by A. R. Kahler
“Is she always that strange?” the acrobat beside me whispers into my ear. I look at him; he’s one of the new recruits who specializes in hand balancing. Young, starry-eyed—that perfect mix of tall, black, and stunning. Blue crystals spiral over his right pec. Even the new guys are sexy by default.
I can’t find my voice. It’s lodged somewhere between my fear of Lilith and the nagging sensation her words dredge up. Every time she speaks, I feel the world crashing down in brimstone around me.
I nod.
“Huh,” he grunts. Then, before he says anything else, the lights shift and he bounds onstage, doing a flip over the ring curb in perfect unison with the hand balancers entering from the other sides.
I watch their act, but I can’t focus. Lilith’s words are burning in my brain.
My powers might be locked away … but are hers?
* * *
“But what is Lilith?” I asked.
Kingston sat next to me, the bonfire making his brown eyes flicker copper. Not even a week had passed since Lilith went insane, and I still couldn’t get the feeling of her burning eyes out of my skull. PTSD wasn’t even close to describing it. Even during the murders, I had felt somewhat safe in the circus. But now, knowing she was always around and potentially always on the verge of losing it again, I felt like I should be packing heat every time I went to the porta potty.
She wasn’t at the bonfire, of course. Lilith didn’t ever socialize, which made me wonder what she actually did with herself for the portion of the day she wasn’t watching creepily from the sidelines. The Shifters sat across from us on the other side of the fire. I wasn’t worried about them listening in. They were currently forcing the new recruits to undergo initiation, which in shapeshifting-carnie-land meant getting blackout drunk on absinthe and having to shift into whatever the old guard wanted.
Naturally, that side of fire was a runway of well-endowed porn stars and more than one lewd impersonation of Mab. Which, to be fair, were pretty much one and the same.
A few months before, when I was the newbie, I would have been blushing at all the flesh on display. Funny how fast things had changed.
“You know I can’t answer that,” Kingston said. He was staring at the fire, biting the corner of his lip. “We’re not allowed to talk about her.”
“But what if she’s dangerous?” I pressed. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see what she could do.” Just saying it made the memory of Penelope bursting into flame flash in my mind, along with the sickening scent of Penelope’s flesh as it crisped and peeled, floating up into the burning sky ….
“I know what she’s capable of,” he said darkly. “And I know Mab’s got her under control.”
I shook my head.
“I’m getting sick of this,” I said. Someone across from us burst into laughter. One of the Mab impersonators sprouted an alligator tail. But not from her butt. “Everyone acting like nothing happened. Like nothing’s different.” I shivered in spite of the roaring flames. I wanted to lean into Kingston and find some comfort there, but I couldn’t. Not when he was being stubborn like this. I knew he knew more than he was letting on.
“You get used to it,” Kingston said. He didn’t sound happy about it.
“But aren’t you scared?” I asked, barely whispering. “I mean, we have a fucking demon in our midst. Not to mention the oh-so-tiny fact that the entire Summer Court will happily torture each and every one of us if it means getting to her. We’re sitting ducks.”
He sighed. But he didn’t have a quick response, not for that.
“I know,” he finally admitted. The words wrenched out of him, as though they hurt to say. I wondered if maybe voicing his doubts went against his own contract. Now that Penelope was gone, he did seem to be Mab’s right-hand man. “But I’m taking precautions. Mab is too. I’m not going to let you get hurt.”
I ignored the sentiment.
“I still don’t see why Mab didn’t let me kill her,” I said. I felt sick the moment the words left my lips. Since when was I okay being a killer?
Even Kingston looked shocked at my statement. He raised an eyebrow and leaned back, as though examining me in a new light.
“Mab’s not like that,” he finally responded. “And Lilith … Lilith’s not all bad. She’s just misunderstood.”
I laughed.
“Are you kidding me? Lilith tried to kill me. She’s fucking psychotic. What part of that is misunderstood?”
Kingston sighed and looked out toward the Shifters.
“You’ve been here long enough to know that nothing is how it appears.” He nodded to the woman currently twisting herself into what looked like Björk, swan dress and all. “We’ve all got more going on than what’s on the surface.”
I clamped my jaw shut. I knew that tone of voice. The conversation was over.
And yeah, I knew very well that I couldn’t believe my eyes, not even regarding myself. But that didn’t make his answer any less bullshit.
There was no way that just ignoring the time bomb that was Lilith would make it go away, no way that I was misunderstanding a homicidal maniac in girl’s clothing.
I leaned back on my elbows and watched the Shifters laugh and roll around in the sand. At least with them, you knew you weren’t seeing the full picture. It was the others—the ones who looked innocent or normal—that I had to keep my eye on.
One of these days, I would get a straight answer from Kingston.
I just hoped it was before Lilith decided to prove me right.
* * *
“I liked the new whip act,” I say. We’re at the backstage tent, right before the final curtain. Kingston is sitting on an empty steamer trunk, his cloak thrown over the back and a dove fluttering on his outstretched hand. The moment I appear at his side, the bird disappears in flash of yellow and a twirl of flame. I can’t help but think how similar it looks to the way Penelope went up in smoke.
