Eye of Heaven

by Marjorie M. Liu

  “I’ve been wanting to ask you for a long time,” he said, grave. “But if I don’t bring it up now, I might not get another chance.”

  Iris licked her lips. “Danny—”

  “Please.”

  She hesitated. The sadness, the hunger of his gaze, was too much, and a little voice whispered, Be a normal woman, just this once. One date won’t kill you. Even if she wished a different man was doing the asking.

  “Okay,” she said. Danny smiled, which only made the butterflies in her stomach turn into bumblebees. He began to lean in. Close.

  She was saved by Pete’s arrival. Iris could hear him muttering on the other side of the door, and stood up before he started knocking.

  “Come in,” she called out, trying not to look at Danny.

  Pete opened the door. Blue was with him. He had traded the sleek black button-up and trim slacks for a plain white T-shirt and khakis. The tool belt was still slung loosely around his hips. He looked good. His eyes were warm when he gazed at her, though she didn’t miss the way he took in Danny still crouched beside her chair. The ache in her heart got worse.

  Pete sighed, rubbing his belly. “Danny told you about the reporters, right? They’re gone for now but they’ll be back. You and your show are hot stuff on the strip right now, Iris. An attack is big news.”

  “They can find some other piece of ‘hot stuff to report a story on. Anyone but me.”

  Pete frowned. “Not that I want to capitalize on your tragedy and misfortune, but even a little interview would be good advertisement for us, Iris. All of us.”

  She didn’t have to hide her expression; she was used to this by now. “You know I’m not trying to be selfish, Pete. You know that, so don’t try to make me feel guilty.”

  “I don’t need guilt. You’re too smart for that. But please, kid. The old days are over, and if you want to keep playing with the big boys, you’ll have to go the extra mile on the publicity front. If not for me, then for Miracle’s management. They might not have said anything to you yet, but they’ve been pressuring me to get you on board. You, too, Danny.” He shook his head, running his round hands over his thinning hair. “I love you both, but I just don’t get why you’re so press-shy. Not when you both get onstage every night easy as breathing.”

  “That’s different,” Iris protested. “Less personal.”

  Less personal was good, her mother had always said. Less personal meant fewer chances of discovery. Because even though being a performer, living briefly in the public eye, was a form of exposure, it was also a mask. A way of hiding in plain sight, of being just slightly peculiar in ways that no one would ever question. Because circus performers were supposed to be odd, a little bit more than human. The key was never to let anyone look too deep.

  And one interview is deep? One interview and boom, freak-show central?

  Iris glanced at Blue. He didn’t have much of an expression on his face, but she thought he looked at her with a hint of concern—even, maybe, understanding. She tore her gaze away. “Fine, Pete. But you tell Miracle that they’d better make it count—choose the right station or magazine, or whatever. Because I won’t be doing another interview, not for a long time.”

  Pete closed his eyes and smiled. “Thank you, Iris. I know this isn’t easy for you.”

  That was an understatement. Of course, she seemed to be agreeing a lot of things tonight that weren’t easy for her. She was getting weak. Or just desperate.

  “Lights go down in ten,” Pete said. “Danny, I need you out there now for the initial lineup. Iris, do your thing.”

  Which meant putting on loads of makeup, getting dressed, and then running out to the loading bay to get Petro and the others prepped.

  Danny stood, still looking at Blue. “What about him?”

  Pete frowned. “Worry about yourself, kid.”

  “I’m worried about Iris. We don’t know this man. We don’t know what he’ll try if he’s alone with her.”

  His bluntness took Iris off guard, as did the implied accusation. She struggled for a reply—glanced at Blue—and found all her words dead as ash in her mouth. He had a look on his face that was pure anger—a quiet, terrible anger—and though he stood very still, she could feel energy pouring off his body, waves of power washing over her skin like the echo of some awful rattling thunder. The lights in her dressing room flickered.

  “I would never hurt Iris,” Blue said. “Never.”

