The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels) (16 page)

Every time I
look at it, something in the back of my mind stirs, some wisp of fire and pain.
Then I look away, and the memory vanishes.

I leave the
trailer shortly after breakfast, when it’s clear putting weight on my foot
won’t make it fall off and my bladder can’t take another moment’s hesitation.
There’s barely even a limp as I head to the Porta-Potty at the edge of the
field. The sun is high and the sky is clear. All around us are sweeping
cornfields that vanish into the blue haze of the horizon. It’s already
sweltering, and the inside of the Porta-Potty is exactly what you’d expect from
a small box of excrement sitting in the blazing sun. If Mab had ever mentioned
the outdoor toilets when I signed on, the harsh reality must not have sunk in
at the time.

I pause on
the return trip, feeling infinitely lighter, and stare out at the tent and the
trailers spread before me. There aren’t that many people about — a few performers
are lying on their backs on lawn chairs, others are taking shelter under the
canopy by the pie cart. Penelope is nowhere to be seen, which makes me wonder
if maybe I’m no longer such a threat after being felled by a snake. Everyone
else must either be inside or in town, wherever that is. The ground beneath my
feet is grey, and when I bend down to inspect it, I realize it’s ash. That’s
when I notice the char marks on some of the corn, the blackened stalks and
crispy husks.
The bonfire.
We were lucky the tent wasn’t set up when the
blaze went off. I’d heard enough horror stories of old tents going up in
flames. After the rip in the tent, we didn’t need any more disasters.

The thought
makes me wonder if Mab’s already gotten the side wall replaced. I head over to
the tent to inspect. Sure enough, every one of the grey and blue panels is
intact. Whoever she got to fix it must have worked pretty damn fast.

“Looking for
something?”

I turn around
and see Melody standing there. She’s in shorts and a loose shirt with a tree
sprawling across the front. Her brown hair is messy and her eyes are still
shadowed. But she looks better. Thin, but better.

“It lives,” I
say, grinning. Seeing her up and about makes me feel like maybe things are
finally on the upswing.

She smiles as
well and walks the few steps over to me, looping an arm over my shoulders. “I
could say the same for you,” she says. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone
foam at the mouth before.”

I wince and
look down at my ankle. “I was foaming?”

“Like a rabid
dog,” she says. “Still, that Kingston’s a miracle worker.”

I nod. “How
about you?” I ask. “How are you feeling?”

“Meh,” she
says with a shrug of her shoulders. We start walking toward the pie cart.
“Still feel like I’ve been run over by a truck a few hundred times, but it’s
better than before.”

She pours
herself a cup of water from one of the Gatorade containers when we hit the pie
cart, offering me one as well.

“Any plans
for the day?” she asks, sitting back on a wooden table still littered with a
few bowls of half-eaten cereal.

“Juggling
practice,” I say. The words feel like a death sentence. “What about you?”

Her grin
widens. “There’s a swimming hole nearby. An honest-to-God swimming hole with
rope swings and tetanus and everything. I think a couple of us are heading over
after lunch.”

“That sounds
amazing.”

She nods.
“Don’t tell Kingston I’m going, though. He’d probably say I’m not well enough.
I say, however, the promise of gorgeous girls in bikinis is cure enough for
me.” She raises her glass in mock toast and takes a drink.

“Yeah, well,
at least one of us should get some action.”

She raises an
eyebrow, her smile going wicked.

“Not like
that,” I say. “I mean…you know what I mean.”

“Who is it?”
she teases. She looks around conspiratorially and leans in. “C’mon, love, you
can tell me. Let me guess. Uma.”

“Who?”

She sighs.
“Not Uma, then. How long have you been with us? She’s the Shifter with all the
piercings.”

