The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2013 A.R. Kahler
Originally released as a Kindle Serial, November 2012.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781611099447
ISBN-10: 1611099447
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012953329
DEDICATION
To my family — circus and nuclear — for supporting me the world over.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
EPISODE ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
EPISODE TWO
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
EPISODE THREE
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EPISODE FOUR
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
EPISODE FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
EPISODE ONE
CHAPTER ONE: CIRCUS
Who the hell did this?” Kingston whispers, staring at the corpse.
Sabina’s body is on the pedestal she uses in the show, and she almost looks like she’s performing. Almost. Her legs are tucked behind her ears in a perfect backbend, her fingers laced under her chin. She’s even smiling, her brown eyes fixed on a point far away.
I’m right beside Kingston, doing everything I can not to vomit on his black Chucks, run from the tent, or do an embarrassing mixture of both. Right then, I’d give my left kidney for him to wrap an arm around me to shield me from the atrocity before us. But he’s not mine, and probably never will be. And even if he were, he’s not the comforting type. I can feel his heat against my arm. I don’t know why that sticks out at the moment, but maybe that’s just the way shock works.
We’re both standing in the dust of the center ring. The rest of the troupe quickly filters in with gasps and screams. Sabina looks perfect — poised like she’s holding a pose for the audience’s applause. Except her sparkling unitard is usually white, not stained a wicked crimson. The long gash across her throat is a second smile leaking its secrets into the ring.
Someone is crying behind me. I don’t look back. I don’t look at anyone. I just look at Sabina and wonder what sort of shit-show I’ve gotten myself into.
I hear a shout and look up to see Mab storming into the tent. Her wild black hair is in disarray and the sequins of her midnight-blue dressing gown sparkle in the lights. Not for the first time, I can’t help but think that she looks like an early incarnation of Cher. Her porcelain face is flushed, and when she catches sight of her star contortionist, she stops dead. Mab’s perfectly manicured hands clench and unclench at her sides. After a deep breath, she stalks forward, stepping over the ring curb and into the spectacle. She goes right up to Sabina and lightly puts a hand on the girl’s knee. I see something flash across Mab’s face — the tightening of her eyes, the barest strain of her lips. Then she withdraws her hand and faces us, her company.
Her minions.
“Which of you found her like this?” she asks. Her voice is deep and smoky, like an ex-jazz singer’s. Even though it’s a whisper, it carries to every wall of the big top.
A woman to my right steps forward. I've never asked her age but she looks like she's in her forties, maybe younger, with aquamarine eyes and fiery red hair that falls to her waist. Her skin is as pale as pearls, and even though she wears a rumpled blue bathrobe, she looks ready to take the stage. I can’t help but glance down at my own wrinkled pj’s, and hate her for it.
“Penelope?” Mab asks.
“Yes, my Lady.” Penelope’s voice is crystal clear. Everything about her screams vintage pinup model, even the way she’s holding her robe closed with one hand. It’s like she practiced how to be perfectly disarrayed. “Not five minutes ago, I was making coffee when I noticed the tent lights on. I thought…I thought someone was practicing.”
“And she was…like this?”
“Yes. Exactly so.”
Mab stares at the body, the corners of her mouth barely tilting into a frown. She’s not staring at Sabina like she’s sad over the death of one of her troupe. No, Mab’s expression is purely calculating, like she’s facing a particularly frustrating Sudoku puzzle. One that might, at any moment, piss her off.
“I assume no one knows who did this?” she asks.
No one speaks. No one even breathes.
I mentally prepare myself, waiting for her to fly into a rage. Not that I’ve ever seen Mab in a rage. But it doesn’t take a genius to know there’s a storm brewing under that well-maintained facade. I can only imagine that “Hell hath no fury” refers to her. But instead of ripping us a new one, she strokes the corpse’s short brown hair. Things are clicking behind Mab’s green eyes, things that subdue everybody — even her. A crowded tent has never been this quiet.
“Well then, my loves,” she finally whispers, almost to herself. “It appears we have a murderer in our midst.”
She lifts her hand. Like ash scattering to the wind, Sabina’s body dissolves, collapsing in on itself in a hush of glitter and smoke.
There is still a great deal of congestion near the grey-and-blue main tent, but it’s pretty quiet at the pie cart, next to the forgotten bacon and boxes of cereal. Kingston stands by the serving table, grabbing a coffee before the rest of the troupe shakes itself from their post-murder stupor. He looks like a rock star at the peak of his glory days, all pale and angular and assured. His black hair is sticking up in the back from sleeping on it funny, and there’s a line of stubble on his jaw. His white T-shirt hangs loose over lithe muscles; through it, I can see his lats. They curve under the fabric like wings, highlighted by the faintest shadow of a large serpentine tattoo. I shouldn't be staring. Melody would kill me if she knew.
Damn circus performers and their perfect bodies. Damn them to hell.
