Master

by Alice La Roux

  “I have something I’ve been working on, I’m just not sure if it’s any good,” I admit, and Alina’s neatly arched brow raises as she looks me over. Today, I’m wearing a black strappy mini dress, with a white long sleeve T-shirt and a pair of purple tights.

  I open up my bag and pull out two identical wire frames with five spokes and Kevlar wick heads and a small container of white gas.

  “Are those fire fans?” Maia asks as her and Darryn approach where we’re sitting. Her body is coated in sweat, but that doesn’t stop Darryn from looking at her like she’s the most enchanting thing he’s ever seen.

  I nod as I turn them over in my hands. “Yeah, I used to do gymnastics and dance in school. When I saw the Carnaval five years ago, I noticed that you didn’t have anything like this in your lineup.”

  “You’ve been learning for the last five years?” Alina says softly, a knowing look in her eye.

  Shrugging, I throw one up in the air and catch it effortlessly. “I thought it would make him say yes. I also have a devil stick with me.”

  “Show us what you’ve got then.” Maia grins as she takes my seat, and I get into the training ring with my fans and the gas.

  I take my fire fans and dip the tips into the white gas, carefully shaking off any excess liquid before I light them. Maia plays music from the sound system, and once they’re burning properly, I begin to move, and it’s like the world fades away. My fans have small rings at the base, meaning I can twirl them on my fingers as I move my body. Swirling my fans in opposite directions, I spin, lifting my leg like a ballerina before sliding down into the splits. Twisting in the sand, I move onto one knee before standing again and rolling my body like a belly dancer. Throwing one of my fans into the air, I turn with the other, weaving it through the air, creating wavy patterns before I capture the other one again. As the music slows, I move to reflect this until I toss both up and catch them just as the last note fills the tent.

  I hear Alina, Maia, and Darryn along with a few riggers and one of the acrobats cheering and clapping, but as I turn, it’s Ezra I’m faced with. Those black eyes are staring me down, as he lights a cigarette.

  He takes a drag before exhaling the smoke slowly. “Needles will make you a costume, put together a routine. You open tomorrow.”

  I shove my fans into the sand to extinguish them. “What? I can’t put together a routine in a day!”

  No one speaks up for me, they’re all used to his demands by now. He is the master here, and they know it.

  He flicks ash onto the ground. “You can, and you will.”

  “You’re being unreasonable.” I knew he’d make me perform, I just assumed I’d have longer to get used to the others and the show. I wasn’t ready.

  Striding toward me, he stands, toes touching mine, looming over me. “This is my Carnaval, and we play by my rules. If you don’t like it, you can always go home to your boyfriend and your parents.”

  I look to Alina for help, but she shrugs, her beautiful red hair moving as she does. I swallow and look back at the monster in front of me. Fine, I would dance for him. But if he thought that he owned me, he was wrong. No one owned me. Not anymore.

  Seven

  Ezra

  After my second showdown with Delilah in two days, I’m ready to strangle someone. Unfortunately, Yager is the one who stumbles upon my war path, his blue eyes looking at me like I’m nothing but dirt on his shoe. So, I give him an earful and make him help with cleaning up the mess tent after lunch. He wants to respond, to cuss me out, but he swallows the words because he knows I’ll dock his pay.

  The show goes without a hitch as per usual, but I notice Maia holding herself gently afterwards, and I make a mental note to get an update from Darryn. She pushed herself too hard sometimes, and that didn’t do anyone any favors.

  I’m in my office counting the takings from the ticket sales when Alina sashays in and sits opposite me. She looks at her polished nails for a second before stating, “I like Delilah, she’s feisty.”

  I scoff as I finish bundling up ten-dollar notes and slide them into an envelope. “She’s insolent.”

  Delilah Westborne, her paperwork had read, but the telephone numbers and the address she’d given me had been fake, what’s to say her name was any more real? Otherwise, I’d have already called her parents and gotten them to collect her. She was dangerous. And not just to my self-control. I saw the way she moved when she danced with fire, she was unafraid of the consequences, and that made her unpredictable. A small part of her wanted to be burned, and that made me feel like I was losing control.

