by Rachel Caine
He stopped at the end of the tent and peered around the corner. The last thing he saw was a giant gray fist coming out of nowhere. The last thing he heard was Baasîl’s soft chuckle and the words, “Put them in the show.”
—
WHY DID I let her talk me into this? Why?
Standing in the arena with Emma by his side, facing a twelve-foot-tall mountain troll, was just about as much as Rex could take. He laughed. And to top it all off, he was dressed like a clown. A macabre one. His entire face had been painted white like Emma’s, their eyes circled with black paint. They looked like skeletons. Skeleton clowns in tuxedo leotards. No one would know there were two humans in the ring.
Baasîl apparently had no qualms about the law.
It was the finale of the night’s performance. And Baasîl had just informed the crowd that Emma and Rex would face the snarling mass of muscle, fangs, and lunacy in front of them. It wasn’t a question of if they could defeat the troll, but how long they could last before it tore them apart.
A flat club with serrated inserts of razor-sharp stone hung in the beast’s massive hand. Mountain trolls were extremely reclusive, extremely volatile creatures. Once they felt threatened, they attacked with a frenzy that didn’t let up until all that remained was a bloody mass of goo on the ground.
The crowd cheered. Money was passed from hand to hand. Trapeze artists swung overhead, and clowns climbed inside the chain links that protected the crowd. They, too, wore skeleton paint and black tuxedo body suits. Anyone inside or above was fair game. You fell, you got caught, and you were dead.
Baasîl settled into his private box. Behind him was Brim in a spiked collar. Attached to the collar were four stiff rods held by four jinn. The rods kept them safe and gave them control over the hellhound. Rex knew those rods could shock as well.
Rex had been one of the finest jinn warriors of his day—the best, some said. Powerful. Huge. Feared. But he hadn’t been that person in aeons. He was human now, and his powers and strength were zilch compared to a jinn and especially compared to that hulking creature banging on the thick timber gate.
“When I say go, you start climbing the fence, you hear me? Get to the top, and then you run. Use whatever power you can, hurt whoever you need to hurt, and get back to the portal.” Em didn’t respond. Rex grabbed her shoulders. His hands were shaking. “Swear it, Emma. You get the hell out of here.”
Her large brown eyes looked even larger ringed by the black paint. She blinked. Maybe she was in shock. What was he talking about, maybe? She had to be. Hell, even he felt a sense of the surreal. Weak human in a huge arena, surrounded by a bloodthirsty crowd, with a fucking troll. He shook her. “Swear it.”
His heart pounded. They’d had so little time together. He’d lived for thousands of years, countless lives in one body after another, and he’d had a good run. He wasn’t ready to go, but he’d be damned if he’d let one hair on Emma’s head be harmed. He’d fucked up as usual, but she would not pay for his mistake.
Em’s expression slowly transformed into . . . a smile? Rex did a double take. She reached up and cupped his face in her small, black-gloved hands. “I love you, Rex.”
“I love you, too,” he said absently, wanting to get back to that promise, wanting to know she’d run. He began to tell her so, but she cut off his words.
“I’ve got this.”
“Wha—?”
The timber gate groaned as it began to crank open. The crowd went wild. Shit. He swung his gaze back to Emma.
“Remember what I said,” she said, cutting him off again. “I know what to do. I figured it out. I’m scared to death. I didn’t mean to get caught, that wasn’t the plan, but . . . I’m not giving up.” She turned to look at Brim. He was shaking his head, struggling with the jinn and getting shocked repeatedly. “Just . . . keep it distracted for a minute, and don’t get hurt. Brim and I will do the rest.” The gate went up. The troll burst through. “Trust me!” Emma gave him a blinding smile and ran toward Baasîl’s box.
The confidence, the calm belief, in her expression—it stunned and humbled him.
The troll was in front of him. Dirt flew up as it slid to a stop and swung its heavy club. Shit! He dodged right. His hair moved in the breeze created by the club as it whispered inches from his head. He rolled sideways, popped to his feet, and dashed to the other end of the arena, arms pumping, eyes wildly searching for Emma.
