Jason awakened to find me by his bedside. He smiled, this thoughtful gem of a boy, trust filling his eyes. I heard the music again, that ghostly waltz, and my throat tightened at its import.
“Would you like to dance, Jason?”
He looked between me and Micah, with uncertainty. “Will it hurt, Dr Taylor?”
“Never again,” I vowed and he searched my gaze as he had once before.
And then he smiled.
“OK.” Jason opened his arms to me.
I smiled and leaned closer, gathering the precious burden of him into my arms as Micah watched. I smelled the death in Jason and my heart swelled that I could give him this gift.
This mercy.
“Listen to the music,” I murmured.
“Pretty,” he said and closed his eyes, his dark lashes thick upon his cheek. He’d never awaken again and I was fiercely glad of that. I bent my head to his sweet neck, tore the flesh and drank until he was gone.
Until he was at peace for ever.
Micah brushed my fingertips across the two puncture marks, showing me how to remove the proof of our presence. His hand was warm over mine, protective. As I stared at Jason, finally so tranquil, I was fiercely glad of the choice I’d made. I had become something new, and was determined to use my power as Micah did.
For mercy.
So, I smiled when Micah took my hand in his and I squeezed his fingers in mine. His eyes glowed with promise.
I went willingly. There was so much to learn, and all the time to do it. I had been waiting for this opportunity and I knew that I – we – would make the most of it.
For ever.
Le Cirque de la Nuit
Karen MacInerney
Bella sensed him before she saw him.
There was something different in the air that night – beyond the sweet scent of kettle corn, of bodies packed together in the darkness, the hush of anticipation and desire beyond the footlights.
Bella waited backstage, muscles warm and limber, make-up applied, the red sequins of her costume glittering in the reflected light. Beside her stood Boris – a necessary evil, stinking of garlic. His teeth a line of broken fence posts. Handsome from a distance though, which was all that mattered. He was proud in the sparkling Lycra bodysuit that clung to his muscular frame.
The ringmaster had announced their act in his rolling, mellifluous voice . . . and as the first brash strains of Carmen filled the tent, Bella and Boris stepped out of the shadows and into the spotlight’s caress.
Bella felt the intake of breath at their arrival, the barely contained desire of the husbands in the audience – locked in next to their doughy wives – as she climbed the ladder to the platform, Boris’ garlicky presence a few rungs behind. A moment later, it began. She leaped from the platform, trapeze clenched in her calloused hands, and transformed into an airborne bird, beautiful, powerful, the object of every eye in the audience. Together with Boris, Bella began her seductive dance fifty feet above a sea of upturned faces, each one wishing he or she could fly with her.
That night though – even in the throes of the intricate dance she performed six times a week, floating and leaping to the rasping pulse of a modernized Bizet – a new electricity sparked in the tent. There was, as always, an intimate connection with the audience. Bella arched her back, stretched a graceful arm, made her taut body a question mark, an unattainable invitation suspended from a slender wooden bar, death the merest slip away. Death and beauty – the twin charms of the trapeze artist, the source of Bella’s nightly seduction, a heady brew that caught men’s breaths in their throats and launched a million fantasies. Tonight though, there was a new urgency in the audience, an erotic throb that went beyond the throaty siren song smouldering in the hazy air. It followed her as she danced, an invisible lover’s caress, so that by the time she alighted on the platform for the last time, Boris’ chalky hand gripping hers, Bella’s body was aflame under the tight red costume.
She bowed deeply, extending one graceful arm as if to embrace the sea of earthbound souls below, rising higher on the swell of applause, the hidden gaze that followed every move of her glittering, lithe body. She felt that gaze as she climbed down the ladder, felt the eyes lingering on the curve of her waist, the swell of her small breasts, the long, lean line of her legs. She felt it follow her all the way to the edge of the ring, where she stepped out of the spotlight and back into darkness.
“Did you feel something different?” she asked Boris, slightly breathless, as they left the stage behind them and the last strain of Carmen died, leaving the dusty ring to the clowns.