  She laughs softly, the melodious sound filling the space. “She’s a spitfire. You need a little spark in your life, Ezra.”

  Sitting back in my chair, I look at the Circassian beauty carefully. “Why do I feel like you’re plotting something?”

  There were things going on at the Carnaval that I overlooked, certain behaviors and events that I pretended I didn’t see as long as the show went on. But Delilah wouldn’t be one of them. Alina flips her red hair over her shoulder and returns my speculative glare. “I don’t know what you’re on about.”

  “Just make sure she’s ready tomorrow night,” I say, waving her out of my office. “And I saw her costume design. There’s no way she’s going out there looking like a fucking condom. I’ve told Needles to change it.”

  Delilah has requested a black lycra suit with long sleeves, long arms, and simple black beading. This was a Carnaval, a terrifying, beautifully monstrous performance with death-defying antics and freaks of nature. This wasn’t a high school gymnastics competition, and if she wasn’t going to be of use, then she could leave.

  “She specifically requested the bodysuit, Ezra.” Alina stands with her hands on her hips, and as attractive as she is, her big blue eyes and sultry pout don’t mean shit.

  “I don’t give a damn. It’s my fucking show.” I ignore her noise of protest and go back to counting cash. “Now, get the fuck outta my office.”

  “Ezra, we have a problem.” Maia looks anxious as she finds me just outside the ring.

  “No, we bloody well don’t.” I growl. I know what it is without having her say anything, it was Delilah and her costume. “Where is she?”

  “In the dress tent,” Maia replies quietly. “I’ll go into the ring first, that’ll give you time to convince her.”

  I nod and storm out of the Big Top toward the small tent next door where the performers got ready before their segment. It’s deserted apart from Delilah, wearing a robe, which she has clutched tightly around her body.

  She stands when she sees me and holds up something red and sparkly. “I am not wearing this. Find something that covers my body or I won’t go out.”

  Lifting her chin defiantly at me, she thinks she has a leg to stand on, but she’s sorely mistaken. This is my Carnaval—I don’t bargain, and I don’t persuade. You do it my way, or not at all.

  I grab her chin, something I’m aware that I already do too often, but I can’t seem to help myself. “Go out there, or get the fuck out.” I keep my voice low and firm, she needs to know that I’m not pissing around. This was my business, a livelihood for many, and she wasn’t going to dick around when it mattered.

  “I have scarring.” She bites out as she shrugs me off and stands, looking at our reflection in the dresser mirrors. She looks like the young innocent damsel in a gothic novel, and I’m the demon, lingering near, waiting for a chance to sink my teeth in.

  “I don’t care.” It’s true, I don’t. Every fire dancer I’d ever met had scarring of some sort, it came with the job. You couldn’t play with flames and not expect them to burn. I move closer behind her, and she shivers at my proximity. She smells faintly of white gas and cherries. Ripe, juicy, and utterly delectable. But that didn’t mean she was going to make a mockery of the show I’d spent the last ten years building.

  Shaking her head gently, she whispers, “You can’t make me go out there.”

  We both kn
ow she’s trying to convince herself that I have no power over her, but it’s a lie.

  “Those are the only two options. I am the master here, and you need to remember that.” My hand wraps around her throat as we both watch in the mirror, hypnotized as I tighten my grip, and her lips part gently. “I warned you that I wasn’t going to go easy on you. I don’t give a shit about your body hang-ups. I only give a damn about the show. Do I make myself clear?”

  My horn cuts into the skin on her neck and moves up her cheek, a red mark blossoming as I bite the soft flesh of her earlobe sharply. She moans softly before nodding. “I will always win, Delilah.”

  “You’re the devil,” she hisses as I suck on the sensitive skin.

  “I never pretended otherwise,” I say with a smug smile before moving away and back into the main tent. Delilah made me lose control, and I was beginning to like it.

