by Trudi Jaye
Jack cleared his throat and glanced behind Viktor to the Ferris wheel. “Is this your job at the Carnival, Viktor? The Ferris wheel?”
“Been doin’ it all my life. Same as me da before me an’ me sons after me. It’s in our blood.”
“He’s being modest, Jack,” said Garth in an undertone. “Viktor and his sons are all highly skilled mechanical engineers. He’s also the Thrillmaster for the Carnival, one of the ruling Nine.” Garth gave Jack a warning glance.
Jack nodded. Viktor was much higher up the food chain than he was making out. “Mind if I come up and take a look?” he said to Viktor. He gestured to the booth.
Viktor shrugged. “If you like.”
Jack climbed the small set of steps to the booth and crowded in next to Viktor. On the other side was the window for tickets, and through the glass, Jack could see a couple of young men working on the bottom section of the Ferris wheel.
“They’re fixin’ the lights. A few of ‘em went out during the trial run. It don’t look good havin’ lights missing at night.”
“I bet it looks amazing.”
“My family’s been doin’ this since the wreck, and we’ve always done it properly. No slackers around here.”
“So, what does your family history say about the dragon on the Carousel?”
Viktor harrumphed. “I’ll tell you, but it ain’t cause you’ve been buttering me up. It’s cause I’m part of the Carnival, as Garth well knows. I woulda told him.” He squinted down at Garth, his hand still held over his eyes. “You both come with me to the ‘van. I’ll show you what I got.”
Viktor nimbly climbed down the ladder and stopped at the bottom, waiting as Jack followed him down. He crossed his arms over his barrel chest and looked sternly at Jack when he turned around to face them. “What’s the Carnival say ‘bout him?” he said to Garth.
Jack felt the heat rise on his face. He was curious to hear what the Carnival people had to say, but not through Garth and Viktor talking about him as if he wasn’t there. He only just managed to hold his tongue, his father’s words about being charming ringing in his ears.
The Giftmaster stared intently at him, his dark, empty eyes impenetrable. Jack shuddered; those eyes still unsettled him, but he was unable to break Garth’s gaze, caught up in the swirling depths. His shoulders relaxed and he felt serene for the first time since he’d arrived at the Carnival. Everything around him faded into silence. A whisper of energy touched his mind and something close to bliss floated through his consciousness; he’d never felt anything like it before, but it was as familiar as an old friend.
Then it was gone and everything snapped back to reality. Jack shook his head, his thoughts disordered as he tried to regain his equilibrium. “What did you just do?” he snapped at Garth. “You did not have my permission to do that.”
“I needed to make sure of you. Our safety is at stake.” Garth’s tone was unrepentant.
“And? What did the Carnival say?” asked Viktor.
“His connection to the Carnival hasn’t solidified yet, so I can’t see everything. But he’s definitely Blago’s son, and a descendant of the Carnival Nine, that much I can tell. And at this stage, the Carnival doesn’t think he’s a threat.” Garth glanced at Jack with a mocking look in his eyes. “Although, he’s undecided about his father’s decision to run for Ringmaster.”
Jack blinked, realizing he could now see emotion blazing in Garth’s eyes, where before he’d seen none. “Did you hypnotize me? Is that what that was?” he asked.
“And he doesn’t believe in the magic of the Carnival,” said Garth to Viktor. “We must persuade him of that, also.”
“Alright then. I can work with that for now. Let’s go.” Viktor turned and walked away without another word.
Garth shrugged and gestured for Jack to precede him. Jack hesitated, unsure he wanted to follow. But where the hell else was he going to go? He clenched his fists and strode off after Viktor, silently swearing at his father for bringing him to this place.
Viktor led the way past the main Carnival strip—still being set up with the sideshows—out the back to where all the caravans were parked.
“Welcome to the Boneyard, Jack,” said Viktor with a wide gesture as they passed through a wooden gate in the tall, temporary wire fences at the back of the Carnival. Around thirty caravans were parked in neat rows radiating out from a large, old-fashioned silver Airstream caravan in the center. There were one or two newer models, but mostly they were older fifties and sixties-style caravans in a range of sizes and bright colours. There were even some really old ones that looked like they’d been converted from horse-drawn carriages.
