The contortionist had left a neat pile of pins on the crate, the ones Marco had used to secure Jacinda’s skirts to the target. Jacinda picked one up, noting that they were hatpins, each with a delicate wood flower for the head and a capital P carved into the back.
Was the P for Petra? Had these pins once held down another girl’s skirts as she spun, waiting to feel the accidental kiss of Marco’s blades? She looked closer, checking the steel points for blood, but found nothing. She had to find out what had happened to the knife thrower’s missing assistant.
Demi and the carnivalleros could wait to tell their stories.
Marco might not.
.7.
That night, Jacinda dressed in her most normal, boring clothes in hopes of blending in with the caravan’s audience. No steel pith helmet. No leather corset or canvas dress. No tribal layers and bells and scarves. Definitely no Almanican face paint or even desert kohl. Just a plain, well-fitting, wine-red dress, a few years out of date but of fine enough material to suggest she was a purposeful anachronism. She put up her hair as best as combs could hold the curls and dabbed just a bloom of rouge on her lips. Years in the sun with Liam had brought out her freckles, but she wore them proudly, like war paint, never hiding them under white powder as so many city girls did.
Although it pained her, she left her notebook and pen behind on the desk. Brutus, on the other hand, she would keep by her side. During the day, the caravan was quiet and safe. At night, there was no telling what dangers lurked in the shadows within the wagon’s circle and on the moors beyond.
Tucking three coins into her pocket with the watch, she said, “Brutus, follow,” and left the oil lamps burning. Long ago, she’d turned them off every time she left the conveyance to make fuel last longer. And then, one day, she’d found a man in her bed, waiting with a knife. Since then, she risked fire for the sake of illumination and kept the clockwork dog close whenever she went out after nightfall. The cuts on her hands had healed, but she was no longer as trusting of darkness.
Outside, she locked the door and took a deep breath. The caravan was a symphony of smells now, a mixture of sweet and salt and warm and spice that drew her forward as surely as the strings of lights swooping around the perimeter of the cars. She could have easily walked down two steps, across the grass, under the lights, and directly into the crowd forming around the puppet show, but she knew well enough that Criminy Stain was watching, wherever he was. She wasn’t a liar, and she wasn’t stupid, and she wasn’t about to break his rules, especially considering his unexpected generosity in regard to her interests. She had heard of his famous hatred of reporters and had expected him to toss her out on her bustle, possibly after half-draining her for upsetting his evening routine. But instead, here she was, taking the long way around the caravan, averting her eyes politely from the acts already in progress, and waiting her turn in the queue among city folk quivering with fear and excitement.
Criminy himself was waiting at the turnstile, clad in a somber black that made him seem one size smaller and twice as sinister as she remembered him during daylight.
“Admission’s a vial or a copper, miss,” he said with a smirk.
She put a copper on his red-gloved palm. “I don’t think I want you developing a taste for my blood. What’s your refund policy?”
“You get what you pay for here, love.”
He tossed the copper high in the air, where it flashed with lantern light and moon darkness. He held out his hand to catch it, but what landed across the red kid suede was a silver hatpin with a carved wood rose on the end. Jacinda’s hand flew to her hair, a gasp on her lips.
“I think you’ll be well rewarded for your time, Miss Harville.”
“Mrs. Harville.”
“Not anymore.”
She snatched up the pin in spite of his smirk and stuck it back in her hat. As much as she wished to pretend she didn’t storm off with flaming cheeks, that’s exactly what she did. And as much as she’d like to think she took her time enjoying the charms of the caravan, that’s not what she did, either. With the great clockwork dog a step behind her, she walked widdershins around the circle of wagons, to the well-trod spot where a repetitive musical thunk announced Marco’s skills. She’d watched him practice twice, but she had no idea what happened during his actual act.
