The freakshow wasn't the money maker for Master Opal. No. The real money came later, after the curtains closed. Davinia, the boneless wonder, earned top dollar as a special-order escort to the few who could afford her unique services. Jakob, who could walk through walls, made himself invaluable to those with something to steal – a habit he had before Master Opal found him and offered his protection. And Syren was a trained assassin with a concrete alibi. No one would ever expect the water-bound mermaid of murder. She couldn't leave her tank, after all. Only those in the freakshow knew the secret of her nightly transformation.
"Party's over, kids." Master Opal clapped his hands and his assistant dropped the curtain doors. Nilla wasn't the dopey sidekick she pretended to be for the paying crowds. Her skills as a witch made her capable of scary levels of magic. But Opal mostly used her for security. She could seal a simple tent up tight and keep out even the nosiest of late night spectators. And those she couldn't keep out, well, they were never heard or seen again.
As the curtains closed and the lights flared, Syren placed her hands atop the water cage she spent her days in. Her fingers gripped the side and she hoisted herself up. She sat propped on the edge of the tank, her flippers dangling in the water just below the surface, and inhaled deeply. The air tasted stale, tainted, as it passed over her tongue.
Her unique body would be the envy of many a diver. Not only did she possess the normal nostrils and lungs of a human, but she had gills that let her survive under water. She could breathe in or out of the tank and transition smoothly between the two. Twice a day, she performed like a dolphin, doing tricks as demanded by Master Opal, awing the adoring crowds and growing more and more unhappy with being a sideshow freak and Opal's toy, to do with as he pleased. But she had no choice. She had nowhere to go, no place to run to.
She watched from her perch as Davinia slipped out of her skin-tight costume. The woman's body was perfect, of course. How else would she earn so much? Opal treated her well, especially when he took advantage of her services, and her clients were just as gracious, lavishing expensive gifts and dinners, but Syren saw the sadness behind her dark eyes, visible only to those who knew where to look.
Jakob, on the other hand, loved his job. He reveled in the awe of crowds and the power he had over them. But he craved his after-hours work even more. More than once, he bragged to the others that Opal wouldn't survive without him, that all their money came from the jobs he pulled.
Syren doubted that the show would collapse without him, but he did make their lives more comfortable, to say the least. And he kept Master Opal busy and away from the women most of the time.
Though she couldn't see outside, Syren knew when the sun faded. Her tail itched, so bad she longed to scratch her scales right off. Once she had tried. She had dug and pulled at her fins until the scales finally did come off, but she bled profusely. Nilla's healing powers had saved her from permanent deformity, but she hurt for days. Since then, she simply clenched her teeth and dealt with it.
Shaking off the memory, she swung herself over the side and gripped the edge with her hands. The itching grew as the scales withdrew into her. Her thick snake-like body separated into two distinct appendages. Her fins transformed into feet.
The itching subsided and Syren dropped from the edge of the tank. She landed smoothly in a crouch and rose. Her upper body was scantily clothed with the alluring clam bikini top that was her show costume. It revealed her patchily scaled skin. Even during the change, the scales on her stomach, chest, and arms remained, but everything below her belly button was completely bare. Smooth like a newborn babe.
Jakob let out an ear-piercing whistle. "Lookin' good."
"Blow me," Syren shot back. The man was one of her least favorite people. He was cocky and coy and she didn't trust him even a little bit. She did her best to avoid being alone with him.
He gave her a skeezy smile as he bowed before her. "I'm always open to a little kink."
Syren growled and walked across the open area in the middle of the tent. Master Opal refused to let her have clothes or a robe anywhere near her tank, no matter how hard she begged him. He argued that if anyone saw it, the gig would be up and they would think her a fake. She personally thought he just liked the power he had over her and wanted to make her uncomfortable on purpose. It worked.
