Flesh Circus (30 page)

I
found the Ringmaster by the simple expedient of collaring a passing Trader and putting a gun to the skinny, rhinestone-laden
asshole’s greasy head. I needn’t have bothered—he just led me to the same broken-down Airstream trailer the hostage had been
in before. There was a huge hole busted in the side of it, and a large black spot in the dirt where the Ringmaster had bled.

I went up the wrecked steps carefully as the Trader hissed behind me, set my foot over the threshold, and half-glanced over
my shoulder. “Open your mouth again,” I said softly, “and I will break every last one of your hell-trading teeth.”

The hissing cut short as if someone had taken a kettle off the stove, and I edged into the darkness inside the ruined trailer.

Perry sat in a folding chair, leaning back, elbows on the arms and fingers steepled in front of his nose. The frowsty bed
held a stick-thin blond figure, collapsed against pillows and breathing softly, with a gleam of silver at its throat.

The Ringmaster crouched easily at the end of the bed, his thin shoulders up and his top hat askew. Frayed red velvet strained
at his shoulders and hung down, his jodhpurs stretched over his bony knees. He glanced back at me, his eyes burning orange
in the dimness, and his lip lifted silently. I saw the flash of the boneridge that passed for his teeth, but he immediately
turned back to the hostage and I let it go.

“Hello, darling.” Perry’s words slid against each other, Helletöng rumbling underneath them. “It has been an
interesting
morning.”

“How’s he doing?” My throat still burned from the rum. I wondered if he could smell it on me. A colorless fume of sorcery
still hung on me too, and no doubt he could smell that.

“Oh, I didn’t know you
cared.
” Perry snorted slightly. “He suddenly quieted, not ten minutes ago. The magic pulling on him slackened, and he is sleeping.”

“Pulling on him, huh?”
Now that’s odd.
“What was the collar doing?”

“Sparking like all your curséd metal.” The indigo threading through Perry’s whites was black in the dimness, and the scar
chuckled to itself like wet lips rubbing together. “It seemed to help, though.”

I had to turn my back to him to check the hostage, and I was so tired I only felt the slightest ripple of unease up the muscles
along my spine. My boots whispered through a drift of candy wrappers and paper trash. Something stuck under my heel, and Perry
chuckled softly.

The sweat on me turned to ice. But I just lifted one of the hostage’s eyelids and checked the pupil reaction: none. The dust-shine
on the surface of the eyeball had turned thick and mucousy, dry and veined on the surface. His breath was regular and shallow,
his ribs rising and dropping. There was no spare flesh on him, and he wore only a pair of stained jockey shorts. His skin
was mottled like a night-growing fungus. Lines of spidery writing sank into the stretched, sunken skin, twitching sluggishly
with his slow pulse.

The writing flinched away from my touch. My apprentice-ring sparked, and the collar took on a dim foxfire glow. The biggest
pocket of my trench coat flapped slightly, as if a small animal nestled inside it.

Huh.
Curiouser and curiouser.

I passed my palm down Ikaros’s torso, the hellish scribbles fleeing my touch. The mottling also fled a little, but it still
took two or three passes before Perry made a small spitting sound of annoyance.

“Do you
mind?
”

“Actually, I really don’t. Sounds like you do, though.” I kept looking. I wasn’t quite sure what I was looking
for,
but the way the cup, razor, and watch trio was shaking in my pocket was an odd sign.

I glanced at the foot of the bed. The Ringmaster hissed softly, the bone ridge’s crevices grimed with something dark and dripping.
Faint shadows crawled across his face, the traces of poisoning from blessed silver.

I stepped toward him. The hostage’s breathing evened out, became deeper. The scar tingled, expectant.

“Jill.” Perry’s tone was a warning.

I’m in a trailer with two hellbreed I’m not killing and a Trader I’m trying to save. Jeez.
“Just a second, Pericles.” I eased forward another step, leather-clad shins whispering along the side of the foam mattress.

The rattling in my pocket decreased.

That isn’t right. She’s after the Ringmaster, isn’t she? It’s the only thing that makes sense.
I looked back at the hostage, who stirred restlessly and curled up on his side, unconsciously making a lizardlike movement
with his head to make the collar’s spikes fold down on one side.

