Hard Press: The Evie Black Files

by Adam Nicholls

  “Where do you think you’re going?” It was Paris’s voice, but before she could turn to see him, Lucas the Strongman appeared from nowhere, blocking her exit with that expressionless face and that hulking muscle that nobody could overpower.

  Evie closed her eyes. Took a breath. Opened them and turned. Any chance of escape was far behind her now, unless she could find a way after the show. Although, after being caught like this, she wasn’t sure she’d get another chance. “I wanted some air.”

  “Sure,” he said with a knowing smile. He tapped the side of his nose twice, then shot her a wink. “Well, there’s no time for that now. I hope you’re ready, lady, because we have a show to perform.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  After being introduced by Paris and taking a bow, Evie climbed into the box while wondering why Conan hadn’t recognized her. Maybe it’s not him after all, she thought and could have kicked herself for thinking it in the first place. Why would he be in South Dakota, anyway?

  The first sword came piercing through the box, and she could hear the audience applaud. The second came through, and she shifted her head. They were gasping now, wondering just how on earth she hadn’t died yet. Even Evie had a horrifying suspicion that there might be another “accident.”

  As soon as the act finished, the box came open and Paris escorted her out. For as long as they were in the open, she knew she couldn’t be touched. The entire act made her feel more comfortable standing next to him. Just as surprised as everyone else that she hadn’t been skewered, Evie took a bow while looking in the direction of the man who looked like Conan Reed.

  But then a realization hit her like a brick crashing on her head. It was the bow that triggered it—the lock of the blonde wig swinging forward and hanging by her cheek, swaying, begging, “please, notice me.”

  It’s the makeup! Evie laughed to herself—drawing Paris’s attention—for not having thought of it sooner. It really is Conan, but he doesn’t recognize me under all the makeup.

  This was it now—her final break for it.

  Evie picked her moment carefully. She broke hands with Paris and leapt off the podium. As hard as it was to do barefoot, she ran across the dirt, ripping the wig from her head and tossing it aside. “Conan!” she yelled, and the audience fell to a murmur. “Conan! It’s me—Evie!” She only wished she could have rubbed off her makeup, too.

  As she drew nearer to him, everybody watching her like there had already been an accident, Evie could see him clearly. In his business suit, he stuck out like a sore thumb. His face scrunched up and then contorted into a rare, openmouthed smile. He stood up, his hand in the air to signal her closer.

  And then the worst happened.

  That son-of-a-bitch clown—one of the Loopies—swept in, whisking her off her feet like a weightless feather. He carried her away, laughing and waddling from side to side. The audience laughed, too and began to cheer as if it were a part of the act. Evie’s screaming and frantic kicking seemed to mean nothing to them.

  “Let go of me!” she cried, wishing she had nails to scratch him with.

  But the clown didn’t oblige—he carried her toward the backstage area with that same eerie laugh. Away from Conan Reed. Toward Fry Carter, and probably, her death.

  As she passed through the curtain into the back, Evie was surprised to catch a glimpse of Conan leaping the barrier. Paris tried to stop him but Conan shoved the magician out of the way with a shocking display of strength. Security came for him then, and Conan broke into a sprint, coming to her rescue. Sadly, he came face-to-face with Lucas the Strongman. It was one blockade he would never be able to shift.

  “Help!” she screamed. The clown put her down in the backstage area, where three of the carnies took her by the arms and led her out of the tent. Conan was out of sight now, and she doubted he would push through. All she could do was hope—pray—that Fry wouldn’t punish her… for her cover was blown, and there was no coming back from her attempted escape.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Evie had never thought she’d die in a tent. In fact, she’d pictured herself lying in a bed at home, surrounded by people she loved who loved her back. Seeing Fry Carter in front of her, his hands trembling as he spoke through gritted teeth, caused a shiver of trepidation to shimmy up her spine. This was sure to be her end.

  “Leave us,” he said to the carnies who had dragged her inside.