She reached the small dressing room at the back of the tent and ducked inside. She shared the area with Davinia. Well, shared was a bit of an exaggeration. The boneless escort used 90% of it. Outfits she had tried on and discarded for one reason or another littered the space. Trunks and small armoires lined the walls, along with two different vanities, three full-length mirrors and a rack of costumes for her show. Syren, on the other hand, had exactly one small closet. Inside, she found more clam-shell bras, the only attire Opal allowed her to wear in the tank, and one other outfit. It was black and loose-fitting, a classic ninja outfit. She had repeatedly argued that another get-up would be more comfortable and efficient, but Opal liked being able to hire out his mermaid ninja and insisted she keep up the appearance. She slipped on the black clothes and grabbed the dual swords propped next to the closet before finding her way to Opal's office.
"It's an easy one," he said as she opened the door. "A disgruntled wife."
"Husband's a cheater?" Syren leaned against the door frame and crossed her arms.
"Sort of. Prostitute. Always the same one."
She gave a curt nod. "Yep. Cheater."
"It's not your place to make judgments." He held out a lumpy brown 9x12 envelope. "Just do your job."
Syren pursed her lips and took the envelope. She left without saying anything. She paused at the entrance to the tent to give the information inside a brief overview. She folded the envelope and stuffed it into one of her oversized pockets. The flaps parted to let her through and snapped shut behind her. The fairgrounds were empty aside from the random carney nursing his blues from the bottom of a paper-covered bottle. She kept to the shadows, passing unnoticed through the gates and up the streets to the hotel indicated in the file. It was dingy, worn-down from years of disrepair and less than reputable clientele.
A single light shone outside the row of doors that marked the rooms. The drawn curtains hid the view inside, but the noises indicated that she had found her target. She stayed outside the glare of the bulb and watched the cars pass on the street. She would let them finish their business. They may be slated to die, but they deserved at least that much. Opal wouldn't be pleased if he found out. He would relish her taking them in the middle of the act, but it was her choice, and she would hold on to any small bit of power she had.
Nearly an hour passed before the screams of lust finally faded into soft moans and happy chatter. Syren stepped from the shadows and knocked on the door.
"Beer delivery," came the excited cry from the female inside. The door swung open. The woman's smile didn't have time to fade before Syren's blade made its way to the back of her throat.
The assassin pushed the dying prostitute back from the door with the sword still buried deep in her neck and drew its companion from behind her. The woman dropped, along with the sheet that covered her. Syren advanced on the man.
He kneeled naked on the bed. For a baffled moment, he stared at her, then his hands clamped over his private parts and he snarled, "Who the hell do you think you are?"
Syren calculated the distance between them. If he fought back, it could get messy. Not hard, but messy. She didn't really want to have to take a shower tonight.
"Your wife says hello," she said and took a step forward.
He moved to his left to roll off the bed.
She flipped through the air. Her blade came down in a solid arc and sliced clean through his skull.
He dropped off the bed with a grunt and lay still.
Syren knelt on the bed and surveyed the scene. Blood pooled on the carpet under the prostitute and had begun to seep out of the man's skull, but none had gotten on her. She removed her
blades from the bodies and wiped them clean on the bed's comforter before slipping them back into their sheaths. Then she pulled the little disposable camera from the envelope. This job required evidence. Definitely not her favorite part. Not anywhere close to it. She hated this sick display of power, this violation of the dead. Killing them was one thing. Mocking them with photographs was another. Half the time, she wondered if the photos were the client's idea or Master Opal's.
Syren snapped a dozen or so pictures and stuffed the camera in her pocket. She closed the door behind her and slipped into the shadows once again. The job had taken almost no time at all, a couple hours at most counting travel time. She had a good chunk of the night left at her disposal. She didn't need to be back to her tank until just before the first rays of sun came up. She used the time to do nothing but roam the streets in the dark, to use her legs, to stretch and explore. She leaned against a wall in an alley and watched a pair of prostitutes attempt to sell their wares on the corner. She sat in an empty park on a swing and stared up at the sky. She snuck into one of the carnival tents and stole a bag of cotton candy, one of her favorite treats. Her legs were beginning to tingle when she crept back inside her tent, returned her ninja costume to its closet, and slipped back into the tank to wait for her legs to finish changing as the sun rose outside.