The name’s
familiar, but I can’t place it. She must have read something in my blank
expression. “Oh, come on, I know you’ve seen her. She said you dropped into her
tent a few nights back. You know,” — she raises her hands to her chest and cups
her hands, “piercings everywhere. And I mean,
everywhere.
”

Then I
remember Uma. I blush at the memory of seeing her onstage swaying like a belly
dancer to the sounds of violin and shivering metal. What had I been doing
there? I was looking for something…

“Ah,
now
she remembers. Pierced nipples usually jog the mind.” She chuckles to herself,
and I punch her on the shoulder.

“Bitch. No,
not Uma. I don’t swing that way.”

“Can’t blame
me for trying,” she says. Her voice sobers. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a thing
for Kingston.”

I don’t
answer right away, which makes her jump off the table and spin on the ground,
one hand covering her mouth to hold back the laughter.

“Oh, no,” she
says. “Please, please not him. He’s like my brother.” She looks at me and sees
I’m not smiling. If anything, my face has gotten redder.

“Seriously?”
she says. Her grin drops.

“I know,” I
say. “I don’t have a chance in hell, do I?”

She runs a
hand through her hair.

“Not really,”
she finally says.

“Comforting,”
I say. “Aren’t you supposed to be giving me friendly advice?”

“Yes,” she
says, nodding. “And here it is: don’t date within the circus.”

“That’s it?
That’s your good advice?”

She holds up
her hands.

“That’s my
honest advice. Think of it this way: what did you do when you broke up with
your past boyfriends?”

“I…” — then
I realize, I don’t remember any past boyfriends. I know they should be there,
but the idea’s just…blank. She doesn’t seem to notice the stutter in my memory.

“You move
on,” she continues. “You stop calling or texting or whatever you do, and you
see other people like a normal girl. You can’t do that here.”

She gestures
around.

“You fuck up
a relationship in here and you’re stuck with an angry ex for the rest of your
contract. And trust me, Kingston isn’t someone you want pissed off at you for a
few dozen years.”

“Why would I
be pissed?” Kingston says from behind. I nearly jump.
How long was he
standing there?

“Speak of the
devil,” I mumble. Clearly, even getting bitten by a rattlesnake wasn’t enough
to clear my shitty karma. I try to visualize my face not being red and turn
around. I know it doesn’t work. “We were just talking about you.”

“I thought I
felt my ears ringing,” he says. Apparently, he doesn’t care to know what we
were saying. He walks over to Melody and puts a hand on her face, uses a thumb
to lift an eyelid. “Shit,” he whispers.

“What?” we
both ask. My heart immediately drops.

“Still
nothing in there.”

“Ha ha,” Mel
says, swatting his hand away. “Nice to see you too, dickhead.”

Kingston
turns to me. “Feeling better?”

I nod and
take a drink of water. If he was listening in, he didn’t catch much. I hope.
God, do I hope.

“Good,” he
says. “Vanessa was asking after you. Apparently, you aren’t allowed dinner
until you can manage eight three-ball passes in a row.”

“Fantastic,”
I say. “I’ll just start gorging myself now, lest I starve for the next few
days.”

Kingston
reaches over to a bowl and snatches a few pieces of cereal.

“Better start
practicing now,” he says, and tosses them in a high arc toward me. They ignite
in midair, flaring into three soft, red juggling balls. I manage to catch one.
The others fall to the ground. Melody chuckles.

Some part of
me can’t help but feel like this is all forced, though I have no clue where the
notion's coming from. Kingston seems too casual, Melody too quirky. Something
is going on, something that neither of them wants to admit. Either that, or I'm
getting paranoid.

One of the
balls rolls under a table, so I bend down to grab it. That’s when I see Poe
curled up beside a bench leg. The ball is right next to him. He stirs as I
reach out, opening one eye and then rolling up to stretch before limping away.

There’s a
miniature white cast on his front paw. Memory burns, but then Kingston taps me
on the ass with his foot. I stand and chuck one of the balls at him, missing by
a mile. I’m smiling, but I can feel it slip. Something digs in the back of my
head, something pulling itself up to consciousness. It smells of brimstone and
fear.

