Chapter 16
TEDDY
The Big Top pulses with energy as I take my seat for tonight's show. Same spot as before—halfway up, good sightlines, anonymous among families and couples drawn by the carnival's dark magnetism. But tonight feels different. Charged. Like electricity building before a storm.
I scan the crowd, looking for a familiar face, wondering if he'll show up. And there he is, sitting alone near the front, dressed in expensive clothes, his back ramrod straight.
Malachi Voss.
The drums start, and darkness swallows us whole until the spotlight flares to life, finding the ringmaster.
Elias Vale commands the space like a king surveying his domain, that ruby-tipped cane catching the light.
His pale eyes sweep the crowd, pausing for just a heartbeat when they reach the older man in front.
The show unfolds like before—strongman, knife thrower, animal tamer, fire eater, fortune teller.
Each act is more mesmerizing than the last, each performer radiating that same dangerous energy I felt the first night.
But my attention keeps drifting to Malachi Voss, watching his reactions. I wish I could see his face.
Finally, the illusionist and escape artist take the ring, and I stop looking at the old man.
My body's reaction is instantaneous—my breath sawing in and out, my heart in my throat, my pants growing tighter.
I watch Nova work her magic with chains and locks, watch Silas orchestrate their dance of restraint and freedom.
The show ends with thunderous applause, but Malachi Voss doesn't clap. He sits frozen, his head following the performers as they leave the ring.
The crowd filters out into the night, chattering about what they've witnessed. I hang back, letting families and couples pass while keeping one eye on Voss. He remains seated, apparently lost in whatever memories the performance stirred up.
Finally, he stands on unsteady legs and makes his way toward the exit. But instead of heading to the parking lot, he veers toward the back of the tent. Toward the dressing room where I witnessed a performance I wasn't meant to see.
Every instinct screams this is it—the moment I've been waiting for. I slip from my seat, following at a distance as he disappears behind the canvas walls.
Around the corner, Voss stands in front of the pop-up container, his hands clenched by his sides. Then the performers emerge—all seven of them, still in their show clothes but with masks removed.
But it's the way they move together—fluid, coordinated, like wolves in a pack—that makes my blood run cold.
These aren't just performers. They're predators.
Elias Vale steps forward first, towering over the older man despite Voss's attempts to maintain dignity. “Hello, Father.”
My breath catches in my throat at the title. Is Malachi Voss really Vale's father? Did these cultists abuse their own children?
“You've grown.” Voss's voice wavers despite his obvious attempt at control. “All of you.”
“Twenty years will do that, Father,” Silas says, his eyes burning with barely contained rage. Is Voss his father as well, then? “Though I'm surprised you recognized us. We were so much smaller when you last saw us.”
“Smaller,” the fire eater echoes. His hands flex like he's fighting the urge to reach for something combustible. “Weaker. Easier to break.”
The strongman says nothing, but his eyes hold murder. The knife thrower spins a blade between his fingers with casual menace.
Nova stands apart from the group, leaning against the dressing room's door with narrowed eyes. Even with the distance, she looks like she belongs here, among these damaged, deadly people.
“I know why you're here.” Voss tries to inject authority into his voice. “What you think I—what you believe happened—”
“Think?” Silas steps closer, invading the old man's space. “Believe? We know exactly what happened. We lived it.”
“The Sanctum of Ash is dead,” Voss says quickly. “Has been for years. Whatever grievances you harbor—”
“Grievances.” The word comes from Elias, flat and deadly. “Is that what we're calling twenty years of nightmares? The sound children make when they're dying?”
Voss's composure breaks. “I never—the things you're implying—I tried to help you. All of you. I provided structure, guidance, a home—”
“You provided hell,” the animal tamer says quietly. His voice carries the weight of unspeakable trauma. “You and the other Prophets. You fathered children and turned us into—”
“Enough.” Elias's voice cuts through the night air like a blade. “You know why we're here, Father. You've seen what's happened to your fellow Prophets. Abel Hawthorne. Peter Kane. John Fields.”
Each name hits Voss visibly. Voss’s face goes gray, and he actually staggers backward.
“Ezekiel Moore sends his regards,” the knife thrower adds with a vicious grin. “Oh, wait. He can't. He's dead.”
“You're murderers.” The accusation comes out weak, desperate.
“We're justice.” Silas's smile holds no warmth. “Twenty years overdue, but justice nonetheless.”
“The authorities—”
“Won't help you.” The fortune teller speaks for the first time, his voice carrying dark certainty. “They failed us in the past. They'll fail you now.”
Voss looks around wildly, as if searching for escape routes or allies. Finding neither, he seems to crumble inward. “What do you want?”
“Everything.” Elias circles him slowly, an animal stalking wounded prey. “Your reputation. Your foundation. Your comfortable retirement. Your peace of mind. We want you to know exactly what it feels like to be powerless, afraid, abandoned by everyone who's supposed to protect you.”
