He smiles at me. “I’m glad to hear it,” he says. “You had me worried for a bit there.”
An uneasy silence threatens to come between us, so I pick the first question out of my mind I can think of.
“How’s Mel?” I ask.
“Better. Much better. She’s out of bed today.”
“That’s good,” I say.
What had I been worried about earlier? I look at him and feel a distant sense of betrayal I can’t quite place. Why would I feel that about him? He’s the one taking care of us, all of us. Still, the usual butterflies are out of place. Something just feels off. I try to place it, but the idea doesn’t come, so I just pick up my spoon and start to eat.
He leaves a few minutes later, after inspecting my ankle and throwing a little more magic my way. I should be fine to walk around, he says. Just watch where I step. The door closes behind him and I eat my cereal. Every once in a while, I stare down at my ankle to make sure it’s still there. The puffiness is gone, and there’s only a tiny pink scar from the bite marks.
Every time I look at it, something in the back of my mind stirs, some wisp of fire and pain. Then I look away, and the memory vanishes.
I leave the trailer shortly after breakfast, when it’s clear putting weight on my foot won’t make it fall off and my bladder can’t take another moment’s hesitation. There’s barely even a limp as I head to the Porta-Potty at the edge of the field. The sun is high and the sky is clear. All around us are sweeping cornfields that vanish into the blue haze of the horizon. It’s already sweltering, and the inside of the Porta-Potty is exactly what you’d expect from a small box of excrement sitting in the blazing sun. If Mab had ever mentioned the outdoor toilets when I signed on, the harsh reality must not have sunk in at the time.
I pause on the return trip, feeling infinitely lighter, and stare out at the tent and the trailers spread before me. There aren’t that many people about — a few performers are lying on their backs on lawn chairs, others are taking shelter under the canopy by the pie cart. Penelope is nowhere to be seen, which makes me wonder if maybe I’m no longer such a threat after being felled by a snake. Everyone else must either be inside or in town, wherever that is. The ground beneath my feet is grey, and when I bend down to inspect it, I realize it’s ash. That’s when I notice the char marks on some of the corn, the blackened stalks and crispy husks. The bonfire. We were lucky the tent wasn’t set up when the blaze went off. I’d heard enough horror stories of old tents going up in flames. After the rip in the tent, we didn’t need any more disasters.
The thought makes me wonder if Mab’s already gotten the side wall replaced. I head over to the tent to inspect. Sure enough, every one of the grey and blue panels is intact. Whoever she got to fix it must have worked pretty damn fast.
“Looking for something?”
I turn around and see Melody standing there. She’s in shorts and a loose shirt with a tree sprawling across the front. Her brown hair is messy and her eyes are still shadowed. But she looks better. Thin, but better.
“It lives,” I say, grinning. Seeing her up and about makes me feel like maybe things are finally on the upswing.
She smiles as well and walks the few steps over to me, looping an arm over my shoulders. “I could say the same for you,” she says. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone foam at the mouth before.”
I wince and look down at my ankle. “I was foaming?”
“Like a rabid dog,” she says. “Still, that Kingston’s a miracle worker.”
I nod. “How about you?” I ask. “How are you feeling?”
“Meh,” she says with a shrug of her shoulders. We start walking toward the pie cart. “Still feel like I’ve been run over by a truck a few hundred times, but it’s better than before.”
She pours herself a cup of water from one of the Gatorade containers when we hit the pie cart, offering me one as well.
“Any plans for the day?” she asks, sitting back on a wooden table still littered with a few bowls of half-eaten cereal.
“Juggling practice,” I say. The words feel like a death sentence. “What about you?”
Her grin widens. “There’s a swimming hole nearby. An honest-to-God swimming hole with rope swings and tetanus and everything. I think a couple of us are heading over after lunch.”
“That sounds amazing.”
She nods. “Don’t tell Kingston I’m going, though. He’d probably say I’m not well enough. I say, however, the promise of gorgeous girls in bikinis is cure enough for me.” She raises her glass in mock toast and takes a drink.
“Yeah, well, at least one of us should get some action.”
She raises an eyebrow, her smile going wicked.
“Not like that,” I say. “I mean…you know what I mean.”
“Who is it?” she teases. She looks around conspiratorially and leans in. “C’mon, love, you can tell me. Let me guess. Uma.”
“Who?”
She sighs. “Not Uma, then. How long have you been with us? She’s the Shifter with all the piercings.”
The name’s familiar, but I can’t place it. She must have read something in my blank expression. “Oh, come on, I know you’ve seen her. She said you dropped into her tent a few nights back. You know,” — she raises her hands to her chest and cups her hands, “piercings everywhere. And I mean, everywhere.”
Then I remember Uma. I blush at the memory of seeing her onstage swaying like a belly dancer to the sounds of violin and shivering metal. What had I been doing there? I was looking for something…
“Ah, now she remembers. Pierced nipples usually jog the mind.” She chuckles to herself, and I punch her on the shoulder.
“Bitch. No, not Uma. I don’t swing that way.”
“Can’t blame me for trying,” she says. Her voice sobers. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a thing for Kingston.”