There were no more jobs during that fair. No more excuses to get out and wander. She spent the time in her tank, forbidden to leave, despite the itch to get out and move around. She was Master Opal's property, and he wanted her in her cage until she had a job to do. It was easier for him to control her that way.
She was thrilled when the show packed up and moved on. They were slated to stay in the next place for two weeks, a town that hovered just under the size of a city, lined with streets and alleys and pretty parks she could explore, assuming a new assignment gave her an excuse to leave the tent. Full of old charm and modern conveniences.
"You have a job." Master Opal knocked on Syren's tank one morning, a couple days after they arrived. "Come see me when you're up."
The water muffled his voice through the tank and saltwater, but she heard him well enough and gave a curt nod. She refused to show her excitement, but her heart soared. She had been locked in that tank for over a week. She needed to move.
She ignored Jakob's comments as she walked across the tent. Davinia was already gone for the evening, off to please whatever client Opal had set up for her. Syren took her time getting ready. She enjoyed the peace, the privacy. Something she rarely got anymore. Her tank was open to the public and on display to her colleagues in private. Jakob's sneering visage ogled her on a regular basis. She had nowhere to hide, no place to retreat. Except the dressing room on the nights she had extra work.
"You're late," Opal chided when she walked into his office. He was texting someone on his phone and didn't bother looking up.
She stood at the door and waited. He continued looking at his phone while he held out another brown envelope. This one was flat. No camera.
She took it and began to walk out.
"This is an important job," he said as she reached the door. "Don't screw it up."
She paused, seething inside. She had never screwed up a job. Syren gave him a brief nod and started to leave.
"And don't die."
She spun around and stared at him, but he didn't look at her. He had turned around in his chair so his back faced her.
Don't die? Why would he say that? He had never, ever said anything like that to her before. Why now? Her heart raced as she walked through the tent. The flaps opened, thanks to Nilla's talents, and she found a bench where she could sit to examine the contents of the envelope.
Most of her jobs had at least a little background info, something to help her complete her task more efficiently. This one offered three sheets of paper: an address, a blueprint of a house, and a name. That was it. Three pieces of paper, three small details. She didn't even have a picture of her target. Master Opal's job was to do the research for her so all she had to do was kill. How was she supposed to make sure she had the right target?
She sighed and stood. She would have to figure it out somehow.
The house was farther away than she would have liked. It took her over an hour to get there on foot, eating into her valuable and limited time. A tall, barbed fence surrounded the property. What was inside? What was it protecting?
She walked the edge of the property, looking for something to clue her in as to what she was here for.
It was silent. Not a tree moved in the breeze. Not a dog barked. Not a bird twittered. Nothing. It was like the house was waiting for her to make her move.
She reached out and waved a hand near the fence, feeling for a spark of electricity or something to clue her into a charged barrier. Again, nothing.
She should have been pleased, but the unease growing in her gut made her ill. This was wrong. Weird. Had Master Opal set her up? Was this a test?
She grabbed the fence and monkey-climbed to the top. The barbs weren't an issue. She braced her small feet between them and surveyed the area below her.
A few bushes and trees here and there dotted a wide, flat lawn. A marble breezeway led to an in-ground pool that glistened in the moonlight.
She searched for something to tip her off, but heard nothing. No guards, no dogs, not even a spotlight anywhere on the yard. She jumped down and crouch-ran across the area, weaving a random pattern just in case someone spotted her and opened fire. Again, nothing.
She reached the house without encountering any resistance whatsoever. A single light glowed in the kitchen that opened onto the back patio where the pool was. The French doors swung wide, giving her free access to the inside.
