It’s not Shifter magic, which — according to Kingston — isn’t really magic at all, but something else entirely. Sheena’s body shivers like static on a screen, a flash of purple light and smoke, and then she’s no longer there. In her place is a tiny hovering orb of violet light. It takes a moment for the truth to hit, but there’s no mistaking that Tinkerbell-esque glow. She’s a fucking faerie.
I expect some great wave of magic, maybe for Roman to start speaking in tongues from his bladed bed, or for sparks of lightning to shoot out. But nothing happens. There’s a haze of smoke around the orb that seems to wrap around the body, but it’s so faint in the light of day that I can’t really see it. A few moments pass, and then I blink and the girl is standing there again, all purple hair and blue jeans. She looks down at the ground.
“I’m sorry, my Queen,” she whispers. “I cannot divine. Someone has hidden his sight from me.”
Mab hisses and the air around her grows dark, just for a moment.
“The Summer King,” she seethes. “It must be him.”
Sheena bows and steps back into the crowd. People edge away from her like she’s diseased, but I see the flickers in a few people’s eyes — the recognition, the longing. Sheena’s not the only fey hiding in our midst, but she’s clearly the only one who’s been outed. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why she looks like her dirtiest of secrets has just been aired. After all, it’s not like Mab makes any attempt at hiding what she is.
“What is this?” someone asks, and I look over to see the guy next to me — one of the jugglers, the one I don’t know — take a half step forward. “Mab, what’s going on?”
She studies him for a moment. I can’t stop staring at the blood dripping down from Roman’s pinky.
“It would seem,” she says, “that the Summer Court is trying to force us down. Which,” — she raises her voice — “Will. Not. Happen. Do you hear me, Oberon? My show will go on.”
I expect thunder to crackle or clouds to gather, but there’s no retaliation, no mark her words were heard. Everyone seems to be holding their breath, myself included.
“This…this wasn’t part of the contract,” the juggler continues. He takes a deep breath and looks around for support, but no one’s looking him in the eye. He’s sweating, but he doesn’t back down. He’s got guts. Mab raises an eyebrow. “You told us we’d be immortal so long as the contracts stood.” He takes another breath and I can feel everyone’s hackles rise.
Behind me, I catch Kingston whispering under his breath, “Don’t do it, you fucking idiot. Don’t do it.”
“Sabina’s dead. Now Roman. None of us are safe. Which means…which means our contracts are void.”
Mab smirks, but there isn’t even a drop of humor there. She takes a step forward.
“Is that so, Paul?” she says. Her voice is ice. “You believe your contract is forfeit?”
There’s a curl in Mab’s words that promises something horrible, but Paul isn’t stopping now that he’s gained steam. I have a sinking suspicion he’s been waiting to say this since Sabina had her throat sliced open.
“Yes,” he says. “Your part of the deal was immortality. I’m not going to sit around and wait for that to be proven false again.”
Mab chuckles. “You have served me for ninety-two years, Paul. And you are due to serve another forty before your contract is up. But if you believe I have failed my end of the bargain, well, I am an honest businesswoman if nothing else. I follow my own rules. You are free to go.”
The guy slouches visibly with relief.
“Thank you,” he says.
She nods and he begins to turn away.
“But,” she whispers. The word hangs in the air like an executioner’s ax. “As you will clearly remember from line 76 C, early termination of the contract for whatever reason also terminates the magic that kept you — what did you call it? Immortal.” Paul stiffens and looks back, his eyes wide. “Which means, my dear servant, that I can no longer protect you from the hands of time. Ninety-two years is a long time, Paul. And had you just waited another forty, you could have prevented them from ever catching up with you.”
Paul opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He reaches both hands up to his neck and makes a horrible gagging noise. No one goes to help him. We all just take a step backward and try not to flinch.
He drops to his knees as wrinkles etch themselves into his face and hands, his skin yellowing and sagging, his veins bulging blue. His hair turns white in a matter of seconds and falls to the ground like dandelion fluff, his teeth yellowing and following in stony suit. His whole body dries up from the inside out. His eyes roll back in his head as a spasm wracks him. He topples. And like a husk, he caves in upon himself, flesh eating skin, until all that’s left is a pile of clothes and a few mounds of ash.