  They left quickly, quietly.

  Fry stood still for a minute, staring at her like she was some alien life force. Something strange and hostile. “You spoiled my show tonight. You made quite a spectacle of yourself. And worst of all, you betrayed my trust. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  The truth was, Evie didn’t know what to say. She despised being spoken to like a child but was in no position to argue. To her mind, she hadn’t betrayed him or made a fool of herself—she had simply tried to escape a prison. “I—”

  Fry raised a finger. “Sit.”

  Although reluctant, Evie moved around the large tent and stood by the only wooden chair she could see. She didn’t sit, though. That would have made her far too vulnerable. “I need a chance to explain myself,” she said but had no idea how to follow it up.

  “I think you’ve had enough chances.” Fry turned his back on her, moving over to a large pile of colorful clothes and rummaging through as if he were searching for something. “Tell me—and don’t lie to me—what did you hope to achieve with your little act of rebellion?”

  “Honestly, I…” Her eyes drifted down, and when she saw a pencil sitting on the side of the desk, her instincts told her to grab it. As she gripped it in her curled hand and hid it behind her back, Fry spun around to look at her.

  “Well?”

  “I wanted to go home.”

  It was surprising to see Fry look so hurt—a schoolboy expression where his eyes shone with the first sign of tears and his fingers began to fidget, as if by themselves. “Oh, you did, did you?” Once more he turned his back to her. This time he went to a rail of hanging garments, shifting through them in rapid strikes like a madman. “Let me tell you something…”

  Evie’s heart began to pound. The man she’d once liked now scared her to death. She gripped the pencil tighter, ready to defend herself. She knew damn well what was coming—she had seen that look in a man’s eyes once before.

  “I won’t be disrespected. My show—my art—will not be made a mockery by your selfish desires.” Fry turned, a belt wrapped around a fist. “You need to be punished, and it has to be me who does it.”

  “Don’t you dare—”

  “I won’t be made to look like a fool!” Fry lunged forward, arcing his shoulder to strike. The long, snaking length of the black leather curled up behind him, preparing its deadly whiplike attack with the buckle end.

  It happened by reflex.

  Evie drove the pencil forward, stabbing it into his shoulder. As the lead pierced his flesh, Fry cried out in agony, dropping the belt and reaching for the protrusion. Evie made her move, perfectly aware that it was her only opportunity. She felt weightless as she dove out of the tent and into the hot summer air.

  “Stop her!” he called from inside.

  Pulse racing, Evie shot a look to her left and saw two of the carnies who had carried her in. They rushed toward her, and she didn’t wait around. As fast as she could, she sprinted to her right, panting heavily and feeling the men on her heels.

  Hide, was the only thing she could think of. She was outnumbered, outmatched, and she had made her captor angry. If they caught her, they would find the most painful way to kill her, to punish her. To torture her as recompense for her defiance.

  Shuffling through the crowd of people, all of whom seemed too engulfed in their night away from work, Evie looked over her shoulder and saw the two men fading into the distance as she widened the gap. If she could only get to somewhere quiet, somewhere nobody would think to look. After that, who knew what she would do?

  But the
n her guts twisted up as she caught sight of the boy, Lance.

  Oh…

  Evie couldn’t manage words. She could barely grasp the concept of breathing. She hadn’t thought she would see him again, but if she did, she never would have thought it would be like this. He was sitting dead still on a stool, chin propped up on his curled arm like The Thinker. His eyes were glazed over, his skin grayed out. A shiny coat of… something seemed to cover him. Whatever they had done to him, there was no chance that he was alive.

  Feeling an overwhelming urge to vomit, Evie read the sign beside him:

  BEHOLD!

  OUR VERY OWN STILLBOY!

  STUDY HIS BODY – SEE FOR YOURSELF THAT HE DOESN’T MOVE A MUSCLE.

  ISN’T HE GIFTED, FOLKS?