I wondered how long he’d been doing this, to be so easy with the thing.

The thought of what Ikaros might have paid for that might have made me shudder, if I hadn’t been so tired.

“What did he Trade for?” The words fell into a sudden dangerous silence, filling the dark, trash-strewn interior. The jagged
edge of sunlight falling over the door wasn’t a beacon of hope—it was a sterile blanket. In the distance, the calliope rollicked
on, and I suddenly wanted to find out where the music was coming from and fucking shoot the goddamn thing so I didn’t have
to listen to it.

“None of your business,” the Ringmaster finally said, each sibilant laden with menace.

I turned my head, met his pumpkin-hellfire gaze. “You brought trouble to my town. There’s people dead in the streets, and
I’ve been attacked.”
Besides, this is an old unfinished case, and I’m going to see it carried through.
“Any question I care to ask about, any dirty laundry I take an interest in,
is
my business. What did he Trade for?”

The Ringmaster did his best to stare me down. But Perry shifted slightly, the folding chair creaking, and the thin, crow-haired
’breed actually cowered, perched on the end of the bed like a vulture.

If this keeps up, Perry, I might just even get to like you. Or at least, hate you a very little bit less.

“Henri, this is excessively wearying.” Perry sounded bored, but the Ringmaster flinched again. I took another half-step toward
him, and the buzzing rattle in my pocket diminished again.

Another little piece of the puzzle fell into place. Not a big one, but one that stopped me and made me examine the hostage’s
face again in the dimness.

“For the same thing every hostage Trades for,” the Ringmaster finally said. “For peace. Forgetting. An end to pain.”

Why do I not believe that for a minute?
“He had something he didn’t want to remember?”

“Doesn’t everyone? Even our kind has regrets.” He shifted, and I saw his feet were bare, horny calloused toes gripping like
fingers. The muscle under the skin flickered in ways no human meat would move. “Not many, true. But still.”

Regrets from a hellbreed? Jesus.
“Yeah, like you regret you didn’t kill someone painfully enough? Whatever.” For the hundredth time, I took a firmer hold
on my temper. “What did he trade for?”

“I told you. He traded to forget. And he was valued here among us.”

Valued, yeah. As a way to keep the hunters off your backs, or a way to allay suspicion? As a mascot? Don’t break my heart.
I let out a sigh, my cheeks puffing up and the sensation of Perry’s eyes on my leather-clad back like ice against fevered
skin. “I’ve got other business to transact. The attacks won’t start again until dark, and I’ll be back before sunset. Perry,
you keep watch. And
you.
” It was an effort not to jab a finger at the Ringmaster. “Clear out the bigtop. Before it’s dark we’re going to need the
hostage in there and people watching the entrances and exits. The rest of your people need to be outside the city limits by
the time dusk hits.”

That got a reaction. The hellbreed stiffened, and the scar burned with sudden hurtful awareness. “You’re throwing us out?”
He showed his boneridge again, and a sudden certainty boiled up in me. If he mouthed off just one more goddamn time…

Calm down, Jill. Get some perspective.
The exhaustion both helped and hindered. I was too tired to go on a homicidal rampage, but the chain on my temper was fraying.

Hard.

“No. I’m catching your killer and finishing this up. You give me any more flak and you’re going to be auditioning a new Ringmaster
instead of a new hostage. Get me?”

Hey, they’re not the only ones who can threaten.

“I do not think—”

“Of course you don’t.” Perry’s tone was smooth as silk. “It is not your strength. Our little hunter doesn’t wish to lose whatever
advantage she has. She will keep the identity of our killer secret until the last possible moment, to ensure we do not make
alliance with him
and
to ensure this ends the way she wishes. With the Cirque firmly under control and myself, I suspect, neutralized.”

It didn’t sound bad when he said it, but I was kind of irritated that he twigged to it. More irritating was how surprised
he sounded, as if he didn’t think me capable of realizing my best chance of wrapping this up and making it so the ’breed didn’t
get any funny ideas was controlling the dispersal of information.

“The thing is,” he continued meditatively, “she cannot be sure what I know. And here she is, with her back to me and her throat
within reach of your claws. She must be very sure, this canny little wench, of at least one thing—that I want her alive for
my own purposes.”

