Liza shifted, and Eloko imagined the ground on which she sat had suddenly become uncomfortable.
“I can control it,” she said after some time. “Some. I mean, it doesn’t happen all the time.” Then she changed the subject. “And back to you.”
He lifted his snout and sniffed. A pleasant aroma carried to him on a delicate breeze. A trace of lavender—not the real oil, a cheap substitute—and . . .
“You had some of Mabel’s apple pie with dinner?” His snout quivered, and he scooted an inch closer.
“Huh?” She furrowed her brow and eased back.
“I hail from the great nation of Zaire.” Eloko refocused. “We are a unique people. The hair, the skin, a condition for which there is no name.” What he didn’t voice was the burden of the heart and of the mind he carried, much like she did. “And you have strong African blood running through your veins.”
The girl twitched but held her ground. “All my mother said is that our people are Nubian descendants.”
Exquisite. “You have a war within you,” Eloko offered. “Your African and conjuring sides have not come to terms.”
“That was technically two questions,” Liza said. “How did you come to the carnival?”
“Since the tenuous beginnings of our friendship hinge on counting,” he said with a wave of his hand, then let the practiced lie roll off his tongue, “our Mr. Kennel made me a fair offer. I had nothing left to keep me home, and I welcomed the idea of an American adventure.” He looked away, contemplating another time.
In Eloko’s former life, his people had been hunted to extinction. He let his golden eyes close. The music . . . ahh, the magical notes. His right hand lifted into the air, playing along with the song. His long snout distended; his jaws spread wide to reveal two lines of lizard teeth. The body of a partially consumed human woman, her leg, midthigh, hanging from his mouth.
Geneva Broussard, who had gone by a different name then—Ahiku, the demon spirit, the name Eloko was still allowed to call her—had offered him an escape. One he shouldn’t have taken.
For centuries, the dwarves had lived like little green wraiths, darting in and out of the forest, their perfectly camouflaged bodies making them nearly impossible to spot until it was too late. Hunting humans was a child’s game. The song lured them in. The humans provided a tasty meal that satiated his people, the minions of the God of Death, for weeks before they needed the next kill. No African rat provided such a delicacy.
His people’s pleas to their god had gone unheard. Eloko wondered if they had somehow angered him. Without their god’s protection, the humans began picking them off. One by one, they fell. The Yoruba demon had appeared to him to warn him that humans were approaching. She could whisk him away, but she, like all demons, had not offered her hand out of any goodwill. He had consumed the last of the human flesh, discarding the woman’s sandal, suckling on the last toe.
Then he had become a carnival freak, tasked with observing the other freaks for anomalies, little more than a spy to do her bidding. It was not the most honorable job, but the pay and food—such as it was—made up for it.
Liza’s irritated coughs had gone unnoticed with Eloko so wrapped up in his reverie. Finally, she blurted out, “I’m still here. Why do you talk, uh, speak the way you do if you come from Zaire?”
Eloko’s eyes snapped open. They flashed pure gold, and Liza’s sharp inhale brought back his doglike smirk. He rolled over on his stomach, planting his chin in the cup of his palms. In the process, he’d closed the gap between them. If Liza’s legs hadn’t been folded in front of her, he may have landed right in her lap.
“Whoever schooled you ignored your African history—a pity.” He crossed his feet at the ankles and lifted them up and down, shedding sprinkles of grassy skin. For a moment, he imagined he looked like a playful child. “The French also took a liking to our dark continent after they shipped your ancestors off. They burrowed in like snakes. We got shackled with their language; they got the land. Their bad taste in food, however, has luckily escaped us.”
The look in her eye told him she didn’t like him. No matter. Eloko’s emotions were plain enough and changed as quickly as a cranky infant’s. This game, though—that he lived for.
Eloko inhaled deeply. “Your monthly visitor,” he began. “Your time of the month is a day, no, two days away.”
“Not something you should be pointing out to a lady.” She scrunched up her face and clambered to her feet. She headed back to her trailer without a backward glance.
