A Circus of Ink

by Lauren Palphreyman

  ‘What the fuck is that?’ he says as I approach. His chest is damp with sweat and blood, and his scent immediately washes over me, a primal masculine smell mixed with the metallic tang of ink and blood.

  ‘What can you see?’ I place the chipped bowl, full of water, and the medical kit I took from Anita’s infirmary on the bench beside him.

  He frowns. ‘What do you mean, what can I see? The same as you. Loads of bees.’

  My smile widens, and I look up at it. It looks different to everyone. Raven sees a collection of stars that light up the dark; Sylvia sees flames that threaten to spread; Maggie sees yarns of thread that can be weaved. To me, it looks like a collection of dancing dandelion seeds. I have never known someone to see bees before. But it makes sense. Bees spread pollen from one flower to the next. Bees allow new flowers to grow.

  As I try to see what Jay sees, the dandelion seeds morph into bees, caged by the ball of pulsing white energy. There’s a hum in the air, a slight vibration from the movement of their wings.

  ‘What you can see is the heart of a story,’ I say. ‘The Story of the Circus. Stories are tangible things, you see. They are powered by other stories, and imagination, and, most importantly, by belief. The Creators have a story—the One True Story. It’s bigger and older and stronger, and it stretches over the whole world. But it’s the same at its heart.’

  He sighs, and there’s a look of resignation on his face as if I’ve finally worn him down. ‘You shouldn’t say things like that.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  He meets my eyes for the first time. ‘I thought you said no one was going to get hurt, little Twist.’

  ‘I thought you were going to remain calm and not attack anyone.’

  He runs his good hand over his mouth. ‘Really?’

  Blotters are cold and emotionless, but Jay has been anything but calm since our stories collided. I didn’t think he would remain calm.

  I sigh. ‘No.’

  He shakes his head and looks at the ground between our legs. ‘You set me up then.’

  I put my hand on his cheek and bring his gaze back to mine. ‘I didn’t set you up, Jay.’

  His eyelids are heavy. There’s a smudge of blood on his bottom lip, and I have an urge to wipe it off with my thumb. When he raises an eyebrow, I notice again the small white scar that runs across it—proof that someone else hurt him once.

  ‘Okay, look, maybe I thought you might be a bit difficult,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, I’m the one who’s difficult.’

  ‘But I didn’t think it would go as far as it did.’

  ‘I got shot!’

  ‘At least you weren’t killed.’

  ‘Your stupid terrorist friends are the ones who could have been killed.’

  ‘Yes. They looked like they were in a lot of trouble while you were on your knees with a gun to the back of your neck.’

  I wait for the burst of anger I’m sure will come. Instead, I catch a flash of amusement in his eyes.

  ‘You’re really infuriating, you know that?’

  I look pointedly at his shoulder. ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  My lip twitches. ‘Good.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I could have killed them.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. Actions have consequences out here, Jay. You don’t automatically get a happy ending written for you. You’re not coasting on the Creators’ story anymore. You attack someone, you’re probably going to get shot. That’s just the way it is.’

  This time, the darkness comes. He clenches his jaw, and his hand, slick with blood, grips the bench tighter beside him. ‘You think I ever had a happy ending written for me, little Twist? You think I’m expecting this to end well for me?’ He looks at the ground between his scuffed boots. ‘You know fuck all about me.’

  ‘Tell me then.’

  ‘I have a few pretty big questions for you before I tell you anything,’ he mumbles.

  ‘Go on then.’ When he doesn’t say anything, I grab the rag from the bowl. ‘I’m going to clean your wound and bandage it up.’

  ‘The bullet’s still in there.’

  ‘I know. But it’s not doing you any harm.’

  ‘Get it out.’

  ‘Jay—’

  His cool blue eyes narrow. ‘Get it out.’

  ‘It doesn’t need removing.’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Can’t you just, for once, do as I fucking tell you?’

