by Rachel Caine
His mouth opened, his questing tongue stroking hers. Never had she imagined being kissed with such thorough delicacy and patience and worship. He pulled her closer and turned his head, just a little. The flavor of his kiss took on the heady spice of passion and hunger, and she welcomed him, lips wide, answering his need with her own. Whether she was kissing an angel or a vampire or a construct of her own mind no longer mattered. Whatever Charlie was, inside and out—it was enough.
A rousing cheer went up, and Lydia drew back, a blush hot in her cheeks. But the applause and whistles were for something happening in the light of the carnival; she and Charlie were still alone backstage.
Charlie drew a line down her neck to stroke with reverence the tattoos along her collarbones. She could barely see him in the shadows, but he could apparently see her quite well, and his touch woke her skin, making her breathe faster.
“Finest ink I’ve ever seen. What’s the words say?”
“It’s Latin for ‘Don’t let the bastards grind you down.’ ”
His fingertip slowly traced the inked words to the faceted jewel that disappeared into the V of her gown, leaving a trail of fire along the already feverish skin of her chest. “I can see that. And that’s why a diamond, right? For the irony.” His dark, black-lined eyes looked straight down into her soul. “You been ground down, but you didn’t break. It makes you all the more beautiful.”
Lydia wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close, her cheek against his. He didn’t just see her; he saw through her to what was really there. Charlie swallowed hard, gently untangling her to stand and step away.
“We stay back here any longer, and I’m afraid you won’t think me a gentleman. I waited for you too long to let that happen. And there’s more to see tonight.”
Lydia studied him with new understanding, committing his wavy auburn hair and fierce eyes and sharp cheekbones to memory should she suddenly disappear. He held out a hand to help her stand and rearranged the fallen scarf around her shoulders.
With a soft peck on her cheek, he drew her out into the dancing light of the caravan. It was blinding at first, the sights and sounds overwhelming. But soon she was giggling and chatting with Charlie as she pulled him from one act to the next. They saw the lizard boy, the acrobats, the contortionists, the dancing fembots of the Bolted Burlesque. He told her of the small island where he had grown up, riding wild bludponies along the shore at his mother’s side. Lydia said nothing of her family, and he was wise enough not to ask.
As they paused, trying to catch their breath after laughing at a malfunctioning fembot, a dark-skinned Amazonian woman strode past with a giant snake around her shoulders, a train of small children singing and eating popcorn in her wake. The woman looked at Lydia and Charlie, white teeth flashing in the glowing ebony of her face, and murmured, “That’s powerful magic.”
Before either of them could respond, she held up a torch and blew a long plume of fire that rippled through the air in the shape of a winged snake. The children clapped and squealed as she moved on, and Charlie hissed under his breath and took Lydia in the opposite direction.
All along, the calliope’s song had been dancing in the background, and finally they were close enough to see the instrument and its master. Massive pipes shaped like octopus tentacles curled from a contraption of polished wood and inlaid brass and danced smoothly with the music. The man at the keyboard was movie-star gorgeous, his copper hair rippling down his back as he shifted from something classical and circus-y to “Octopus’s Garden.” The tiny hairs rose along Lydia’s arms.
“Do you know that song?” she asked Charlie.
He shook his head no. “Never heard anything like it until the Maestro showed up.”
Lydia stepped up to the calliope to watch the Maestro play, noting that his rolled-up sleeves showed ink of his own. “Do you know ‘Hey Jude’?” she asked quietly, and the man turned sharply to stare at her, his hands still playing.
She’d forgotten her hat, and when he saw her hair, he broke out in a huge dimpled grin.
“Where you from?” he asked with a Southern accent.
“Nashville. You?”
“Atlanta. You sticking around?”
She looked back at Charlie. He stood at a respectful distance, but his entire being was focused on her, his eyes intent as if he didn’t trust the Maestro, didn’t trust anyone around her. From this far away, he was beautiful and frightening, and she wasn’t bothered by either truth.
“I want to stay. But do you know what this place is? Are we dead? Is it a dream? Or are we both crazy?”