“Do not put your trust in that mutt!” he called out. “Surly animal.” He watched her go. Had Ahiku truly checked this one out? There was something about her that set him on edge, tantalized him, but if the demon had approved of her being here, then who was he to question it?
Eloko had made a promise to Ahiku. And if she was aware that he had broken that promise a few times over the years, she had never said so. But then he had never infringed on her precious carnies before. Would one indiscretion catch the attention of a demon who spent more time in the world of the dead than the living?
He didn’t know if he wanted to find out, but already, he was consumed by Liza. He pondered what intricate, scrumptious tastiness might lie within the flesh of one with such a power.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CURIOSITY KILLED THE CAT
Even the smallest, most unremarkable cities in Louisiana had a certain vibe, a history and soul that were baked into the moist soil. But the sleepy town of Waco, Texas, was devoid of such a nature, and things moved at a pace akin to a lame snail’s. After a long trek to the west of Houston, the carnival had crawled up to a lot outside town. Clay stretched out the kinks in his back and exhaled a tired breath. They were still months off before they’d hit Tulsa and the big trifecta: the biggest score of the season, a weeklong break afterward, and a chance to see his son. Everybody looked forward to Tulsa, but seeing his boy made it that much more special for him. Waco wasn’t exactly what you’d call a bustling town, dusty and slow, more like; it was all he could do to not pack it all up and head out sooner.
Two hours after opening around noon, the traffic wave, consisting of a sorry trickle of cheap, unwilling marks, had all but dried up. Candied apples sat untouched, the cotton candy machine unused. Even the normally animated barker sat idle in a rickety-looking chair with his hat over his face, taking an early-afternoon snooze.
Clay stood at the entrance with his hand shielding his eyes, as if searching the abandoned horizon might make a crowd appear. He finally spit in the dirt at his feet and spun around. The banner that read G. B. BACCHANAL—THE GREATEST CARNIVAL ON EARTH drooped from the entrance tent.
“I said secure that damned banner!” he boomed at nobody in particular and then walked through the flaps. He made his way around the curve of the midway, correcting this, reordering that, and generally shouting out unnecessary orders.
Finally, he made his way to the cookhouse. Mabel had long since cleaned up and put away everything from the morning meal, but when Clay settled on a bench, she walked over to him.
“I expect I could find an egg, maybe some bacon in the back if you want.” She had a bit of flour on her face and a perpetual spoon or some other cooking instrument in her hand. She smelled of cake batter.
Clay picked at the worn, bleached wood. “Naw. Food ain’t what I need.”
“Suit yourself,” Mabel said and then went back to whatever she was preparing for supper.
Picking the right spots for the carnival was supposed to be Clay’s specialty. But once or twice every season, he’d make a blunder like this one and stumble on a city that had no interest in the type of entertainment they had to offer. Geneva would scold him—in her way. Sometimes it seemed she cared less about the money and more about keeping the carnies happy. Idle carnies were not happy, and idle carnies found their way into trouble. He’d have to keep an eye out, make sure things didn’t get out of hand. He set off to find Jamey; they’d need to keep a tight watch
.
Even Benny Goodman’s band blaring through the speakers did little to lift the spirits of a bored carnie. Liza put down the latest issue of the Argosy Weekly, left Mico feasting on a bushel of grapes she wasn’t sure how Mabel had found, and went in search of Hope.
Passing Bombardier’s station, she waved to the big man as he hoisted a barbell that looked like it held an airplane engine on either end over his head. “They’ll come!” she called out. “You wait and see.”
“I will gather up some of the boys.” He flashed his brilliant smile. “Lead a team to go out and beat them about the head and body till they can no longer resist. Drag them in clutching great handfuls of money.”
Liza chuckled. “I’ll take your questionable suggestions to Clay. Who knows? It’s such a ghost town around here—he might agree to it. I’m going off to find Hope. See ya later.”
As Liza turned to go, she bumped into Efe.
