by Sarah Noffke
Chapter Fifty-Three
Blackness greeted Finley’s eyes when he teleported into Knight’s chamber. He knew Zuma was on the other side of the wall rescuing Jack. She was so close and also forever far away. The look of horror mixed with disbelief on her face when he said he was leaving her was still burned into his vision. He couldn’t dwell anymore on how he’d hurt Zuma, though, not when he needed to focus on saving her.
Finley stood frozen, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the black. He knew from spying on Knight during dream travel that the man often sat on his throne in darkness. It was on the far side of the room. Most times Knight appeared to Finley to be pondering new ways to maintain control of his kids. Now it confounded the acrobat that talented children allowed themselves to be imprisoned when they could escape if strategic. But that was the power Knight had over his kids. He was their father. Their earliest memory. The one who gave them life and often took it. Children can defy their parents if they want, but usually they don’t.
And although Knight’s mind control didn’t work on Finley he always knew he could easily be cursed. It had been the only power the man had over him for the last year. He’d watched countless times as Knight deposited the authority into his words followed by a look full of intention. Knight had mastered the art of lacing the right ingredients together to create what people saw as curses. It was complicated. A deliberate focus was clearly the main element. And Finley knew Knight had to be in the presence of the person he was cursing or he had to be in the location the curse was tied to. And each time after Knight uttered a curse Finley had watched as a healthy child was stripped of their gifts, their health, or their mental faculties. And that was their punishment all because they went against Knight. Too many times he’d seen this happen. But now Finley didn’t care if he was cursed by Knight. He’d lose his powers if he could save Zuma. And still Finley was taking the gamble that he was too valuable a thief for Knight to curse. The man cursed those who defied him, but not those who were great assets.
What Finley didn’t know about curses was what they cost the caster. It was a universal law that couldn’t be negotiated or flexed. Nothing in this world was free even in the magical realm. Everything cost something and not only that, but the power a curse stole had to go somewhere. And although the power to curse a person stole Knight of his very life force, the man didn’t care. Knight knew what his curses cost him, although he was unaware where the health and gifts he took went. And for Knight his life force was a currency worth paying to get what he wanted: complete compliance.
The room around Finley took shape as his eyes adjusted to the almost black. He took cautious steps around the furniture he could barely see outlined in his vision. Then his eyes swiveled to Knight’s throne. His heart sank. Charles Knight was gone. His throne was empty.
Chapter Fifty-Four
A solid hour passed where Titus sat in the front row of the big top listening to nothing but the sound of his own breathing. How had he expected anyone would show up to audition for the role of ringmaster? No one in their right mind would try to fill those shoes. Dave was the perfect ringmaster. Not one person could compare to his charisma or the ability he had to prime the audience for the unbelievable show that Vagabond Circus delivered. To take that job would be a curse because that person would never be as good as their predecessor and always compared to something unobtainable.
And that left Titus in an impossible situation. He had to have a master of ceremonies. There was no way Vagabond Circus could survive without one. And yet he had zero idea how to find one if no one was willing to audition. Titus could go out and recruit from the streets but that would take time. Time the creative director didn’t have with the next show advertised to start in two days. They couldn’t delay any longer than that. He already had to cancel three days of shows without giving an excuse. Since Vagabond Circus had an extraordinary reputation and had never canceled a show before, it had gone over without complaint. However, Titus knew he couldn’t stall any longer than he had. The show had to go on. And the creative director hadn’t yet made a public announcement about the ringmaster’s death. Titus was certain that when people found out that news, venues would cancel shows fast enough to put the circus in bankruptcy overnight. Maybe the public didn’t need to know the ringmaster was dead.
Titus threw his head into his hands. He had to come up with something or the circus was doomed.
From the side entrance he heard the sound of the vinyl flap of the tent being moved. He kept his eyes down, unsure if he could stomach watching a poor audition and then having to inform the person they weren’t right for the position.
A flash triggered his attention. It was a small flash but one he was acquainted with. He couldn’t understand why it would be happening then though. Titus looked up and his breath tied a knot in his throat. The impossible was erected before him. In his teal blue suit and neon bowtie stood Dr. Dave Raydon. He smiled, his bushy mustache twitching like it did when he adorned a wide grin. It tightened the creative director’s chest. How much he missed that smile, and those honest eyes. He never thought he’d see the image before him again.
The ringmaster lifted a white gloved hand and pulled the teal blue top hat off his head. “Welcome to Vagabond Circus,” he said in a voice Titus had sorely yearned to hear.
Titus smashed his top and bottom molars together. Flared his nostrils. Held back the grief waiting to vent from his chest. “Stop it, Oliver,” the creative director said.
Dave’s image flickered before Titus like a bulb that was about to go out. For a second he was transparent.
“Stop it, Oliver!” Titus repeated.
And instantly the illusion of the deceased ringmaster disappeared. Titus shook his head before Oliver turned for the entrance.
The boy with one brown and one green eye stood in the entrance of the big top staring at him, a look of defeated remorse on his face.
“I just thought…” Oliver said and trailed away, his voice sounding hoarser than usual.
