The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels) (2 page)

At noon the
troupe starts to warm up in preparation for tonight’s shows. Kingston was
right; Mab wasn’t canceling anything. You'd think that after a murder there
would be a whole hell of a lot more crying and a bit more fear. But everyone
looks calm. Maya walks back and forth on her practice tightwire in suede boots,
earbuds firmly in place. The three jugglers — I still haven’t caught their
names — are doing cartwheels and catching whirling clubs. The remaining two
contortionists are stretching out on a panel mat in the shade. Even from here,
I can tell they’re trying to come up with a new routine. I can’t help it; I’m
impressed by everyone’s resolve. And a little weirded out by the ease at which
they gloss over not only a murder, but a concealed killer. Just the thought
makes goose bumps prickle over my freshly sunburned skin. I try not to keep
looking over my shoulder every time I hear a noise.

“I still
don’t get it,” I say.

“I’m
shocked,” Kingston replies.

He and Melody
are facing each other, going over a new magic act for the show — something
lighthearted. Something that doesn’t involve their usual
daggers-through-the-heart bit because, as Kingston said, there’s been enough
death for one day. Melody has a handful of roses in one hand, and on each of
Kingston’s shoulders perches a white dove.

“Seriously,
though,” I say. I lean forward on the wooden crate I’m calling my front-row
seat. The boards are digging into my ass, but there’s only so much shifting I
can do without it being obvious. “Why isn’t anyone, I dunno, searching for the
killer?”

Melody
flourishes the roses in front of Kingston, who studiously ignores the romantic
gesture. One of the doves ruffles its wings.

“Because,”
she explains. “Mab’s on it.”

“But you said
it couldn’t be one of us. Why isn’t she calling the cops to hunt whoever it is
down? He could be hiding anywhere, maybe even in one of those barns out there.
You know, just waiting for a moment of weakness. Like when one of us goes to a
Porta-Potty.” I’m trying to keep my voice light and witty, but I can’t lie to
myself. The questions are honest, and so is wondering if someone is lying in
wait to strike again.

Kingston
raises his plastic magic wand and raps Melody’s knuckles. The flowers explode
in a flurry of red petals and sparks. Judging by the eyebrow Melody raises, I’m
not the only one who’s reminded of Sabina’s unnatural end.

“We’re called
The Immortal Circus for a reason,” Kingston says. He sighs and waves his
fingers in a lazy circular gesture, as though he’s more annoyed by having to
explain this to me again than the fact that there’s reason to bring it up. The
petals on the ground swirl in a gust of wind and then, with a small burst of
fire, become a dove that flies up and lands on his finger. Most magicians spend
years trying to make their tricks look like real magic. Kingston, I quickly
learned, has precisely the opposite problem. He answers in his bored-yet-amused
voice, “So long as we’re under contract, no one and no thing can hurt us.”

“So how was
Sabina killed?” I ask. Because if that’s the case, murder is a pretty huge
breach of contract.

“That,” he
says, lifting the bird to the top of his head, “would be the million-dollar
question. Someone found a loophole in Mab’s magic. You’re welcome to bring that
to her attention, if you like.” He flashes me a grin, and even Melody looks
amused at the notion of pissing off our ringleader.

“Aren’t you
worried, though? That you’ll be next?”

“If anything,
I’d be more worried about you.”

Something
clenches around my heart, that old feeling of fight or flight. I adjust my
position on the crate in hopes of stifling it. It doesn’t work. “You think
they’ll go after me?” My voice squeaks. I’m grateful neither of them looks to
see the blush rising on my cheeks.

“Doubtful,”
he says, looking at Melody. “I just think you’re the only new thing in this
troupe for the past, what would you say, Mel? Three years?” Melody shrugs, and
Kingston turns his gaze back to me. “Awfully suspicious, don’t you think?
Barely a month after the new girl starts and someone winds up dead?”

“What? You
think
I’m
the killer? You know I’m not that type.”

And I’m not.
I’m too scrawny, too quiet. I’m a vegetarian, for Christ’s sake. I never got
into fights or did competitive sports. I’ve never even done gymnastics or
cheerleading. Or band. At least, not that I can remember. Which is probably why
the only job Mab could find for me was as a cotton-candy seller.

Kingston
laughs. The doves ignite in that instant, flaring up like strobes and
disintegrating into ash. My breath catches at the way his brown eyes flash in
the flame.

“Viv, this is
show business. Nothing here is what it seems.”

Not, I’m
sure, even him.

“This
isn’t like any other circus,” Mab said, her fingers idly caressing the handle
of a whip coiled on her desk. The book of names and contracts had flown back to
the shelf behind her, and now she was staring at me with green eyes as intent
as a jaguar’s. “All of our performers have…eccentricities.”

A haze
surrounded the exact terms of our agreement, but I didn’t really care. I no
longer felt like the world was crashing down around me. Still, her gaze made me
wonder if I was stepping from the frying pan into the inferno.

“What do
you mean?” I asked, though I already knew. My mind wrapped around the idea of
this place much more easily than it should have. Magic, circus freaks…it seemed
more natural than it rationally should. I knew in the corner of my mind that
these should all be warning signs, signals that something was terribly wrong,
that I should be getting out now. I shouldn’t be letting myself believe in
magic or flying books or any of this. That voice was tiny. The stronger voice
told me it was okay, it was all normal, and my tired mind was all too happy not
to fight it. Luckily, Mab didn’t give me any time to fret.