“A shame,” Mab says, almost to herself. “I’ve lost two good performers today.”
She looks straight at me. Her eyes pin me like a cobra’s. “Vivienne. Can you juggle?”
“I — ” Then I realize it’s not a question and nod, my stomach sinking even further. Melody said I wouldn’t make it here if I didn’t learn to lie. I’m starting to think the opposite is true.
“Good,” Mab continues, completely ignoring my lack of confidence. “You will learn your routine from Vanessa and Richard. If you are not onstage by this time next week, you will be fired.”
She snaps her fingers, and Roman’s body collapses in a cloud of blue dust behind her.
“The show will go on,” she says again. “With or without the lot of you.”
In a sweep of shadows, she vanishes.
EPISODE THREE
Chapter Eight: Your Little Body’S Slowly Breaking Down
No one says anything after Mab leaves the murder site, but as the crowd disperses, Melody and Kingston stick behind with me. The two other jugglers — Vanessa, who’s short with a brown bob, and Richard, who’s tall with wavy black hair and a heart tattooed on his arm — come up and say they rehearse three hours a day, between lunch and dinner, and they’ll help me get as good as Paul in no time. They both look at Kingston when they say this, as though he holds the secret to success in his fingertips. When they leave, I can’t help but feel like I’ve been roped into a losing fight. It’s amazing how fast things can fall to shit.
“Come on,” Kingston says. He glances back at the swords scattered on the ground. Although Roman’s body is gone, his blood is still congealing in the sun. “Let’s get out of here.”
We head to a picnic bench on the edge of the beach. Melody is walking on her own, but she’s still got a limp, and Kingston hovers by her side like he’s waiting for her to collapse. When we reach the table, she leans back onto the wood and lies back to look at the sky.
“Remind me not to sleep on the beach again,” she says. “I feel like sand should have asked me on a date first.”
Kingston laughs but gives me an I told you so sort of look when she breaks into another cough. She's definitely getting worse. But even after our talk last night, I refuse to believe he can be responsible for it. Whatever it is.
“So,” Mel continues, oblivious to the shared look. “A juggler, eh? Frankly, I pinned you as more of an acrobat myself.”
“I’d rather not think about it,” I say. “I’ve never juggled in my life. Anyway, what the hell’s going on with you? Are you okay?”
She closes her eyes and the grin slips. “Nice diversion,” she says. “I’m fine.”
It would have been a convincing cover-up, if not for the hacking fit that immediately followed.
“Kingston?” I ask.
He sighs. “I don’t know. I can’t heal it, whatever it is.”
“I’m still here,” she says.
“I’m not saying anything you don’t already know,” he says. “Besides, Vivienne’s a friend. She deserves to know.”
And yeah, it’s sick in light of everything that’s happened in the last twenty minutes, but that statement mak
es me feel really, really good.
“Fine,” Mel says. “Yes, Vivienne. I appear to be quite ill, and our all-powerful witch can’t do anything about it. As you said, I’d rather not think about it.”
“I was going to talk to Mab,” Kingston says, half to me and half to Melody. “Whatever this is, it’s not normal. But I don’t know if she’s in the right mood to be confronted with another loophole.”
I sit down on the table and look back at the trailers. I wonder who’s going to gather up Roman's swords, and who’s going to take his place as head of the Shifters. I wonder if his blood will still be pooled on the ground when we go back.
“What do you think she’s going to do?” I ask. “I mean, clearly this isn’t a one-time thing. First Sabina, then Roman. If that Summer guy was telling the truth, we’re going to keep getting picked off one by one until the show falls apart.”
“I don’t even know,” Kingston says with a sigh. He runs his hands through his lank hair and looks out at the waves. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re already falling apart. All the Summer Court has to do is pull the right thread, and we’re done.”