He chuckled with a hint of madness. “Darlin’, I just play the piano. I’ve been here for months, and I still have no idea what it is. Sang is weird as hell, but you get used to it.” He looked her up and down. “You should probably put on a hat and some gloves, though. You’re asking for trouble, walking around like that.”
“Charlie’ll take care of me.” She moved back to his side, and his arm settled around her waist like it belonged there. “See you later, Maestro.” She had a thousand questions to ask him, but he hadn’t stopped playing the piano, and she had so much to see, and she would run into him later, anyway, if she stayed. He gave her a bemused nod, and she let Charlie guide her to the next act, a mermaid in a glass aquarium.
Lydia stepped close to the tank, and the mermaid swam up to the glass. So far as Lydia could tell, she was the real deal, with gleaming gray-green scales and a long mane of undulating blond hair. The mermaid looked her over in turn, one eyebrow going up when she reached the spiky pink hair. Then the blond girl looked over Lydia’s shoulder and burst out laughing, bright bubbles floating up to pop against the surface.
“Really? Charlie Dregs?” The words were muffled but unmistakable.
Lydia looked back at Charlie, but she saw nothing laughable. His dark eyes were hard, his mouth frozen in a snarl.
She gave the mermaid the finger and turned to take Charlie’s arm. As they walked away from the tank, Lydia said, “What’s her problem?”
Charlie didn’t answer right away. They had reached a wagon with no lights. The crowd gave it a wide berth, keeping to the lantern light around the outside of its blocky shadow. The painted puppet stage out front looked abandoned, and Charlie left Lydia front and center as he ducked behind the curtains with a smile.
Something rustled in the darkness; then a white rabbit popped up onstage, startling her before she realized it was a puppet. It hopped about exactly like a real rabbit and nosed the air before standing upright to dance a jig. In a voice that wasn’t Charlie’s, it said, “You might’ve noticed I’m different from the other Bludmen. I prefer puppets to people. Keep to myself. Not an alpha male, like Criminy. Not a beast, like the two-headed boy. Not cruel, like the mermaid. Not as big, not as good-looking, not as powerful. They don’t really know me, much less like me.” With a click, the rabbit’s eyes turned red and fangs shot out of its mouth. “Truth is, I don’t really like them, either.”
She paused, afraid to break the puppet master’s spell.
“I like you, Charlie Dregs,” she whispered.
The rabbit disappeared, and Charlie emerged to face her. “That’s enough, then.”
“Even if I’m not real?”
“You’re the realest thing I know, Lydia. If you’re not real, we’re all just pretending.”
His hand slipped down her arm to entwine their fingers, and she decided that she, too, would pretend. She would pretend that her other world was the dream, that Jayson had just been a nightmare and that she’d never gone back to her father’s house. She would pretend that she could stay here forever, have a future with Charlie and a place to belong, where she would be valued. She would pretend that she had hope.
They wandered back into the lights of the carnival, stopping to watch Criminy’s magic show and clapping when glitter and streamers shot out from his top hat. They saw jugglers and dancing clockworks and played games of chance and rode the small Ferris wheel e
ven though they were much too large. Laughing, smiling, they ended up near where they’d begun, by the tightrope. Far above, the girl in stripes wobbled on a unicycle.
“Where to next?” Lydia asked, and Charlie had just opened his mouth to reply when the crowd around the tightrope gasped.
“She’s going to fall!” a woman shrieked.
Charlie let loose Lydia’s hand and plunged into the throng of onlookers with superhero speed. The girl on the tightrope was in the process of a slow, melodramatic fall, her eyes wide and her arms pinwheeling. Finally, she swooned and plummeted toward the ground amid a chorus of screams. Lydia couldn’t see what was going on, but judging by the clapping and whistling, Charlie must have caught the girl. More and more people arrived, craning their necks to see the spectacle, and Lydia backed away uneasily from the press of wide skirts, proud of Charlie’s heroism but wishing he would come back to her soon.
