Magic for Nothing

by Seanan McGuire

  Margaret and Robert were still following the show, now holed up in a rental apartment nearby, keeping an eye on the locals and replying to my nightly updates. Neither of them had set foot on the grounds, thankfully. There were some secrets I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep if they saw the people I was spending all my time with. Like Ananta, the wadjet, or the giggling bogeyman twins who ran the Haunted House dark ride. Most of the carnival was made up of humans, but there were exceptions, and those exceptions were, near as I could tell, harmless. They just wanted to make people happy. They weren’t doing any harm.

  I had no idea how I was going to get the Covenant to leave them alone.

  Drawing the knot on my gown a little tighter, I walked down the narrow alley separating the rides from the back of the big tent. We were doing three shows today, answering local demand with a gleeful expansion of our offerings. The main trapeze act, the Amazing Johnsons, had already flown at the morning show and would be flying again in the evening, taking to the swings for the delight and edification of what was estimated to be our largest crowd yet. They were good, and they were flashy, and most importantly, they looked like what people expected to see on the flying trapeze, two perfectly matched bodies launching themselves into the air without giving a damn about whether or not they hit the ground.

  Sam and I were a bit less standard. He was stiff when he flew in human form—and he always flew in human form for an audience—while I was tall for a trapeze girl, with boobs that required a lot more scaffolding than the norm. We were still death-defying and high off the ground, but we weren’t as fast, ironically.

  We were, however, one of the only trapeze acts I knew of to incorporate knives into the process. So there was that.

  I slipped into the tent, walking under the bleachers to where Sam was waiting for the cue to go on. He took in my fluffy pink dressing gown with a smirk. “Are you a pretty princess?”

  “I am the prettiest fucking princess you are ever going to see,” I replied. “You think I’m going to walk through a crowd of townies in sequins and fishnets? You’re high.”

  “I did it.”

  “You do not have double-D breasts.”

  “I’d look sort of silly if I did,” he said. “With my shoulders, I’d definitely want a G-cup.”

  I snorted and elbowed him in the side. Sam grinned.

  Much of his earlier asshole routine had been exactly that: a routine. Now that he knew I wasn’t going to freak out on him for the crime of having a tail, he was actually pretty decent company. Snotty and snide and prone to making terrible jokes when we were practicing, which had dropped me into the net more than once, but still, decent company. It helped that even when he was cracking wise, he caught me every time. I can forgive a lot of sins for a trapeze partner who never misses their grip on my ankle.

  The fire dancers, minus Umeko, were leaving the ring. Emery strutted out to the center, and began winding up the crowd with her next spiel. I wasn’t sure I’d call Sam’s and my routine “a daring glimpse of athleticism and grace,” but whatever got butts into seats was okay by me.

  She stopped talking. The crowd applauded. I untied my dressing gown and let it slide to the floor before following Sam out into the bright lights of the ring, both of us smiling and waving to the people in the bleachers. I couldn’t make out individual faces from where we were, but I didn’t need to. If you’d seen one crowd, you’d seen them all. They would be watching us with wide eyes and clasped hands, some because they wanted to see us fly, others because they wanted to see us fall. There will always be people who watch the flying trapeze the way they’d watch a train wreck, and as long as they aren’t jinks or mara, that’s fine by me.

  (Jinks are human-looking cryptids that feed on luck—either good or bad. I wouldn’t mind losing a little bad luck in midair, but when there’s nothing between me and a messy end but a thin net, I don’t want to risk losing so much as a crumb of good luck. A jink who wanted to screw with a trapeze act could wind up killing a lot of people. Mara are also human-looking cryptids, but they feed on life energy, putting their victims into a dreamlike stupor. A mara who wanted to screw with a trapeze act would wind up killing a lot of people. Sleepwalking is one thing. No one does sleep trapeze.)