  I enter the Big Top just as Maia begins the final minutes of her routine. When she’s done, I grab my cane from Jerry and stride under the spotlight. This was my domain, my world, and when the eyes were on me, I had all the power. They eat out of the palm of my hand as I feed them the story of a beautiful fire dancer, and how she was cursed with an addiction for danger. It’s all bullshit, with a grain of truth, but that’s what they came here for: a show.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Delilah waiting on the sidelines, her dressing gown still covering her body. I encourage the crowd to stamp their feet and cheer for her, watching as she inhales slowly and closes her eyes. When she opens them, I see the determination I was looking for, and I grin. I slip out of the spotlight as the crowd calls for her, and a soft beat fills the air as the music begins.

  “Are you ready?” I ask, and she nods.

  Sliding off the robe, I’m pleased with my outfit choice. It was very similar to Jasmine’s outfit in Aladdin, a cropped top and harem pants, with a slit on the side from the ankle up to the top of her thigh. The material was sheer in some parts and solid in others, but it was all a dark ruby red, with gold embellishments catching in the light as she moved. Small gold disks hang off the waistband, jingling as she shifts. But the outfit only has my attention for a moment, it’s the skin that makes me stop. Her exposed back is covered in thick lines, purple, white, red, they’re all there, a patchwork of markings.

  “Shit. These...these are not burns,” I whisper as I reach out to run my fingertips over one particularly nasty scar that starts thick and narrows, like she was lashed with something.

  She moves, and we stand shoulder to shoulder. “No, they’re not.”

  I grab her wrist, feeling more raised skin there as I hiss, “How did you get these?”

  Delilah shrugs me off and begins to make her way into the ring, looking over her shoulder as she calls out, “You said the Carnaval was a sanctuary, and I need refuge.”

  Clenching my jaw as the others begin to notice her markings under the spotlight, I’m thankful the audience won’t really see them due to the distance, but the rest of the freak show now knows what Delilah hides under the long sleeves.

  “Just because she wasn’t born a freak, doesn’t mean she doesn’t belong here. Some freaks are made, don’t forget that,” Maia says softly, pain in her eyes as she moves past me, Darryn following closely behind.

  Delilah lights the fans and begins her dance, her body moving in a way that teases the flames and taunts the shadows as she becomes one with the music. It’s seductive. It’s entrancing. And I don’t want to watch, but I have to. She reminds me too much of Charlotte, seeing her like this, beautifully broken and yet still trying to perform. But unlike Charlotte, she still had a chance at a normal life, she had options, and she needed to realize that.

  Eight

  Delilah

  The crowd goes wild as I move into a kick-spin, twirling my fans as my body moves in time with the music. It’s my final maneuver, and as the song ends with a drawn-out drum beat, I stand and bow. There had been something freeing about coming out here as bare as I had. I don’t remember the last time I exposed my skin like this. The proof of punishments must always be hidden, that’s what they told me as they used my body to unleash their anger. I’d spent my whole life being told that I deserved my punishments, that they were enacting the will of God, and that it would make a stronger person. It wasn’t until I was fifteen that they started leaving marks. My father called them ‘reminders’ of my sin and proof of my atonement. Except I was never sorry for my sins, and I’d find myself in the same situation again. So, while I was raging with Ezra for pushing me when I wasn’t ready, I’m glad he did. It felt like another step in reclaiming what was mine as people screamed my name, hypnotized by the body that rarely felt like mine. It felt empowering.

  And that’s why I raise my hand to silence Ezra when he storms into my tent, face full of anger and regret.

  “You should have fucking said something!” he barks, ignoring me.

  I drape my robe over the back of the chair, there was no point hiding now—everyone had seen me and my marks. “I did, you didn’t want to listen.”

  He takes my arm and turns my body so he can make a catalogue of my map. “What happened? Who did this?”

  I shrug him off and pour myself a glass of wine from a bottle of red Alina had left in here for me earlier. “Does it matter?”

