by M. D. Massey
Blood Circus
A Junkyard Druid Urban Fantasy Short Story Collection
M.D. Massey
Modern Digital Publishing
Copyright © 2017 by M.D. Massey
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Carnival of Blood
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Serpent’s Daughter
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
The Vigil
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Carnival of Blood
Note to readers: This short story takes place in the interim between Junkyard Druid and Graveyard Druid, the first and second books in the Colin McCool series. There are very few spoilers in this story, but if you haven’t read Junkyard Druid yet, you might want to pick it up before you read Carnival of Blood.
1
“Damn it, it looks like the goblins are at it again.”
Sabine and I were at a traveling carnival, enjoying the fall weather and each other’s company. All afternoon, we’d been stuffing our faces with cotton candy and funnel cakes and hitting every ride in sight. While our plans for the day hadn’t included carnival rides and sugar highs, I wasn’t complaining.
The carnival had been set up in the empty parking lot next door to the Halloween store, where we’d been shopping for costumes and seasonal decorations. Uncle Ed and I planned to turn the junkyard into a haunted house for the annual employee party, and Sabine had offered to help with setting up props and adding in some low-level illusory magic. We had a lot to do before the day was out, but we hadn’t been able to resist the temptation to check out the event.
Since the local fae queen had blackmailed me into coming out of retirement, supernatural-free afternoons like this one were rare. I hated to spoil it. Copious amounts of refined sugar, fear-fueled adrenaline, and the generally festive atmosphere of the place had Sabine in a rare, carefree form. She’d been smiling and giggling like a schoolgirl since we’d arrived, quite unlike her usual withdrawn self.
That was why, when I saw the creepy, sopping wet clown ducking behind a midway booth, I almost didn’t mention it.
“Just ignore them, Colin. They’re perfectly harmless.”
I frowned. “Harmless? Goblins?”
“Well, mostly. The local clan hasn’t eaten a human in decades. Besides, Queen Maeve decreed that they could continue scaring humans at their leisure—so long as they didn’t injure anyone in the process.”
“You and I both know she only said that to get them out of her hair.” Goblins were nasty, dirty, deformed humanoid creatures that delighted in mischief and violence. Since Maeve had declared humans off-limits to the fae several decades ago, unseelie fae like goblins had taken umbrage with her decision. At first, she’d just had the grumblers killed—but after a decade of regular executions, her subjects had gotten restless.
So, she’d started making concessions to appease the unseelie fae in her demesne. For example, she allowed the trolls to take cattle from the surrounding countryside—so long as no one saw them doing it. Every so often, they had to make a killing look like a ritual sacrifice, or they had to leave a carcass behind for the coyotes to ravage. As far as they were concerned, that was a small price to pay for fresh, grass-fed beef. She also let household spirits—kobolds, boggarts, and the like—stage the occasional haunting.
In the case of the goblins, she let them dress up as creepy clowns so they might terrorize the local population without bringing undue attention to the fae. You would have thought the Cold Iron Circle would get involved and put a stop to it, but Maeve and the Circle had a truce. So long as a fae didn’t injure or kill a human, they were off-limits.
The goblins thought it was great fun, and if it kept them amused and off Maeve’s back, it was all the better—at least as far as the queen was concerned.
Sabine tugged at my arm, dragging me in the direction of the Tilt-A-Whirl. “C’mon, Colin, forget about those creeps. Live a little! Just because Maeve tricked you into doing hunter work again, it doesn’t mean every unseelie fae is your responsibility.”
“Yeah, but there are kids here, Sabine. I can’t just let the goblins think they can go around scaring little kids when I’m around. I do have a rep to uphold, you know.”
Sabine stopped tugging on my arm and rolled her eyes. “Fine, go have your fun. And while you’re chasing nasty ugly goblins, I’m going to hit the midway and win a prize.”
I smirked. “Only because you’re going to cheat with magic.”
She held her hands up and shrugged. “Hey, if the game is rigged, how else are you going to win?”
Her chipper mood made me smile, and I considered forgetting about the clown like she’d said. But I’d been scared to death of clowns as a kid, and had suffered nightmares about them for years. I couldn’t stand by and let the goblins give some poor child a nasty case of coulrophobia. Uh-uh, not on my watch.
“Have fun, Sabine. I’ll catch up with you on the midway—once I convince these clowns to leave.”
A slight frown flitted across her face, then it was gone. “See you in a few, druid boy.”
I watched her walk away, taking a moment to enjoy the bounce in her step. Since I’d known her, my friend had dealt with feelings of low self-worth, agoraphobia, and social anxiety. And me? I’d struggled with guilt over the death of my girlfriend. Sabine and I had helped each other through our respective issues, and it was nice to see her let her hair down for a change.