“Excuse—” Efe began but stopped midsentence when Zinsa glared at her.
Then Zinsa turned her ire on Liza. “I would think that one with your skill would not be the clumsy type.”
Bombardier spoke up before Liza could say anything back. “Why don’t you make like an ostrich and hide your ugly face in the dirt.”
Liza held up a hand as if the gesture could shush everyone up. Didn’t anybody ever tell Zinsa that if she didn’t have anything nice to say, then, well, she should shut up?
“There is no one left for you to fight, so you stand outside that trailer half the time, and the other half you walk around here flinging that acid tongue at everybody in your path. Women soldiers!” He threw up his hands. “You do not even know what you are.”
“Whoa,” Liza said, trying to interrupt.
“At least we were in the fight against the French,” Efe piped in. “Where were the men of Senegal? Hmm? Off beating your women or playing with each other in the sand! Oh, I forgot, you call that wrestling. I say it is an excuse to grope at each other.”
“You watch your tongue, woman.” Bombardier moved closer, menace on his face.
Liza looked back and forth between them. The normally buoyant, happy Bombardier had a bigger problem with the women soldiers than everyone else, and she wondered at its source. It seemed to go beyond just reacting to their prickly nature.
“Or you will do what?” Zinsa asked. She shrugged off Efe’s attempt to pull her away.
“And a good afternoon, folks.” Malachi walked up to the group twirling a sharp, lengthy nail between his nimble fingers. He wore a pleasant smile that Liza noted was genuine. “I don’t believe we’ve all met.” He took a step closer, and his legs suddenly turned to jelly. His fall was braced by outstretched hands, the nail still wedged between his fore and middle fingers. He cried out as he careened toward the tip, the nail piercing his right shoulder.
“Are you all right?” Liza said as they all crowded around, helping him to his feet. He smiled and slowly pulled the nail from his shoulder. Not a trickle of blood escaped.
“They call me,” he said with an elaborate bow, “the Human Pincushion.”
Bombardier’s shoulders relaxed. Zinsa and Efe actually chuckled. The tension escaped into the ether like air escaping an overly taut balloon. Liza, as usual, was curious. After curt introductions were made, Bombardier, Zinsa, and Efe departed. Malachi fell in step beside Liza.
“How did you do that?” Liza said.
“Do?” Malachi twirled the nail again.
“Guess it doesn’t matter how you did it, only that you did. Almost got lost in a flurry of fists back there.” What Liza didn’t say was how she had considered calling on any animal in the wild she could to help her and Bombardier, if it had come to that. She’d seen those Dahomey women with their spears and had no doubt about the fact that they could and would kill. Hope had filled her in on where they’d come from. Liza didn’t think there had ever been women soldiers before, let alone in Africa. It filled her with pride, even if she didn’t exactly like either of them.
“And what, may I ask, is your act?”
Liza shifted, uncomfortable. She didn’t have an act yet. The last time she’d practiced with Ishe, after yet another disaster with a possum, she’d managed to keep the rabbit she was working with alive, but nothing beyond that. Her power still didn’t obey her.
Malachi, as if sensing her unease, switched the conversation. “My show isn’t set up yet either.”
She listened in wonder as he explained his ability to withstand pins and needles. She couldn’t wait to see it. Clay was ordering in supplies for his act, and he should be ready to go soon.
“That fire head just showed up at P. T. Barnum and talked me into coming back with him. I left almost everything there.”
“When Clay brought you to the carnival,” she said, biting her lip, “did you go to the red trailer?”
“I did,” Malachi said. He walked with his arms clasped behind his back, and it seemed as if he glided, his feet barely disturbing the earth. “Pretty strange experience, as all I did was stand there. Yet that must have been enough for whoever was making the evaluation.”
“You didn’t see anybody either?” Liza pressed.
“You looking for answers of some kind?” His smile had been replaced by a look of pure serenity.
