Aleks Kaler - The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

Who the hell did this? Kingston whispers, staring at the corpse.

Sabinas body is on the pedestal she uses in the show, and she almost looks like shes performing. Almost. Her legs are tucked behind her ears in a perfect backbend, her fingers laced under her chin. Shes even smiling, her brown eyes fixed on a point far away.

Im right beside Kingston, doing everything I can not to vomit on his black Chucks, run from the tent, or do an embarrassing mixture of both. Right then, Id give my left kidney for him to wrap an arm around me to shield me from the atrocity before us. But hes not mine, and probably never will be. And even if he were, hes not the comforting type. I can feel his heat against my arm. I dont know why that sticks out at the moment, but maybe thats just the way shock works.

Were both standing in the dust of the center ring. The rest of the troupe quickly filters in with gasps and screams. Sabina looks perfect poised like shes holding a pose for the audiences applause. Except her sparkling unitard is usually white, not stained a wicked crimson. The long gash across her throat is a second smile leaking its secrets into the ring.

Someone is crying behind me. I dont look back. I dont look at anyone. I just look at Sabina and wonder what sort of shit-show Ive gotten myself into.

I hear a shout and look up to see Mab storming into the tent. Her wild black hair is in disarray and the sequins of her midnight-blue dressing gown sparkle in the lights. Not for the first time, I cant help but think that she looks like an early incarnation of Cher. Her porcelain face is flushed, and when she catches sight of her star contortionist, she stops dead. Mabs perfectly manicured hands clench and unclench at her sides. After a deep breath, she stalks forward, stepping over the ring curb and into the spectacle. She goes right up to Sabina and lightly puts a hand on the girls knee. I see something flash across Mabs face the tightening of her eyes, the barest strain of her lips. Then she withdraws her hand and faces us, her company.

Her minions.

Which of you found her like this? she asks. Her voice is deep and smoky, like an exjazz singers. Even though its a whisper, it carries to every wall of the big top.

A woman to my right steps forward. I've never asked her age but she looks like she's in her forties, maybe younger, with aquamarine eyes and fiery red hair that falls to her waist. Her skin is as pale as pearls, and even though she wears a rumpled blue bathrobe, she looks ready to take the stage. I cant help but glance down at my own wrinkled pjs, and hate her for it.

Penelope? Mab asks.

Yes, my Lady. Penelopes voice is crystal clear. Everything about her screams vintage pinup model, even the way shes holding her robe closed with one hand. Its like she practiced how to be perfectly disarrayed. Not five minutes ago, I was making coffee when I noticed the tent lights on. I thoughtI thought someone was practicing.

And she waslike this?

Yes. Exactly so.

Mab stares at the body, the corners of her mouth barely tilting into a frown. Shes not staring at Sabina like shes sad over the death of one of her troupe. No, Mabs expression is purely calculating, like shes facing a particularly frustrating Sudoku puzzle. One that might, at any moment, piss her off.

I assume no one knows who did this? she asks.

No one speaks. No one even breathes.

I mentally prepare myself, waiting for her to fly into a rage. Not that Ive ever seen Mab in a rage. But it doesnt take a genius to know theres a storm brewing under that well-maintained facade. I can only imagine that Hell hath no fury refers to her. But instead of ripping us a new one, she strokes the corpses short brown hair. Things are clicking behind Mabs green eyes, things that subdue everybody even her. A crowded tent has never been this quiet.

Well then, my loves, she finally whispers, almost to herself. It appears we have a murderer in our midst.

She lifts her hand. Like ash scattering to the wind, Sabinas body dissolves, collapsing in on itself in a hush of glitter and smoke.

There is still a great deal of congestion near the grey-and-blue main tent, but its pretty quiet at the pie cart, next to the forgotten bacon and boxes of cereal. Kingston stands by the serving table, grabbing a coffee before the rest of the troupe shakes itself from their post-murder stupor. He looks like a rock star at the peak of his glory days, all pale and angular and assured. His black hair is sticking up in the back from sleeping on it funny, and theres a line of stubble on his jaw. His white T-shirt hangs loose over lithe muscles; through it, I can see his lats. They curve under the fabric like wings, highlighted by the faintest shadow of a large serpentine tattoo. I shouldn't be staring. Melody would kill me if she knew.

Damn circus performers and their perfect bodies. Damn them to hell.

I guess this doesnt happen very often, I say, trying to focus on the fact that someone has just been killed, and not on the way Kingstons triceps cord when he starts pouring coffee into a second cup.

Never, he says, still facing away.

Do you think Mab will cancel tonights shows?

Kingston chuckles humorlessly. He turns around and stares at me over his mug, one eyebrow tilting up like Im a complete idiot. His eyes are dark brown, almost black the same color as the coffee steaming in his hands. I look away.

Dont count on it, Vivienne, he says. Mab doesnt cancel a show for anything. Ever.

Even if someone here is a killer?

Especially if.

He looks toward the tent and sighs. Hes only a couple years older than me Mel told me in secret that he was twenty-four but sometimes, when he gets all quiet like this, he seems much older. The show must go on.

If this was one of those perfect movies, this would be the moment for him to shake himself from his reverie and come over, say something comforting to the new girl or at least give her a hug. But like I said, Kingston doesnt act like that with me. If he has that soft side, he hasnt really shown it. Hes funny, yeah. Dependable, definitely. But comforting? Id have better luck trying to warm up to Mab.

I stuff my hands into my pockets and look back to the chapiteau in time to see a huddle of men carrying out the contortion pedestal. Sparkly purple dust wafts off it as they move it to the backstage tent. The sight brings Sabinas dripping body back to mind. For the second time today, Im glad I didnt eat breakfast.

Why do you think Mab suspects one of us? I ask.

Thats the thing, answers another voice. It cant be one of us.

I look back to see Melody walking over. Shes twenty-two, the same age as me, though we look nothing alike. We share the same slight build and hazel eyes, but thats where the resemblance ends. She has angular features and is an inch or two taller than me, not that I'm short. My ash-blonde hair reaches my back, while her brown hair is styled in a pixie cut. She looks like the type of girl you'd expect to find in some Bohemian cafe, reading poetry and chain smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. Less Hepburn, more hippie James Dean. Whereas I'd probably be the girl serving the coffee, the one you smile at but forget the moment you have your triple espresso pretty, normal, but utterly pass-over-able. She's Kingstons assistant onstage. And offstage, wherever one goes, the other is sure to follow. I hate to admit it, but theyre the perfect couple always teasing, always thinking of the other person, and never dipping into the PDA.

Mel gives me a nod before taking the coffee cup Kingston hands her, as if hed been waiting for her arrival. I guess it was too much to hope the spare was for me. Her eyes are shadowed. She shrugs deeper into her loose knit cardigan, in spite of the early summer heat. She looks like she hasnt slept in weeks.