She was in front of the box. Two of the jinn holding Brim blew backward. She’d used her power. Brim flung his body, trying to shake off the other two. He rammed the rods into the bench. One snapped off at the collar. The other hit Baasîl in the head, sending his top hat flying.
Rex couldn’t see more. The troll swung at him again. He dove to his left and hit the ground as the club slammed down next to him so hard, it vibrated the ground. He scrambled up and ran.
The roar of the crowd filled the space. The thumps of their boots on the wooden benches sounded in time to the frantic beat of his heart. “Emma!” He found her again, this time a blur as she sped past the troll’s right side. He ran for her. From his peripheral vision, he saw commotion as Brim, free of the box, plowed through the crowd, trying to find a way down to the holding gate where the troll had been released.
The troll was after Emma. She screamed and rolled beneath its massive feet as it swung its club. Rex grabbed her and threw her behind him.
Brim bolted through the holding gate, the two broken rods still clinging to his collar. He’d made it.
Emma ran right. Brim ran left.
They darted by the troll, one after the other, confusing it. Finally, it shook its head, turned, and zeroed in on Rex.
“Distract it, Rex!” Emma shouted.
“Why am I always the bait?” he muttered, and then shouted, “Come and get me, you big bastard! Take your best shot!”
—
EMMA WATCHED REX wave his arms, jog in place, and roll his shoulders while talking smack to the troll. It charged. Rex screamed.
Now, Brim!
Brim’s muscular hindquarters bunched and he took off like a rocket, sweeping around the oval arena toward Rex. Just as he was upon him, he veered sharply, spraying Rex with dirt and then charging the troll headlong as it raced down the centerline. Brim leapt. His massive jaws latched onto the troll’s bare shoulder. His body flipped over, twisting in midair. But he held on, the troll’s flesh twisting in his mouth and tearing.
It worked. The momentum tipped the troll backward, knocking it off balance. It backpedaled, dropping to its rear, its lethal club coming to rest in the dirt as its hand reached out to stop itself from falling completely on its back.
Brim released the troll and ran behind Emma. Her heart beat so fast, it made her dizzy. Fear numbed her entire body. This was it. She had to do this. Now or never and all that. If they were going to get out of this alive—all of them—she had to act, and act now.
She ran and leapt just as the troll leaned forward to push itself to its feet. Her body slammed against its shoulder. Her breath whooshed from her lungs, but she kept to the task and wrapped her arms around its thick tusks, facing it. The stench of its breath was beyond gross and triggered her gag reflex. Her eyes stung. Yet there was something intelligent inside that thick skull. She had glimpsed it when it had lunged at her in the menagerie.
She had to make eye contact.
This was her power. This was her gift. Her skin tingled like it was asleep. She caught its gaze, met it eye to eye. Emma gave herself over to her power. With everything she had, she forced her way inside and sank into the troll’s mind.
A huge, beefy hand slapped onto the back of her head and squeezed as it prepared to yank her off.
There. There you are. The hand stopped squeezing but didn’t let go. And here I am. You’re going to be just fine . . .
Emma realized, as she’d pretty much suspected all along, that besides being able to communicate, she could influence. She could force her will upon a creature, which w
as why she’d always been so careful with Brim. She never wanted to do that, never wanted their relationship to be one of master and slave.
But this creature . . . this one was different. This one was hard, the connection weak. But I’m strong, she reminded herself. She was stronger than the troll, not physically but mentally. And that’s where it counted.
Pain spread through her head. But she kept on, knowing the beast wanted a way out, was desperate to escape. It needed to know she was on its side, that freedom was at hand. She heard Rex shout. Heard Brim’s ferocious growl. And then she drifted, remembering her lessons in the backyard with Rex—always on concentration, always on control, always on tapping into the core of one’s power. And Rex, the way he’d wave his hand and always say, “These are not the droids you’re looking for.”
She laughed inside.
She knew what to do.
By the time the giant hand released her skull, Emma was coated in a cold sweat. Her skin was sticky, the face paint like glue on her skin. She slid off the smelly creature, and her legs collapsed beneath her. Rex caught her and dragged her away as the troll slowly got to its feet, bent over, picked up its massive club, and then lifted its head.
