by Katie Klein
But then I spot a photo booth. And it dawns on me: Seth and I, we've never had our photo taken. There's no photographic evidence that we ever existed together.
"We don't have a picture of us," I tell him.
"We should fix that."
I haul him over to the photo booth, push back the curtain, and step inside. The space is tiny, cramped, and Seth pulls me onto his lap to make more room.
He drapes his arm around my waist, eyes fixing on mine. "I've never had my picture taken," he confesses.
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
His gaze lingers, and my emotions tangle. A swell of sorrow, but I can't tell if the source is me or Seth. If it's a sadness for not remembering. For never having experienced something as obvious as a town carnival. For never having a photograph taken. . . .
"We should fix that," I say quietly.
I take the dollar bills and straighten them across my knee, smoothing them. "You're going to show up, right?" I ask, teasing.
He eyes me skeptically. "What?"
I shrug. "When some people take pictures, sometimes these . . . I don't know . . . random balls of light appear. Or people will see like, an outline of someone else in the picture where there's not supposed to be anyone. There's some kind of inexplicable glow. It's usually blamed on angels . . . or ghosts."
"I'm not a ghost. Or an angel. I'm a Guardian."
"Same idea," I reply.
"You people have your mythology slash legends slash folklore irrefutably screwed up."
"I guess we're about to find out, then."
I feed the dollar bills into the machine. We get five pictures. The seconds begin to count down.
"Smile pretty." I tilt my head closer to Seth, leaning in, and smile. Flash.
In the next moment, I feel Seth's fingers against my side, tickling me. I pull away from him, laughing. Flash.
"You just wasted a photo!" I shout, still laughing. Flash.
"Shit! Kiss me!" I demand.
"What?"
But my lips are already pressed against his. He sighs, exhaling between us, and wraps his fingers around the back of my neck. Flash.
He kisses me slowly, deliberately, and a surge of heat passes through me as his tongue brushes mine. Flash. And around us I can still hear waves crashing in the distance. Shouts of carnival workers. Laughter. Music. Cars racing across metal tracks. Until it all disappears, melting into nothing. He kisses me until my lips are swollen and my breaths are shallow and I'm forced to pull away to survive.
His eyes remained fastened to mine, holding on to them, as my heart trips over itself. "Are you okay?" he whispers.
A smile cracks my lips. "Perfect."
Our photographs have long since printed, slipping halfway out of the machine, waiting for us. I reach for the strip of black and white photos.
"You're in them." And I don't know who's more surprised. Him or me. But he's there. His chiseled jaw. Dark hair falling over his forehead.
"You're so beautiful," I whisper, brushing my fingers across the images. It's one thing to see him reflected in mirrors, to watch him pass in and out of my reality, but this. . . .
"That's exactly what I was thinking about you." He glances in my direction, and our eyes connect. I smile, feeling the warm blush seeping into my cheeks.
"We'll split them." I dig inside my purse, searching for my knife. The pictures cut easily. On the back of each I write Seth and Genesis and the date.
"Which ones do you want?" I ask.
"We should each have us kissing," he says, taking one from me. "And I'll take the one where you're laughing like a hyena."
In the second photograph my mouth twists in surprised laughter, eyes bright. A sly grin curves along Seth's lips, making him appear less angelic and more like the deviant he really is.
In the third my mouth hangs open, lecturing and laughing at the same time. Seth's eyes are closed.
"This should be burned."
He snatches it from my fingers. "No. It's my favorite."
"You can't have them all! And I'm taking the first one. At least we look normal in that one."
"Come on," he says. "You have to admit we make a really great-looking couple." He holds the photo in front of us. Look how quickly we've conformed to gender-relationship stereotypes. Here you are, nagging, and I'm tired of hearing it."
"You were wasting pictures," I accuse.
"I want it," he says. "To remind me who's in charge."
I lift an eyebrow, suspicious.
"What?" He slips his fingers through my hair, grinning wickedly. "You own me. You know that."