“I guess this doesn’t happen very often,” I say, trying to focus on the fact that someone has just been killed, and not on the way Kingston’s triceps cord when he starts pouring coffee into a second cup.
“Never,” he says, still facing away.
“Do you think Mab will cancel tonight’s shows?”
Kingston chuckles humorlessly. He turns around and stares at me over his mug, one eyebrow tilting up like I’m a complete idiot. His eyes are dark brown, almost black — the same color as the coffee steaming in his hands. I look away.
“Don’t count on it, Vivienne,” he says. “Mab doesn’t cancel a show for anything. Ever.”
“Even if someone here is a killer?”
“Especially if.”
He looks toward the tent and sighs. He’s only a couple years older than me — Mel told me in secret that he was twenty-four — but sometimes, when he gets all quiet like this, he seems much older. “The show must go on.”
If this was one of those perfect movies, this would be the moment
for him to shake himself from his reverie and come over, say something comforting to the new girl or at least give her a hug. But like I said, Kingston doesn’t act like that with me. If he has that soft side, he hasn’t really shown it. He’s funny, yeah. Dependable, definitely. But comforting? I’d have better luck trying to warm up to Mab.
I stuff my hands into my pockets and look back to the chapiteau in time to see a huddle of men carrying out the contortion pedestal. Sparkly purple dust wafts off it as they move it to the backstage tent. The sight brings Sabina’s dripping body back to mind. For the second time today, I’m glad I didn’t eat breakfast.
“Why do you think Mab suspects one of us?” I ask.
“That’s the thing,” answers another voice. “It can’t be one of us.”
I look back to see Melody walking over. She’s twenty-two, the same age as me, though we look nothing alike. We share the same slight build and hazel eyes, but that’s where the resemblance ends. She has angular features and is an inch or two taller than me, not that I'm short. My ash-blonde hair reaches my back, while her brown hair is styled in a pixie cut. She looks like the type of girl you'd expect to find in some Bohemian cafe, reading poetry and chain smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. Less Hepburn, more hippie James Dean. Whereas I'd probably be the girl serving the coffee, the one you smile at but forget the moment you have your triple espresso — pretty, normal, but utterly pass-over-able. She's Kingston’s assistant onstage. And offstage, wherever one goes, the other is sure to follow. I hate to admit it, but they’re the perfect couple — always teasing, always thinking of the other person, and never dipping into the PDA.
Mel gives me a nod before taking the coffee cup Kingston hands her, as if he’d been waiting for her arrival. I guess it was too much to hope the spare was for me. Her eyes are shadowed. She shrugs deeper into her loose knit cardigan, in spite of the early summer heat. She looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks.
“Why not?” I ask. It’s not like many people wander around the fields our show usually haunts. Besides, I can’t imagine there being a killer that…artistic in rural Iowa.
The two of them exchange a quick glance, and Kingston answers.
“Because it’s in the contract. We aren’t allowed to harm other troupe members.”
“Right,” I say. “Because people always do what their contracts say they will.” If that was the case, going postal wouldn’t exactly be a phrase, now would it?
“Maybe not where you’re from,” Melody says, taking a long sip of her coffee. “But in this company, yes.”
I bite back my witty retort and wonder if I’m the only sane person working here.
“Is this what you really want?” Mab asked.
Her voice sounded sincere, but it was impossible to know; an hour wasn’t nearly enough time to figure out her tells. If I were judging books by their covers, she’d be one of those smutty romances you keep hidden in your sock drawer. All I’d gauged of Mab was that she was powerful, mysterious, and probably a ball-breaker. That said, I felt a hell of a lot safer with her there.
We sat in her trailer, candles flickering from skull-and-crystal sconces along the wall. It seemed larger inside, as though stepping through the rickety aluminum door had led to somewhere…else. I could have sworn I heard wolves howling in the distance, even though this was the middle of the day.
In Detroit.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I said, though my wavering voice was anything but.
Running away, joining the circus — that was what I really wanted. I needed to get the fuck out of Dodge, and this seemed like the most reliable way. My nerves had me shaking like I was in a caffeine crash. It felt like I’d been running a thousand miles and hadn’t stopped to breathe. I couldn’t keep my fingers from rattling the pen she handed me, its nib tap tap tapping on the ornate ebony desk. I could see the ghost of myself reflected in the glass, the rings of shadow under my eyes from too little sleep and too much fleeing. A smudge of something dark on my pale cheek. The half-reflection made me look even more pallid, more worn-through than I felt. And that was saying something.
Mab grinned like one of her skull sconces and raised one hand. With a snap of her burgundy-manicured fingers, a book floated down from a shelf behind her. I couldn’t hold back the gasp. I knew from the moment I saw her on the street that she wasn’t like everyone else; somehow, the rain seemed to bend around her, leaving her red silk dress and bone stilettos perfectly dry. As the book settled in front of her and opened to a page covered with names, I knew without doubt I was stepping into something big. I didn’t care; I just wanted as far away from…whatever I was leaving…as possible. At the bottom of the list, my name was inking itself into being, scrawled by some ghostly hand in ink as dark as blood.