Jack just nodded; he’d stayed in the Boneyard the night before.
Viktor led them along a couple of twists and turns in the caravan alleys and then stopped at a modern red-and-white caravan with real flowers at the windows. He pulled open the metal door. “We got company, Natty. Put out some beers for the boys.”
A woman came out from the tiny kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. Her grey hair was pulled back off her face and she wore a light, floral dress. She had high cheekbones and riveting eyes. She was still very attractive, but in her day, she would have been a knockout.
Jack held out his hand. “Jack Knight,” he said.
She took it in a strong grip and gave him an angelic smile. “Ah, Blago’s boy.” She smiled at the Giftmaster, and gave him a hug. “Garth.”
“Hi Nat,” said Garth.
Her serious eyes darted between the three men. “I’ll get you something cold to drink.”
She turned back to the small—but sleek—red and white kitchen as Viktor led them in the opposite direction down the long caravan. It was cheery and cosy, with flowery wallpaper, and hundreds of photos of Viktor, Nat and a crowd of young boys. There was also a huge amount of electrical and computer gadgetry stored around the room, much of it cutting-edge. Jack stopped beside a small solar energy device he’d only just seen at the annual consumer electronics show in Las Vegas. He touched the device, and it beeped. He glanced over at Viktor, who was rummaging in a large cupboard.
“They ask us to test their devices occasionally,” said Viktor without looking at Jack. “The CEO is an old friend.”
Jack nodded slowly, but it made no sense. Why would a Fortune 500 company ask a thrill ride engineer at a small, run-down carnival to test its latest device? Nothing in this damn place made any sense. It made him feel completely off-balance.
Viktor pulled out an aging photo album and a battered scrapbook from the cupboard then gestured toward the seats at the back of the van. “Sit down, both of you.”
Jack sat on the small leather couch that hugged the side of the vehicle. Garth sat next to him, and Viktor squeezed himself into the one chair that wasn’t attached to the floor. He opened the book.
“I rang the librarian at the Compound, just to make sure I was right about this.” Viktor flipped through the pages.
“What is it, Viktor? You’re making me nervous.” Garth’s black eyes swirled with agitation.
“Look, here it is. Mention of a dragon Gift.” Viktor pointed to the passages, and shoved the book at Garth to read.
The Giftmaster just raised his eyebrows at Viktor. “Give me the short version, Viktor.”
Viktor pulled the book back onto his lap. “We all know this dragon is special, that it’s not our normal kind of Gift creature. But it says here it’s a real bad sign.” He tapped the scrapbook. “The dragon is a Gift of last resort; it’s only the second time in our records that it’s ever appeared. It’s a desperate attempt by the Carnival to right what’s been wronged, once and for all. It’s attempting to correct the imbalance that recent…events…have caused.”
“What does that mean?” Garth leaned forward.
“If we make this Gift happen, it will give us the magic boost we need to get ourselves back on track. But if we fail...”
“What?” asked Garth impatiently.
Viktor shi
fted in his seat. “If we fail this Gift, the whole Carnival will cease to exist.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Rilla leaned on the half door of the stall, watching as Alfie crouched beside Martha, wiping her down with a soft brush and whispering soothing words in her ear.
“She’s comin’ round. She’ll survive this, Rilla.” Alfie’s voice was soft, and he didn’t take his eyes off Martha. His hands were gentle and rhythmic across her flank. The elephant reached up and laid her trunk on Alfie’s shoulder, curling the tip around his neck. He leaned into the caress, murmuring softly to her.
Rilla’s heart warmed. Alfie really did love his animals, and they loved him right back. He had realized immediately that it was some kind of poison; only his quick thinking had saved Martha.
“Who’d want to poison her, Alfie? I don’t understand.”