“I know what you thought,” Titus said, pushing to a standing position and trying to shake the well-crafted projection out of his head. He strode in the illusionist’s direction, stopping when he was a few feet away. “It was a thoughtful idea, but there’s multiple reasons it won’t work,” Titus said, trying to make his voice sound logical, rather than weakened by the vision still spinning in his head.
“Because Dave is dead?” Oliver asked. The boy was just a few months shy of sixteen, but he had the maturity in his eyes of someone twice his age. Titus always appreciated that about Oliver. It made him intriguing with his hip style and eyes that should belong to someone with a more serious appearance. It was a strange juxtaposition.
“No, not because Dave is dead actually. No one really knows. Only the authorities and the members of Vagabond Circus,” Titus said. “I’m just afraid that even with lots of practice you won’t be able to sustain the illusion of Dave.”
“I know my illusion flickered, but I was nervous,” Oliver said, dropping his head so all Titus saw now was his spiky black Mohawk.
“The illusion did break,” Titus said. “And if that happened during a show we’d be in a lot of trouble. People don’t flicker. They don’t become transparent. And they can touch objects in the physical realm. What happens after the show when kids want autographs and we refuse them? That would be against everything Dave has ever done.”
Illusions, as they aren’t real, can’t hold objects, or in this case a pen to sign a piece of paper. And Dave was well known for signing autographs and taking photos with fans after each show. If he didn’t then the reputation of the Vagabond Circus would be tarnished. Titus knew this.
“And the other reason this idea won’t work is that creating a projection of the ringmaster would zap you of your energy. Oliver, you would definitely be too drained to do your own act as magician. What is Vagabond Circus without a magician?” Titus asked.
“And what is Vagabond Circus without a ringma
ster?” Oliver said.
Titus sucked in a breath, pressing his hand to his brow as he shook his head. “I know. But I can’t lose you in your role.” He looked straight at the boy. “Thank you for the thought, but this just won’t work.”
“What are you going to do then?” Oliver asked.
“The only thing I can do. I only have one option at this point,” Titus said. He gave the boy an earnest expression, one that didn’t hide his true fear. “It looks as though I’ll have to put on my own top hat and take the role of ringmaster.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Zuma startled before striking a fighting stance when Finley entered Jack’s cell. He was both relieved to be back in her presence and also greatly disappointed that he hadn’t found Knight. What was the point of having Zuma if he couldn’t make her happy? He was cursed to love a girl who no matter how he tried was doomed to be indifferent.
Zuma’s chest rose and fell from her spike in adrenaline as she realized it was Finley entering the room and not an approaching attacker. She narrowed her eyes, hurt. “Where did you disappear to?” she said, her tone sharp.
“Nowhere,” Finley lied. He rushed forward, taking the spot next to Zuma’s side, staring down at Jack’s mangled body. “Oh, Jack,” Finley said, kneeling down and studying his figure.
“He’s not dead,” Zuma said. Now wasn’t the time to confront Finley about abandoning her, but an opportunity would present itself. Presently, all her attention needed to be on getting Jack out of the compound and getting him help.
Finley’s eyes studied the room in that way Zuma guessed was instilled in him by Knight. He had an incredible way to critically take in a space and make decisions. She’d noticed it from the beginning. Zuma watched as Finley’s chin tilted up to the ceiling and his mouth popped open.
“He tried to levitate in,” Finley said.
“What?” Zuma asked, turning her head up to peer at the skylight forty feet up. “And then they beat him?”
“No, he wasn’t successful with the levitation. He probably fell from the ceiling,” Finley said.
“Oh, my God,” Zuma said, seeing it in her mind and hating the visual. It made her stomach convulse with a violent shiver. “Power-Stopper,” she said, piecing it all together. “She stopped his ability to levitate. She did this to him.”
“Exactly,” Finley said.
“Can you teleport him out of here?” Zuma asked, circling Jack, her feet careful to avoid the blood and other fluids around him.
Finley shook his head, remorse written on his face. “I don’t think so. For one, he’s passed out and his consciousness may not be willing like yours was to move with me. And then also I’m too…” He sucked in a breath, pausing his words. They weren’t ones he liked to associate with himself, not in any sense.
“You’re too what?” Zuma said, sensing the hesitation swimming in Finley’s eyes.
His lips twitched to the side. “I’m too weak,” he said and immediately busied himself studying Jack.
“All the teleporting earlier,” Zuma said, figuring it out. “It zapped your skills, didn’t it?”
“It depleted my energy to use my skill more than I’m used to,” he said, his eyes on Jack. Finley’s head turned to one side and then the other, like he was computing an equation and the body before him was the exponent.
Now Zuma understood that drained appearance she’d see on Finley. It had looked all wrong on his face. Finley appearing weak was like the sun rising in the middle of the night. These things just didn’t make sense.
Finley then kneeled down and went about carefully arranging Jack’s unbroken and broken limbs so he could pick him up. Zuma noticed that he didn’t even grimace when one of the wrecked legs made a squishing sound as he moved it. She had no idea how he managed the look of composure as he worked using his super speed and also a thoughtful gentleness. Finley drew in a deep breath and then, securing a hold around Jack’s armpits, he picked him up and slung him over his shoulder, firmly wrapping his arm around Jack’s hips.
