Ringmaster (Seven Sins Carnival #1)

Chapter 1 Elias

ELIAS

Children’s laughter grows louder outside the trailer as the sun sets in Marrow Falls, the music from the rides distorting it, making it sound sinister. The Seven Sins Carnival’s opening act is beginning soon, the grand ceremony to herald in the activities of the next two weeks.

Two weeks my brothers and I will spend hunting and torturing the Prophet who lives here. Ezekiel Moore’s days are numbered and about to get a whole lot less pleasant.

Two decades ago, I led six of my friends, brothers in circumstance if not all in blood, in an unlikely escape from the clutches of a cult its Prophets called the Sanctum of Ash.

Now, we’re the ones with righteous blood on our hands.

Now, we hold the power of life and death over them.

Vengeance never tasted so motherfucking sweet.

“You seem broodier than usual, Elias,” my half-brother and second in command, Silas, purrs from where he’s practicing his illusionist tricks by the switched-off heater. We share a father and have every intention of killing him soon.

“He’s always tense,” Jonah says, his deep voice a rumbling bass. He’s looking out the trailer window, but there’s a smirk on his lips, letting me know he’s just teasing. He may be the carnival’s strongman, but he’s a gentle giant. Always feels so fucking guilty when he has to get his hands bloody.

Cole chuckles, throwing one of his knives in the air, then deftly catching it by the handle.

“What’s so funny, asshole?” I ask our resident Pretty Boy. “Today is important.”

He mimes locking his mouth and throwing away the key. But the twins pick up the thread.

“Today, we’re taking back our childhood,” Rowe begins, imitating my voice and doing a pretty damn good job of it.

“The pain they doled out shaped us as boys,” Logan continues fiercely.

“But as men? We became its masters,” Silas adds, finishing my usual intro speech.

I throw my hands up, the rings on my fingers glistening under the low lights.

“Fuck you guys,” I grumble. “If you’re not gonna take this seriously, get the hell out of my trailer. I can’t breathe with all your egos filling out the space.”

“We are taking it seriously, brother,” Marek says quietly from his shadowed corner. He never has to speak up for us to listen—he’s trained us well.

“Yeah. We’ve just heard you say this a dozen times by now,” Cole drawls.

“Fine,” I relent. “You all know the plan. Once Seven Sins shuts down for the night, Prophet Ezekiel’s torture begins.”

They murmur in assent, their eyes a bit glazed with memories of the past. I know the look—I see it in the mirror all the fucking time.

“What do the cards say, Marek?” Cole asks jovially, bringing us back to the present. Or rather, the future.

While Silas and I share a father, Marek and Silas share a mother.

That was a rare occurrence among the cult’s chattel, Rowe and Logan aside—the women usually didn’t survive the Prophet’s tender mercies long enough to give birth twice.

The two men both prefer a touch of mysticism with their shows, though with Marek, it doesn’t feel like an act.

The rest of us watch in silence as he turns three cards: Justice, The Chariot, and The Tower.

Marek taps the first card. “We will get what’s owed.” His finger hovers over the second card. “We won’t be diverted from this path.”

“Hell yeah,” Rowe says irreverently, bumping fists with his twin.

“However,” Marek says before a long, cryptical pause. His light gray eyes are glued to the third card—The Tower.

“However?” Jonah asks gruffly, voicing our collective impatience.

“However, what we built will not survive unchanged.”

I blink at Marek, my fingers tapping nervously against my thigh.

“What the hell does that even mean?” Logan scoffs. I can hear the apprehension he’s trying to hide, though—none of us fuck with Marek’s cards. We’re too superstitious, too much a product of a vile religious cult.

Marek’s pale eyes turn in my direction, staring at me unnervingly. “You’re first.”

No one speaks for a moment. Then I chuckle, tugging on my red striped tie. “I usually am first,” I mutter, and pull out my pocket watch. As the ringmaster, I’ll be the first to perform for the gathering crowd tonight. “It’s showtime,” I add, effectively ending this meeting.

My brothers get up and start shuffling out as I take a few deep breaths, grounding myself in the silence they leave behind.

