Chapter 2 Jules
JULES
Ipull my Harley up to the carnival’s designated parking lot and take off my helmet. Running my fingers through my short blue hair, I look up at the glowing sign, backdropped by a deepening purple sky, with several bulbs flickering or burned out—The Seven Sins Carnival.
Uncovering sins is what I do best.
I lean my bike on the kickstand and leave the helmet on the handlebars, tucking my gloves inside.
No one touches bike gear in small towns like Marrow Falls—too many one-percenter motorcycle clubs around these parts to risk messing with someone’s property.
I know the Wicked Sinners run things a couple of counties over.
How do I know? Because I tried to do an exposé last year and got the runaround, that’s how.
I’m not going to let that happen here. Thanks to my contacts in law enforcement, I’m certain this carnival has skeletons in its funhouse.
It could, of course, be a coincidence that missing persons reports pop up more often than not as they roll out of town.
But… I don’t think so. And that’s why I’m here tonight.
It’s opening night, and I want to get a good foothold.
Not much is known about the people behind the carnival.
It’s owned by Seven Sins Entertainment LLC, though from what I uncovered, the name changed a few times over the years.
I saw two names on the permits I could dig out—Elias Vale and Silas Crowley.
Finding more about them, however, proved to be a challenge. I’m up to it, though, no doubt about that.
I pass under the lit-up entrance arch, flinching when a clown runs past, seemingly chasing a black cat and laughing maniacally. I don’t think the cat is part of an act.
Okay, I think I’m up to it.
Why’d it have to be clowns? I almost prefer burly bikers with guns and very few scruples.
I inhale deeply, taking in the smell of popcorn, cotton candy, and frying oil. It’s been a long time since I was at a carnival, and I almost wish this were a leisure visit. Then again, what better way to blend in than to enjoy the food and rides?
I veer over to the ticket booth and buy ride tickets, enough to do everything once.
“When do the shows start?” I ask the bored-looking teenager at the till.
“Opening act’s first,” he says with a forced smile. “That’ll be any moment now, in the main tent over there. Can’t miss it.”
“Thanks,” I reply amicably. No point in asking more questions now, raising suspicion. I have two weeks after all, and this teenager is probably not in the know. He might even be a local—it’s not like I know everyone in the area, and he might be from a neighboring town like me.
When I step deeper, music from the rides starts overlapping, the chatter of the crowd pressing against me from all sides. Warm yellow bulbs illuminate the paths as night settles in, neon lights from various attractions flickering over impenetrable shadows.
The main tent is slightly removed from the rides and, like the teen said, impossible to miss. Dark red and off-white stripes lead to flags waving high in the air. That’s where I’m going to find my targets.
A deep drumming sounds from the huge tent, vibrating the dirt under my feet, and I pick up my pace. I don’t want to miss this.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a smooth voice says from inside just as I trade the outside world for darkness and the smell of sawdust. “Sinners and saints. The curious and the condemned.”
The audience laughs uneasily as I climb up to the stands. They’re plunged into darkness, a single spotlight illuminating the figure standing in the center of the ring. A tall, built man, wearing a top hat, striped suit, heavy coat, and holding a cane decorated with gold.
This is the ringmaster. Elias Vale or Silas Crowley? Or someone whose name is still shrouded in mystery?
“You’ve come looking for wonder.”
No, I’ve come looking for a story.
As a freelance journalist, finding hinky stuff, such as murderous carnies, puts food on the table. Wherever that table may be at the time.
“Lucky for you, you’ve found us.”
The overhead lights turn on just as I lean against the railing. Now that I have a good view of the man in the spotlight, I can’t stop looking at him. He has the palest eyes I’ve ever seen. From this distance, I can’t tell if they’re blue, green, or gray, just that they’re piercing and otherworldly.
I’m so wrapped up in him that I don’t notice the men behind him until one breathes fire over the audience’s heads, making them gasp in alarm, then giggle nervously.
But they’re all almost as striking as their ringleader.
The one with the torch and the one casually resting his hands on the flanks of a lion and bear look nearly identical.
Though the one doing magic tricks and the one shuffling cards kind of look alike too. Are they all related?
Well, obviously not the huge, mahogany-skinned man with the sharpest cheekbones I’ve ever seen and the plushest lips on this planet.
He’s tossing around a humongous barbell like it’s a baby’s rattle.
Then there’s the one playing with knives like they’re made of rubber, his slanted eyes signaling a different heritage to the rest.
Somehow, though, they seem to be tied, as if they’re orbiting around each other like planets in a solar system. And the sun? It’s the man in the middle.
“So step right up,” he says, his hands in the air, the red sphere at the top of his cane glinting. “Leave your expectations at the door. Leave your innocence if you’re brave enough. Because once the show begins… there’s no turning back.”
The single powerful drumbeat makes my breath catch in the back of my throat. Still, I don’t join the crowd in its applause, soaking in the sight of the ringmaster while he’s still in the spotlight.
Just then, his eyes sweep over the crowd where I’m standing, then cut back to me. I blink, wondering if I’m imagining his icy gaze sucking me in like a black hole.
His hold over me is gone as fast as it came, his heavy coat swishing with his long, determined steps.
“Are you ready?” he says like the perfect showman. The crowd goes wild around me, cheering, clapping, stomping their feet. “I said… Are. You. Ready?”
“Yeah!” the audience yells like one entity. I’m startled to see that I got sucked in too, shouting along with them.
“Then, please, welcome… The Illusionist!”
As the man who was performing tricks on the sideline takes center stage, carnival workers bustling around him to set up his props, I realize my lungs are struggling to get fresh oxygen into my veins.
I pull my leather jacket away from my overheated skin, then stumble to the exit. Thankfully, I didn’t move far from it, and the humid but cooler night air fills my lungs as I take a deep breath.
What was that? Am I so excited by the prospect of this story? Or is it the incredibly handsome ringmaster? The black leather gloves, the skillful grip on his cane, the top hat casting a shadow over half of his chiseled face…
You’re not here to write a romance book. Put your game face on, bitch.
As I turn around, I think I see a long coat turning the corner behind the main tent. Was that…
I’m there in a flash, looking around, but all I see are the few carnival-goers who didn’t bother to watch the opening show—mostly teens who probably think they’re too cool for the pomp—and workers moving with purpose.
He’ll be back, though, right? I mean, he’s the one tying the various acts together. So I just need to pull my big girl leathers on and take a seat inside. Then, once the show is over, I’m going to follow him to his trailer. That’ll be a good place to start.