“Someone who knows what she means to us. Someone who knows this would hit us hard.” Alfie leaned in and scratched Martha gently behind her ear, still watching the animal intently. His lined face looked worn in the dim light of the trailer.
Rilla bowed her head, resting her forehead on her folded hands against the stall. “You think it’s more sabotage?” There was a sick feeling in her stomach as she waited for his answer.
“It’s the only explanation. They’re not going to stop just ‘cause your da died tryin’ to find them.”
He was right. She’d been ignoring the signs, hoping it was over. But it wasn’t. Someone had deliberately harmed Martha, the most gentle, beautiful animal they had.
Rilla’s head came up suddenly as she realized what Alfie was implying. “His accident? Do you think…?” The pattern was only just falling into place, and she felt a tight knot in her stomach. How had she missed it? She clenched her fist.
Alfie shook his head. “I don’t know, Rilla. But it’s a big coincidence.”
“It has to stop. We have to figure out who’s doing this.” Emotion rose in her chest, and Rilla had to breathe deeply to calm herself down.
“Your da was tryin’ and he couldn’t figure it out. What makes you think we can do any better without him?”
The words bit at Rilla’s insides, but it was a valid question. She took another deep breath, thinking it through. “If you’re right… If the same person who’s been doing the sabotage caused my father’s crash, then maybe he was onto something. Maybe they killed him because he’d figured out who it was.”
Alfie hesitated. “Maybe.”
“So, all I need to do is follow his trail. Figure out who he’d been investigating.”
“How you goin’ to do that?”
Rilla thought of the one task she hadn’t been able to face since her father’s death. “His desk. I’m going to start by searching his desk.” It gave her a focus, a goal—something other than her father’s death and the race for Ringmaster to concentrate on. If she could find the person causing the sabotage, perhaps it would prove she should be Ringmaster.
“Rilla, be careful. This person, whoever they are, ain’t afraid to hurt people.” Alfie’s face screwed up in concern. Martha added a low noise, as if in agreement, her eyes rolling toward Rilla. Alfie patted her gently.
“We have to stop them. It’s our way of life we’re talking about.” The words echoed in her ears. She had to do whatever it took to save them all.
Alfie nodded, almost to himself. “What good would any of us be without the Carnival?” He paused, listening. “Martha’s heartbeat is strong and she’s still whispering in my ear. Good signs.”
“Don’t let her die, Alfie,” Rilla said quietly. “She means too much to us.”
Alfie looked over at her, his heart in his eyes. “I won’t let anything happen to her,” he said.
“I’m going to check Dad’s papers, see what I can find. Then I have to get changed for tonight.”
“Take care of yourself, Rilla.”
“Thanks, Alfie.” Rilla raised her hand and turned away, her mind already humming with what she might find among her father’s papers.
***
The old wooden desk was wedged into one corner of their caravan, taking up valuable space. She’d argued with her father over that damn thing—it would have made so much more sense to have something that folded away in their tiny space. He’d always just shrugged and said he liked it.
Dread welled inside Rilla as she looked at it. She could almost hear her father’s voice calling out to her, asking her opinion on some idea or other, wanting her to check his measurements on a design or work out how many bags of feed it might take to feed the tiger he’d just seen on eBay.
The punters’d love this one, Rilla. Imagine a ride that takes them out of this world—literally!
She sat down on her bed and stared at the desk. She knew why she hadn’t gone near it yet. The memories it held were too strong, too raw. She’d only just lost her father, and she didn’t know if she could deal with rummaging through his things, making decisions on what to throw out or keep. She clasped her hands in her lap, trying to nerve herself into the task.
There’s a time for thinking, and a time for acting, Rilla. You know that better than anyone.
Her father’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts. Rilla took a deep breath and sat down on the silver chair, pulling out the lid of the old-fashioned writing desk.
It was a mess. Papers, pens, clips, push pins, and staples were scattered everywhere, shoved into every spare space.
Rilla sighed.