The only thing I’m sure of right at this moment is that I’m not going to murder you
just
yet. And that I can’t trust you as far as I could throw you with two broken arms.
I said nothing, but the sudden drop in my pulse-rate was warning enough. If either of them moved on me now Zamba might just
be a loose end to tie up at my leisure, instead of part of a ticking time bomb of an equation. “Don’t flatter yourself, Perry.
You’re occasionally useful, but in the end you’re just one thing.”

His laugh was as cold and slow as the sudden chilling of the scar, a chunk of dry ice pressed against my skin, eating its
way down. “And what is that?”

“Just another hellspawn.” I swung toward the hole in the side of the trailer. “I’ll be back by dusk. Nothing should pull on
the hostage before then.”

They rumbled at each other in töng, metal rubbing painfully against itself in some deserted trainyard. The Ringmaster’s tone
went up at the end, an inquisitive ear-flaying squeal, and Perry’s deeper answering rumble swallowed it whole.

I stepped out into the curtain of golden light. The cold around me cracked reluctantly, threads of heat touching my leather-clad
shoulders. The cup rattled a few times and was still, a weight in my largest pocket.

Calliope music surged and drifted. The shadows were alive, lean dogshapes twisting and leaping through them. The sun was higher,
working through the shell of ice over me. It was going to be another scorcher of a day, and I wasn’t going to get any more
rest.

Come on, Jill. You can rest later. Right now, you’ve got to break few traffic laws.

I lengthened my stride. Dust lifted on the morning breeze, and I caught a breath of cotton candy and sickness. The Cirque
shimmered, even more frayed and tawdry in daylight, thick electrical cables strung between the tents. The avenues and alleys
were deserted, but I could feel eyes on me.

I tried not to feel like I was retreating, and had to remind myself to keep my chin up as I headed for the entrance.

Galina met me at the door, in jeans and a gray T-shirt. “Jill, thank God. I remembered. I can’t understand why I forgot—”

“Voodoo,” I said shortly.
Memory is as easy as electronics to subvert. It’s honest paper they have trouble with sometimes.
“Where’s Gilberto?”

“Upstairs sleeping. I gave him a tranquilizer and set a healing on that arm of his. He seems okay enough.” Her eyes were dark
and troubled, and her marcel waves were slightly disarranged, pulled back under another red kerchief. “I was in the kitchen
stirring up a batch of bone-ease and all of a sudden it hit me, like I’d known it all along. Listen—”

So Zamba’s slipping and her
loa
are no longer paying attention to certain things. Or it doesn’t matter now that she’s close to getting what she wants.
I made a restless movement. I was two steps ahead but I might not stay that way for long. “I need ammo, I need a place to
work, and I need your help.”

“Jill,
listen.
I think Mama Zamba is—”

“Is Arthur Gregory. He made a deal with the Twins, got a sex change or just dressed like a girl to throw everyone off the
scent, and part of the deal was clouding his origins so nobody would guess or find him. It didn’t work completely on you because
you’re a Sanctuary, and it didn’t work on Sloane’s files because of the defenses on Hutch’s store and the standard defenses
on every piece of hunter paper. I just spanked Zamba a good one this morning, and I’m working on no time and even less sleep.
Can you get me some ammo and talk while I’m reloading? I’ll need some other things, too.”

The shop resounded around her, clear air thrumming like a bell for a moment, and I swayed on my feet. I could still smell
cotton candy, and the reek of a hellbreed body boiling as it ate through cloth and false hair alike.

Galina folded her arms and examined me from top to toe. “Heavens. Where’s Saul? You look terrible.”

“Thanks. I think Saul left me.” Said that way, it only managed to hurt like hell instead of cripple me.

“Left you?” A vertical crease showed up between her pretty eyebrows. “But—”

“Galina.” I closed the door, the bell jangling discordantly. My arms ached, a low deep fierce pain. I’d probably pulled something
trying to keep the cup still, and sorcery tells on the physical body even when you have the power to burn. Come to think of
it, my ass hurt too. I would probably be bruised by midnight. “My love life can wait. If Zamba kills who she’s aiming for,
there’s going to be heavy-duty problems and I’m too tired to deal with them. I’ve got a plan but I need your help. You can
talk and help me at the same time.”