“I have money—”
“We don't want your money.” The fire eater's lighter appears, flame dancing in his palm. “We want your suffering.”
“Please.” The word tears from Voss's throat. “I'm an old man. I'm sick. I have cancer—”
“Good.” The coldness in the animal tamer's voice makes my blood freeze. “I hope it hurts.”
They let that sink in for a moment. Seven damaged souls surrounding the man who apparently broke them, savoring his fear like fine wine.
Then Elias nods toward the parking lot. “Go home, Malachi. Enjoy what time you have left. Because we're just getting started.”
Voss doesn't need to be told twice. He stumbles away into the night, leaving the seven brothers to watch his retreat with cruel satisfaction.
I should follow him. Should offer protection, call for backup, do something to prevent what's obviously coming. But I can't move. Can't breathe. Can't process what I've just witnessed.
The systematic hunting of cult leaders who tortured children. The methodical destruction of monsters who escaped justice for decades. A reckoning delivered by the very people the system failed to protect.
Part of me—the federal agent, the upholder of law and order—knows I should stop this. Should arrest these people before they can claim another victim.
But another part, deeper and more honest, whispers that maybe some debts can only be paid in blood.
I'm still wrestling with that moral calculus when movement catches my eye. The performers are dispersing, heading back to their trailers and whatever post-show rituals they maintain. All except two.
Nova and Silas remain near the dressing room behind the Big Top, bodies drawn together like magnets. Even from here, I can see the tension between them—sexual, yes, but deeper too. Recognition. Understanding. The kind of bond forged in shared darkness.
He backs her against the canvas wall, and I know I should look away. Know I'm violating their privacy, crossing lines that can't be uncrossed. But I can't stop watching, can't deny the way my pulse quickens as his hands frame her face.
When he kisses her, it's with the desperate hunger of someone claiming what's his. She responds with equal intensity, her fingers tangling in his hair, her body pressing against his like she's trying to crawl inside his skin.
My cock stirs despite everything—the moral implications, the professional ethics, the dozen reasons this is wrong. Watching them together does things to me I don't understand, awakens desires I've never acknowledged.
Suddenly, a hand lands on my shoulder, and I spin around, my heart hammering in my chest.
Elias Vale stands behind me, his pale gray eyes unnerving as they bore inside me.
“Enjoying the show, Agent Coleman?”
The blood freezes in my veins. He knows who I am.
I try to keep my voice casual. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
His laugh holds no humor. “Sure you don't. Theodore Coleman, FBI. Former Secret Service golden boy. Currently assigned to investigate the Sanctum of Ash cult.”
Fuck. How long have they known?
“We read about you in the papers,” he continues conversationally, never taking his eyes off mine. “Governor Langford's pet federal agent, sent to hunt down the big bad cult. Quite the hero story.”
More figures emerge from the shadows. The knife thrower, the fire eater, the strongman, the animal tamer. They surround me, cutting off all possible escape routes.
“Question is,” the knife thrower muses, his knife flashing near my face, “what do we do with our curious little federal agent?”
“Kill him,” the fire eater suggests cheerfully. “Make it look like an accident. Carnival's a dangerous place for tourists who wander where they don't belong.”
“Too messy,” the strongman rumbles. “Bodies attract attention we don't need right now.”
“Could disappear him like the others,” the animal tamer adds quietly. “One more missing person in a long list.”
They're discussing my murder like they're debating dinner options. Professional. Casual. Terrifyingly competent.
“Or,” a new voice cuts through the night, “we could see what he wants.”
Silas emerges from behind them, Nova at his side. They look slightly mussed from their passionate kiss. Seeing them together so close, knowing what I witnessed the other night—it makes my cock twitch despite the knife at my throat.
“I want to know the truth.” I manage to force words past my constricted throat.
“About what?” Vale asks conversationally. Like they're not threatening to kill me.
“About the Sanctum of Ash. About what happened to you. About what you're doing now.”
The fortune teller drifts into view last. “He speaks truth,” he observes. “But truth has many faces.”
“Some truths are dangerous to know,” Silas adds, studying me with those penetrating blue eyes. “Especially for federal agents with delusions of justice.”
“And what’s your truth, Theodore?” Nova asks me. My full name on her lips makes me dizzy. But I correct her automatically, like I’ve been doing all my life.
“Just Teddy,” I say softly, caught by her hypnotic eyes.
Murmuring voices from behind the Big Top draw their attention, momentarily releasing me from the hold Nova's gaze had on me.
“Let's lock him up,” Vale says, his voice brooking no argument. “We'll decide what to do with him in private.”
My head snaps in his direction. “Wait, I—”
The last thing I see is the strongman's fist. Then nothing.