Time slowed. The crowd went quiet.
The troll stood straight and proud, its eyes raised to the crowd. It drew in a deep breath, its chest expanding.
And then it let out the loudest, scariest, angriest roar Emma had ever heard.
Silence descended. The crowd seemed to sense things had changed, sensed something different was about to take place. The troll turned its head, glanced over its shoulder at Emma. Poor thing. So angry, so scared, craving the mountains and its home, its family. She nodded. With a quickness not expected from such a hulking beast, it swung its head back around and zeroed in on Baasîl’s box.
Emma watched in satisfaction as Baasîl’s gray skin went a few shades lighter.
And then it was on. The troll charged. The hunt began. The crowd freaked and stampeded for the exits.
Her legs were still weak, her body still shaking, but she stepped out of Rex’s hold. She didn’t look back. Didn’t want to. Didn’t need to. Instead, Emma walked toward the arena gate, calm and focused. Tired and sad.
Baasîl was on his own. The troll, a female, would do what she wanted to the one who had trapped and caged her. Emma had been surprised about the gender, but not the emotions, not the desire to go home. She hadn’t given an order to kill. But that’s what the outcome would be. It was the troll’s choice, but Emma knew the role she played, and she knew she’d have to live with it. And after the troll had its revenge, it would flee, escaping out the gaping mouth of Telmath and into the Charbydon wilds. Flee rather than fight. Harm no one else, just . . . run—that’s what Emma had imprinted on its mind.
Tears stung her eyes as she walked over the soft earth to the sounds of screams. Rex and Brim caught up with her, and together they went through the gate and into the back area of the tent.
“We’re releasing them,” she told Rex as panicked carnival workers ran past them.
“Emma. We can’t. Turning them out in the city . . . They’re wild animals. They’ll kill innocent people.”
She looked into his eyes, so like her father’s, and felt like she’d aged by years. “I know. I’ll take care of it. I can influence them, Rex. They’ll listen to me. They want to go home. They’ll run, nothing more. The ones who live off-world can follow us to the portal or choose to make a life in the wild. There are sixteen animals in the menagerie and two in cages back here.” Her voice was shaky, her body numb. She drew in a deep, steadying breath and waited to see if he’d back her up. And somehow, his answer meant more to her than anything.
Rex parked his hands on his hips. He looked ridiculous in his tuxedo leotard and face paint. Her smile grew from the inside out because she knew that look and knew his answer.
“I swear, it’s never a dull moment with you Madigan women,” he said, shaking his head and letting out a dramatic sigh. “Okay, kid. Let’s do this.”
“Daughter of the Midway, the Mermaid, and the Open, Lonely Sea”
Seanan McGuire
If there’s one thing seventeen years of traveling with the Miller Family Carnival has taught me, it’s that harvesttime is carnival time.
Spring is good, if what you want is young lovers cluttering the Ferris wheel like clinging burrs, moon-eyed and drunk on the wonder of learning that lips can be used for kissing. Summer brings in the families, screaming children with fingers that smell like cotton candy and mischief, wistful parents who remember their own turns around the Ferris wheel. Springs and summers are profitable. We’re hopping like scalded cats all through spring and summer. The midway lights never go out, and my throat feels like twenty miles of bad road by the time we get to August from all the cheering and cajoling and calling for the townies to step right up and see the wonders of the world.
Springs and summers pay for new equipment, for repairs to the old equipment, for fresh ponies in the paddock and good bread on the table. Winters are for resting. That’s when we retreat to the family’s permanent home outside of Phoenix, Arizona, and take stock against the year to come. But autumns . . .
Autumns are harvesttime, and harvesttime is carnival time.
Even the trees know it, and they dress themselves up in reds and yellows and kiss-a-carnie gold. Especially in the South, where the pulse of the seasons runs right under the skin of the world. Alabama met us at the border with a celebration, and the mood spread through the carnival like a rumor. Everything was going to be good here. The ticket sales would be fantastic, the marks would be easy, and the people would be easy to please.
