. “There you are.”
“What?”
“I was worried they’d beaten you down.”
“Says the man who threatened to leave me in that cell. You would have happily let them beat me down. Repeatedly.”
He shrugs, as though his death threats are water under the bridge. “You’re still needed. So you need to be in fighting shape.” He looks at me. “Don’t think for a moment that this means I still don’t wish you’d died in your mother’s place. But you’re the card I was dealt. I’ll play it until I have none left.”
“You’re quite good at playing people,” I reply.
“I do my best. That’s why we’re a good team.”
We stand there in silence for a while. I wonder where this puts us—he threatened to leave me for dead, but he still saved my life. And apparently there’s still a chance I can save his; otherwise I wouldn’t have been kept around. Does this make us allies?
“She wants Mab to surrender,” I say.
“Never,” he replies.
“I know.” Despite my trying not to think about it, the scene of the Pale Queen easily killing Oberon replays through my mind, bringing a fresh wave of shivers that have nothing to do with the cold. “But she should.”
“Mab would kill you if you ever suggested that.”
“Yeah. You didn’t see Oberon get murdered, though. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve tried to kill him off? Even just as a game, to see if I could. The guy is immortal, Kingston. A force of fucking nature. But she killed him like he was a human child. He was at the height of his power, too—had a whole kingdom behind him. Mab . . .”
I trail off, my throat constricting not out of nostalgia but because the contract that binds me to Mab’s service also prevents me from speaking against her. Apparently, announcing her weakness is akin to treason. I suppose she’s had me kill for lesser reasons.
“Mab will never give up her kingdom,” he says. But it’s not defensive. He sounds defeated. “She’s a wild animal when cornered—she won’t back down, and she will fight dirty to the ver
y end.”
“That might not be long.”
“What?”
“The Pale Queen gave her three days to surrender.” I look back to the half-constructed tent. “How long was I gone?”
“A day.”
“Shit.”
He nods.
“We need to warn her. I need to warn her.” I need to grab my chalk and head home so I can get a damn coat and some weapons and—
I can’t get home.
I can’t return to Winter.
My heart stops. The full extent of my weakness hammers home; so much of my identity had always ridden on this. Being the daughter of Winter. Even without my weapons or powers, a small part of me had conveniently ignored the most obvious of truths.
“What now?” Kingston asks. “You look like you’ve finally developed a conscience.”
“I can’t get home.”
The words drop from my mouth before I can stop them. Home. I’d taken for granted the ease with which I’d moved between the faerie and mortal worlds. My room had always been a chalked portal away. But now . . . I have no way of getting back to my room. To my weapons. To my clothes.
Kingston looks at me for a while. Analyzing. I fully expect him to be a dick. I would be, if roles were reversed.
Then he snaps his fingers, sending a flare of golden sparks swirling above his hand. I know it’s entirely for show. He flicks open his hand and catches them, as though capturing buzzing fireflies. The magic leaks between his fingers in a slow flame, dripping to the earth like serpent tongues.
“Good thing I’m a powerful witch,” he says. His smile glows against his display of power. Another flick of the wrist, and the magic vanishes. “I can take you anywhere you want to go.”
He turns, continues walking.
“At least, I would if Mab wanted you back at this moment. But she doesn’t. So you’re stuck here with the rest of us until you’re actually useful. I’m not the only one cursed to go down with this ship, princess. Don’t worry, though—I’ll deliver the message for you. You just stay put where you can’t get into trouble.”