The flavor of the carnival changed with each wagon. From the dizzy music of the dancing mistress to the tense silence under the tightrope walker to the cheerful horn of a clockwork monkey playing in time with the strong man’s squats to the tinny giddiness of Imogen’s butterfly circus, Jacinda absorbed it all like a greedy child in a candy store. She didn’t stop to savor any one act, but she couldn’t help but appreciate the universal excitement of the world Criminy had created, this glittery oasis in the dark sea of the moors.
Marco’s wagon was the same color as the cloudless night, blending seamlessly with the shadowed wilderness beyond the lights. As Jacinda approached, the hum of a gramophone needle picked up, followed by a fanfare of trumpets. Twin lights blinked on, making her see spots. Although Jacinda expected to see the spinning bull’s-eye she now knew so intimately, the setup was different on this side of the wagon. Of course, having met Mr. Murdoch, she would have been foolish to expect anything less than a masterpiece when it came to the caravan’s equipment.
The backdrop was painted to match the idyllic fields of a time gone by, bright and golden, with rolling hills and happy green trees as fluffy as candy floss. Just like the fancy stage sets she’d seen in Milano and Paris and London, there were several layers of independently moving parts that danced in time with the gramophone’s music, like a puppet show without strings or puppet master.
Down in front, wooden bludbunnies gamboled, their merry eyes at odds with their blood-tipped teeth. Behind them, a family of bluddeer leaped, the fawn’s eyes big and as melty as hot chocolate. Wooden birds swooped from the sky, and a bludrat darted among the bushes, its deep russet fur making it stand out among the muted pastoral hues. Jacinda squinted for just a moment, trying to uncover the secret of the clever mix of wood, paint, and clockwork. She immediately opted to enjoy the show and edged into the back of Marco’s crowd.
An explosive crack and a puff of smoke drew every eye to the figure materializing from the hazy white. Marco was clad all in black, looking even more deadly than the image in the newspaper Jacinda now kept rolled up in her desk. His hair was pulled back low, and he wore a bandanna like an airship pirate, keeping his eyes free of windblown locks. He might have disappeared against the night sky if not for the spotlight’s keen glare off the line of bright silver knives glinting from boots to shoulders, at least twice as many as he usually wore. As he posed and the audience clapped, Jacinda found herself daydreaming about pressing herself against his back and dropping the knives, one by one, from their loops to the ground, until his body was safe to explore without fear of the blades’ pointed tips.
With smooth, practiced movements, Marco reached for the knives at his shoulders and flung them simultaneously in time with the gramophone’s song. Twin flashes crossed in an X, and the knives flickered into two of the painted wooden birds flapping across the sky, one in each eye. The crowd clapped, and Marco’s mouth twitched just the tiniest bit.
Knife after knife flew at the targets in time with the music, seemingly straight from their loops. He made it look effortless, simple, as natural as a hawk swooping from the air to capture a bludbunny. The crowd’s gasps grew fewer and fewer as he went on without missing a single shot. As if he sensed the exact moment their attention hung at a precipice, he stopped and pulled the bandanna down over his eyes. As the city folk murmured and nudged one another around her, Jacinda couldn’t help focusing on Marco’s sensual mouth, his cheeks cleanly shaven, and that little, delectable place above his upper lip desperately in need of kissing.
She shook her head. Nibbling on Marco wasn’t part of the story.<
br />
With his eyes covered, he took more time with each throw, and the crowd cheered after each blade hit a target. Jacinda would have bet anything that he could see through the bandanna, no matter how opaque and thick it might look from the audience. The hesitation was purposeful, part of the act. But then again, he had said he liked taking his time. The way he had said it, however, meant something else entirely.
As the final knife thudded into the bright red bludrat, the last untouched target, the crowd went mad with wolf whistles, clapping, and the frantic wailing of overexcited women. Jacinda clapped politely, well aware that she was not the only one in the audience who’d been waiting to see Marco without protective ribbons of steel up his thighs. Pulling off his bandanna, he bowed and straightened. His grin told her plainly, told everyone, that he was well aware of the effect he had on women, and when he winked at a buxom girl in the front row, the little ninny fainted dead away. Jacinda considered it significant that he caught her eye, just after that, one eyebrow raised in amusement.