  Annoyance flames in my chest. ‘No. I’m not here to serve you or do as you tell me. You’re here in my Circus. Now, stop acting like a child. Removing a bullet as deep as this can do more damage than good.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll do it myself then.’

  I push him back down onto the bench as he starts to get up. ‘Sit down.’

  That wildness flashes behind his eyes. He’s like an animal in a trap. His face is flushed, and heat blazes off him even though the air in the tent is cool. ‘I don’t want it in my body.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because . . . it shouldn’t be there. It’s not part of me. It’s not . . . right.’ His voice cracks.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ I say, and some of the tension in his shoulder relaxes beneath my palm. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Okay. Good.’

  I stare at him for a moment longer, wondering why it bothers him so much. Could it be something to do with the Ceremony? He said his blood wasn’t always ink. I want to know, but it doesn’t seem like a good idea to ask him right now. Not when he’s so on edge.

  I drop the rag back into the bowl, and some of the water sloshes over the side. Then I open the leather medical pack, pulling out the roll of gauze and a small bottle of alcohol.

  ‘Finally,’ he says. ‘Something that can improve my bad mood.’

  ‘It’s to sterilise the wound.’

  ‘You got me shot, little Twist. You’re seriously going to try and stop me from having a drink?’

  That feeling of wanting to see how far I can push him still buzzes beneath my skin even now. I think part of it is the conflict inside of me. Someone like him took away my father. He called me naïve. He pinned me to the floor with his naked body. He told me he would fuck me if I asked him to.

  ‘You got yourself shot.’

  But he is in pain. His face may be impassive, but the hard line of his jaw and the slightly acrid note to his sweat gives it away. He’ll be in even more pain if I take the bullet out.

  I pass him the bottle. ‘Don’t drink it all.’

  He uncorks it with his thumb and takes a swig. As he moves it away from his full lips, he exhales, closing his eyes for a moment. Then he passes it back to me.

  ‘I’m going to take your top off,’ I say, and the corner of his lip twitches.

  ‘You want me naked again, little Twist?’

  ‘Be quiet. Can you lift your arm?’

  His face reddens as he raises it, and a vein throbs in his neck. I grab his fist and push it back down then slide a pair of scissors from the pack.

  ‘I’ve got it.’

  The rise and fall of his chest accelerate slightly as I position myself between his legs. Reflexively, it seems, he slips his good hand beneath my jacket and grips my hip. My skin hums beneath his thumb, and it distracts me. It feels right, somehow, for his hand to be there. Firm and familiar and enticing, all at the same time.

  Can it be possible for two people who barely know one another, who are supposed to be enemies, to fit together like two pieces of a puzzle?

  ‘What?’ he says.

  ‘Nothing.’ I drop my gaze to his shoulder and peel the damp cotton away from his skin. I look at the thick black tracts that cover the tattoos on his arms. ‘Your blood—’

  ‘I’m a Blotter, little Twist. I have ink in my veins. You know that.’

  I take the blade and carefully cut down the side of his top. He breathes in deeply. I rest my hand on his shoulder, and reluctantly, it seems, he releases his grip on my waist,
raising his arm for me so I can pull his vest completely off his body. Something hot rises inside when I catch the look in his eyes. I drop the scraps of his top to the floor beside us.

  ‘I know. But you said there was a Ceremony. You weren’t created this way.’

  ‘No.’ He swallows. ‘I was born. Just like you.’

  I reach for the small bottle of alcohol and tip the liquid over his wound. He inhales sharply, the corners of his eyes creasing. His chest rises and falls harder as it runs down his arm and washes with his blood.

  ‘How old were you when they mapped out your story?’ I ask.

  ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘Talk to me.’

  He sighs. ‘Five.’

  I grab the rag and start to rub away the blood. ‘How do they do it?’

  ‘How am I supposed to know?’

  ‘But you were at the Ceremony.’

  ‘I don’t like talking about this stuff.’

  ‘I know. But it could be important.’ I slide the tweezers out of the leather pack and then hold his shoulder, feeling the knotted muscles beneath his skin. ‘And as I’m doing something for you . . .’