“I only
hire exceptional performers. And, like you, they were often in a bind. And I,”
she said, flourishing her hands, “am a humanitarian at best. I help. In return,
they work for me, using their talents to capture the imaginations of our
audience.”

“But I
don’t have any talents,” I said, thinking we should have had this conversation before
I signed the contract.

“Oh, love,
everyone has a talent. Yours will blossom in time. Trust me.” She smiled at me,
and something in her eyes told me that I didn’t have a choice.

“Circle up,
lovelies,” Mab says, striding into the huddle of performers. Inside the main
tent, the muted rumble of another full house is masked by the creepy tones of
live organ music. It’s just before the 8 p.m. show and somehow the sky is
already turning dark. Mab is wearing her ringleader outfit — a hideously
sparkling getup made of a bedazzled tailcoat and top hat, nude leggings, and
high-heeled black boots. Her whip is coiled at her side, and her long black
hair falls down her back like the River Styx. Despite having disposed of a body
earlier that day, she seems remarkably nonchalant.

Everyone
does.

“As you
know,” she says, once we’re all in a huddle, “this morning we lost a dear
member of our troupe. Sabina will always live on in our hearts, and she will be
greatly missed. Tonight, let our show be in honor of her work. A moment of
silence, please.”

Everyone bows
their heads.

I’m standing
just outside of the huddle. I’m not one of the performers, so I don’t get the
sparkly leotards and elaborate headpieces. I just get a black T-shirt that
reads
Cirque des Immortels
on the front and
Crew
on the back. But
at least they let me stay back here for opening, unlike most of the
concessionaires, who are just hired locals.

After a few
moments, Mab takes a deep breath that even I can hear, and everyone looks up
again.

“For Sabina,”
she says.

The members
of the troupe put their hands in the center and shout.

After that,
the twenty-something performers run to their places. Everyone goes out for the
opening act, the charivari. They don’t need me to sell cotton candy until
intermission, so I sneak to one of the side entrances to catch a glance. I
lean against the cool metal supports of the bleachers and stare out into the
center ring, trying to ignore the kid banging his feet against the seat to my
right. In the aisle around me, keeping out of sight, are a handful of the
performers, their faces set in concentration. Kingston and Melody are on the
other side. I can barely make them out in this light, but Melody’s giant wig is
a dead giveaway.

The music
changes. Organ music shifts to heavy downbeats, bass floods the tent, and then
the five-piece band kicks in with swinging violins and saxophones. On cue, the
troupe floods into the ring in a swarm of beautiful chaos. Twin aerialists drop
from the air, wrapped in sheets of burgundy fabric, as the acrobats burst from
the back curtain, tumbling and leaping over each other in an intricate dance.
Jugglers flip over the ring curb and toss their flaming knives across the full
space of the ring, creating an arc of fire and steel that illuminates the contortionists
twisting themselves on arms and elbows. I look over just in time to see
Kingston and Melody whirl onstage like salsa dancers, their feet stepping a
quick rhythm perfectly synced to the throb of techno. The moment they spin
apart, Kingston raises his wand and shoots a shower of vivid purple sparks.
Melody does a perfect aerial through it, landing in a split that makes the
crowd roar with applause. More performers crowd into the ring. A pair of women
do a one-arm balance on the heads of their burly bases. Men and women in
leather and velvet wield flaming staffs and poi, swirling the fire in arcs that
sear ghostly traces in my vision. More aerialists drop from the ceiling, this
time dangling and stretching from hoops and a spinning trapeze. My hands already
hurt from clapping so hard. In these fantastic moments, it’s easy to forget
that just this morning, one of our members was murdered right where the
hand-balancers are standing now.

Almost as
soon as the manic party has begun, the troupe assembles near the back of the
ring. With one quick call out, half the performers leap onto the thighs of
their bases, creating a human wall of color and smiles. The fliers clap and
wave, then spread their hands wide as the music changes once more. Then they
freeze.

The lights in
the ring dim, and colors fade to black and blue and silver-white. Fog appears
from the thick black curtain in the back, filling the round stage with a pool
of writhing mist. The music becomes haunting again as a pipe-organ chord rises
above the drum’s downbeats and the cello’s churnings. A strobe goes off, and
Mab is there, revealed in a whirl of fog like Venus emerging from the sea. Only
this Venus glitters with a thousand tiny Swarovski crystals and sports a top
hat. And a whip.

The crowd, of
course, goes wild.

“Ladies and
gentlemen,” she calls, her voice as thick and dusty as the smoke that curls at
her feet, just as soft and just as overpowering. She strides forward and raises
her top hat, sweeping it down in a bow that seems to encompass everyone in the
crowd. When she stands, her green eyes are sparkling as bright as her outfit.
“Welcome to Cirque des Immortels! Tonight, we have a show to ensnare and
entwine, filled with acts to allure you, hellish and divine. Tonight — tonight
only — we offer you this, a night of ecstasy, a night of bliss. For once our
shows are over and through, for the very select — the most special of you — to
our backstage, we cordially invite, to wine, to dine, relax and…delight.
Curious? You should be. Just ask, and you’ll know. But for now, sit back,
relax, and enjoy our show.”

With that,
she unfurls the whip from her side and raises it high into the air, snapping
the tail with a perfectly timed crack. The lights flash. And then she’s gone.
The audience applauds as the music resumes and the troupe runs offstage to make
room for the first act — the jugglers.