But first, we have to get them to come. There’s where I come in: me, and the rest of the scouts. I ride into Huntsville on the roof of Duncan’s pickup truck, sitting with my legs dangling and my face turned toward the road behind us. It falls away like a secret no one cared to keep. My heels drum against the glass with every bump and pothole, setting up an uneven tattoo that says Carnival’s-coming, carnival’s-coming, carnival-is-almost-here.
It’s a perfect day.
I should know by now that perfect days can’t last.
The pickup rattles to a stop in front of a convenience store. The storefront is plastered with flyers and faded advertisements so thick that no trace of the original paint remains. I slide into the bed of the pickup, retrieving my shoes from where I dropped them among the piled-up posters that will tell the town that we’re coming. They’re old sneakers, a size too large for me, loose on my feet with the laces untied. I don’t tie them.
Shoes are a necessary evil, reserved for the company of townies, after seventeen years spent running barefoot along the midway.
Duncan walks around the truck and holds out his hands without a word. I pick up the nearest stack of posters and hand them to him. “Do you want to wait here, or do you want to come inside and meet the locals?” he asks.
He’s been asking me that since I was old enough to come on town runs, and I always give the same answer: “I don’t know that I care much about the locals, but I’d love something to drink.” Duncan laughs, bundles the stack of posters up under his right arm, and sweeps me down from the bed of the pickup with his left arm. He holds me so that I’m still facing behind myself, still watching where I’ve been, and he lets my denim-clad behind serve as my herald to the world as he walks toward the store.
A bell chimes when the door is opened, just before the rush of too-cold air-conditioning hits us. My skin lumps itself into fat knots of gooseflesh, making the scales around my collarbone burn. I squirm against Duncan’s arm, hoping he’ll get the hint and put me down. Being carried in is part of the tradition, but I’d rather walk than freeze.
Duncan ignores me—Duncan always ignores me—as he focuses on the store’s unseen inhabitants. “Good afternoon, sirs and ma’am,” he says. He’s using his friendly midwestern accent, the one that can pull in townies from miles away if they let him
keep talking for a few minutes. That’s why he’s head scout and I just carry posters. “I’m Duncan Miller, and this is my cousin Ada.”
“H’lo,” I say, waving vaguely at the air behind me.
“We’re with the Miller Family Carnival, and we were just wondering if it would be all right for us to drop off a few posters for you to hang outside your lovely establishment.” There’s a pause while he flashes a smile at the sirs and ma’am. I don’t need to see it. I’ve seen this routine before. “We’d also be happy to hang them ourselves, if that would be easier for you.”
“The carnival’s coming to town?” It’s an older man’s voice, with a disbelieving tone. I close my eyes, trying to picture him. He’ll be a thin man, weathered and drawn, without nearly enough hair to cover his head. He’ll smoke—not inside, of course—and the tips of his fingers will be stained yellow.
Guessing people’s faces from their voices is a parlor trick, and it’s one I’m good at, probably because I’ve had so much practice. I squirm again, trying to get Duncan to put me down and let me see whether I’m right.
“Yes, sir, it is,” says Duncan.
“But the carnival never comes to Huntsville,” says a woman. She sounds younger than the man. I picture her as larger, too, not fat, but soft and rounded like Eglantine, who teaches math to us carnie kids and trains the dancing girls in the hoochie tent. “Not for going on twenty years.”
“Well, ma’am, the carnival is coming now,” says Duncan. He finally yields to my squirming, bending down to set my feet on the floor. “I’m delighted to hear it’s been so long since you’ve had the opportunity to enjoy the wonders of a proper midway. Why, I’ll expect to see each and every citizen of Huntsville pass through our gilded gates.”
“I can’t say you’ll see everyone, but a carnival will be a nice change of pace around here,” says the second man. He sounds big.
Fixing my talking-to-townies smile firmly in place, I turn and see the people behind the counter. The first man is old, and thin enough to pass for a scarecrow, in the right clothes. He has a full head of hair, but it’s too thick, and the color isn’t right: he’s wearing a toupee. The second man is both younger and larger, with arms almost as big around as Duncan’s and a gut like one of the silent potbellied twins who run the pony ride.