As the applause built to a crescendo, Marco raised both arms, threw them down, and disappeared in another burst of smoke. Moments later, the crowd quieted and dispersed, still whispering about the mysterious knife thrower and the darkly dangerous look in his eye, so different from the soft, bespectacled men of the city proper, with their top hats and paisley waistcoats. Jacinda waited until the last giggling girl had given up on seeing Marco again before she walked around the backdrop, which had gone still. From behind, the mechanics were visible, a tangled orchestra of metal, cogs, pistons, and gears. She was almost tempted to touch the delicate mechanisms, but she suspected that everything in the caravan was rigged to punish people who were too curious or too foolish.
“Looking for more answers?”
With a blush in her cheeks, Jacinda spun around to find Marco standing at the front of the backdrop, grasping a knife to pull it free of the wood. He looked so pompous and self-contained that she wanted to beat on his chest with her fists until he spilled his secrets like angry bees from a hive. One by one, he pulled out the knives and slipped them into their hooks, barely looking down as he worked. With nothing else to do and desperately in need of distraction, Jacinda knelt to yank a knife from a red-eyed bludbunny. It was easier than it looked. Instead of handing him the first one, she stayed where she was and reached for another.
“Your show seemed to go well.”
“They always do.”
“Why didn’t you use the spinning target? From earlier?”
She looked up in time to catch a fleeting grin. “That trick’s no good without a pretty girl. Are you volunteering?”
Remembering the momentary flick of his fingers that had sent a knife hurtling toward her body and recalling the split second when she couldn’t tell if she’d been hit or not, she shook her head. “I need to be fully functional, thanks. It takes two hands to do what I do best.”
He smothered a laugh. “Are you saying you doubt my skills?”
“No. But I do doubt the proximity of a well-trained chirurgeon, should something go wrong.”
“I’ve never drawn blood, you know.”
She looked up sharply; he’d divulged more than he had meant to. But Jacinda knew well enough how to lure a witness into confidence, into revealing more. So she calmly pulled out another knife.
“I’ve heard it called the impalement arts.” She stood, three knives in her glove, holding them out with a welcoming smile. “But it doesn’t seem like much impalement actually occurs. At least, not if you’ve any talent.”
Had he been drinking just then, he might have choked, but as it was, he cleared his throat and took the knives, one by one, his fingers lightly dragging across her gloved palm.
“There’s more than one way to be impaled, Miss Harville.”
One fair red eyebrow rose. “It’s Mrs. Harville. So yes, I know all about that.”
The knives slid, one by one, into their loops with a whisper of cloth.
“You’re a very singular girl.” He paused to stare at her lips. “Mrs. Harville.”
He stepped closer, his presence a dark wall. She didn’t move but tilted her head to look up at him. With careful fingers, she slid a knife out of its loop on his shoulder and drew it gently down his shirt, knowing he would barely feel it but enjoying the scratch of steel against cloth and the feeling of slight rebellion against a man who billed himself as the most dangerous thing around.
“You’re just accustomed to girls. I’m a woman. There’s a difference.”
With a quick flick of his knife, she popped off his top button. It flew into the night, landing somewhere in the dry grass, not that he bothered looking for it. In a flash, he caught her wrist in a steel grip that didn’t hurt so much as warn. As he slipped the knife out of her grasp, he leaned close to whisper, “Keep playing games with me, if you like. I know some games, too.”
Jacinda’s pulse was racing, and she realized she was up on tiptoes, waiting to see what he would do next. But he simply put the knife back and returned to his work, collecting the rest of his instruments until he was fairly bristling again. When he ducked around behind the backdrop, she followed him into the shadows. He turned on the machine, and Jacinda stepped back from the suddenly shuddering and twirling spears of metal.
“Let’s say I want to play,” she said, voice pitched low. “Let’s say I agree to play by your rules.”
His eyes raked her from hem to hat. “I have a show to put on. Now is not the time for distractions.”