Boris shrugged, his blond hair streaked with sweat. “They liked us. They always do.”
Bella glanced over her shoulder, thinking of that gaze, like a lover’s touch. Was she imagining things?
“I’m going to skip the workout tonight,” Boris said then, stretching.
Bella’s mouth tightened. “That’s the third time this week,” she said. Uneasiness dimmed the spell’s hold on her. Though she loved the intimacy of having the trapeze to herself, Boris had skipped too many late-night practices recently. If he became soft, or careless . . .
“I’ll catch you tomorrow,” he said.
“Let’s hope so,” Bella said, but he was already gone, striding away through a sea of silk costumes and painted faces.
Bella glanced back towards the ring again, listening to the familiar antics of Rocky – the strongman was lifting the anvil now, she knew – and then stepped aside as Franco bustled past. The clown paused when he saw her.
“Why the sour face?” he asked. “He eat too much garlic again?”
Bella laughed. “Always.”
“You could run away to another circus,” he said.
“It’s easier to go with a partner. Besides, I’d miss you. ”
“I tell him to use the mouthwash,” Franco said, his dark eyes intelligent and full of humour above the white greasepaint and painted red mouth. “He does not deserve such a beautiful partner.”
“Thank you, Franco.” Bella’s ruby-painted lips formed a Cupid’s bow smile. “You’re my knight in shining armour.”
He bent over in a mock courtly bow, his baggy clown pants gaping, his huge red shoes gleaming. “I am at your service, mademoiselle.”
Bella bent over to kiss his white-painted cheek. He staggered back in feigned ecstasy, almost bumping into one of the jugglers. “I shall never wash again.”
“You’re up next,” she reminded him. “Better hurry!”
He hurried towards the stage door. Still thinking about the erotic charge that had filled the tent during her performance, Bella drifted back to her trailer.
The big top was empty when she returned two hours later, wearing a simple black leotard, her oval face scrubbed of rouge and eye shadow. Although the roustabouts had already swept up the stray popcorn, the sweet familiar scent still filled the tent. The intensity that had permeated the place was gone though, erased by the empty bleachers and the blaze of white light overhead.
Bella stretched for a minute or two, feeling the blood run through her cooled muscles, then climbed the ladder to the platform. The safety net was not in place tonight; so instead of unhooking the trapeze, she reached for the long, purple silks that the circus’ soloist, Irina, used during her performance. Rather than return to the ground, Bella stepped off the platform and slowly lowered herself down the silk, savouring the feeling of the fabric pressed against her body as she moved through the routine she had been developing on her own for a year. It was a sensuous dance, suspended only by two sheer lengths of fabric, hung high above the mats below.
Bella had been practising for thirty minutes when she sensed a change. The throaty siren song of Carmen had long faded, but the tent was filled with the same dark, erotic presence she had felt earlier.
Goosebumps rose on her slender arms and legs, and, as Bella wrapped each foot in a length of fabric and slowly pushed her body until her legs were stretched into a full split, s
he searched for its source. There, in the corner by the north entrance, a man sat.
He tilted his head as Bella watched; the lights gleamed on his hair, which was chestnut brown. Even from this distance she could make out wide shoulders in a dark suit jacket. It was the man she had sensed earlier. Suddenly, the rote of practice became something else altogether.
Again, Bella felt the caress of his gaze on her body as she hung suspended in the air. Her familiar movements transformed into an intimate dance, the watched and the watcher, each slow move studied, devoured by the presence in the corner of the tent.
Finally, her entire body burning with desire, Bella unrolled herself and slid down the silks to the mats. She looked up to where her silent watcher sat.
He was gone.
Bella woke late the next morning, after a night of erotic dreams, which slipped through her fingers when she tried to grasp them. She exited her trailer to the sharp cold of a Canadian winter, and the familiar smell of animals, canvas and stale popcorn. A few flakes of snow fluttered down as she passed the shuttered midway on the way to the cookhouse.