A bubbly laughter builds inside. "There's a better way to settle this. Paper, rock, scissors."
His brow creases, folding together. "What's that?"
"Are you joking? You've never played paper, rock, scissors before?"
"No."
"Never?" I ask, disbelieving.
"Never."
I blink back my surprise. "Wow. Okay. Well, it's this game. . . ." I trail off, biting into my lower lip, not entirely sure how to explain it. "Here. Watch me."
I show him the hand gestures. "Scissors. Paper. Rock. Scissors beats paper. Paper beats rock. Rock beats scissors."
"How does paper beat a rock?"
"It wraps it. Just trust me. We'll practice first. On the count of three, show me your paper, scissors, or rock, okay?"
He nods.
"One . . . two . . . three."
I ball my fist into a rock, and Seth makes scissors. "I just smashed you. Try again." I count. This time Seth makes a rock, and I make paper. "Smashed you again. Okay. We're doing it for real this time. One . . . two . . . three." I go back to my rock. Seth makes scissors. "You really suck at this game."
I slip my photographs into a sleeve in my wallet. Seth sticks his in the back pocket of his jeans.
"Sounds to me like a bunch of luck," he argues.
I slide back the photo booth curtain and climb out, stepping onto the weathered planks of the boardwalk. "You're just sore because you. . . ." Another cool breeze rushes in, rustling my sundress and raising goose bumps on my skin. And I'm practically standing on top of someone. A guy with darker skin and a wide nose. Not much taller than me, but broad-shouldered and muscular. A tight wife-beater for a shirt.
"It's about time," he growls, voice low and threatening. His dark eyes capture mine. They blaze inside, on fire. A fire I've seen before. I open my mouth to speak, but Seth slips between us, grasping my arm above the elbow, moving me away.
"I should've known a quiet night with you was out of the question," he mutters, glancing over his shoulder.
"Was that . . . ?"
"Keep walking."
I let Seth guide me, turning briefly to watch the demon climb into the photo booth, alone.
Then, as if reading my mind: "They're everywhere, Genesis. You know that."
"I know," I say, exhaling the breath I didn't realize I was holding. The air between us is thick with tension. We walk in silence, wandering through the crowd, until finally: "So, do you think he'll show up in the picture?"
Seth laughs, visibly relaxing, and slips his arm around my waist, pulling me closer.
* * *
The last traces of the sun have vanished, and the dusky blue sky is punched with thin, wispy clouds. The moon grows brighter, rising, and the first of the stars flicker above.
"So you've never been to a carnival. You've never had your picture taken. I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say you've never had cotton candy, either."
"Nope," Seth replies.
Guardians don't eat. They can, but it's not necessary for their survival. I don't force Seth to eat anything, but there's no way we can spend time at a place like this without trying the cotton candy. We stand in line together, and I pick a multi-colored bag. Blue. Purple. Pink.
"This is, essentially, sugar on a stick," I tell him, untying the plastic bag. I pinch off a small piece, and Seth does the same. It melts on my tongue,
shocking my taste buds before disappearing.
"Wow." Seth reaches for another bite.
"I know, right? You can't believe you've survived this long without eating cotton candy."
"I can't believe I've survived this long without a lot of things." He passes a quick glance in my direction, eyes dancing.
In front of us the Ferris wheel looms overhead, spinning around and around, its yellow lights showering the boardwalk with a golden glow.
"How do you feel about heights?" I ask.
The lines for the rides are growing. Policemen prowl the area, speaking into their walkie talkies, keeping their eyes trained on the crowd. The sky is black by the time we climb into a car, full of endless stars, the moon sliding in and out of clouds.
The car lurches, lifting us to Heaven and bringing us down again, swinging every time it stops to fill another.
Seth drapes his arm around me. At the height of the wheel we can see The Strip, the headlights of cars, clusters of colorful lights below. And for a moment I close my eyes and breathe it all in. Pretend that the world is right. As It Should Be.