  I reached my platform and spread my arms, back straight as an Olympic diver. On the other side of the wire, Sam stood on his own platform, posture mirroring mine. If we’d been part of a larger show, something like Cirque du Soleil, we would have been fifty feet off the ground and protected by filament-thin harnesses designed to give us a few more seconds to react if we slipped and fell. Since we were in a small, family-owned show, with the smell of sawdust clinging to our nostrils, we had a net, and we had each other. We had to trust that what we had would be enough.

  Sam unhooked his swing. I unhooked my swing. Together, without saying a word, we flew.

  Sam was always going to be a little stiff and over-precise in his human form. I thought he still performed astonishingly well, given that he was essentially performing on the flying trapeze while clenching every muscle in his body. It put us on roughly the same level, his stiffness counterbalancing the fact that I was still getting back into practice. It was only Sam vouching for me, and the fact that my time on the trampoline made me an essentially professional faller, that had convinced Emery to let me into the ring at all.

  We spent a few minutes doing the standard tricks, swinging back and forth, trading positions, flipping in midair—the things that are incredibly hard but still look easy enough for people who’ve seen a trapeze act before to take them for granted. Then we returned to our platforms, and I picked up a heavy bandolier, holding it up to show the audience. Most of them wouldn’t be able to see exactly what it was, just that it was some sort of shoulder sash that glittered when the light hit it. Getting it on took almost thirty seconds, because it had about a dozen Velcro straps, all of which had to be fastened tight. When it was done, I took down my swing and turned to the middle of the tent, nodding to Sam. He nodded back.

  We jumped.

  There was nothing ornamented or fancy about this jump: it was pure business. When we reached the center, we released our swings and exchanged them, me letting his swing carry me higher, him landing upside down, feet now hooked over my swing, so that his locked knees held him in place. We passed each other, crossed back, and when we were approaching the center for the second time, I let go of my swing, going into a tight corkscrew fall. Sam grabbed my feet before I could drop too far. The audience dutifully applauded, thinking this stunt had been the point of our setup. It was impressive, after all, and not something I would have attempted with someone shorter, or without a net.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid you’ve been somewhat deceived about the nature of tonight’s routine,” purred Emery over the loudspeakers. “Boys?”

  A group of bare-chested carnies in tight satin pants began strutting out from between the bleachers, to the delight of some, the discomfort of others, and the confusion of even more. Each of them was carrying a bullseye on a stick. The shortest was four feet tall; the tallest, ten.

  The men took up positions around the outside of the ring, in front of the watching bleachers of townies, and hoisted their bullseyes into the air. I reached into my bandolier and pulled the first two knives, holding them so they glittered in the light, making sure people had a chance to see the sparkle. They might not understand it at first, but I had every faith they’d appreciate it once they realized what was going on. I moved the first knife into a flinging position. Letting it go would signal Sam to begin the next part of our routine.

  Then I froze.

  The lights were only blinding from the platform. With Sam holding my feet, while I still looked dazzlingly high, my head was really only about twelve feet up. That was part of why Emery had agreed to this act: I wasn’t firing blind.

  Margaret Healy was in the fourth row of the bleachers
, a box of popcorn in her hand and a sardonic expression on her face. At least she was eating the popcorn, one kernel at a time, utterly relaxed. She knew there was no one in this room she couldn’t take.

  She shouldn’t have been here. I’d been checking in every day, I’d been making my excuses and telling my lies, and she shouldn’t have been here. There was no reason for her to be here. Not unless they’d decided to doubt me for some reason. I felt my fingertips heat up, until the knives I was holding were so hot that I could barely keep my grip. My fire couldn’t hurt me when it was on me, but the heat I created was a killer once it had transferred to something else.

  “Annie, come on,” hissed Sam through gritted teeth. “We’re going to run out of momentum.”