The tent was blissfully warm and, despite the fact that it was less than an hour till noon, smelled deliciously of sizzling bacon. Boris was there, arm slung around Jade, the petite contortionist who had joined Circus Renaldi a few months ago. One hand was curled around her narrow waist possessively; the other was busy cutting a sausage in half with a fork.
Bella passed them by with a brief nod. A few minutes later, with a bowl of bran flakes and half a grapefruit (she allowed herself bacon and eggs only once a week), she retreated to a table at the far end of the tent. The cookhouse was sparsely inhabited, and Bella could hear the intimate tones of Jade and Boris from several yards away. Had Boris slept at all last night? Should Bella talk to the ringmaster about his skipped practices? So far, he hadn’t missed a catch, but if he continued to avoid rehearsals, that would likely change. What Bella really longed to do was her solo act with the silks. But while the supple Russian gymnast Irina was firmly ensconced as the ringmaster’s favourite, Bella knew she would have to eschew the silks for a trapeze – at least for a while.
Bella was spooning up the last of her cereal when someone slipped through the tent door, letting a blast of cold air sweep through inside. The circus would be moving further south in a few days, and Bella welcomed the thought of warmer weather. But she would miss the erotic thrill of last night’s audience. Would her mysterious admirer return again tonight? Bella toyed with her spoon, reliving the strange intimacy of last night’s performance, wondering how it was that one single person out of hundreds could charge the atmosphere so completely. She was thinking about that glimpse of chestnut hair, wondering what his face looked like, when Franco slid into the chair across from her.
Bella smiled. “Hi, Franco.”
“Good morning, Bella. Your boyfriend is busy again this morning,” he said, eyeing Boris and Jade.
“I know,” she said, biting her lip.
“Too much schnapps last night,” Franco said, shaking his head. Without the greasepaint, the pitted scars of adolescent acne gave his skin the appearance of a moonscape. Bella had often wondered if the thick layers of camouflaging paint had influenced his decision to become a clown. For a few hours a night, he was allowed to leave his ravaged face behind. He smiled sadly. “He is not good for you.”
“As long as he can hold his own on the rigging, he can do what he wants,” Bella said, resignation in her voice. Distant as it was, their partnership had survived at least two of Boris’ flings; initially passionate, each one had burned out quickly, both times ending in his paramour’s flight to another circus. If she could ride out this one, things would likely even out again, and Bella could wait for the ringmaster to lose interest in Irina. By then she would be ready.
Franco leaned towards her, his voice just above a whisper. “Replace him,” he said.
Bella blinked, her blue eyes wide. “How?”
“Quietly,” he said. “There is another circus in town. Le Cirque de la Nuit. Perhaps there is an aerialist there who is not happy with his lot.”
Bella felt a frisson of excitement. She had heard rumours about the Cirque for years, but had never met anyone who worked for it. The tickets were reputed to sell for hundreds of dollars, even thousands, apiece. The Cirque’s engagements were strictly limited. Bella doubted anyone in such a prestigious circus would be willing to trade down to Renaldi. But if there was an opening for an aerialist . . .
“Where are they playing?” she asked, urgency in her voice. She had a matinee show that afternoon, but she might have time to visit, see if she could get an audition. The routine she’d been working on, with the silks – Bella might be able to leave Boris behind permanently. She might even be able to find a spot for Franco . . .
Franco pushed a paper across the checkered tablecloth to her. “I found out where they play. If you go now –”
Bella glanced down at the address scrawled on the paper, then tucked it into the pocket of her jeans. “Thanks, Franco.”
As the clown slipped back out the tent entrance, she gathered her bowl and spoon and stood up.
“Are we rehearsing this morning, Bella?” It was Boris. He had disentangled himself from his pretty contortionist and was now standing behind Bella. “I’m sorry I missed you last night.”
Normally, Bella would have cared more – about both his abdication and his attempt at restitution – but her thoughts were full of the legendary Cirque. “I’ve got a few things to do this morning,” she said. “I’ll see you at show time. Three o’clock.”