W
hen the rest
of the troupe leaves for the watering hole — Melody as well, since Kingston saw
some benefit in her getting out for a bit — I sit inside the main tent, legs
crossed, with a pile of juggling balls beside me. It’s a bit cooler in the
chapiteau, and with the lights off, everything is a muted blue from the sun
diffusing through the walls. The bleachers are empty and there’s a thin stream
of light coming in from the back curtain. I can still practically feel the
ghosts of crowds past. Being in here without an audience seems wrong, somehow,
much emptier than it should be. I’ve got my MP3 player on to drown out the
quiet, trying to keep a rhythm with the balls.
One, two, three, catch, one,
two, three, catch.
I succeed every couple of songs. It’s easier to practice
without anyone watching me, judging, or waiting for me to do it right. I even
cheer when I manage three successful passes in a row. Then I drop one of the
balls. It rolls away, toward the ring curb, where it’s stopped by Kingston’s
foot.

I pull out
one of my earplugs as he bends down to pick it up. A faint voice inside of me
is saying I should feel strange right now. I should be holding something
against him, but I can’t remember what. I let whatever grudge I had go. I just
don’t have the energy for that sort of drama. Not when my job and everything
else is on the line.

“That was
good,” he says, rolling the ball around on his palm. I watch him for a moment
as he moves his hand back and forth, twists it over and under, the ball seeming
to hover in one spot as it rolls across his skin, then up his forearm. Zal is
wrapped around his neck, the tip of his tail just protruding from Kingston’s
shirtsleeve. After a few more moments of contact juggling, he pops the ball
into the air and catches it. He winks when he sees my stare and
slightly dropped jaw. “Years of practice,” is all he says.

He walks over
and sits down next to me, then tosses me the ball.

“How’s it
going?” he asks.

“I think I’m
getting the hang of it.”

“That’s not
what I meant.”

“Oh.”

We sit there
a moment, and I’m acutely aware of how close he is. Even in the heat, his
presence feels cool, and his scent is sweat and spice, something exotic and
dangerous and alluring, all in one. I can practically feel the static between
us, my bare arm hardly an inch from his.

“Well,” I
finally manage, picking up the balls and trying again.
One, two, three
—
but the ball flies far and I miss the last catch. Taking my mind off juggling
certainly doesn’t help my performance. “I guess, all things considered, I’m
doing okay.”

“All things
considered?” he asks.

I pick up one
of the balls from the pile and try again.

“Well,” I
say, making the first pass. “I was bitten by a snake, I’m a million miles from
home, and, oh, yeah, three people have died in the last week, and no one knows
who did it, so naturally Mab suspects me. On top of that, if I don’t learn how
to juggle by the next site, I’m on the street. Again.”

Kingston
nudges me, which makes me fail the catch.

“You’re being
melodramatic,” he says.

“Really?
Because from where I’m standing, I’d say there’s more than enough drama outside
of myself.”

“Welcome to
circus life,” he says. “Never a dull day.”

“You don’t
seem to care if I stay or not,” I say. The words grate against my pride, but I
can’t help but voice them.

“You know
that’s not true,” he says.

I put down
the balls and look at him. He’s looking at me, a slight smile on his lips. Is
it just my imagination, or is he looking at me differently? It’s almost as if
he’s looking at me like he knows I have some sort of secret. Like I’m worth
noticing for more than comic relief.

The words I
want to say sound childish in my head, but I don’t care. I’m tired of not
knowing.

“Why?”
Why
do you care? Why is this happening? Why does everyone seem to be against
me? Why am I suspected of murder?
A thousand other questions are also left
unasked. But I know he can’t or won’t answer.

He looks
away.

“I know it’s hard,”
he says. “The first couple weeks. The troupe’s been together for years and
we’re cliquey as fuck. But that doesn’t mean people don’t care about you.”

People
like you?
I want to ask.

“I highly
doubt anyone else in the troupe has had the same welcome. Being suspected of
murder isn’t exactly friendly.”

He looks at
me.

“You don’t
really believe that, do you?”

“What?”

“That Mab
suspects you.”