Well, a carnival is never silent. There’s music from the rides, and soon there will be music from various performances.

There’s laughter, followed by shrieks of terror.

The rumbling of machinery, the chatter of the crowd, the popping of guns from the shooting gallery.

A raucous cacophony that feeds my starving soul—an ever-expanding black void that hungers for violence.

Perhaps hunting down every last Prophet will appease it, make it stop growing. And maybe it won’t. Maybe nothing will.

On the way out of my trailer, I grab my striped top hat. As soon as I’m outside, I put it on, pulling the brim low; I prefer my face to stay half hidden by shadows at all times.

The last traces of the setting sun survive in the west, painting the sky a deep purple. Two fireflies dance around me in tandem as I stride to the back of the huge Big Top with its burgundy and cream stripes, the flags flapping in the breeze.

I make sure my costume is in order—nothing unbuttoned, nothing creased—before sliding in under the stands, the wood creaking as the audience shifts above me.

I give Matt, my technician, the cue, and the lights die all at once.

The crowd hushes, breath catching in a single, communal inhale.

For a heartbeat, there’s nothing but darkness and the low creak of canvas shifting overhead, the smell of sawdust and oil and sugar thick in the air.

I live for this moment. The pause before belief.

The second where fear and anticipation are indistinguishable.

Then the drum begins. One slow beat. Deep. Steady. It vibrates through the ring beneath my boots, through my bones. Another beat follows. Then another. The rhythm of a heart. Or a countdown.

A single spotlight ignites at the center of the ring, cutting a clean white circle into the dark. Smoke curls along the ground, rolling in low and deliberate. I step into it.

My coat sits heavy on my shoulders, velvet brushing my calves as I move, my black gloves snug against my skin. Gold glints, catching the light when I lift my cane and tap it once against the ring.

Silence.

I don’t need a microphone. I never have.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say, my voice carrying easily, wrapping around the crowd like silken threads. At least that’s how I picture it. “Sinners and saints. The curious and the condemned.”

A nervous laugh breaks out somewhere to my left. I let it die on its own.

“Welcome,” I continue, pacing the edge of the ring, eyes scanning faces—families, couples, teenagers pretending they’re not afraid. “You’ve come looking for wonder. For spectacle. For a little magic to distract you from the ordinary horrors of the world.”

I stop. Turn back toward the center.

“Lucky for you,” I murmur, “you’ve found us.”

Warm gold bulbs flicker back to life overhead, outlining the tent’s ribs like a cathedral built of canvas and wire. Figures emerge from the shadows at the edges of the ring.

Jonah first, massive and still as stone, arms crossed over his chest. Cole spins a knife between his fingers, flashing the crowd a grin sharp enough to draw blood.

Logan exhales fire in a controlled bloom, heat washing over the front rows as they flinch back.

Rowe stands beside his animals, calm hands steady against fur and muscle.

Silas appears and disappears in a shimmer of smoke and mirrors.

Marek lingers at the edge, half in shadow, eyes already elsewhere.

“This is the Seven Sins Carnival,” I say. “Where temptation wears a smile, and every thrill comes with a price.”

The drumbeat quickens.

“For the next two weeks,” I continue, voice lowering, “you will see things you won’t be able to explain. You will feel things you won’t be able to forget. And when you leave…” I pause, letting the silence stretch. “When you leave, you’ll swear you were changed.”

A ripple of applause rolls through the tent. Excited. Uneasy. Perfect.

I spread my arms wide, coat flaring like wings.

“So step right up,” I command. “Leave your expectations at the door. Leave your innocence if you’re brave enough. Because once the show begins,” I say softly, smiling at last, “there’s no turning back.”

The drum slams once, hard, and the crowd erupts into raucous cheers.

My eyes sweep the audience one last time.

I’m about to turn when something blue flashes, catching my gaze.

A tall woman is leaning against the railing, not sitting, not clapping, not smiling.

Her eyes, something dark, are glued to me, unblinking.

It’s like she’s assessing me, judging me, weighing my goddamn soul on the scales of justice.

Curious.

Really fucking curious.

But not enough to distract me from tonight’s activities.

The first act is about to begin.