The Ferris wheel spins, circling around and around and around. My stomach flutters, dropping each time we descend.
"You're kind of perfect, you know that?" he whispers, leaning closer, breath warm against my ear.
"I'm anything but perfect," I mutter.
"Perfect for me, then," he clarifies.
"I cause a lot of problems."
"You're no picnic," he admits, "but I can't imagine. . . ." He stops, the words left unsaid between us.
"Can't imagine what?" I ask.
He grasps my hand, taking it in his. "Anyone else. Not knowing you. Not having . . . this."
I smile, closing my eyes, feeling his soft lips kiss the tip of each finger.
Sparks flash. And there are lights. A kaleidoscope of colors punctuating the darkness. Millions of them. And people. Hordes of people. And there, mingling with the crowd. . . .
I gasp, eyes flying open.
"What's wrong?" Seth asks.
Everything around me dims, fading to black.
"I, um. . . . I felt . . . feel . . . dizzy all of a sudden."
"Are you okay?"
I force my eyes to focus, and the world swirls as we dip to the bottom, passing the assembly of faces waiting in line for a turn.
She's here.
My mind struggles to wrap itself around the implications of this, everything it means. And my next, most selfish thought: Seth can't know about this.
"Yeah. I'm fine," I lie.
The Ferris wheel circles again before it starts letting off passengers. When it's our turn we stop at the bottom, swinging, and the worker opens our gate.
My legs wobble beneath me as I step onto the steel ramp. Seth catches my elbows, steadying me. "Can I get you something? Water?"
That's perfect.
"Yes," I say, forcing a smile. "Water's great. And I, um, I think I'm gonna take a quick bathroom break. I'll meet you back here."
"I can walk with you."
"No. It's okay," I insist, already backing away. "I'll be fast. Five minutes."
A tremor of suspicion slides along my skin, and I turn quickly, disappearing into the mass of people before Seth decides to follow. The crowd is multiplying, and I let it swallow me.
Blood roars in my ears, senses heightened. The cool breezes caress my face; the smell of cigarettes clings to my hair. I feel, see, hear everything as I search for her. The red hair. Tattoo sleeve snaking up her arm.
She's here. I know it.
My head repeats the words over and over and over, as if saying them might somehow take me directly to her.
When I reach the restrooms I duck inside, checking behind me to make sure no one is following. It's empty. The music, shouts, squeals, screams echo inside, bouncing across gray concrete walls. I move to the sink to wash away the cotton candy painted on my fingers, pausing a moment to glance at my reflection in the mirror. Paler than I should be at this point in the summer. Dark circles shading my eyes, made more prominent in the fluorescent lighting. Something like fear etched into my eyes. Like my mother, staring back at me.
I shut off the faucet and shake my hands dry, wiping them against my sundress. To my right, another exit. I slip out the back and creep around the building, watching from the shadows. There's no sign of Seth anywhere. Or Viola.
The Guardians are watching. If she was here, they'd know.
Deep inside the crowd is a familiar face. The photo booth. The demon. Cargo pants slung below his waist, falling off his hips. He's shirtless now, tank top draped over one shoulder. I press my body against the wall, waiting for him to pass.
He's one of them. He could take me straight to her.
I slip into the swarm of people, following him, training my eyes on the tattoos coloring his back and shoulders. He weaves in and out and around, making his way to the far end of the boardwalk. His steps quicken, full of purpose, and I struggle to keep up. He crosses the crowd, moving toward the fun house. I break into a run, pushing past people as he hands a pile of tickets to the carnival worker and slips inside.
I throw a strip of tickets at the worker in the booth, not bothering to count them. Heart pounding and out of breath, I grab the railing and climb the steel ramp, stepping into the open scream of a giant clown, blood red lips and huge, black triangles beneath it's disturbing eyes.
Once inside, I'm alone. I fumble through the contents of my pocketbook, wallet and lip glosses and tissues, and remove my knife, clutching it in my fist.