I throw up my
hands and can’t help but laugh. “What are you talking about? Of course she
does. Why else would she say she suspects me? Why else would she put me under
house arrest and threaten to kick me out of the troupe if I don’t learn how to
juggle? She
hates
me. And what if she’s right? What if I
did
do
it? I can’t remember my past! What if I’m blacking out the memory of killing
everyone as well?”

It’s a
thought I wouldn’t let myself entertain before, one that shakes the very core
of who I think I am. What if I really
am
the killer? Like one of those
Russian sleeper cells, just awaiting activation.

Kingston
shakes his head.

“You’re not
the murderer. I wouldn’t believe that for a second. Do you really think Mab — cunning
as she is — would put her cards on the table like that?”

I don’t say
anything. I haven’t been here long enough to have even the slightest idea of what
Mab would do. And I have a feeling that that wouldn’t change even if I stayed
here another thousand years. Which might be a very strong possibility.

“She’s using
you,” he finally says. His voice is flat, like he’s not entirely pleased with
it himself. “You’re a diversion.”

“A
diversion?”

“Of course.
If she places the blame on you, the real killer might think they’re off the
hook. They’ll get messy.”

“Yeah, well,
they only have a couple days left. After that, I won’t be around to play
scapegoat.”

“I won’t let
her kick you out,” Kingston says. There’s a promise in the way he says it. As
much as I want to laugh it off, I don’t doubt for a minute he’s telling the
truth. I’ve seen him go head-to-head with Mab. He could hold his weight. But
could he hold his ground while defending me?

“Why?” I ask
again.

He doesn’t
answer. For a moment, all I can do is stare at him, wonder if he’s really
willing to be my knight in shining armor or if he's just being macho. The
desire to reach out and touch him slugs me in the chest, but I hold back.
There's still that inkling that I should be royally pissed at him.

“Have you
ever killed someone?” I ask.

He leans
back. “Why the hell would you ask me that?”

“Because I
wanted to make sure you wouldn’t burn me alive if I ever tried to kiss you.”

“Funny,” he
says, and he picks up one of the balls, starts rolling it around in his palm
again.
Smooth
, I think. There goes that moment.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry
about it.”

Neither of us
says anything for what feels like the longest while. But he isn’t standing up
to leave. Maybe I didn’t fuck it up entirely. Maybe he’s just making sure I
meant it.

“I take it
that’s a no on the kiss, then?” I finally say. I try to keep my voice light,
but — to continue his metaphor — now that my cards are on the table, I feel
horribly exposed. Besides, isn’t this supposed to be his role? Shouldn’t
he
be the one trying to win over me?

“I’m too old
for you,” he says. The statement is fast and well practiced, so smooth it
doesn’t sound genuine. It also isn’t an answer.

“You don’t
look like it.”

“Yeah, well,
that’s Mab’s magic for you. All glitz and glamour. Nothing real.” The
bitterness in his voice is overpowering.

“So,” I say.
“How long do I have to wait?”

“Until?”

“Until I’m
old enough for it not to be so creepy.”

He actually
laughs at this, an outburst that sounds like half a sob. He looks at me.

“You’re
serious?”

I nod. I’m
not smiling. It’s the most honest I’ve been with him since signing on to this
venture.

“I’m three
hundred and forty-one.”

The numbers
drop like guillotines, but he doesn’t look away from me as he says them.
Clearly, he’s judging my response. I try to keep my face composed, and my
response is as witty as I can make it.

“You don’t
look a day over two hundred,” I say. “Must be all the popcorn.”

He shakes his
head, but he’s smiling nonetheless. Again, he looks at me like I’m amusing. But
there’s something else behind it. Surprise?

“What did you
do?” I ask. “Why did you join?”
Most of our performers were in a bind,
Mab had said. What could Kingston have done?

“Well,” he
says. “I used to live in Salem.”

“Oh.”

