Chapter 4 #2
"Let go. Now."
Swinger did the same with the younger guy, while Bulldog positioned himself protectively in front of the now-released carnival worker.
"You don't want to fight us," Swinger said, pulling the guy's arm behind his back, subduing him. I did the same.
That's when the temperature dropped.
I felt that familiar sensation of the air being sucked from my lungs.
Ringmaster Mortis emerged from the parting crowd, who were giving him a wide berth.
He wasn't alone. The five clowns surrounded him like a personal guard.
The puzzle-faced one's once-happy pieces were now arranged in an angry scowl.
The orange-haired one's perpetual grin had twisted into something murderous.
But it was the red-haired clown who made my arm hair stand on end.
His glare fixed on the two drunk men with such intensity that I half-expected them to burst into flames.
But even with the clowns' malicious looks, it was blatantly clear who was in charge. Mortis.
He approached with that same floating gait, his ornate hat casting shadows that seemed to move independently of any light source. The small skulls hanging from the red silk cords clinked softly as he moved. His fingers steepled in front of his chest. His dark, haunting eyes surveyed the scene.
"Come, pet," he called to the carnival worker, his voice carrying easily despite its soft tone. His pointer fingers pointed at her.
She immediately walked over to him; her head lowered in submission or reverence—I couldn't tell which. Mortis placed a single finger under her chin and lifted her face to meet his gaze. His head tilted from side to side as he studied her.
"Were you hurt, pet?" he asked, his voice gentle but with an underlying edge that made the two drunk men finally stop struggling against our hold.
She shook her head no but unconsciously rubbed her wrist.
"Let me see." For the first time, I saw him undo his hands. He held his palms out and took her hands in his. Carefully, he turned them side to side, examining the visible red marks.
Mortis leaned down close to her, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow only she could hear.
His enormous hands wrapped around her wrists, causing her to gasp.
Closing his eyes, he spoke, his hands rubbing against her wrists.
He then opened his eyes and spoke to her.
She rubbed her left wrist, then her right.
She nodded her head and spoke back to him in the same inaudible tone, her lips moving but no sound reaching the rest of us.
When she finished, Mortis straightened to his full height. His black eyes fixed on the two men, and his head cocked to the side like a hawk assessing its prey. There was something predatory in that movement that made every instinct my gorilla scream warnings.
He returned his gaze to her, placing his hand gently on her cheek. This time his voice was audible. "You did nothing wrong, my pet. You were right to fight them. Are you alright to keep working, or would you like to go rest?"
Again, she spoke in that silent whisper that only he could hear.
Mortis turned to the nearest clown—the orange-haired one. "With all these people around, make sure she makes it safely to her booth, then return."
He turned back to her. "Go with him, pet," Mortis said, his voice warm with approval. "I shall check on you later." He rubbed his hand down her cheek again.
Hand in hand, she followed behind the orange clown through the people.
Now Mortis' attention turned fully to the two men. As he looked at them, something began to change. He seemed to grow taller, his frame expanding with each silent breath. The expensive suit and top hat grew with him.
My gorilla instincts were screaming at me to get as far away from this situation as possible.
"You two attempted to hurt one of mine," Mortis said, his voice deepening as his body continued its transformation.
He leaned toward the skull hanging on the right side of his hat, his head tilting as if listening to whispered advice. Then he straightened, and in a deeper voice:
"Why?" he asked simply.
"What are you?" the younger man asked as he tried to release himself from Swinger's hold. "The carnival freak?"
"WHY?" Mortis demanded.
"I liked the look of her," the man said.
"AND YOU?" Mortis' voice barked.
"I wasn't gonna hurt her," the older man stammered, suddenly very sober. "I just—I just wanted to talk to her."
"Me too," the younger one echoed frantically. "Just talk. Talk, that's all."
"Liar," the older man shouted. "You wanted to see where her circles ended."
"Oh yeah, well you said you would make it worth her while," the younger one snapped back. "What's that mean? Young girl, old dick—that's what it means. O-L-D." He spelled out each letter.
Mortis leaned toward the skull on the left side of his hat, then straightened to a terrifying height—easily eight feet tall now, his presence dominating the space around us.
I caught Bulldog's glance and knew he was as shocked and speechless as I was.
"Good God, what kind of weird-ass freak are you?" the first guy asked, his voice cracking with fear.
"Yeah, and what's with these damn clowns?" the other one chimed in.
Mortis looked genuinely amused by the question.
"Freak?" His face broke into a large, unnerving smile, revealing gold teeth, each carved with some sort of symbol.
"Freak?" The air temperature seemed to drop again.
Mortis threw his head back and laughed—a spine-chilling laugh.