“Well then,” she said. “Let us examine the terms, shall we?” Her finger paused beside my now-completed name.
Vivienne Warfield.
My name had never looked so menacing, so concrete. Everything else blurred as she began reading through the contract, line by line. Only two things stuck out. One was my name. Her words eddied around it like it was a stone in a stream. The other was the growing calm that came with knowing that the crazy I was stepping into was far less dangerous than what I was leaving behind.
Or so I thought at the time.
At noon the troupe starts to warm up in preparation for tonight’s shows. Kingston was right; Mab wasn’t canceling anything. You'd think that after a murder there would be a whole hell of a lot more crying and a bit more fear. But everyone looks calm. Maya walks back and forth on her practice tightwire in suede boots, earbuds firmly in place. The three jugglers — I still haven’t caught their names — are doing cartwheels and catching whirling clubs. The remaining two contortionists are stretching out on a panel mat in the shade. Even from here, I can tell they’re trying to come up with a new routine. I can’t help it; I’m impressed by everyone’s resolve. And a little weirded out by the ease at which they gloss over not only a murder, but a concealed killer. Just the thought makes goose bumps prickle over my freshly sunburned skin. I try not to keep looking over my shoulder every time I hear a noise.
“I still don’t get it,” I say.
“I’m shocked,” Kingston replies.
He and Melody are facing each other, going over a new magic act for the show — something lighthearted. Something that doesn’t involve their usual daggers-through-the-heart bit because, as Kingston said, there’s been enough death for one day. Melody has a handful of roses in one hand, and on each of Kingston’s shoulders perches a white dove.
“Seriously, though,” I say. I lean forward on the wooden crate I’m calling my front-row seat. The boards are digging into my ass, but there’s only so much shifting I can do without it being obvious. “Why isn’t anyone, I dunno, searching for the killer?”
Melody flourishes the roses in front of Kingston, who studiously ignores the romantic gesture. One of the doves ruffles its wings.
“Because,” she explains. “Mab’s on it.”
“But you said it couldn’t be one of us. Why isn’t she calling the cops to hunt whoever it is down? He could be hiding anywhere, maybe even in one of those barns out there. You know, just waiting for a moment of weakness. Like when one of us goes to a Porta-Potty.” I’m trying to keep my voice light and witty, but I can’t lie to myself. The questions are honest, and so is wondering if someone is lying in wait to strike again.
Kingston raises his plastic magic wand and raps Melody’s knuckles. The flowers explode in a flurry of red petals and sparks. Judging by the eyebrow Melody raises, I’m not the only one who’s reminded of Sabina’s unnatural end.
“We’re called The Immortal Circus for a reason,” Kingston says. He sighs and waves his fingers in a lazy circular gesture, as though he’s more annoyed by having to explain this to me again than the fact that there’s reason to bring it up. The petals on the ground swirl in a gust of wind and then, with a small burst of fire, become a dove that flies up
and lands on his finger. Most magicians spend years trying to make their tricks look like real magic. Kingston, I quickly learned, has precisely the opposite problem. He answers in his bored-yet-amused voice, “So long as we’re under contract, no one and no thing can hurt us.”
“So how was Sabina killed?” I ask. Because if that’s the case, murder is a pretty huge breach of contract.
“That,” he says, lifting the bird to the top of his head, “would be the million-dollar question. Someone found a loophole in Mab’s magic. You’re welcome to bring that to her attention, if you like.” He flashes me a grin, and even Melody looks amused at the notion of pissing off our ringleader.
“Aren’t you worried, though? That you’ll be next?”
“If anything, I’d be more worried about you.”
Something clenches around my heart, that old feeling of fight or flight. I adjust my position on the crate in hopes of stifling it. It doesn’t work. “You think they’ll go after me?” My voice squeaks. I’m grateful neither of them looks to see the blush rising on my cheeks.
“Doubtful,” he says, looking at Melody. “I just think you’re the only new thing in this troupe for the past, what would you say, Mel? Three years?” Melody shrugs, and Kingston turns his gaze back to me. “Awfully suspicious, don’t you think? Barely a month after the new girl starts and someone winds up dead?”
“What? You think I’m the killer? You know I’m not that type.”
And I’m not. I’m too scrawny, too quiet. I’m a vegetarian, for Christ’s sake. I never got into fights or did competitive sports. I’ve never even done gymnastics or cheerleading. Or band. At least, not that I can remember. Which is probably why the only job Mab could find for me was as a cotton-candy seller.
Kingston laughs. The doves ignite in that instant, flaring up like strobes and disintegrating into ash. My breath catches at the way his brown eyes flash in the flame.
“Viv, this is show business. Nothing here is what it seems.”
The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels) Page 1