He takes a
deep breath and stares off at something past the bleachers. “Yeah.
Oh.
A
little over three hundred years ago, I was being burned at the stake. I’d
accidentally lit someone’s pig on fire, which sounds much funnier in hindsight.
At the time, when I didn’t realize I actually
was
the type of person all
the menfolk were burning, it freaked the shit out of me. I was found out, given
a trial befitting the times, and found guilty.

“So there I
am, bound to a pole in the town square, getting called every possible name for
a bastard heathen. I was crying because I knew I was guilty and going to hell,
but I didn’t want to die. But that doesn’t really mean anything to them, you
know? Anyway, Mab must have been watching for some time, because a minute or
two after they lit the kindling — bitch let me roast for what seemed like
eternity — everything just…stopped.”

He pauses and
looks at me, clearly making sure I’m still following along. I am. Either he’s a
good storyteller or I’ve got a vivid imagination: I can practically smell the
wood smoke.

“I mean, it’s
like being in a movie. Everything’s on pause. I still remember there was a
rotten tomato hovering like a foot away from my face. And then
she
appears out of nowhere in a puff of black smoke. Didn’t look anything like she
does now. She was in her PVC boots and mohawk phase, even had a British flag as
a belly shirt. Think
Tank Girl
but infinitely more badass. Certainly
made the right impression.”

I let the
image of Mab dressed as a true punk seep in. It’s quite at odds with her
current glamorous self.

“She offered
me a job then and there. Work for her and she’d not only set me free, she’d let
me get revenge and teach me how to use my powers. I accepted, of course. I
mean, it wasn’t much of a choice: burn an agonizingly slow death, or get out of
jail free. At the time, I thought I was just hallucinating because after I’d
agreed, everything started back up again. People were yelling, the tomato
missed me by an inch. Then I realized the ropes on my hands were gone, and the
fire didn’t seem so hot. That’s when the fire turned blue.

“Everyone
started screaming and trying to run away, but there were demon eyes in the
flames and I heard Mab’s voice in my head.
This is your power. Do with it as
thou wilt.
”

“And?” I ask.

“And I killed
them,” he says, tossing the ball into the air. “All five hundred and
forty-three of them. Men, women, children. All burned, just like they would
have done to me.”

I stare at
him. My mouth is open, I’m sure, but I can’t close it. If he notices, he
doesn’t pause to point it out.

“It wasn’t
until later, of course, that Mab set out the actual terms of my contract.”

“Which was?”

“One year for
every life lost. So, yeah, I’ve killed before. And I’m paying dearly for it.
Circus freak for life,” he says with a sigh.

“I don’t
remember any of that in the history books,” I say. Here I was, freaking out
because I might have killed three people, and he’s killed hundreds. He doesn’t
look like the type who’d have blood on his hands. But then I remember the way
his eyes flashed when doing some of his more dangerous tricks.
Not
everything is as it seems.
His words. He was definitely talking about
himself.

He just
shrugs. “Mab’s good at misdirection.” The look he gives me is loaded, but I’m
too wrapped up in the idea of him fricasseeing small babies to let it sink in.

“Do you
regret it?” I ask, shaking off the image. “Joining? Your contract?” In other
words, killing all those people.

“Hell, no,”
he says, standing. “I’d do it again.”

He tosses the
ball into the air. At the top of its arc, it explodes in a burst of sparks and
flutters away as a pearl-white moth.

“You don’t
fuck with a witch,” he says. “Ever.”

With that, he
strolls out of the tent, a slight, cocky bounce to his gait. I know I should be
looking at him differently. He’s a killer. He’s here because he murdered a
town. But then, I can’t say I’d have done much differently if the roles were
reversed. Kill or be killed. Wasn’t that the most basic human instinct?
Besides, it’s not exactly like I could crucify him for his past when I couldn’t
even remember mine. He’s still the guy who promised to keep Mab from kicking me
out, the guy who takes it upon himself to make sure Melody and everyone else is
safe and happy. He’s still the guy I fell for at the start. I pick up the balls
and then realize one thing: he never answered whether or not he’d kill me for
trying to kiss him.