  I was supposed to be Timpani Brown. The sight of Margaret Healy shouldn’t have terrified me: it should have reassured me that everything was okay, my allies had my back. The combination of the pain from my heated knives, his voice, and who I was supposed to be brought me back. I shook off my paralysis, slapped a smile across my face, and flung the first knife. It flew straight and true, impacting with the tallest of the bullseyes before most of the audience realized what had happened. The carnie holding the pole gave it a spin, showing off what I’d done, and the room erupted into applause. Throwing knives from the flying trapeze? Now that was something new!

  None of them seemed to notice that the knife was smoking where it had slammed into the wood. Hopefully, no one was going to ask me about the scorch marks.

  Sam tightened his grip on my ankles and threw himself to the left, starting us spinning wildly. Only it wasn’t really that wild, because we had practiced this move until we could do it blindfolded (not that Emery was going to let me add “can’t see” to the list of things making this particular knife-throwing act so dangerous). We spun, and I threw, drawing knife after knife and flinging them at the waiting targets. It was a variation on the routine I’d done to impress Leo on my first day of Covenant training, and it worked exactly as it was intended to. The audience roared louder with every knife I threw, until my hands were empty and I spread my arms in the signal for Sam to let me go.

  He released my legs, and I fell to the waiting net, landing on my back and rolling for the side to finish my dismount. Once my feet were on the ground, I bowed to the crowd which roared appreciatively, and trotted for the bleachers, vanishing beneath them.

  On the trapeze, Sam was pulling himself out of his spin. He’d go into another series of flips and tricks after this, keeping the audience entertained while the clowns finished setting up their act. Normally, I would have waited for him, letting him walk me back to the bone yard. Not today. The sight of Margaret sitting in the bleachers had chilled me to the core, and I didn’t want to stay out in the open a moment longer than I had to. Maybe more importantly, I didn’t want her paying too much attention to Sam. Let her see him as the guy I was doing a random trapeze act with and nothing more. Please. Let her overlook him.

  The corridor we used to get between the bone yard and the big tent without passing through all the rides was clear, and I broke into a run when I was halfway down it, realizing only as I hit the tarp “door” to the bone yard that I’d left my dressing gown behind. It was too late to go back for it now. I kept running, hoping the worst that would come out of this day was a lecture from Emery about being careful with my things.

  I hit the door to the RV so hard and fast that the mice didn’t have time to cheer before I was inside. The phone was on my bed, the screen telling me I had four missed messages. The door slammed. The mice began to cheer. I whipped around, stabbing my index finger at where they stood on the counter. They stopped, going still as only prey animals truly can.

  “Disappear,” I said, in a harsh whisper that still felt like it was far too loud. “Margaret Healy is here, at the carnival. You know what will happen if she finds you. Don’t be found.”

  The mice didn’t say a word. They just vanished, scampering behind the microwave and out of view. Their little mouse-house was still there, but that was okay: I could claim it was some kind of weird hobby, a handicraft to let me pass the time. Aeslin mice are scrupulous about hygiene. There would be no droppings or food scraps inside the building for her to find.

  My hand shook as I picked up the phone and swiped my thumb across the screen. As I had expected, all four messages were from Margaret:

  SUE (11:35): Planning to come see you today.

  SUE (11:37): I understand you’re putting on quite the little performance there at the noontime shows. Can’t wait to see for myself.

  SUE (11:40): Come find me when you’re finished. I’ll be waiting where you found the dead girl.

  SUE (11:42): Don’t make me wait for long.

  That was where the messages ended. I would have been happier if they’d never started in the first place. My hands were still shaking as I dropped the phone on the bed and stripped off my costume, trying to find some comfort in the essential ritual of folding it and hanging it over the back of my one folding chair. It would need to be washed, of course, but I wasn’t set up for that, and so the responsibility fell to the costume mistress, who really just wanted to see that I was making an effort.

  By the time I was standing naked and alone in the RV, I’d stopped shaking and started tapping into something much cleaner and more familiar: anger. How dare she come here, when I had done nothing to make her suspect that I was lying to her? How dare she follow up on me like I was some sort of liar?