“You’re not the least bit curious about who is in that trailer? I mean, what does he do, peek out the window and decide if he likes the look of an act or not without even talking to anybody?” Liza felt an urge to tell Malachi about the strange energy she felt every time she came near the trailer. The compulsion to investigate that Hope was constantly telling her to forget about. That no one seemed to want to talk about. Even Ishe had told her to leave it alone. “What is the big secret?”
“Knowledge of all things is sometimes more of a burden than the liberation you thought you were looking for.”
Liza had to think about that one for a moment. They had come to Hope’s trailer. “Well, it was nice to meet you and all,” she said. “Good luck with your act.”
Malachi inclined his head slightly. “And to you.”
Hope lounged behind an elaborate wooden table inside her comfortably appointed trailer, the air perfumed with sandalwood incense or whatever questionable imitation the Dahomey women found for her. The inside was lit only by the light limping in from a couple of windows. Secrets uttered during a reading were better suited to a certain murkiness. Not that she’d had any customers.
Tarot cards sat stacked to her left, and her pitch cards, some she had already signed, were in front of her. These she sold for a nickel.
The door to her trailer was open, and Liza peeked her head in. “I see you got about as many customers as everybody else.”
Hope waved the girl in and gestured to the chair in front of her. “The sooner we blow this flytrap, the better.” With a mother in need of pricey cough medicine and a son back home in need of, well, everything, every stop mattered.
“Is this the worst spot the carnival has ever stopped in?” Liza sat in the chair and fiddled with some of Hope’s pitch cards. The girl could never sit still. But Hope enjoyed her company anyway. Kind of like having a little sister.
“We’ve seen worse. I’ll give Clay that much—usually he picks good spots for us. And with nothing else going on, people are usually dying to see a carnival. I’d give anything to go into town, see what it’s like.”
Liza looked down.
“What?” Hope asked.
“Why doesn’t Bombardier like Zinsa and Efe?”
Hope lay down her pencil and resettled herself in her chair. Her husband’s constant beef with those women exasperated her. “Who does like them? They don’t exactly try to endear themselves to anybody.”
“But there’s something else there, I know it.”
Why did the girl have to keep nagging about things she didn’t understand? “Does all that reading make you ask so many questions?”
When Liza didn’t answer, Hope exhaled. “He’s an African
man, okay? He’s got ideas on what a woman should and shouldn’t do, and fighting a war alongside men isn’t one of them.”
“He shouldn’t worry about what they do.” Liza had the good sense to avert her gaze and say that last bit under her breath.
“That’s my husband you’re talking about, you know?” Hope folded her arms. Liza was right, and Hope knew it. Why did she have such a tough time admitting it?
“I like Bombardier,” Liza said as she sat back in the chair. “That don’t make him right about everything. Things are changing for women. I bet Negro women will get the right to vote one day.”
Had she ever possessed this type of wide-eyed optimism? This child really was naive. “Never gonna happen,” she said. “Not here, not anywhere else. And especially not for us.”
They fell into an easy silence, and Hope went back to signing her cards. Liza strolled around the rest of the trailer. The girl was all restless energy; Hope could feel the power burning inside her. She didn’t like it.
Her trailer was relatively small, but Hope had managed to fit in another bench along the right wall, a waiting space for her customers. Posters of actors and singers filled the walls. A lone votive candle burned next to a picture of her son, on a shelf she was proud that Bombardier had made for her.
Liza came back and picked up the tarot cards. “What does all this mean?”
“You want a reading?” Hope stopped signing again. Her heart stilled, unsure if she even wanted to read for this girl whose fate almost screamed out of her pores. Somehow Hope knew her own fate was tied up in it. And although she enjoyed reading the cards and telling others her visions, she didn’t fancy ever doing it for herself.
“No.” Liza set the cards down and fidgeted in the chair, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “Asking a question is all.”
What could it hurt? Bombardier would laugh at her, call her a silly woman. “Come on, hand ’em to me.” Her friend complied but with little enthusiasm—a true nonbeliever.
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