Hunting #3
“I warn you once more—do not get too attached.” Mephistopheles’s voice boomed so loudly I felt an echo of it in my own chest. “While we boast death-defying acts, no one escapes its grip forever. Will tonight be the end for some? Will you lose your hearts? Or perhaps,” he grinned over his shoulder at the crowd, “you will lose your heads.”
A spotlight illuminated a crudely painted harlequin doll—which hadn’t been there a moment before.
Pivoting in a single, graceful movement, the ringmaster threw a dagger across the stage.
It flew blade over handle, sinking into the doll’s neck with a thwack that hushed the audience.
For a taut moment nothing happened. All was wretchedly still.
We sat there, scarcely breathing, waiting.
The doll’s body stubbornly remained pinned to the board it had been propped against. Another moment passed and Mephistopheles tsked.
“Well. That won’t do.” He stomped his feet. “Everyone… do as I do!”
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
Passengers obliged, slowly at first, then sent the dining saloon into a vibrating frenzy.
China rattled, silverware scuttled across tables, goblets sloshed merlot onto the expensive linens, our tables now appearing more like crime scenes than elegant spreads.
Deciding to let go of my well-bred reserve a bit, I stomped along.
Thomas, a bemused expression on his face, followed my lead.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
The pounding drummed into each of my cells, prompting my blood to pump to the beat. It was animalistic and feral, and yet so… thrilling. I could not believe so many lords and ladies and highborn passengers of first class were swept up in the hedonism and debauchery.
Mrs. Harvey brought her gloved fists down on the table, adding a new fervor to the sound thrumming in my ears. Miss Prescott did the same. A breath later the doll’s head thumped to the floor, rolling toward the ringmaster’s gleaming boots.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. It seemed no one was quite ready to give up the devil’s rhythm once it had started. Mephistopheles was the conductor of this wicked symphony, his hand punching the air as the stomp stomp stomping reached a fever pitch.
“Silence!” he shouted, voice booming above everything else. As if he were a puppet master snipping strings, the clomping of feet ceased. Some in the crowd stood, cheering, while a few men in silk top hats whistled loudly.
Miss Prescott rose from her seat, face flushed and eyes bright, completely unaffected by the glare her parents leveled at her. “Bravo!” she called out, clapping. “I said bravo!”
Mephistopheles gazed at the severed head with a thoughtful expression, as if he was reliving a memory that haunted him, something wretched enough he’d never escape it, no matter how far he’d run.
I imagined, like his elaborate illusions, nothing was quite as it seemed where he was concerned.
To my astonishment, he picked up the doll’s head and kicked it into the air, where it exploded in fireworks that sprinkled down like fallen stars, burning out before they reached the black-and-white-tiled floor. Silence fell upon us all.
“So, I inquire once more, which will you lose before the week is through? Your heart? Your head? Perhaps,” he drawled, face cast in shadows as the chandeliers dimmed slowly before winking out, “you will lose your life, your very soul, to this magical traveling show.”
I gasped and held my gloved hands up, but could only make out the barest hint of them.
My heart pumped faster as I glanced around the pitch blackness, enraptured yet terrified of what monster might be lurking.
Seemed I wasn’t the only one intrigued. Excited murmurs rippled through the darkness.
The promise of death was as alluring, if not more so, than the prospect of falling in love.
What morbid creatures we were, craving danger and mystery in place of happily-ever-afters.
“For now,” he continued, his voice a smooth caress in the dark, “enjoy an evening of magic, mischief, and mayhem.” My palms dampened and I couldn’t help sitting forward, needing another word, another clue, another bit of the surreal.
As if he’d heard my inner longings, Mephistopheles spoke again.
“Esteemed passengers of the Etruria… please indulge your senses in the greatest show from sea to sea,” he crooned.
“Welcome to Mephistopheles’s Magnificent Minstrel Show, or as it’s better known… the Moonlight Carnival!”
Lights flashed on, the brightness stinging as I blinked dark spots away. A moment later, Mrs. Harvey shoved away from our table, face as pale as a specter. Thomas reached out to steady her, but she raised a shaking hand.
I followed her gaze and bit my tongue hard enough to taste copper. Miss Prescott—the young woman clapping with delight moments before—lay facedown, unmoving, in a pool of blood with nearly a dozen knives stuck deep in her velvet-covered back.
I stared, waiting for her to gasp out or twitch. To toss her head back and laugh, having fooled us with her performance. But that was an illusion of my own making.
Miss Prescott was truly dead.