Something was wrong. It was all too easy. Her gut screamed at her to leave, to turn around and go back to the tent, to crawl into her tank where she was safe. She yearned to tell Master Opal to stuff it, to do his own dirty work.
But that wasn't how she was trained. And he would surely put her out if she refused. Or kill her. With a grimace, she slipped a sword from its sheath on her back and held it out in front of her.
The kitchen inside opened onto a sunken living area. White leather couches were arrayed around a central fireplace. Despite the warm weather, the logs roared, releasing a peaceful crackling sound and a smoky scent.
A figure sat on one of the couches with its back to her. A black hood covered its head.
"You're thorough," it said. He said. His voice came out like a rumbling purr, but it was almost certainly male. "Opal taught you well."
Syren's hackles went up. She knew it. Opal had set her up. Why? What did she do?
"Tennyson Yeats?" she asked as she edged forward.
She could hear the smile in his voice. "Yes. My mother was a bit of a poet." He rose then, revealing a lithe figure dressed in the same attire she wore. Like her, a black mask covered his face, revealing only his bright green eyes.
Syren tried to hold her tongue, but she found herself speaking. "How do you know Master Opal?"
Tennyson laughed. "We go back a long way. Not a good way, but a long way."
"Why does he want you dead?"
"Because we disagree on things. Many, many things." He cocked his head. "Are you going to do his bidding like a good little girl?"
Syren bristled at the comment. "I'm going to try," she growled.
He gave her a small nod. "Very well, then." He leaned forward and picked up a sword much like her own from the couch. "Let's see how this ends."
He leapt at her before his sword was completely unsheathed.
The unexpected motion threw her off and forced her to duck and roll. She managed to get her sword up just in time to block his attack.
His blade slid down hers with a screech of metal-on-metal and slammed against the kitchen counter, taking a chunk of tile from the glistening white surface.
"You're quick," Tennyson said, "I'll give you that."
Syren gritted her teeth and sprang
to her feet. She brought her blade to bear and spun through the air. He parried her as if she was a child. She found herself rolling across the floor in an unchecked tumble.
"But overeager." He jumped and flipped, completing a perfect somersault before landing on her other side. "You'll never win that way."
She barely had time to roll before his blade slammed down beside where her head had been. She screeched as a piece of her ear was separated from the lobe and clapped her hand to the wound. Her fingers came away bloody.
"Never pause to inspect a minor wound during a duel to the death." His voice came right beside her ear, so close the fabric of his mask fluttered against her skin. The point of his blade sank into her back.
Don't die. Master Opal's voice echoed in her head. Had he known? Did he know how this would end? Did he orchestrate this? But why? To what purpose?
She jerked away. The sword ripped through her flesh and pain raced through her body. She stumbled back and held up her blade.
"Who are you?" she growled through gritted teeth. Her body screamed at her, but she kept herself upright.
Tennyson tipped his head. "I can be your savior, or your demise. It's entirely up to you."
Syren pressed a hand to the hole. Her legs were weak and she could barely stay upright. "Stop speaking in riddles."
He glanced at the floor by her feet and his smile faded. "Shit." The word fell from his mouth without any of the arrogance he had displayed before.
She followed his gaze. Blood pooled at her feet, more than should have if she just had a flesh wound. Something important had been hit. She was in trouble. She would never make it back to the tent, to Nilla, their healer, before she bled out.
She raised her gaze to him. The small movement sent her head swimming and she stumbled to the side.
He stared at her. "Let me help you," he said.
"Why?" Even as she questioned him, her knees gave out and she sank to the floor, her hand slipping on her own blood. She had been wounded before, but never to this extent. Never so bad she questioned her own ability to survive. She yanked the mask from her face as she struggled to breathe deep.
UnCommon Bodies: A Collection of Oddities, Survivors, and Other Impossibilities (UnCommon Anthologies Book 1) Page 9