  (VISITORS ARE ASKED NOT TO TOUCH HIM)

  It was beyond sickening, more so than anything she could have ever imagined. But she had to press on or risk being caught and transformed into… whatever it was they had done to that poor, poor kid.

  Evie ran into the nearest established building. Darkness enveloped it, and she seized the opportunity to head inside. The interior was pitch-black—the perfect place to hide, she thought, and cowered down behind the only thing she could see, a small box of some kind. Here she waited, shaking, scared to death.

  “She went this way!” someone yelled, and both men ran past the entrance of her hiding place. “Come on, or we’ll lose her!”

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Evie stood and turned, going slightly farther in to improve her odds of escape. If she could conceal herself here for a few minutes, then find the courage to venture into the open, everything would be okay.

  But as she turned, she walked right into somebody—someone her height, wearing an expression of complete shock. She jumped backward, her reflexes acting before she could interpret what the figure was.

  Or rather, who it was.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Evie stared, immobile. At herself. She moved her left hand and the figure moved hers. Evie jolted suddenly to the right, and the figure followed. The god-awful fear of being caught and murdered seemed to have lessened her intelligence considerably, but she soon caught on to the fact that she was interacting with a mirror.

  It was then that the lights flickered on. The space in front of Evie lit up, presenting a large room of glass. Her reflection bounced from one panel to another, revealing that she had stumbled into a Hall of Mirrors.

  “I know you’re in here!” A voice. Fry’s? Whoever it belonged to, it was unsettling in its aggressive nature. “Come out, Evie. Make it nice and easy for me, and I’ll be sure to finish you off quickly!”

  That’s definitely Fry, Evie realized and didn’t wait around to see if he was telling the truth. Afraid of what lay before her—but even more of what lay behind—she plunged into the maze, her hands in front of her to feel around the mirrors.

  “Come on,” he called again. “You’ve already done the hard part by siding with the regular folk. So does that mean you’re back to being one of them, huh? Are you gonna stand with them now, looking down at us like we’re pieces of trash?”

  Evie ignored him for the most part. Her silence seemed to aggravate him, which kept him talking. And as long as he was shouting, she would have an idea of his whereabouts. After all, she hated not knowing.

  “You can’t hide from me!”

  Watch me. Evie delved deeper into the confusing corridor of mirrors. Her reflection stood at every angle, with little to no sign of how to get through. All she could do was reach out and touch with her forearms, so as not to leave a fingerprint trail in her wake.

  She had turned four times: twice to the left, then right on a long straight, and finally right again, almost as if to double back on herself. Fry’s voice became louder again, but she hoped he was in a parallel corridor.

  And then the worst possible thing happened.

  The maze became silent.

  Evie steadied her breathing, desperate not to give away her position. She looked around, making sure he couldn’t jump out on her, catching her unaware. But as she backed slowly down a stretch of mirrors, her backside hit the glass, boxing her in.

  Oh no, no, no.

  Somewhere along the line, she had taken a wrong turn. It was too late now to go back, but something told her she wouldn’t have to. Evie felt movement on her spine. She shot forward and spun quickly to face the mirror she had leaned on, only to see it sliding down into the ground. She looked around, seeing infinite reflections doing the same. That was when the horrifying fact hit her: Fry had found the control panel.

  “Stay away from me!” she screamed, unable to resist the outburst.

  “You should have given in while you had the chance.” The mirrors were at knee level, revealing Fry between Evie and the exit. “It wasn’t bad enough that you stabbed me in the back, but then you stabbed me in the shoulder, too?” He raised a finger, waving it from side to side. “Tsk, tsk.”

  Evie made a bolt for it. It was fight or flight, and he was far stronger. At any rate, she had significantly angered him, and anger tended to serve as a powerful tool when it came to a scuffle.

  Fry grabbed her by the arm, and Evie felt the burn in her wrist. She fought to break free, but there was no give. His other hand shot out from beside him, clamping around her throat. His face turned red as he squeezed, and she could feel hers doing just the same.