  ‘You got me shot.’

  ‘Jay . . .’

  He shakes his head, looking at his feet. ‘There are pools of ink beneath the Citadel. It’s hot. Boiling. You go in. The Creators are there. Whispering. Creating your story. One of them, your patron, takes charge of it. And it . . . it just happens.’

  ‘It sounds painful.’

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘It’s boiling ink, little Twist. Of course it’s painful.’

  I raise the tweezers. ‘Are you ready?’

  He nods. He holds firmly onto my hip, his thumb pressing into my stomach. I stick the tweezers into the bullet hole, and he grunts, a low, primal sound. The edge taps the bullet, and as I dig deeper, hot ink spills down his arm—and down mine. It’s not easy to keep a hold on it.

  His grip is painful now, and his face is red. We’re both breathing quickly. Finally, I catch it. As I pull, he groans, a masculine crescendo that vibrates inside of me. The bullet slips from the tweezers and lands with a click on the floor before rolling away.

  He’s breathing hard, his head lowered, staring at the space between our legs. ‘Fuck.’

  Blood cascades down his arm, and I knew this was a bad idea. I grab the alcohol and douse him in it. His face is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and he groans again. I push the rag into his shoulder. Like ink on parchment, the hot liquid spreads on the damp cloth.

  Slowly, his breathing steadies.

  ‘You’ve done that before,’ he says after a moment has passed.

  ‘There was a girl once,’ I say. ‘She travelled in—’

  ‘No. Not a girl. You.’

  I sigh. ‘Yes. When I escaped the Final City, Sylvia got shot in the leg with a poisonous bullet before we made it to the train.’

  His expression darkens. ‘Where did the storm come from before?’

  I put my finger beneath his chin and tilt his gaze upwards. ‘I think you know.’

  ‘The storm. The hurricane. The door. You can’t have created them, Elle. Only Creators can do that kind of thing.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s what you believe.’

  He looks beyond me, at the dandelion seeds and the light and the bees. ‘You can’t tell me that thing is a story. It makes no sense.’

  ‘It is a story.’

  ‘It’s impossible.’

  ‘Everything is impossible. Until that one moment it is not.’

  ‘Fuck.’ He bends his neck, the top of his head close to my chest, and I have an urge to pull him closer. ‘The girl in the story who travelled across the Drafts and created the Circus . . . she’s you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How? How is this possible?’

  ‘Stories are true when we believe them.’

  He shakes his head. ‘No. Prove it. Right now. If you can create something, show me.’

  ‘It doesn’t work that way. Words and stories only have the meaning we give to them, Jay. You can’t believe it without proof, but I can’t prove it without belief.’

  His chest moves up and down hard, glistening in the glare from the spotlight and the story.

  ‘The dandelion seeds, the map of the Draft. . .You said you were planting seeds.’ He swallows hard. ‘You said dandelions grow like stories in the cracks between the pavement.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were planting a story. A story about a hurricane.’

  I incline my head.

  ‘How?’ When he looks back up again, his thumb slips farther up beneath my vest. ‘Stories are true when we believe them. You told people there was going to be a hurricane, and they believed you? So it became real?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He grips me tighter. ‘Fuck, Elle. What the fuck?’ Then he shakes his head. ‘No. That can’t be true. The storm—that happened here. You didn’t “plant any seeds.”’

  ‘It’s easier here,’ I say. ‘We’re outside of the Creators’ story. We have our own story—you can see it yourself right now—and people believe in it. I can draw on its power. Like a . . . battery, I guess.’ I drag my teeth across my bottom lip. ‘But it’s harder the farther away from it I am, and it’s harder in the Drafts because people believe in the One True Story, not mine.’

  Jay blows out hot air, his chest moving beneath my fingers. ‘Fuck. This is some seriously fucked-up shit, Elle.’

  I grab the gauze and lift his arm to wind the white, stretchy material around his shoulder. When I’m done, he looks up at me again. ‘What are you up to, little Twist?’