“Thanks,” he says. “Mab’s idea. Said she was getting tired of being onstage solely as a sex object.”
I chuckle. “Really?”
He grins up at me and slides from the crate. “Well, not her words per se, but I know that’s what she meant.”
I feel like there’s something I should be saying, something about my interaction with Lilith during the show, but the panic has taken on a muted tone, like waking up from a bad dream and slowly realizing it was all just in your head. Still, I see Kingston and my intuition tells me there’s something significant on the line. Something is amiss. I shrug off the foreboding and focus on the performers running around backstage, readying themselves for the final bow. I don’t want to be the drama queen.
Melody comes up from the front of house, a popcorn box in one hand and her enormous pink wig in the other. She’s in her usual tight pinstripe suit, her face rouged pink and baby-like. She tosses the box to me when she’s a few feet away, then slides her Marie Antoinette monstrosity on her head, transforming her into some twisted man’s dream of innocent objectification.
“Evening, ladies,” she says. “How’s it hanging?”
“Just fine, doll,” Kingston says. “How you feeling?”
She nods and looks distractedly across the backstage. I don’t know if she remembers getting so sick when Penelope was on her rampage. I don’t even know if she remembers Penelope because every time I’ve tried to say the name, the word gets stuck in my throat and I feel like I’m choking. Still, I know without a doubt that Kingston’s making sure Melody is protected.
He had tried explaining it to me, a few days after things had settled down. Something about her being the perfect host for a magical tithe that kept the troupe immortal and safe … so long as she aged and died in return. I’d asked him if she had gotten sick because of the murders or if the murders were possible because of her illness. He’d said there wasn’t any difference. When I asked for clarification, he just shrugged and said that magic was tricky. And often ruthless.
I can’t help but look at her d
ifferently, knowing all that. Knowing that this girl is going to wither and die just so the troupe remains young and gorgeous and healthy. She knows, I tell myself. At least she’s not in the dark about that too. But it doesn’t matter: I want to hold her and apologize because my very existence within the troupe is killing her.
Every time Kingston asks how she’s feeling, when he wouldn’t ask anyone else because everyone else is contractually obligated to be healthy, well … it’s a reminder of just how unfair magic really can be.
I glance over to a flash of movement. A girl in sparkling violet spandex is running across the lawn, her curly brown hair bouncing with every step.
“Hey, babe!” the girl calls out the moment she nears us. And then she wraps Mel in a hug and they’re kissing like Kingston and I aren’t even there.
He looks at me and raises an eyebrow, and I’m reminded of the day Melody warned me away from dating within the troupe. I’ve yet to bring it up because that was the day she was kidnapped by the Summer Court, and I don’t know if she remembers any of it. I tread lightly on potential minefields of memory. But I still find the irony of her dating advice incredibly amusing.
“Hey guys,” Sara says, once she’s extricated herself from Melody’s arms. She smiles, and it makes dimples appear on her artistically accentuated cheekbones. The fuchsia makeup almost covers the scar by her left eye. “The new act was awesome, Kingston.”
He bows. There’s applause within the tent. Time for the final bow, which, of course, I’m still not really a part of. In fact, I should be getting out to my booth in case someone wants their fortune read before heading back to monotony. One last glimpse of the beautifully impossible before the real world claims them.
Before they go, Kingston wraps me in a quick hug. Then the three of them head toward the backstage curtain, where the rest of the troupe is lined up and ready. I turn to go to the front promenade. As I walk past them, Sara waves just before ducking into the tent.
Memory burns, and my chest constricts.
Something about her is so fucking familiar. But then she ducks under the curtain, and I’m left with nothing. I shrug deeper into my shawl and head for my booth.
*
As expected, the crowd leaves the tent and barely gives me a second glance.
My booth is more a small tent than anything else. The exterior is fairly nondescript, but inside, everything is lush velour and dangling beads. The entry curtain is made of amethyst and quartz—“genuine,” Mab admitted, when showing me my new digs, “to enhance your skills”—and the light comes from a few dozen electric candles flickering from standing sconces and hanging from the steepled ceiling. I can just barely see the punters walk past outside; a few stop and peer in. One child brushes past the curtain, stops in the center of the room, and stares up at me, before her parents duck in to pull her out. I smile and wait.
Psychics don’t seek out clients. They wait for clients to come to them. Then, as Mab suggested, I say something like “I was hoping I’d see you” and give them a mysterious smile. Mab gave me many pointers on how to be a winning psychic. Most of them were just for show; the rest of it, the actual fortune-telling bit, came naturally.
A little too naturally.
As usual, I just lean back in my chair and stare out across my crushed-velvet table and shuffle a pack of faded Tarot cards. It’s really getting to me, the fact that no one seems to remember or be bothered by Mab’s effigy anymore. It’s been this way ever since people started showing up dead at the beginning of the summer tour: Mab sweeps everything under the rug, and we’re left waiting and wondering who’s going to be the next to go. At least those of us who are allowed to remember.
I glance down at the cards in my hands.