  “Never?” Danny echoed. His hands curled into fists. Air stirred over Iris’s skin; flowers wavered, the mirror frame shivered. Blue narrowed his eyes. Pete, glancing between the two men, cleared his throat.

  “Sons,” he said, but his voice did nothing to cut the tension, the electricity building and building. Iris wanted to scream at them, rake her nails through the air. Her skin crawled.

  “I don’t want to fight you,” Blue whispered.

  “Then don’t,” Danny said. “Just go. Leave.”

  “No,” Blue murmured. His gaze flickered to Iris. “No, I won’t do that.”

  It was the way he looked at her that finally made her lurch forward, putting herself between the two men. She raised her hands—it felt like they were attached to wings in quicksand—and touched both their chests at the same time. Sparks flew off her fingertips; bolts of baby lightning. She jerked back, gasping. Daniel tried to reach out but she shied away, holding her hands. Blue did not move. He did not talk. He looked at her, and his eyes were impossibly grim.

  “Stop this,” she said to them, finally finding her voice. “Whatever both of you are doing, stop it now.”

  Before someone gets hurt. she wanted to say.

  Pete moved. He took up Iris’s place between the men and looked at them with stern disapproval—and even a little wildness in his eyes. Iris understood.

  “I feel as though,” he said, very slowly, “I just watched two men come to blows without ever touching each other. And while part of me is horribly intrigued by that, the rest of me is even more horribly disturbed. Because frankly, I can’t see one good reason why it should have come to that. And why”—Pete fixed Daniel with a very hard glare—”you would level accusations of poor character upon a man you don’t even know. Unless you do know him?”

  “No,” Daniel said, after a moment’s hesitation. “I don’t.”

  “Then let it go, son. I know you care about Iris—we all do—but making this man feel unwelcome isn’t any cure to what’s ailing you. Besides, who are you to talk about trust? You’re still new, green. If I were an ungenerous man, I could lobby the same insult. But I won’t. I give people a chance in my outfit.”

  No one said a word. Iris found herself still rubbing her hands, and stopped. She watched Blue stare at Daniel—watched Daniel stare back—and felt the pressure in the room ease and ease, like an awful shrinking bubble. Daniel—and Iris realized that she had suddenly started thinking of him as Daniel, and not Danny—slowly unclenched his hands and pressed them loose and flat against his thighs. Blue took a deep breath.

  “Good,” Pete said, and opened the dressing room door. “Danny, you go on now. You have a show to do.”

  Iris expected him to argue. Fire still ran through his eyes, the lines of his body tense and hard. He was a mirror of Blue, who continued to stare at him like he expected a blow and was prepared to return one in full. Danger, danger, danger.

  Daniel edged backward to the door, and ended the staring contest by looking at Iris.

  “Later,” he said, very quiet, very gentle. Iris nodded, well aware of the way Blue looked at her, the way he measured her response. All she wanted to do was turn her head and return his gaze, get her fill of him—to tell him it was okay, she wasn’t scared of him, not like that—and she felt like a traitor to both herself and Daniel for that desire, for the wanting of it.

  You’re just going on a date with Daniel. It’s not marriage.

  But he was standing right there, and Iris liked him too much—and had more class—than to coo over Blue
in his presence. Or maybe that was just sneakiness talking, and not loyalty. It felt like a fine line.

  Daniel left. Pete said, “You, too, Blue. Iris needs to unwind.”

  “In a minute,” Iris said. The old man gave her a long hard look, but he left. Not far, but enough.

  As soon as Pete disappeared into the hall, Blue stepped in close and covered Iris’s hands. His intensity startled her; she had no time to move away, and that was another shock—her reflexes were usually better than that.

  Blue’s grip was loose, warm. “Are you hurt? Did that shock hurt you?”

  “No,” she said, bewildered by his question, the passion of it. “You?”

  A short laugh escaped him and he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Iris. For all of this, I’m sorry.”

  She wanted to ask him why he was sorry—and why Daniel seemed to know him, why he would lie about that—but Pete poked his head back into the room, looked at their joined hands, and without missing a beat said, “Come on, son. Let’s give Iris some peace.”