The acrobat’s legs were draped over Finley’s shoulder, soaking his shirt in blood. Jack’s head hung upside down on Finley’s back. It didn’t look like a comfortable arrangement, but it appeared to work.
“Wait,” Zuma said, halting Finley from moving forward. “Are you strong enough to do that?”
He gave her a conceited smirk. “I’m too weak to teleport more than one person through solid walls, but I can carry this guy all day long.”
She nodded, grateful Finley was there and taking Jack to safety.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here before Knight and his kids decide to return,” he said and turned for the exit, managing Jack’s unconscious and broken body easily.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Twice Fanny had tried to encourage Benjamin to eat. However, the ten-year-old refused each offer. Tiffany and Emily kept checking on him, poking their wide eyes around the door to Fanny’s room. They never said anything but the boy sensed they just wanted to ensure he was still there. Still breathing. Tiffany had always been notorious for checking on him in the night, saying that she was afraid he’d spontaneously stop breathing just as her grandmother had. That was the reason the eight-year-old girl had become a ward of the state at age five. Her grandmother had full custody of the girl since her parents chose a life of loud concerts and illicit drugs. When the old woman died there had been no one else to care for Tiffany.
Benjamin raised his chin each time one of the girls checked on him. He didn’t want to make them worry, which he expected they were. He just couldn’t will himself to get out of bed. All day and night and day he’d occupied the crumpled sheets of Fanny’s bed. The longer he stayed there, the harder it seemed it would be to remove himself from it. Each hour brought more thoughts that troubled him. He worried for the future of Vagabond Circus. For his own future. And then he also grieved for the life that was lost, Dave’s life, and his own. Never would he be a star in Dr. Raydon’s circus. He might be a performer, but not for the illustrious ringmaster, the best master of ceremonies in the world. It had been the boy’s dream and it was gone.
And now Benjamin was certain that the only other dream he ever had was just as unlikely to happen. Since the boy had met Dave, when he and Fanny adopted him from the orphanage, he’d admired the older man. From that moment on, he wanted to be just like Dave Raydon. The boy wanted to have the charm that the ringmaster had. He wanted to make people feel good about themselves. He wanted to change the world, just as Dr. Raydon had done.
Feeling small and worthless and absolutely hopeless in that moment of loss, he wrapped his arms around his tiny body. “I wish I was Dave,” he said, pressing his eyelids together, pushing out giant tears. And then a pain so intense ripped through the small boy’s form. Benjamin opened his mouth to scream; however, nothing came out but a loose gurgle. His bones vibrated from something inside of him. His muscles felt like they were being stretched. They spasmed like a thousand charley horses were assaulting his body. His bones cracked and overextended and moved. This must be a hallucination from not eating or sleeping, he thought through the pain. But in truth the very grief which had planted Benjamin in this depression was also responsible for bringing him his dream traveler gift early. However, the boy would not understand what was happening for a little while longer. Presently, he was owned by the pain, a slave forced to endure the strange changes his body was undergoing.
A long minute later everything in Benjamin grew still. All he felt was the ragged breath in his chest, which was too large. His hands reached for his stomach, which felt queasy and tight. But his stomach wasn’t his own. It was round and firm. He opened his soaked eyes to find he wasn’t wearing his own clothes. The boy was shockingly wearing a suit. A teal blue suit. And his hands weren’t his own. They were chubby and stiff with arthritis. He lifted them to his face. The bushy mustache was a strange sensation under his gloved hands.
With an unmatched urgency Benjamin whipped himself out of t
he bed only to find new aches and pains in his body. He stumbled under feet that were too large, tripping on them three times as he made his way to the en suite bathroom in Fanny’s room. The boy had trouble negotiating his wide frame and stomach into the small bathroom. However, he’d watched Fanny enough times and remembered how she always slid into the small spaces of the trailer. He copied those actions now. Then his older heart seemed to palpitate in his chest when he looked in the mirror. Benjamin didn’t look back at himself in the glass. Staring at him in the clean and bright mirror was the face of Dr. Dave Raydon. His eyes copied the movements Benjamin’s made, searching the figure in front of him.
Soon the boy who now looked like a man would realize he had come into his Dream Traveler gift early. He was a shape shifter.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Zuma wasn’t one to be frantic. And she also wasn’t one to allow raw emotions to spill out of her. However, seeing Jack curled up in her back seat threatened her very nature. His blood-drenched jeans clinging to the tan leather and the blank expression on his unconscious face made her stomach churn with revulsion. Never in her life had she seen something like this before. What lay before her was worthy of the evening news or a horror film, but not a part of Zuma’s reality.
She kept whipping her head back to check on Jack, to stabilize him when the car moved. Touching him felt wrong, but necessary. Zuma swung her head around and was shocked again by the sight before her. Finley’s shoulders rested back in the driver’s seat, his chin even and his eyes discerning the obstacles on the road with an unrehearsed calm. In every way he appeared the opposite of how she felt then. How did he keep himself composed when tragedy was lying just a few feet away?