  ‘I’m going to create a new story to overpower the One True Story. I’m going to start a revolution. I’m going to overthrow the Creators.’

  He closes his eyes. ‘I thought so. What are we doing here?’

  ‘I need some help from the Darlings to plant the seeds.’

  He blows out hot air again. Then he nods. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘Okay. You created the impossible door. You created the hurricane. You created the Circus. You created the storm.’ He shifts back on the bench, dropping his hand from my waist, and leans against the row behind him. ‘You said stories are true if we believe them. I believe you. Show me.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jay

  This is insane. I’m trying to stay cool. I’m trying to keep my shit together. But words and thoughts run through my head at the same rate my heart hammers against my chest. It’s fucking deafening.

  I must have lost a lot of blood, because it seems I’ve just told her I believe her.

  I don’t even know if that’s true. Or whether I just want it all to stop—the questions, the wonder, the curiosity.

  I was supposed to kill her.

  Her death is written into the One True Story. It’s marked on my skin in the same ink that’s smeared on the oversized leather jacket she wears. It’s all over her hands too. She brushes her hair out of her face and smudges it onto her cheek. A Blotter’s blood on a Twist? Has that ever happened before? How did it come to this? Both of us at a Circus at the end of the world—me with a bullet hole in my arm; her telling stories, and talking about dandelion seeds and creation. And blasphemy.

  None of it makes any sense. It doesn’t make sense that she can create. And yet with all I’ve seen, I’m not sure it makes sense that she can’t either.

  I created the hurricane.

  Run.

  No.

  Maybe I do believe her. I rub my mouth and look up at the Twist, one hand gripping the splintered wooden bench by my knees. She’s still standing between my legs, close enough that I could grab her if I wanted to. I do want to. But not now. Not when I don’t know what the fuck is going on. Not when I don’t know what I’m dealing with here.

  I knew she was dangerous from the moment I met her. I knew she wasn’t an ordinary Twist.

  But she can’t create. Only the Creators can do that. And even
if, somehow, someone else could, she’s a woman. Women can’t be Creators. It is written. That has always been the way. It’s impossible for her to do what she says she can.

  But I saw the storm. I saw the hurricane. I saw the impossible door.

  Everything is impossible. Until that one moment it is not.

  My head is a mess, and her close proximity isn’t helping. She’s radiating heat, and I can smell her: salt, rain, and leather. And honey. Always that weird scent of honey. The spotlight blazes behind her, and there are bees buzzing inside of it. She said that was a story.

  What the fuck?

  I need to get it together. I need to calm down.

  I need to know.

  ‘Show me,’ I say.

  She steps back and holds out her hand. I stare at it for a moment. Then I take it. Her grip is firm, and her skin is cool. I let her pull me forwards, swaying a little. I’ve never lost this much blood before. Not since I was a child.

  She stops in the centre of the beam of light, turning to look up at me. My chest rises and falls at an accelerated rate. Because I don’t know what she’s going to do.

  Before her, I always knew what was coming. But not now, as her breath tickles my naked chest and her hand rests in mine. It excites me. My heart pounds. I need to get it together.

  ‘Well? Go on then.’ I want to sound tough, but the words come out uncertain.

  ‘Close your eyes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just do it.’

  I sigh, and then I do as I’m told. It’s weird because I don’t do what Twists tell me; I’m the one who tells them what to do. She slips her hand out of mine, and then her fingertips trace one of the tattoos on my chest. The corner of my lip twitches. She can’t keep her hands off me.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Shush.’

  She rests her hand on the tattoo that told me she would die. Her breathing hitches when she feels how fast my heart is pounding. She knows how excited I am right now. I wonder how that makes her feel. Afraid? Curious? Excited?

  Not long ago, a storm raged and ripped through the Circus tent. It should have cleared the air. But something is coming. I want to look at her. I want to do a lot of things to her—even if the bullet wound throbs and my arm hangs heavily by my side.