“It’ll only take a few minutes,” I mumbled to myself. “Then I’m going to enjoy the rest of the day.”
I stood in the center of the carnival as crowds of people walked past, turning in a circle as I scanned the magical spectrum for the clown.
There. I spotted a glimmer of magic—the type that indicated a glamour. I knew it wasn’t Sabine’s magic by the signature, and it was in a different direction than the midway, toward the far end of the carnival.
I opened my Craneskin Bag to make sure my war club was close at hand. Chances were good the goblins would back down as soon as I threatened them with physical harm. I had recently killed a fachen, after all. Fachen were bad business—one-armed, one-legged giants out of Celtic lore that could flatten entire forests in a single night. So, my rep had increased dramatically once word had gotten out that I’d killed it.
It wasn’t actually me who’d killed it, but that other, dark side of me. Thankfully, the goblins didn’t know that. Just one lo
ok at me and my war club, and they’d think twice about scaring children at carnivals.
I pushed the sleeves up on my trench coat and headed straight for the magical signature. Time to go to work.
2
I traced the magical signature to the other end of the carnival, and soon realized why the goblins had picked that area. At the very end of the rides stood one lonely, ramshackle attraction: the fun house. Of course that would be where the creepy goblin clowns would set up shop. It’d be super easy to get the maximum scare effect inside a fun house, with the low lighting, confusing interior layout, mirror mazes, and so on.
But I wasn’t quite sure if the clowns were actually inside there, or if they were just in the general vicinity of the place. I’d lost track of the magical signature I’d picked up earlier, which was weird. It was almost like the person casting that glamour had vanished into thin air.
I decided to hang out and do a little surveillance, just to make sure the goblins were using the fun house for their base of operations. I bought some cotton candy and sat down on a bench, nibbling at it while I kept an eye on the area. Several adults and teens went through the attraction and came out again at regular intervals, laughing and carrying on as they rode down the exit slide from the second floor.
Then, a kid walked up to the fun house. He was maybe twelve years old and skinny, sort of goofy-looking with a slight overbite and a Cruella De Vil Mallen streak on the back of his head. He wore a Darth Vader shirt that said, “Warning: choking hazard,” along with worn blue jeans and Converse high tops. The shirt made me like him immediately. I was tempted to stop him, just to share some hard-earned advice on dealing with bullies and dickheads.
Instead, I watched as he passed me by on his way to the fun house. I held back, because I remembered how awkward it had been when I was a chubby, picked-on kid and some adult tried to give me advice. Adults forget that when you’re a kid, you don’t believe that any adult remembers what it was like being that age. Kids see all adults as being out-of-touch, and that’s a universal fact.
It happened that the kid was alone, and the only person who went in the fun house at that time. Based on what I’d observed, it took about two to three minutes to make it through the attraction. It was the size of your typical eighteen-wheeler trailer, and even with two levels, it couldn’t have been bigger than a small apartment.
So, when the kid didn’t come out again, I knew something was up.
I checked my watch, to get a fix on how long he’d actually been in there, and I estimated it’d been more than three minutes. I watched the exit for another two minutes, but the kid never came out. Either he’d gotten lost inside, he’d found another way out, or he was detained.
I was betting on option three. I switched over to my second sight, to check the place out in the magical spectrum—just in time to catch a brilliant burst of energy emanating from inside.
“Shit. Here we go…” I mumbled as I jumped to my feet and made a beeline for the entrance. I flashed my wristband at the ride attendant and headed inside.
The amusement ride started with a dark, confusing maze, dimly-lit by flashing black-lights that illuminated messages on the walls at regular intervals. “Beware!”, “Caution!”, and “Enter at Your Own Risk!” were common themes.
I switched back and forth between my normal sight and magical sight, keeping myself oriented to the dim glow of energy that remained after that initial powerful burst. I knew there was only one path to take inside the ride, but I also knew that unseelie fae were fond of casting illusions—the type that could get a person turned around if they didn’t know better.
I turned a corner in the dark maze, and an animatronic clown with evil red eyes and sharp teeth popped out at me. I almost punched it in the face, breathing a sigh of relief as a tinny electronic voice cackled at me from some hidden speaker nearby. Man, I hated clowns.
A sudden movement nearby caught my attention. I turned to look, just in time to see a flash of yellow silk pants and a floppy red shoe disappear around the next turn in the maze. Definitely a clown costume, I thought as I chased after the fleeting figure.
The same electronic cackle I’d heard earlier echoed down the corridor ahead.
