Chapter 5 Elias
ELIAS
Jerry’s eyes widen as I approach him. I don’t think I have a firm grasp on my anger right now. Not only did he interrupt me while I was talking with the beautiful vixen I can’t get out of my head, but he yelled about a ride malfunctioning when carnival goers already started filling in.
“I’m really sorry, Elias,” he says now as I grab his arm to pull him to the side. “I was just fucking frustrated at this bucket of bolts. I’ve been saying for a year now that we need to replace the circuitry.”
I run a hand down my face. “Order what you need. I’ll allocate the funds for it this week.” They’ll be generously donated by Ezekiel Moore.
Jerry blinks at me, his mouth slightly open. “Really, boss?”
“Really. But Jerry?” I step closer, leveling my gaze on him. “Say shit like that in front of an audience again, and you’re done. Do you understand me?”
Jerry’s throat bobs as he swallows. “I gotcha, boss. Sorry. Won’t happen again. Promise.”
“Make sure it doesn’t,” I say lowly, then turn on my heel, leaving him sputtering.
I need to get ready for the show. Someone very interesting will be in the audience after all.
Silas is in my trailer, working on his sleek and powerful laptop, his feet up on my table.
“That’s unhygienic,” I point out.
“We tag-teamed a chick on it last month,” he shoots back unrepentantly.
Chuckling, I drop down in the booth next to him. “Fair enough.”
Silas and I share women often. After all, they’re all passing dalliances, just as we’re only passing through their small towns and small, boring lives.
But for some reason, I don’t mention my blue-haired beauty to him.
I feel oddly unwilling to share, like a toddler with a toy.
Not that we had many toys to share, being born in the Sanctum of Ash.
I tap my fingers on the tabletop, restless, anticipating feeding my darkest needs on Jules and Ezekiel, though in very different ways. “Jerry’s going to order new circuitry for the carousel. Make sure we have the funds for it, will you?”
Silas smirks, not looking up from his screen. “Hmm. A full control system replacement? PLC, motor controllers, safety shutoffs… Thirty grand should do it. Thank you, Prophet Ezekiel.”
I laugh in satisfaction—I can’t wait to pull up the feed for the camera I hid in Moore’s study later and gloat over his reaction.
“Right. Showtime, brother.” I knock on the tabletop one more time before getting up to collect my coat, cane, and top hat.
“Ah, shit, I lost track of time,” Silas mutters. “I need to make sure the new chains are set up properly for my tank act.”
“Getting wet again?” I tease as he picks up his things.
Silas wags his eyebrows. “It makes the ladies wet in return. Want me to find someone for us tonight?”
I hesitate for a second, then decide to tell him about Jules after all. “I have plans with someone already.”
My brother blinks at me. “Someone special?” he guesses correctly.
Still, I shake my head. “How special can anyone be when we’re only in town for a week or two at most? She just… I need to get her out of my system.”
Silas raises his hands defensively. “Fine, fine. Let me know if you change your mind. Or need help.” He winks and ducks when I throw a damp kitchen towel at his face.
In the Big Top, I scan the crowd for that flash of blue hair.
She either isn’t here yet or is sitting somewhere above my position in the staff alcove.
I roll my lips together, thinking of the way her top displayed her tits, the way those leather pants clung to the curves of her ass.
Instead of focusing on the show, all I can think about is making her scream my name after.
“You seem on edge,” Rowe says from my side. “A bit like a caged animal.” He snickers at his own dumb joke while I expel a gust of air from my nose.
“There’s a woman,” I share as I consult my pocket watch. Just a few seconds more. “A local.”
“Oh,” is all Rowe says. From the corner of my eye, I can see him trace the scars on his wrist.
Rowe had the extreme misfortune to draw the attention of a particularly obsessive Prophet—Samuel Harlan.
Even two decades later, Rowe doesn’t let anyone touch him, except for Logan—and the rest of us only when really necessary.
If he’s had a consensual sexual encounter, he doesn’t talk about it.
I think he only truly trusts his brothers and his animals.
“Ready to show these people why they should part with their money night after night in our carnival?” I ask him, drawing his attention away from the broken pieces of his psyche.
Rowe’s usual animalistic smile returns as he’s given a purpose—to dazzle, enchant, and enamor the crowd. A contrast to what we do when they’re all asleep. Then we tell our story in blood.
“You know I am,” he confirms with a low growl. I resist the urge to slap him on his back—sometimes I push him, try to desensitize him, but I don’t think the touch would do any good right now.
“Here we go,” I say quietly, then step into the limelight with my arms raised. I soak in the thunderous applause, the vibration of the music and cheers, the adoration.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say over the din. “Are you ready to sin?”
The lights dim until the tent is nothing but breath and shadow.
I stand in the center of the ring, arms still raised, cane balanced loosely in my palm as the applause crests and breaks over me like a wave. This—this—is where I belong. Here, where hundreds of eyes wait for my permission to look.
“Good,” I murmur, smiling slowly. “Because sin is best enjoyed together.”
A low drumbeat rolls through the tent, deep and steady, vibrating up through the soles of my boots. I lower my arms, tapping my cane once against the ring. The crack echoes, sharp and final.
“Tonight,” I continue, pacing the circle, “you will witness strength that defies reason. Grace that defies fear. And temptation that defies good sense.”
The lights snap to the edge of the ring.
Jonah steps forward, and the crowd gasps.
He’s bare-armed, muscles carved and gleaming under the lights, chains wrapped around his torso like macabre decorations. He plants his feet, calm and unassuming, as if he’s about to lift nothing heavier than a child. A crew member hooks the chains to a weighted sled behind him.
“Some men,” I say, watching the audience lean forward, “are born to carry burdens.”
Jonah nods once. Then he moves.
The chains go taut. Metal screams against metal. The sled lurches, then drags forward inch by brutal inch as Jonah pulls it across the ring, veins standing out, breath controlled, expression almost serene. The crowd erupts—cheers, shouts, disbelief—but Jonah never looks at them.
Smoke floods the ring, thick and rolling, swallowing Jonah as if he were never there at all.
“Others,” I murmur, my voice dropping, “are born to deceive.”
Silas’s laughter carries out of the haze—soft, delighted—before his shape flickers into view. One moment he’s there, the next he’s gone, reappearing behind a shrieking teenager from the front row, bowing theatrically as the crowd howls.
A rose blooms in his hand and wilts to ash before it hits the ground.
Misdirection. Control. Belief… I feel it settle over the audience like a spell.
Good.
The lights blaze suddenly, heat washing over the front rows as Logan steps into view, fire blooming from his mouth in a controlled arc that paints the tent in gold and crimson. The crowd screams—fear and delight tangled together—and I smile wider.
This is how you own them.
Not by force.
By making them want what you give.
As the applause crashes again, I lift my cane and bring it down once more.
Silence falls instantly.
I scan the crowd, slow and deliberate, until I find her: blue hair, steady gaze, watching me like she’s already halfway under.
My smile sharpens.
“Welcome,” I say softly, eyes locked on hers, “to the Seven Sins Carnival.”
The music swells. The lights explode back to life.
And the show truly begins.