“But they can’t, right? It’s Mab. You heard her. The show will go on.”
Melody answers, her words laced with bitterness. “Don’t gloss over the details, love. With or without the lot of you, she said. She’s only concerned with the show. I have no doubt that she’s willing to accept a few casualties if it means she can keep playing ringleader. Never stopped her before.”
She looks like she’s about to say more, but Kingston glares at her, which shuts her up instantly. No one says anything after that. It’s clear that she’s overstepped a line in the sand I’m not supposed to see. Apparently I don’t deserve to know everything. I can only hope that what I don’t know doesn’t get me killed.
* * *
As they promised, Richard and Vanessa find me at lunch that afternoon. I’m sitting across from Kingston while Melody rests in her trailer. I hadn’t said much to him during the meal. What was there to say? Sorry one of your friends died like one of Vlad Dracula’s victims, but hey, I hear you’re single so maybe we can go out to dinner sometime? By the way, what is it that you’re so obviously hiding from me, because I’m getting tired of waiting around, and I might be the next to go? There’s nothing to say, and the silence just grows and grows between us. Not that anyone else in the troupe is talkative. Today’s meal is even quieter than when Sabina was killed. So I just eat my salad and pasta primavera, and stare at Kingston’s left arm, where the head of his serpentine tattoo has suddenly taken up residence.
Vanessa spots me first. She sits down on my left side, setting her tray with a half-eaten salad and juice next to mine. The distraction is an immediate relief that I know won’t last long. She smiles at me, and I can’t tell if it’s friendly or laced with you-can-never-replace-him undertones. It makes me wonder if she and Paul ever had a thing in those ninety-two years of service.
“So,” she says, barely giving Kingston a second glance. “Do you actually know how to juggle?”
“Kind of,” I say. I try to think back, try to remember juggling oranges in my kitchen or something like that. The images are there, but they don’t seem to piece together quite right. It’s like looking through someone else’s childhood scrapbook. “I think so.”
“Don’t worry,” she says. “If we can’t train you, Kingston can always bewitch you into stardom.”
Kingston coughs slightly. “You know it doesn’t work like that, Vanessa,” he says over his mug.
Vanessa waves her hand, “Fine, fine, whatever it is you do, then. I’m just saying, with my skill and your magic, we’ll have no problem turning her into a young star.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. Okay, I know I probably couldn’t juggle if my life depended on it — and my life probably does depend on it — but I don’t think I’m that hopeless.
“I think it’s best if he explains,” Vanessa says. “I’d just get it wrong.”
“There’s nothing to explain,” Kingston says evenly. “How about you just do your job and train her. When that inevitably fails, come find me.”
Vanessa opens her mouth, but Richard’s arrival spares us from whatever she’s about to say. He steps up behind her and puts his broad hands on her shoulders. He looks maybe ten years older than her; he’s probably in his late thirties. But when she looks up at him, her face instantly becomes all smiles. If that isn’t an I’m-sleeping-with-you look, I don’t know what is.
“Hey, guys,” he says. “Am I interrupting?”
“Not at all,” Kingston replies.
“Good,” he says. “I was hoping I could steal Vanessa. We’re going to have to piece together a duo act for tonight.” He turns to me. “Unless you think you’ll be ready by then?” He grins.
I decide in that moment that if I had to choose to save either him or Vanessa from being eaten by sharks, I’d choose him. Neither of them act fazed by the fact that their partner was just aged to death in front of their eyes. Maybe Kingston was right; maybe everyone is only looking after their own asses.
“Only if you want it to be a clown act,” I say. I can no longer remember if it was juggling I was good at as a kid, or unicycling. Or maybe I’d just wanted to be able to do them.
He chuckles and helps Vanessa to her feet. They walk off, leaving me, Kingston, and Vanessa’s half-empty tray.
“Bitch,” Kingston says the moment she’s out of earshot.
“What was that all about?” I ask.
“She’s still pissed that I slept with Richard a few decades back. In my defense, they hadn’t been seeing each other for at least a year. Girl can hold a fucking grudge.”