She turned away. The moors beyond the lanterns were mesmerizing, rippling like a midnight ocean, beautiful and fathomless and otherworldly. Tiny, white night flowers bloomed amid the indigo-painted grass, and she couldn’t help thinking of the Asphodel Meadows outside Hades, which her Classics 101 prof had called the Greek purgatory for those who led lives of inaction. She shivered at the night’s cold emptiness and followed the path of a meandering stream with her eyes, curious if its icy waters would taste alive and invigorating or creep down, down into her chest, bitter with forgetfulness and oblivion. Her eyes were wet, her throat was dry, and taking in each ragged breath was a struggle.
When a sly voice asked, “Lost again?” she nearly jumped out of her skin.
But it wasn’t Charlie.
“Yeah, she’s lost,” another voice answered.
“We can help you find your way.”
A hand clamped down on her shoulder and she spun around. It was the two-headed boy she’d seen earlier, and their matching grins made her blood run cold.
“I’m fine,” she said, shrugging out from under the filthy glove.
The boys took a step forward and she took a step backward, her head barely missing one of the lanterns. The chill of the moors hit her back like a punch to the kidney, and she gasped for air. The boys’ body was broader than a usual person’s, the arms stretched out in a gesture that might have been welcoming but felt far more sinister. The two heads looked at each other, and one snickered.
“She won’t be missed,” he hissed, barely a whisper above the mad yammer of the crowd.
Lydia stepped fully into the darkness of the field, her entire body going cold with panic. She couldn’t see Charlie or Criminy or a single familiar face in the caravan—just hundreds of strangers swarming in the light. She was invisible again. She would have to take her chances in the field.
She had just sucked in a breath to run when she heard a voice from the moors behind her.
“Attacking innocent women again, boys? Honestly.” The figure that stepped to her side smelled heavily of wet fur and fetid breath. It was the wolfman.
“Aw, Pietro. We’d share her with you.”
“You can have the body, after. A nice, juicy femur?”
“Just give us the blood first. It’s a fine deal.”
Pietro growled, stepping between Lydia and the boys. “Go. Now. And I won’t tell Master Stain. This is your last warning.”
The wolfman’s voice was cultured but thick, as if there weren’t enough room in his mouth for all his teeth and tongue. One of the boys’ heads spit a glob of blood at Lydia’s slippers before he disappeared into the crowd. She stepped back into the light and craned her neck for Charlie, but couldn’t find him.
“You’ll be looking for Mr. Dregs, I wager. I can sniff him out for you.” Pietro gallantly held out his arm, and she took it, careful not to show distaste at the odd squish of damp jacket on thick fur.
“Thanks for saving me,” she said.
“You’re very welcome, my dear. I take it you’re new to the caravan?”
He guided her around the crowd, and she turned to look back.
“But Charlie—”
“We can’t get near him right now, not with that nosy rabble. But I’ll drop you off at his wagon and send him along. Locks from the inside, you know. The twins won’t be able to touch you.”
“I want to wait for him.”
She tried to slow down but tripped and stumbled, and he slung her up to carry her pressed uncomfortably against his lapels as the alarm bells in her head began to ring.
“You’re understandably upset. But with all these Bludmen around, I can see why.”
The wolfman was strong, and they were already beyond the crowd. When she opened her mouth to shout, his hand latched over her lips, digging claws into her flesh and making her retch. Lydia kicked and struggled in his arms, but he was solid and unrelenting. One black lip lifted in warning.
“Don’t try me, girl. I’m doing you a favor.”
Lydia squealed and tried to kick him, but the little slippers were barely anything, and one flew off to land in the dirt by Charlie’s puppet stage as they passed. Pietro ducked behind a painted backdrop, pushed through the door of a light-blue wagon, and dumped her on the floor. She landed hard as he locked the door and turned on the lights. The humming orange lamps showed a genteel sitting room replete with oil paintings and curly-legged tables and an ornate full-length mirror. Pietro stopped in front of it, slipping off his coat and inspecting his teeth with a black-padded finger. He smoothed the brown and black fur on his face before turning to her with a sinister grin.