  Running a hand through his hair, frustrated, his eyes burn with fury and his horn prominently juts out as he tilts his head back, another growl moving up his throat. “For fuck’s sake, Delilah! I shouldn’t have…”

  It was strange seeing The Devil of the Carnaval pacing around the dressing tent, regret and remorse tainting his usual sharp words. He’d been driving me insane with menial tasks, stupid demands, and dark looks, but tonight, here he was acting like he was responsible for my scars. Taking a large gulp, I laugh softly. “I don’t want your pity, Ezra. I just want you to let me stay.”

  He shakes his head, mouth tight. “No, you need to leave. You can still have a normal life, the Carnaval will only drag you deeper into the darkness.”

  Why wasn’t he listening to me? I had nowhere to go. I had no one. I wanted to be here with the other freaks. I liked pain, it made me feel alive, and I need that because I have to be strong enough to get my revenge. I guess I was going to have to show him, since my words were doing nothing for the stupid goat.

  “Does this look like I can have a normal life?” Grabbing a small jewelled knife from my backpack, I dig the tip of the blade into the skin on my thighs until crimson liquid begins to pool before trickling down my leg. “I need the pain to remember who I am.”

  My parents and my church hurt me, but they didn’t realize all that they were doing was fuelling my desire to leave. They tried to break my body, but I reclaimed it. I took that suffering and I made it into something beautiful, now I couldn’t survive without it.

  I shrug off the harem pants and undo the clasp at the front of the red bralette that’s part of my costume, turning as I shrug it off to show him the full extent of the damage. I’m naked apart from a black thong, and for the first time since I was fifteen, I don't care. I don’t need to hide myself here, not at the Carnaval.

  I lift my hair and let him see my entire back. “I am not afraid of the darkness, I am not afraid of being hurt. But I am afraid of losing myself.”

  He steps toward me, fingers reaching out to trace the lines, the marks, and in two cases, my father’s initials with a small cross carved into my body. The worst marks are the ones that are the easiest to hide under a bra strap or a crop top.

  “Stop,” he murmurs, watching over my shoulder as I take the tip of the knife and press it into my stomach. It’s not hard enough to leave a scar but enough to break the skin.

  “No, you aren’t the only one who likes control.” We say nothing as the blood dribbles down the curves of my body.

  “You are destroying yourself.” His words are warm against my neck as his hand covers mine, and he twists the knife out of my hand before dropping it to t
he floor.

  Turning my head slightly to look at him, I whisper, “I’m re-molding myself. I am putting the pieces of me back together.”

  He turns me, before getting down on his knees to take a closer look at the mark I’ve made. My stomach, my arms, and my thighs are my handiwork, the lines are neater, smaller. They are controlled, concise cuts and not furious outbursts like the ones on the rest of my body.

  “I’m not afraid of you, Ezra Black,” I say, my fingers dancing lightly over his horn and through his hair.

  “You should be,” he breathes as his tongue flicks out and follows the trail of blood back to the source, where he kisses the scratch.

  The master of the Carnaval is on his knees before me, and he wants me to be scared. I am, but not in the way he thinks. I’m trembling because I want this. I want him.

  My hand fists in his hair, and I yank his head back roughly. We stare at each other, his hands on my hips, biting into my skin as his dark eyes look at me and finally recognize what I am. I am Frankenstein’s monster, a patchwork of parts, some of them good and some of them darker, more sinister and hungrier for revenge. “You are the one who should be frightened of me.”

  “I am,” he admits openly before swallowing, and I’m transfixed by the way the column of his throat moves. Leaning down, my lips brush against his, and just as he’s about to kiss me, one of the riggers bursts into the tent.

  “Ezra! Sorry, we need you in the Big Top!” The man realizes I’m naked and turns around quickly, his face a lovely shade of red as Ezra stands and throws my robe at me.

  “This discussion is not over,” he warns, the dark look on his face telling me that it’ll do me no good to avoid him.