  But I was a liar, and even if she didn’t think of me as one, she would think of me as a raw recruit, someone whose indoctrination had been stopped too soon in order to send me on the sort of assignment that could easily become a loyalty-breaker. As far as she knew, this was the world I came from, and I was showing every sign of assimilating back into it. What would the Covenant do if I told her I wanted to stay here, that being a warrior for the secret survival of the human race had been a whim, but this was what I loved?

  I had a feeling Robert would make sure I went back, while Margaret would take the punishment for my wanting to stay in the first place. That was the real trouble with him being here. He made her subservient, because of her family—because of my family—and the desire to prove herself to him made her dangerous. Goodie.

  Getting dressed only took a minute, in part because I was still running around unarmed most of the time. I wouldn’t have been able to explain my customary number of weapons to Sam when I stripped for practice, or to Emery if she stopped me and noticed that I clanked. It was almost ironic. My siblings used to make fun of me for being a brawler, but these days, the fact that I was good at punching people was the only reason I didn’t feel defenseless all the damn time.

  My hands were heating up again as I left the RV. I shook them briskly, trying to chase the heat away. It was just starting to fade when a shape landed in front of me with a soft thud. There was no warning.

  “Ahhh!” I shouted, and swung for the figure’s head before I had time to realize who it was. Blame it on the tension: with the Covenant this close, coherent thought wasn’t high on my list of skills.

  “Whoa!” Sam danced backward, dodging my fist so easily that it was almost insulting. Nothing human could have gotten out of my way that fast. Then he paused and sniffed the air, tail curling into a question mark. “Dude, Annie, did you have a match in your hand or something?”

  “Um.” The fur on his cheeks wasn’t burning. That was good. Nothing else about this was good, but at least I hadn’t managed to set him actually on fire. “No. It just smells really smoky for some reason. I think they’re burning a bonfire somewhere near here? Anyway, I have to go, sorry.” I tried to step around him.

  True to form, Sam was immediately in my way again. Sometimes his speed was awesome, like when I slipped during practice and he kept me from eating net. Other times, it was a pain in my ass. “Why didn’t you wait for me today? Are you okay?”r />
  “I had to be somewhere, and sort of, but I still have to be there, so please, can I explain later?” I looked at him plaintively. “This is one of those things I absolutely have to do.”

  Sam’s expression turned suspicious. “Did you see someone you knew in the stands? Is that why you got all weird before you started throwing knives? Because we have bouncers.”

  The thought of the carnival’s bouncers going up against a trained member of the Covenant would have been laughable if it hadn’t been so chilling. “Please don’t do that,” I said fervently. “Yes, I saw someone I know. I need to talk to them alone. If you have them thrown out, it’s going to cause all kinds of problems that I don’t want to deal with.”

  “Are you in trouble?” He took a step closer, face grave. I’d never seen him look so serious about anything, not even when he seriously wanted me to go away. “If you are, I want to help. You know that, right?”

  “Reel it in, Parker,” I said, in my best Gwen Stacy voice. He laughed, some of the seriousness going out of his posture. That was good. I didn’t need a knight in shining armor saving me from the . . . knights in shining armor. Okay, that metaphor sort of got away from me even as I was putting it together. “I’m okay. I’m not going to be in trouble if I go see this person.”

  “And after, you’ll tell me what’s going on?”

  I paused. Finally, I said, “I’ll tell you what I can. But a girl’s got to have some secrets, or no one’s going to show up for the next issue.”

  “I’ll trust you this time, Annie, but you scared me. Please don’t let yourself get hurt because you don’t think we’ll stand with you. We’ll stand with you.” He paused before amending, “I’ll stand with you.”

  “I believe you,” I said, and smiled. This time, when I stepped to the side to get around him, he didn’t move to block me. I hoofed it for the edge of the bone yard, only pausing when I reached the tarp. I looked back. Sam was still there, backlit by the afternoon sun, watching me go.