I don’t answer right away, which makes her jump off the table and spin on the ground, one hand covering her mouth to hold back the laughter.
“Oh, no,” she says. “Please, please not him. He’s like my brother.” She looks at me and sees I’m not smiling. If anything, my face has gotten redder.
“Seriously?” she says. Her grin drops.
“I know,” I say. “I don’t have a chance in hell, do I?”
She runs a hand through her hair.
“Not really,” she finally says.
“Comforting,” I say. “Aren’t you supposed to be giving me friendly advice?”
“Yes,” she says, nodding. “And here it is: don’t date within the circus.”
“That’s it? That’s your good advice?”
She holds up her hands.
“That’s my honest advice. Think of it this way: what did you do when you broke up with your past boyfriends?”
“I…” — then I realize, I don’t remember any past boyfriends. I know they should be there, but the idea’s just…blank. She doesn’t seem to notice the stutter in my memory.
“You move on,” she continues. “You stop calling or texting or whatever you do, and you see other people like a normal girl. You can’t do that here.”
She gestures around.
“You fuck up a relationship in here and you’re stuck with an angry ex for the rest of your contract. And trust me, Kingston isn’t someone you want pissed off at you for a few dozen years.”
“Why would I be pissed?” Kingston says from behind. I nearly jump. How long was he standing there?
“Speak of the devil,” I mumble. Clearly, even getting bitten by a rattlesnake wasn’t enough to clear my shitty karma. I try to visualize my face not being red and turn around. I know it doesn’t work. “We were just talking about you.”
“I thought I felt my ears ringing,” he says. Apparently, he doesn’t care to know what we were saying. He walks over to Melody and puts a hand on her face, uses a thumb to lift an eyelid. “Shit,” he whispers.
“What?” we both ask. My heart immediately drops.
“Ha ha,” Mel says, swatting his hand away. “Nice to see you too, dickhead.”
Kingston turns to me. “Feeling better?”
I nod and take a drink of water. If he was listening in, he didn’t catch much. I hope. God, do I hope.
“Good,” he says. “Vanessa was asking after you. Apparently, you aren’t allowed dinner until you can manage eight three-ball passes in a row.”
“Fantastic,” I say. “I’ll just start gorging myself now, lest I starve for the next few days.”
Kingston reaches over to a bowl and snatches a few pieces of cereal.
“Better start practicing now,” he says, and tosses them in a high arc toward me. They ignite in midair, flaring into three soft, red juggling balls. I manage to catch one. The others fall to the ground. Melody chuckles.
Some part of me can’t help but feel like this is all forced, though I have no clue where the notion's coming from. Kingston seems too casual, Melody too quirky. Something is going on, something that neither of them wants to admit. Either that, or I'm getting paranoid.
One of the balls rolls under a table, so I bend down to grab it. That’s when I see Poe curled up beside a bench leg. The ball is right next to him. He stirs as I reach out, opening one eye and then rolling up to stretch before limping away.
There’s a miniature white cast on his front paw. Memory burns, but then Kingston taps me on the ass with his foot. I stand and chuck one of the balls at him, missing by a mile. I’m smiling, but I can feel it slip. Something digs in the back of my head, something pulling itself up to consciousness. It smells of brimstone and fear.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: GIMME MORE
When the rest of the troupe leaves for the watering hole — Melody as well, since Kingston saw some benefit in her getting out for a bit — I sit inside the main tent, legs crossed, with a pile of juggling balls beside me. It’s a bit cooler in the chapiteau, and with the lights off, everything is a muted blue from the sun diffusing through the walls. The bleachers are empty and there’s a thin stream of light coming in from the back curtain. I can still practically feel the ghosts of crowds past. Being in here without an audience seems wrong, somehow, much emptier than it should be. I’ve got my MP3 player on to drown out the quiet, trying to keep a rhythm with the balls. One, two, three, catch, one, two, three, catch. I succeed every couple of songs. It’s easier to practice without anyone watching me, judging, or waiting for me to do it right. I even cheer when I manage three successful passes in a row. Then I drop one of the balls. It rolls away, toward the ring curb, where it’s stopped by Kingston’s foot.
I pull out one of my earplugs as he bends down to pick it up. A faint voice inside of me is saying I should feel strange right now. I should be holding something against him, but I can’t remember what. I let whatever grudge I had go. I just don’t have the energy for that sort of drama. Not when my job and everything else is on the line.
“That was good,” he says, rolling the ball around on his palm. I watch him for a moment as he moves his hand back and forth, twists it over and under, the ball seeming to hover in one spot as it rolls across his skin, then up his forearm. Zal is wrapped around his neck, the tip of his tail just protruding from Kingston’s shirtsleeve. After a few more moments of contact juggling, he pops the ball into the air and catches it. He winks when he sees my stare and slightly dropped jaw. “Years of practice,” is all he says.
He walks over and sits down next to me, then tosses me the ball.
“How’s it going?” he asks.
“I think I’m getting the hang of it.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh.”
We sit there a moment, and I’m acutely aware of how close he is. Even in the heat, his presence feels cool, and his scent is sweat and spice, something exotic and dangerous and alluring, all in one. I can practically feel the static between us, my bare arm hardly an inch from his.