His face was a mask of contrition. “We haven’t been working together as much lately.”
“We’ll practise together tomorrow. Go have fun with Jade,” she said, glancing at the pretty girl, who was observing their exchange with interest. Boris looked tired, Bella thought. Perhaps another bout with the contortionist wasn’t the best idea after all. “Or take a nap,” she suggested.
“Thank you,” Boris said, with another gap-toothed smile. Bella glanced at her watch; she had two and a half hours if she was going to make it back in time for make-up. Buttoning her coat against the cold, she hurried out of the tent and into the knife-sharp wind.
Her breath caught at the sight of the deep blue tent, its sides spangled with silver moons and stars, surrounded by a small array of trailers. A silver banner flew from the big top’s apex, fluttering in the cold winter wind.
The taxi slowed to a halt at the deserted entrance, and Bella checked her hair and make-up in a compact before snapping it shut and tucking it back into her bag. “Will you stay here for a few minutes?” she asked, smiling winningly at the driver, a pale young man with circles under his eyes.
“How long?”
“Twenty at most,” she said. Bella hadn’t come prepared for an audition; all she wanted was a chance to talk to the ringmaster.
The driver nodded brusquely, and Bella exited the warmth of the cab into the biting wind. She stepped over the chain that stretched across the entryway and searched for someone to direct her to the ringmaster.
The problem was, there was nobody around to talk to. Despite the huge blue tent and the jumble of trailers, the place was desolate.
Thinking the cold weather might have driven everyone indoors, she hurried to the back of the lot where the trailers stood, then mounted the stairs to the nearest one and hammered on the door. The windows were dark, and nothing stirred in response. Bella knocked again, then moved to the next trailer. Again nothing. After the fifth trailer, she stood for a moment, thinking – and then decided to find the cookhouse. She sniffed the air, searching for the smell of a kitchen, but the only scents were asphalt and canvas. No animals, no popcorn, no bacon frying.
And no people.
Confounded, Bella returned to the main tent, admiring the spangled moons and stars sprinkled on the deep blue canvas. The entrance was laced tight and locked, the tent’s base lashed to the ground; short of cutting throu
gh the lacing or canvas, there was no way to get in.
The young woman stood outside the main tent, shivering and confused. Where was everyone?
Her dreams, so buoyant that morning, seemed to shrink to nothing in the cold winter wind. The thought of returning to Circus Renaldi, to a matinee performance in a half-filled tent with the garlic-scented Boris, was more repellent than ever. Casting her eyes around the area one last time, she crossed the pitted pavement to the waiting taxi.
“Nobody home?” the driver asked. She climbed into the back seat.
“Nobody at all,” she said with a sigh, and watched out the window until the spangled blue tent disappeared from sight.
* * *
Boris had obviously not taken advantage of the opportunity to sleep that afternoon. When Bella found him backstage, his eyes were more bloodshot than ever, and the reek of garlic mingled with the sour smell of alcohol. Jade was nowhere to be seen – in makeup, probably, Bella thought – but the solo aerialist Irina, lithe and graceful in white sequins and spandex, pranced by, earning the smouldering gaze of the ringmaster. His lust had lasted eighteen months so far. Bella was hoping it would die soon, but it showed no signs. She glanced over at Boris, noticing the sweat stains on his red leotard, and sighed.
As Bella chalked her hands, wondering if the mystery man would be at the performance tonight, Franco hurried over to her. “Did you talk to the ringmaster?” he whispered, glancing over his hunched shoulder to make sure they were alone. His face was painted white, with the traditional clown smile obscuring the worried set of his mouth.
“There was no one there,” she said.
He blinked in surprise. “No one?”
“Nobody – no roustabouts, no performers – not even a cookhouse. The tents and trailers were there, but it was deserted.”
“It couldn’t have been.”
“It was,” Bella said.
Love Bites UK (Mammoth Book Of Vampire Romance2) Page 9