“Think about it, then. Because I’m not giving up. You might as well have some fun, being pestered to death.”
The moment built, heavy and dark, the clockworks’ ticking as inescapable as sand in an hourglass. Voices began to gather on the other side of the backdrop, and Marco pressed another button to start up the fanfare. His eyes didn’t leave hers as he checked his bandanna, ran fingertips over the knives, and reached into a wooden crate for two round, paper-wrapped packets that smelled of powder and magic.
“Crowd’s gathering. You’re stuck, sweetness. You’ll have to wait out the show back here.”
“Oh, no. Time to myself in the dark with a bunch of well-oiled machinery. Whatever will I do?”
That surprised him. With the smoke bombs in each hand, Marco couldn’t reach out, couldn’t step too close or touch her or even shove her away. He glanced from Jacinda to the backdrop as if weighing his chances. Before he could say something dismissive or discourage her further, she stepped forward, curled her fingers into his shirtfront, and kissed him with the controlled passion only a very experienced woman could handle under the circumstances. He was helpless to do anything but take her kiss, his mouth warm and his jaw rasping against her cheek as she ran her tongue past his lips with playful possession.
“I’ll be right here. Not distracting you. Try not to hurt yourself out there.”
Carefully transferring both smoke bombs to the same hand, he turned his back to her and made adjustments to his costume with a long, shaky sigh. She smirked to herself. If the key to finding out Marco’s past was to keep him slightly confused by constant sexual tension, then she was going to enjoy this story quite a bit.
“What a way to go,” he said under his breath as he stepped around the backdrop.
Jacinda sat on the edge of a crate, the clockwork dog a still and solid presence at her side. She absentmindedly ran a hand over its boxy head and down its metal spine. She was a woman who appreciated a dangerous creature that could be harnessed but never tamed.
And when Marco was done with his show, she decided, she would have a little surprise for him, too.
.8.
As soon as the show was over, Jacinda slipped out with the crowd, darting among the shadows with the dog in her wake. She’d said, “I’ll be right here,” but she’d failed to mention how long she would stay there. Although she wasn’t sure exac
tly how Marco appeared and disappeared with his smoke bombs, she wanted to keep him guessing, out of power. Thus far, he had admitted to never having drawn blood, and the offhand delivery suggested that he had been telling the truth. What, then, had happened to his assistant? Why had there been so much gore?
Walking the caravan against the flow of the crowd, Jacinda had never felt more alone. She’d traveled with Liam for so long and had grown so accustomed to his nearness that even a year later, she would find herself turning with a smile to whisper something or reaching for a hand that was no longer there. At least she’d traded in their larger conveyance for her small one, a private space unhaunted by her late husband’s presence.
She knew that returning to Marco’s act would be a mistake, would make her seem desperate. And she had promised Criminy she wouldn’t interfere with his caravan during showtime. But the charms of the circus seemed tawdry to her at night, when she had a goal to accomplish. The people behind the glitter and paint were far more interesting to her than their magic-spiced acts. If she would move among them, she wanted to know them by light of day and not, as everyone else did, after dark had fallen and the lights had gone up. She wanted the stories of the people behind the show. The truth was more interesting than the artifice.
Try as she might, she couldn’t stop thinking about Marco’s lips, the rasp of his cheek, the cut of his shoulders, the chasm of his eyes. He reminded her of a vein of ore she’d seen in a mine in Africa. Just a few glimmers aboveground hinted at the glittering depths and crystal caverns below. She didn’t usually favor the strong and silent type, much less the darkly dangerous type. But she suspected that he hid the best parts of himself and let the world see only the surface. If he was as razor-fine inside as he was on the outside, it would be worth her while to dig. At the very least, she would enjoy trading kisses and winning his story from him bit by bit, if that was what it took. The book was still her goal, but a scoop that would rock London and the chance to exonerate an innocent man—well, she wouldn’t have turned that down, even if she hadn’t been personally drawn to the subject.
The Damsel and the Daggerman: A BLUD Novella Page 5