Piped laughter surges from the speakers overhead, filling the room. This is a fun house, after all. But the evil undertones sieve into my ears, as if something from beyond is laughing at me. My efforts.
I step into a lighted room, one wall full of mirrors. My image changes as I pass each one, distorting my reflection. Short, stocky. Stretching to the sky. Legs twice as long as my body. My knife becomes a sword, and I jerk it closer to me.
The ground in the next is uneven, and, the moment I enter, it shifts, shaking beneath me. I stumble, falling to my knees. The knife clatters to the floor. I crawl across the room, chasing it, knees burning as it slides further and further away from me. I reach for it, grasping until it's safe in my hand. I grip the blade between my teeth, scrambling to the other side as the fool overhead laughs and laughs. The metal floor sways, swelling, undulating beneath me.
I wait in the passageway for my breath to even, my pulse to slow.
Seth must know by now. The Guardians, they must know.
The hallway is swallowed in darkness. I grip the handle of my knife tighter, feeling my way along the wall.
The light at the end leads to a maze of mirrors. The room is bright, and a hundred versions of me appear when I step inside. I twirl around, waiting, and each reflection of mine does the same. I'm right side up and upside down, angled left and right, the tiniest movement mimicked a thousand times over.
I remain close to the length of mirrors on one side, creeping through the web of glass. My eyes strain against themselves, wanting to shut, reacting to the lights reflecting off the panels, blinding me.
A spark of red.
My heart stops beating.
I blink, and she's gone. The accelerated rhythm of my pulse throbs in my ears. A surprised gasp ricochets off the mirrors. Each version of me stands still, eyes wide and mouth gaping.
"I know you're here." My voice comes out smaller than I'd like. Quivering and weak.
The only response is canned laughter, filtered in from the outside.
I sprint through the rest of the fun house.
The chilly night air sends shivers rocketing across my skin. I stumble down the steps behind the makeshift building, and a heavy hand clamps around my arm, squeezing. The knife slips from my grasp, falling, rattling against the wooden planks.
He whirls me around, and I'm staring straight into his dark, evil eyes. His broad nose spews hot air, a bull ready to charge, face inc
hes from mine.
"Why do you follow me, Querida?" the demon asks, voice smoldering, dissolving into my skin.
My tongue trips over itself. "W—Where's Viola?" I manage.
"Who wants to know?"
"Me."
His gaze sears into mine, trying to uncover the level of truth in my words. "You have a death wish." He steps back, releasing my arm. Eyes cautious. We're behind the row of vendors and rides, hidden from the rest of the carnival, but he continues to distance himself.
"You're heavily guarded, Querida," he whispers, eyeing me suspiciously. "But then, you must know that."
"Sir! Excuse me!" A uniformed officer approaches us, moving quickly. Seth pushes around him.
"I tell Viola you look for her," the demon says, backing further away, lifting his arms in surrender.
A shiver of panic moves my stomach.
"It was nothing, Officer," he says. "Fue un malentendido. A misunderstanding."
Seth is between us, breathless, eyes searching mine. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I tell him. I turn to the officer. "It's fine."
The officer eyes the two of us suspiciously. "You're sure?" he asks.
I nod.
He studies the demon a beat longer, unknowing, hesitating. "Move along, then," he finally says.
EIGHT
The front door crashes shut behind us. I flinch. The vase perched on the entryway table rattles against the glass, and my photographs shiver in their frames. Seth pulls my knife from his pocket and hurls it across the room. It hits the wall, leaving a deep gray scar before clattering to the floor.
His eyes fix on mine, and they're blazing, on fire, another world trapped inside them, desperate to get out. His anger simmers beneath my own skin, stinging, and it's so wholly unlike anything I've felt from him before that I take another step backward, cautious.
"Is it wrong that I just want one normal night with you?" he asks. My spine tingles with heat, muscles tensing, heart bamming in my chest. When I don't answer: "I thought we agreed, Genesis. No hunting."