“The twins were right about one thing. You won’t be missed.”
Fierce resolve blazed through Lydia as she realized that she would do anything, fight any fight, to stay alive, here and now, in this world. She looked around the room for a window, another door, a weapon, anything. There was nothing.
“Oh, no. Wait. They were right about two things. I do enjoy a nice femur.”
She gasped before she could stop herself, then scrambled to her feet. Pietro walked toward her slowly, his boots heavy on the wood boards. Lydia picked up a chair and slung it at him, but he dashed it to the ground in pieces. When he threw his head back in a howling laugh, she grabbed a jagged chair leg off the floor and stabbed him in the thigh before dashing to the door. She barely had time to turn the top two bolts before heavy paws landed on her shoulders, knocking the shawl away. The wolfman shoved her against the mirror, and the ice-cold glass kissed the nape of her neck.
“There’s nowhere to run. Nowhere you can hide from me.”
She kneed him in the wounded thigh and dodged for the door again. His claws raked the mirror with a harsh squeal, right where her throat had been seconds before. She had the last two locks unbolted before he caught her again. If she could just live long enough to open the door, maybe she could escape or call for help.
But not this time. The wolfman’s arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her to his chest with an intimacy that made her squirm.
“You sick bastard,” she shouted, and he dug his fingers into her sides.
“I’m not sick, dearest. It’s only natural.”
With a growl of her own, she sunk her teeth into his arm, gagging on the hair and fabric, and he threw her to the ground. Bruised and trembling, she scrambled backward until she fetched up against the wall beside a claw-scratched sofa. Her assailant went into a crouch, the animal movement at odds with his dapper outfit. She kicked a table at him, and he batted it aside. There was nothing left to throw, nothing left to hide behind, and his smile said he knew it.
“Look at it this way. I’m protecting you from that vile Bludman. He would suck you dry, given half a chance, perhaps even turn you into a monster like himself. This way you stay pure. Retain your virtue.”
She was getting ready to aim a kick at his balls when the door burst open.
“Lydia!”
Charlie charged across the room, eyes wide with fury. His lips pulled back to show fangs even sharper than Pietro’s as his talons s
ought the beast’s neck.
“Charlie! Be careful!”
With a snarl, Pietro leaped on top of Lydia, crushing her against the wall. She threw an arm up to protect her face, and wicked teeth closed around her wrist, ripping into the flesh and scraping on bone. The wolfman didn’t stop chewing when Charlie roared, but the Bludman’s sharp kick to his stomach got his attention, forcing him to drop her. Lydia scooted away, clutching the mauled and bleeding wrist to her chest, her body running hot and cold with shock and fear. Charlie wound his fingers into the wolfman’s hair to tip back his head. A vicious swipe of the Bludman’s white claws ripped out the thickly furred throat in one wet gobbet.
Tossing the limp body aside, Charlie cradled Lydia against his chest, his hands hovering over the numb, shivering wreckage of her useless arm.
“It’ll be fine, love. He’s dead. It’s over now,” he whispered in her ear.
“But my wrist. The veins. The blood. I’m dying again, aren’t I?”
“Maybe.” He swallowed hard and kissed her forehead. “Maybe not. I can try turning you. That would heal over right quick if you were a Bludman.”
“And then I could stay here?”
“I don’t know, love.”
She took a ragged breath and gazed into his eyes. They shone with hunger and what might be love.
“What have I got to lose?” she said.
He brought her wrist tenderly to his mouth, his lips soft and searing. She was enveloped in warmth and numbness. And then, with a frightening familiarity, everything dissolved into darkness.
—
LYDIA WOKE TO sunlight and the robot breath of air-conditioning set just a little too low. Outside her window, the ocean lapped restlessly at the shore. She was in her daybed, the sheets pulled up to her chin and tucked tightly over her arms. Her stomach twisted as she recognized her bedroom, and she squeezed her eyes shut, hoping to wish it away.
“Welcome back.”
“Charlie?”
“I thought his name was Jayson.”