I’ve tried doing readings for myself and gotten nothing but a jumble. But maybe, because this reading is about the show …
I shuffle with intent now. The cards whir in my fingers, and a small part of me thinks that this is stupid; I shouldn’t be messing around when I’m technically on duty. But no one’s coming in, and the show’s been over for at least ten minutes. Stragglers are unusual, especially this late in the game.
Besides, if someone comes it, it will just make me look more authentically dedicated to my craft. Or something like that.
No one told me how to read the cards or how to deal them. I just started shuffling one afternoon and followed my gut. So when instinct tells me to stop shuffling, I do. I flip a few cards facedown on the table in a triangle shape, for no particular reason beyond that the shape makes me think of the tent. I set the deck aside, next to the hokey crystal ball and obsidian pendulum I’ve never used and hopefully never will. Then I flip the cards over one by one.
The Tower. Ten of Swords. The Emperor.
Something settles in the pit of my stomach. It’s the same sensation I had when I first saw Sabina, posed and bleeding on her contortion pedestal. The same feeling I had when we found Roman impaled on six bloody swords. The same as the haphazard visions I shouldn’t be having.
I feel the end.
“I hope that’s not about us,” comes a voice.
I glance up. It’s Sheena.
We both look down to the cards in front of me.
“I didn’t know you read,” I say quietly. She’d read my tea leaves once, but I learned quickly that psychic gifts tend to pick and choose their outlet.
“I dabble,” she says. She sits down across from me.
Sheena’s hair is purple and short, and she’s got a wispy sort of appearance that makes her always seem like she’s trying to fade into the background. Which, oddly enough, she’s able to do in spite of the hair. She’s one of the few people hired on full-time as a concessionaire, although, as I learned after Roman’s death, that’s not the real reason Mab keeps her around.
I take a deep breath.
“What do you think it means?” I ask. Which is silly, as I’m the one who’s meant to be doing the readings.
She presses a finger to her lips and looks at the cards intently. Did she always have so many rings in her bottom lip, or are they new? I need to start paying better attention to my surroundings.
“I think you know exactly what it means,” she says. She peers up at me. Her light-gray eyes sparkle purple. She points to The Emperor. “Oberon is coming. He’s angry; Mab has wronged him greatly. The Blood Autumn Treaty has been broken. Now, he won’t stop until his son and his honor are avenged, or until we’re all dead.”
That’s what I was hoping wasn’t the case.
Instead, I say what many of my clients have said: “You can tell all that from the cards?”
“No,” she says. She goes back to looking at the cards. Her jaw tightens as she bites her lip. “I know that because he’s told me.”
“He … told you?” I stare at her. I knew she defected from the Summer Court, but I had no clue she was still in contact. How was that even possible? I thought she was trying to hide from them.
“Do you remember when Mab asked me to speak to Roman?” she asks, her voice light as a whisper.
“Of course,” I reply. How could I forget?
“Then you remember what I do,” she says. “I speak for the dead.”
I nod. Here, I thought my own talents—what I knew of them, at least—were strange. But to channel the recently deceased? I shiver at the thought. I’m still not getting used to so many dead things. I kind of don’t want to.
“Well, Oberon knows this.” She looks up at me, and the haunted look is back in her eyes. Suddenly, she looks tired, older, as though the full weight of her situation is finally bleeding through. “And he’s been sending … messengers to try to get in touch with me.”
“Why?” I ask.
She takes a deep, shaky breath.
“For you,” she says. “He wants to speak with you.”
Chapter Three
Haunted
Something bubbles in my chest, a note of fear.
“Me?” I ask. My voice shakes against my
will. “What would he want with me?”
I had no hand in killing Oberos; all I did during the attack was fend off Kassia, and I don’t even remember how I did it. He shouldn’t even know I exist.
Sheena shakes her head. “He won’t say.”
“But how? How is he even talking to you?”
There’s a pause, and suddenly I’m acutely aware of the vastness of the field we’re in, the stillness to the night air now that the crowd has dispersed. The walls of my tent seem far too thin.
“The dead,” she says. “He knew I could speak to the dead, and he knew I was here, close to you. He’s been … killing off his subjects and sending them to me. With messages.”
“That’s awful.”
“That’s war,” she says. “Both sides do terrible things.” She shakes her head and looks at me. “He says he knows what you are. And if you want to know what you are, you will go to him. Before the war starts. Before you’re killed in the crossfire. Whatever you are, you’re important to him. Maybe more so than the Treaty itself.”
Her words are knives. But not for the reasons she might assume.
Oberon knows what I am. He knows, and he can tell me.
I don’t know how that’s possible, especially not when everyone here—myself included—seems perfectly oblivious to the question. He knows. The emotions mixing in my chest fill me with guilt. Part of me is excited at the idea. The rest is terrified for what she insinuates.
“What is the Blood Autumn Treaty?” I ask. I’ve heard it mentioned over and over, but no one will tell me what it is. Only that it’s important. That Mab broke it. And that, in breaking it, she set a whole lot of shit in motion. I can’t imagine how I’m tied to it, and I’m fed up with wondering.
Sheena’s lips purse, and for a moment I’m worried she’s going to brush the question off or at least say she can’t tell me due to her contract.
“Give me your hands,” she says. I raise an eyebrow.