  Blue nodded, turning his body slightly so that only Iris could see his face. She was almost as tall as him, but he felt much larger, like a giant when he stood so close to her, and she forgot how to breathe as his thumbs caressed, much too briefly, the backs of her hands. His gaze was quiet, steady, all the anger flushed away by heartbreaking warmth, and Iris found herself swaying close, unable to help herself, as if the world were leaning beneath her feet.

  Blue looked at her mouth—stared, hungry—and Iris was unprepared for what that did to her, for the ache that spread through her body. She thought, Please do it. Please, I want to taste you.

  But Pete cleared his throat, and even though the intensity of Blue’s gaze did not fade, he let go of her hands and stepped away. Stepped back like his legs were caught in quicksand, his body trapped; she could smell his arousal, the wildness in his blood, and it made her physically weak.

  He turned and left, almost at a run. Iris stared, battling the urge to follow.

  Pete shook his head. “Your mother warned me about this before she left.”

  “About what?” she asked, distant.

  “Men,” he said.

  Iris tried not to smile. “And?”

  “And nothing. You’re twenty-four years old, which is old enough to know your own mind. Just be careful, Iris. Danny’s right. We don’t know him.”

  You don’t even know me, she thought as he shut the door behind him. You don’t know what I really am.

  And Blue? Daniel? What about them? How much truth did a person need to know another? How much truth did a person need before it was safe to fall in love?

  Iris returned to her chair, but just before sitting down she felt a presence rub—in her gut, in her heart, in her head—and for a moment it was like being with her mother again, as though Serena McGillis was there with her. Close. It was a shape-shifter call, from one animal to another, an unforgettable sensation that had not filled her in years.

  Iris ran to the door and yanked it open, throwing herself into the hall. Nothing. It was empty. She ran down the corridor, testing the air, breathing in every scent, but all she found was the lingering taste of perfume, something her mother abhorred.

  No, Iris told herself. No, don’t. This is just your imagination. It has to be. You get stressed and she’s the first person you turn to.

  Mommy, oh, mommy.

  Disgusted with herself, Iris returned to her dressing room and slammed shut the door.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Blue managed to avoid Daniel after he left Iris. Pete was to blame for that. The old man led him on a circuitous path through the upper backstage levels, an area inhabited only by plainclothes workmen, the occasional guy in a suit, and a couple of harried-looking women hauling costumes in their arms.

  A chime rang once.

  “First warning,” Pete explained. “It means that everyone who’s performing in the first half had better be in their proper places.”

  “You’re not in the show?”

  “Used to be. When we were on the road, for sure. Ringmaster, son. Nothing like it in the world. But here in Vegas? This is more of a young man’s game.”

  Pete said it with a smile, a hop in his step, but Blue had an ear for bitterness, and he tasted the edge of it in the old man’s voice.

  “It wasn’t your choice,” he guessed, quiet. “Management told you to step down, didn’t they?”

  Pete faltered, but only for a moment. He schooled his features into a better mask. “The money is good and the job is stable.”

  “But you miss it.”

  Pete gave him a long, hard look. “A man has to make sacrifices sometimes. Give up one love for another love. Regrets are for sissies.”

  Which was an effective way of telling Blue to shut up.

  Another chime rang, this one longer. Pete picked up the pace and pushed open a heavy white door. On the other side, darkness, the scent of piped-in air and smoke and perfume. A low buzz filled the air—chatter, the rattle of paper. Pete tugged on Blue’s sleeve and led him onto a narrow catwalk. Just two steps and the stage appeared, spreading in front of Blue like a great wild expanse of props and people. He stood at eye level with the trapeze. The platform hung a good ten feet away.

  Blue glanced down. He saw Daniel speaking to some women who were dressed in a similar fashion to him: elaborate bodysuits, heavy makeup that did an impressive job of making them unrecognizable. No one, not even their father, would recognize Daniel in full costume.

  Hiding in plain sight. Soon to be one of the richest men in the world, playing in the circus.