My stomach does a flip and I can’t tell if it’s because he just admitted to sleeping with a guy or because he just said he’s at least a few decades old. Then again, after watching Paul turn to ash, the notion that Kingston is much older than he appears isn't as shocking as it should have been. My mouth is hanging open like a fish, which just brings a smile to his face.
“What? It gets boring here. You can’t blame me for playing both sides of the field.”
Which just makes me wonder how many people he has slept with. I mean, I can’t judge. Even though I can’t remember my sexual exploits — which doesn't speak very highly of them — I know I’m no virgin. But still…how many? I didn’t even really care about the genders.
“I…That’s not what I meant. What did she mean by that whole bewitching me to stardom thing?” I say.
“Oh.”
Kingston picks at the food on his plate, then looks up at me and points his fork at my face.
“How do I put this? You’ve seen The Matrix, right?”
“Sadly.” I’m not certain how that memory stands out, but it’s there, swimming in the haze of my past.
He smiles, but his voice is serious. “Well, it’s sort of like that. If necessary, I can…download, if you will, things into your memory. Make you know how to do things you couldn’t do before.”
“You what?”
“It sounds bad,” he says. “But I don’t use it if I don’t have to, and even then, I only use it if the person asks. And even then, only if Mab allows it, and writes it into the contract. But she almost never allows cutting corners.”
“So you could make me think anything you wanted.”
Like making me fall madly in love with him. The moment the thought crosses my mind, I push it away. After all, if Disney taught me anything, it's that love can't be forced through magic. Thank you Aladdin.
He raises an eyebrow. “In theory, yes. In practice, no.” His voice drops. “Consider me reformed.”
Then he points his fork at Vanessa’s salad and it bursts into flames, instantly disintegrating into ash.
“Don’t fool yourself, Vivienne,” he whispers, almost to himself. “I might have the magic, but the others…they’ll get into your head way before me.”
* * *
Practice is a disast
er.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the black eye and three bruises on my chest from missed passes. So after about twenty minutes of having clubs thrown at my face and torso, and subsequently missing every single one, Richard and Vanessa give me three juggling balls. They scoot me over to one corner, where I can practice without interrupting them and they can keep an eye on me.
“It’s like trying to keep a beat,” Vanessa says in a voice most people reserve for very small and very stupid children. “You have to imagine a rhythm, and throw at the proper time.” She demonstrates by throwing the balls in the air, while saying, “One, two, three, catch.”
They land in her hands like magic. I don’t care that she’s probably been doing this longer than I’ve been alive: I hate her for making it look so easy. “Keep trying,” she says, and hands them back to me. She stands up to go and I stand with her, but she puts a hand on my shoulder and pushes me back down. “No,” she says. “Don’t move around. The balls need to stay in one plane. If you move, you won’t learn anything.”
Then she goes back over to Richard — who is, of course, practicing with knives. Eight of them. They're even on fire. I stay in the corner to fumble around on my own. I try. Over and over. But I don’t have the coordination, and with every failed attempt, the image of Mab’s angry face grows in my mind. Then I just start freaking out that in this case, getting fired might actually mean getting incinerated. An hour later, Vanessa tells me to head out before I frustrate myself. A bit too late for that. I drop the balls into their prop trunk and wander off, sorely tempted to find Kingston and have him Matrix me.
I don’t, of course. Instead, I make my way back to the trailers and find Sheena sitting by herself under the awning of the dining area, a book in one hand and a mug in the other. I’ve only spoken with her once, in my first week here. She took me aside after dinner and asked to read my tea leaves. As I drank down the bitter tea, we made small talk about life and art and how nice it was to get away. When she read the dregs, her eyebrows furrowed, and she said my future was hazy, like my past. Then she started talking about all the indie bands she’d seen on tour, and asked what sort of music I liked. We hadn’t spoken much since then, but she smiled at me whenever she saw me. For me, that made her my friend. I sit down beside her, and it’s not until I clear my throat that she looks up and notices me there.
The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels) Page 9