  “That’s it, my love. Die quietly.”

  Her breath fading out, Evie dropped slowly to her knees, the strangling hand coming with her. Her lungs screamed for air, begging for a gasp of precious oxygen, but it was no use. As her life force began to wither away, she could no longer hold up her arms. Everything began to turn white, and she could see something—a man… Conan? No… it was her brother, Mason Black.

  For a final image, it wasn’t the worst thing. Evie had fond memories of him, and they flashed through her mind, serving as a distraction from the awful and brutal death facing her. As her eyes fluttered closed, she got one more peek at Fry Carter’s face, a picture of ire and hatred.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Fry grunted as Evie’s savior tackled him, and they both tumbled to the ground. Conan showed a phenomenal display of strength, wrestling to overpower the other man.

  Evie, lying on her back and seeing a storm of colors, rolled her head to the side. She drank in deep, hungry gasps of air, collecting herself while the two men battled it out only a few feet away from her.

  A scream of rage pierced the air; a great deal of cursing combined with the swift sound of punching. Crunching sounds as bone collided with bone. Conan fell to the ground, Fry on top of him, clasping his hands around Conan’s neck as he had done with Evie only moments ago.

  “This is what you get when you interfere!” Fry yelled, straddling his assailant.

  Evie had to do something. Although not quite recovered, she pushed herself to her feet. Fry’s back was to her, which was perfect—her strength alone was nothing to go on, especially since he had choked most of the life from her.

  Shaking now and feeling faint, she crept up behind Fry and wrapped a firm forearm around his neck. Before he could wrangle free, she dragged him backward, away from Conan, and dropped him onto his back.

  “Bitch!” Fry climbed to his knees and grabbed at Evie’s leg. But before he could do any damage, Conan struck him across the cheekbone—hard.

  Fry went down again, collapsing onto his back and making a low groaning sound. Conan, whose previously white shirt was now stained with the blood from his own nose and lip, leapt on top of him, pinning him down.

  “Miss Black,” he called, struggling to stay on Fry. “I need you.”

  Evie rushed to his side, pulling Fry’s one free arm away and pinning it firmly against the ground. She was vaguely aware that any one of the other carnies could sneak in behind them now, coming at them with the upper hand.

  “I called the police,” Conan said. “They’ll be here shortly.”

  Evie
nodded, and together they both struggled to hold down the leader of Lowner’s Carnival. She felt a little guilty, she supposed. Even after all he had done, she could have sworn she’d had feelings brewing for this man. And although he deserved the impending storm of retribution, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d have been happy not knowing the truth.

  Before long, the police arrived. They handcuffed a furious Fry Carter and ushered him into the back of a car. Evie stood watching him, meeting the eyes that had once been full of love and cheer. Now that she knew the truth, all she could see was evil incarnate.

  Others were being arrested, too; Jynx was the second one placed into cuffs after Evie had explained everything to the police. Lucas the Strongman followed, although he had put up a considerably larger fight. Paris, on the other hand, had seized the opportunity to drink from a small vial, taking a life in an instant (probably provided by Jynx herself). This surprised Evie the most—he’d sure seemed in control of his emotions. But if this past week had taught her anything, it was that everybody was an enigma; everybody had their secrets.

  “You okay?” Conan said, putting a blanket he’d found on the ground over her bare shoulder.

  Evie, just now realizing that she still wore the ridiculous leotard, nodded blankly and watched two of the cop cars start up their engines and drive away from the carnival site. She would never see Fry Carter again, and although it was for the best, she felt a small twinge of sadness. “I’ll be fine.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The hot water pelting her head, neck, and shoulders finally started to ease her aching muscles. The stress of her ordeal and the stiffness borne of the long drive back to New York slipped from her body with the droplets. For the first time in a week, she felt safe, knowing Conan waited for her in the living room to make sure she was okay.