“Well,” I finally manage, picking up the balls and trying again. One, two, three — but the ball flies far and I miss the last catch. Taking my mind off juggling certainly doesn’t help my performance. “I guess, all things considered, I’m doing okay.”
“All things considered?” he asks.
I pick up one of the balls from the pile and try again.
“Well,” I say, making the first pass. “I was bitten by a snake, I’m a million miles from home, and, oh, yeah, three people have died in the last week, and no one knows who did it, so naturally Mab suspects me. On top of that, if I don’t learn how to juggle by the next site, I’m on the street. Again.”
Kingston nudges me, which makes me fail the catch.
“You’re being melodramatic,” he says.
“Really? Because from where I’m standing, I’d say there’s more than enough drama outside of myself.”
“Welcome to circus life,” he says. “Never a dull day.”
“You don’t seem to care if I stay or not,” I say. The words grate against my pride, but I can’t help but voice them.
“You know that’s not true,” he says.
I put down the balls and look at him. He’s looking at me, a slight smile on his lips. Is it just my imagination, or is he looking at me differently? It’s almost as if he’s looking at me like he knows I have some sort of secret. Like I’m worth noticing for more than comic relief.
The words I want to say sound childish in my head, but I don’t care. I’m tired of not knowing.
“Why?” Why do you care? Why is this happening? Why does everyone seem to be against me? Why am I suspected of murder? A thousand other questions are also left unasked. But I know he can’t or won’t answer.
He looks away.
“I know it’s hard,” he says. “The first couple weeks. The troupe’s been together for years and we’re cliquey as fuck. But that doesn’t mean people don’t care about you.”
People like you? I want to ask.
“I highly doubt anyone else in the troupe has had the same welcome. Being suspected of murder isn’t exactly friendly.”
He looks at me.
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“What?”
“That Mab suspects you.”
I throw up my hands and can’t help but laugh. “What are you talking about? Of course she does. Why else would she say she suspects me? Why else would she put me under house arrest and threaten to kick me out of the troupe if I don’t learn how to juggle? She hates me. And what if she’s right? What if I did do it? I can’t remember my past! What if I’m blacking out the memory of killing everyone as well?”
It’s a thought I wouldn’t let myself entertain before, one that shakes the very core of who I think I am. What if I really am the killer? Like one of those Russian sleeper cells, just awaiting activation.
Kingston shakes his head.
“You’re not the murderer. I wouldn’t believe that for a second. Do you really think Mab — cunning as she is — would put her cards on the table like that?”
I don’t say anything. I haven’t been here long enough to have even the slightest idea of what Mab would do. And I have a feeling that that wouldn’t change even if I stayed here another thousand years. Which might be a very strong possibility.
“She’s using you,” he finally says. His voice is flat, like he’s not entirely pleased with it himself. “You’re a diversion.”
“A diversion?”
“Of course. If she places the blame on you, the real killer might think they’re off the hook. They’ll get messy.”
“Yeah, well, they only have a couple days left. After that, I won’t be around to play scapegoat.”
“I won’t let her kick you out,” Kingston says. There’s a promise in the way he says it. As much as I want to laugh it off, I don’t doubt for a minute he’s telling the truth. I’ve seen him go head-to-head with Mab. He could hold his weight. But could he hold his ground while defending me?
&nb
sp; “Why?” I ask again.
He doesn’t answer. For a moment, all I can do is stare at him, wonder if he’s really willing to be my knight in shining armor or if he's just being macho. The desire to reach out and touch him slugs me in the chest, but I hold back. There's still that inkling that I should be royally pissed at him.
“Have you ever killed someone?” I ask.
He leans back. “Why the hell would you ask me that?”
“Because I wanted to make sure you wouldn’t burn me alive if I ever tried to kiss you.”
“Funny,” he says, and he picks up one of the balls, starts rolling it around in his palm again. Smooth, I think. There goes that moment.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Neither of us says anything for what feels like the longest while. But he isn’t standing up to leave. Maybe I didn’t fuck it up entirely. Maybe he’s just making sure I meant it.
“I take it that’s a no on the kiss, then?” I finally say. I try to keep my voice light, but — to continue his metaphor — now that my cards are on the table, I feel horribly exposed. Besides, isn’t this supposed to be his role? Shouldn’t he be the one trying to win over me?
“I’m too old for you,” he says. The statement is fast and well practiced, so smooth it doesn’t sound genuine. It also isn’t an answer.
“You don’t look like it.”
“Yeah, well, that’s Mab’s magic for you. All glitz and glamour. Nothing real.” The bitterness in his voice is overpowering.
“So,” I say. “How long do I have to wait?”
“Until?”
“Until I’m old enough for it not to be so creepy.”
He actually laughs at this, an outburst that sounds like half a sob. He looks at me.
“You’re serious?”
I nod. I’m not smiling. It’s the most honest I’ve been with him since signing on to this venture.
“I’m three hundred and forty-one.”
The numbers drop like guillotines, but he doesn’t look away from me as he says them. Clearly, he’s judging my response. I try to keep my face composed, and my response is as witty as I can make it.
The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels) Page 15