Nope, that’s not creepy… at all.
I tried to put my childhood fears from my mind as I zigzagged around two more corners. No matter how quickly I moved, I couldn’t catch up with the object of my pursuit. That fucking clown could run like Usain Bolt, and it pissed me off. Unfortunately, I couldn’t shoot it to slow it down. For one, it might not be a goblin—and besides that, I might hit someone else in the fun house by mistake.
So, I followed the cackling laugh and the occasional flash of yellow pants and red shoes down yet another dark corridor. If this goblin ruins McDonald’s and Happy Meals for me, I’m going to be pissed, I thought as I ran on.
Then another thought occurred to me. Exactly how long is this fucking maze?
Just as I began to suspect I’d gotten turned around, the maze opened up into a room. Not a single angle in the place was square and true. The floor was tilted, and the ceiling and walls were warped. A wooden butcher block table sat in the middle of the room. Tied spread eagle to the table was the kid I’d seen enter the fun house just minutes before. He was gagged with a bright yellow silk handkerchief—and based on the look in his eyes, he was frantic with fear.
I couldn’t blame him, because a five-foot-nothing clown—a juggalo in whiteface, with a bright-red leering grin and a mouthful of crooked goblin teeth—stood to the side of the table. His red and yellow striped clown suit was spattered in blood, from the Tudor ruff collar at his neck to the red floppy shoes on his feet. Water dripped from his costume, where it gathered in small pools and rivulets on the cavern floor—a detail I found odd, considering it had been a clear and sunny day.
He held a long, wood-handled butcher knife in his hands. The blade was crusted with dried blood, and he worked at it furiously with a whetstone while whistling an impossibly complex calliope tune. The clown admired his work with jaundiced eyes, and he tested the edge with his thumb before gently laying a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Sacrifice ready?” the clown asked in thickly-accented English as he carved a thin red line across the boy’s cheek.
Chuckles, you just earned yourself a beatdown, I thought as I reached into my Bag.
3
Truth was, the sight of the clown triggered a Pandora’s box full of my childhood fears. Clowns had always creeped me out, and this one was seriously giving me a case of the oh-hell-no’s. So, when I strode into the room, I found myself at a loss for something suitably witty and intimidating to say.
“Hey… you!” was about all I could get out. Then I ran across the room at the juggalo goblin.
The goblin’s eyes widened, and he raised the knife over his head while screaming, “Must bring clown god!” or something to that effect. It could have also been, “Mushroom cloud good!” Goblin speech was really hard to understand.
I was only halfway across the room, and the clown was about to off the kid. Lacking any alternatives, I threw my war club at the goblin’s face. The club flew end over end and smacked the clown right in the teeth, sending a few flying and making him stumble. That gave me just enough time to vault over the table, landing a nice side kick to his chest.
At this point, most people would expect me to do some fancy disarm—or maybe a complicated joint-lock that would allow me to stab the clown with his own knife.
Those people would be wrong. I don’t care who you are or how much kung-fu you know; facing off empty-handed against someone with a knife is scary. Hell, it’s damned close to suicide if that person really wants to kill you. A knife doesn’t move like a fist. It’s unpredictable and can attack from any angle and still cut or stab you. I personally didn’t want to see my guts spill out all over the floor, so I wisely took the time to pick up my war club.
That gave the goblin enough time to recover from my initial attac
k. The room wasn’t that big, so he backed into a corner, brandishing that rusty, blood-stained blade at me.
“You no understand,” the clown pleaded. “Child must die to bring clown god. Clown god demands blood sacrifice.”
“Isn’t that a little redundant, saying ‘blood sacrifice’?” I asked. “That’s like saying ‘bō staff,’ or ‘true fact.’ It sounds silly, and a little pretentious.”
“Clown god no pretend juice!” the goblin juggalo screamed. “He have street cred, live thug life.”
“Whatever, clown. All I know is that Maeve told you dumbasses you couldn’t hurt or kill humans.” I pointed my club at him. “And as far as I’m concerned, you shouldn’t even be near any kids in that scary-ass get-up.”
“What wrong with get-up? This lifestyle, not joke. Why you throw shade?”
I rubbed the side of my face and sighed with frustration. “Look, dude, I don’t care how you dress. But you can’t sacrifice this kid—or any kid, for that matter—to your stupid clown god!”
“Clown god not stupid!” he yelled as he lunged at me with the knife. I sidestepped and dropped a seriously hard blow on his wrist, breaking it with a loud snap and causing him to drop the knife. I followed up with a forehand strike to the knee and a backhand strike to the temple. The goblin clown crumpled in a heap at my feet.