When she’d first taken over managing the accounts for the Carnival, that’d been a mess as well. Her father had been a complete nightmare when it came to keeping the books. When he’d realized that Rilla’s talent was to find order in the chaos, he’d handed the responsibility over to her. She’d actually enjoyed the challenge back then.
But even that wasn’t as bad as the stacks of paper and junk in front of her now, shoved every which way into the cubbyholes inside the desk.
Rilla lifted a piece of paper stuffed into one of the shelves—notes on a new ride he’d been developing with Viktor and the thrills team. Placing it to one side, she picked up the next piece of paper, a drawing of the clowns in action.
It was one of her strongest memories, his large frame sitting on his little silver stool, squashed up against the desk, the lid pulled down, writing in one of his many notebooks. He was a brain-stormer, an ideas man. He would create amazing scenes, think through wondrous acts, and then give it to someone else—usually Viktor—to make it happen. They had a reputation for new and creative shows, and Abacus was the genius at the center of it all. Rilla took a ragged breath. At least, he had been.
Wiping roughly at her eyes with one hand, Rilla pulled out a handful of paper. A wooden clown toy fell, clattering onto the floor. Rilla picked it up. Blinky the Clown. Its painted cheeks were pink, a small red hat sat over a round face, and the body was scuffed and faded. There was a stain on the back, and Rilla touched it, her throat closing on the tears pushing their way out.
There was a time when she’d gone everywhere with Blinky. It had been a present from her father. He’d made it himself, carved the body, even sewed on the hat and clothes. Looking back, she realized it had been just after her mother and brother had left—he’d been trying to heal the wounds they’d both been dealing with at the time. She brushed her hands softly down Blinky’s chest. For a long time, she’d crushed Blinky to her chest at night, telling him her secrets and wishing he were real.
Then she’d outgrown the toy and moved on. She hadn’t needed Blinky’s constant companionship any more. But her father had never forgotten.
The tears pushed their way up her throat. Had her father felt secretly wounded that she’d forgotten about the toy he’d so lovingly created? What if it had been a sore point for him, and he’d never mentioned it? The idea that he’d been carrying a secret hurt around all these years made the tears overflow, and a sob escaped. She’d loved her father more anyone else in this world. She couldn’t bear the idea that he might ha
ve been hurting because of her.
The sensible part of her was shaking its head, telling her she was being irrational. Of course her father knew she loved him. He would have told her if there was anything wrong.
But the part that was currently in charge—the grieving part of her—put her face in her hands and sobbed great big, ugly cries of pain.
This was why she hadn’t touched the desk yet.
The tears eventually subsided, and Rilla felt better. She wiped her eyes; they would be puffy and red from all that emotion. Taking a ragged breath, she settled her thoughts. The loss kept hitting her at unexpected times, and she didn’t know what to do with it. It made her impatient—she didn’t have time to deal with losing her father, she had too many other things to do.
She closed her lips firmly and set the toy on the bed, turning back to her task. She reached with one arm into the depths of the desk, poking through the mess. Unable to see what she was doing, she yelped when a sharp pain stabbed her finger. Rilla pulled her hand back, frowning down at the blood on the tip of her index finger. Sucking it to ease the sting, she glared at the stacks of paper swamping the desk. What the hell did he need all this junk for anyway?
What did it get him in the end?
With an angry sweep of her arms, she pushed the offending piles off the desk. Paper flapped and fluttered around the room, landing in chaotic piles and sliding along the floor. The mess was everywhere, covering parts of the bed and the floor around the desk.
She was breathing quickly, as if she’d just been running. Rilla stared around her with wide eyes. It was completely unlike her to do something so crazy; she almost didn’t recognize herself.
Then she grinned. Her dad had always appreciated a dramatic moment.
Ignoring the mess, Rilla turned back to the desk. She poked around, looking for anything that might help. Her eye caught on a small, dark-blue notebook tucked down the back edge of the desk. Rilla reached in and pulled. It didn’t move. She peered at it, trying to figure out why it was there. Small, discrete, and hidden away—they were all attributes that did not describe the way Abacus had always done things.