  That alone might be enough to kill their father. If, in fact, he was really dying.

  “You sit here,” ordered Pete, showing Blue a solitary wooden chair perched on the catwalk. “Observe, enjoy, think about ways you can improve or fix things. Afterward, I’ll ask you questions.”

  “Am I going to have to write a paper, too?”

  “Don’t be a smart aleck with me, son. Not now.”

  “I apologize,” Blue murmured. Pete frowned, glancing down at Daniel.

  “You two,” he said quietly. “You know each other. Don’t bother denying it. There’s history when you look at each other. Something deep.”

  Blue said nothing. He knew Daniel, yes. But there was no way Daniel should know him. Not on sight, and probably not even by name. In his father’s ideal world, Blue would never have been born. To speak of him, to acknowledge his existence to the only son he considered legitimate …

  No. Not possible. Nor did he think his father would have gone to such lengths to ask for his help if there was a chance that Daniel knew who he was. Too much risk of spooking the young man, making him run.

  But there was no denying the fact that Daniel seemed to know the truth. And if he did, especially after that ambush in the circus camp Blue could not understand why he hadn’t started running.

  Iris. It’s because of Iris.

  Maybe. Probably. If he were in Daniel’s shoes, it would take more than his father to tear him away from a woman like her. And he had seen the way his brother looked at Iris—heart in his eyes.

  Blue pressed his palms against his thighs. Calm, calm—he was usually the calm one—but not this time. Not about her.

  Pete still gazed at the stage. “Were you telling the truth about your military experience?”

  The question took him off guard. “Yes.”

  “And do you really care about Iris? Really care, with the heart and head, and not just your dick?”

  “Yes,” Blue said, taking a wild guess as to where this was leading.

  But after a moment of contemplative silence, all Pete said was, “Enjoy the show, son. Take care not to fall.”

  He left. And like magic the lights went down.

  The darkness was absolute, but Blue stretched out with his mind and found the world alive with electricity, sizzling and jumping through a maze of wires. He followed the trails, traveling them, flying quick as light throu
gh the Miracle hotel, coming home full circle to his body just as the music began to play.

  It was ambient, classical, perhaps just slightly New Age with a soft-voiced choir that chanted words in a language that might have been Latin—or pure fantasy—and Blue found himself leaning forward as a blue light filled the stage and bodies moved into place, striking poses.

  The curtains pulled apart. Blue could not see the audience, but he heard the low murmur of appreciation, and thought that whatever he was seeing up here must be twice as impressive at floor level.

  But for the next hour, Blue found himself drawn in, entranced, mesmerized, as every person who entered the stage performed some impossible act of human agility, some dance through the air that required nothing but the focus of an incredibly strong body and spirit. Stories played out, told only in movement and music, a shifting play of light and curtains across the stage, and he found himself thinking that all his gifts, his power, meant nothing in the face of such breathless beauty. He could turn off a lightbulb with his mind, but big deal—the men and women below him could fly.

  He thought he recognized Samuel, who emerged off stage left; a clown, yes, but a giant who carried at least six delicate young women on his shoulders and arms, holding them up with nothing but sheer brute strength. He threw them all into the air, light and easy, and they floated away like butterflies trailing wings and ribbons. Attached to wires, yes, but that did not kill the magic.

  And then Daniel appeared, and gave Blue the shock of his life.

  It was not the fact that he dressed like some demonic peacock—Blue had gotten over that particular marvel in Iris’s dressing room—or that he moved with a grace and speed that implied years of dance, hard training. Nor was it the fact that he seemed born to the stage and spotlight, that he had the charisma to reach beyond both and pull in his audience. That was natural, blood, all from their father.

  No, what surprised Blue, what hit him hard in the gut, was the pure, unadulterated passion Daniel exuded, the unabashed freedom that carried him, marked him like a brand of light. It was infectious, it was astonishing, and Blue found himself marveling that this was his brother, his own flesh and blood—the product of a man who had never, in Blue’s limited experience, expressed any kind of joy, no love, nothing that could touch the presence that danced across the stage.