The clowns joined in the cringe-worthy sound.
Passersby would have thought a herd of cats were in a fight the way their laughter pierced the night.
The shrieking ended as quickly as it started.
"Freak, you say?" Mortis paused. "I, sir—" His head cocked to the side as he stepped closer to all of us, casting us in a thick shadow that hadn't been there before. Instantly, I was chilled to my core, my focus locked on Mortis looming over us.
"I am THE freak. I am THE darkness. I AM what you fear." He laughed a deep, guttural laugh that made my throat fill with bile. Mortis bent forward from the waist, bringing his face near ours. He whispered, "And I am your nightmare."
He bent his head to the right, then to the left, as if listening to the vacant, hollow skulls hanging at his ears. "I agree." He snapped upward, bringing our eyes with him. "YOU HAVE LIED," he boomed from his full height.
He moved his hands in a slow, swaying motion, and I felt something oily and wrong slide through the recesses of my mind—the same sensation I'd experienced when the purple-haired clown had tried to influence me the night before.
Only this time it was a thousand times more intense, like something was probing, searching my head.
"You wanted her, didn't you?" Mortis said to the young man, his hands still moving in that hypnotic pattern. "You too wanted her," he said to the older man. He stopped moving his hands. "She's not yours to have. Did she tell you that?"
Before either man could answer, Mortis snapped his fingers.
The sound echoed like a gunshot, and both men went rigid.
Not just still—completely rigid, their faces frozen mid-expression, their arms forced from our grips, snapped to the men's sides.
Both bodies locked in place—they resembled museum statues.
"Speak," Mortis commanded.
"Yes, she told me, but I didn't care," they said in perfect unison, their voices flat and emotionless. "I wanted her, and if I couldn't have her, I would make sure he couldn't either."
"That is what I thought," Mortis commanded. "Take them."
The red and purple clowns stepped forward. Each slung a man onto their shoulders with no effort whatsoever. They strode off as if the men weighed no more than small toddlers. Bulldog and I exchanged glances, and I could tell he was just as shocked.
When I looked back at Mortis, he had returned to his normal size, as if the transformation had never happened. He leaned casually toward the skull on the right side of his hat.
"Quite right." His posture was the complete opposite of what we'd just experienced. His hands returned to their steepled position. He looked almost relaxed.
"Thank you, gentlemen," he said, fixing us with those unsettling black eyes.
Mortis looked to the blue-haired clown and said something in that same inaudible whisper he'd used with the carnival worker.
The clown nodded and stepped forward, reaching into his pocket, producing three rolls of cash.
He handed one to each of us without a word.
Mortis returned his gaze to the three of us. "You saved one of mine, and I am grateful. Yours for a job well done," Mortis said with what might have been genuine warmth. "Please continue with your duties."
With that, he spun around and glided away, his coattails billowing behind him. The remaining clowns followed. The crowd dispersed as if nothing had happened, returning to their carnival activities with the same eager enthusiasm they'd shown before.
The three of us stood in place for a long moment, each holding a roll of cash and trying to process what we'd just witnessed.
"What. The. Fuck?" Bulldog finally asked.
"Magic," Swinger said in a lower tone. "Black magic."
"That guy's wrist was ripped out of my hand." I looked down at the money in my hand. It was a thick roll of cash. "I couldn't hold him."
"Me either," Swinger said. "I've never had anything like that happen."
"Did he get—" Bulldog paused. "Ah, bigger?"
"Yeah, and the darkness. I felt like ice," I added.
We stood silently, rooted in our spots.
"Do you guys think those skulls talk to him?" Swinger asked, breaking the silence.
"I think he thinks they do," Bulldog said. "What did he say to the girl? I couldn't hear it."
"None of us could," I told him. Again, all of us stood silent. For me, I was trying to process what I'd just seen. My brain repeated Swinger's black magic comment. I hated to admit it, but I think he's right—Mortis is black magic.
"One thousand dollars," Bulldog stated, pulling me from my thoughts. "Dude gave us each a thousand for breaking up a fight."
"Holy shit," I breathed.
"It wasn't for breaking up the fight. It was for saving one of his," Swinger said, counting his pile. "Yep, a cool grand."
I quickly counted mine, nodding. A thousand too.
"That's three grand total," Swinger said, his voice hushed with disbelief.
"What do we do with it?" Bulldog asked.
I thought about it for a moment. My two cents were that the club was already getting paid for me doing this job. This was extra—a reward from Ringmaster Mortis for protecting one of his people.
Tentatively, I said, "He said 'yours.'"
Swinger spoke up. "Yeah, we earned this," Swinger said finally. "We stopped those assholes from hurting her. Plus, the club's already getting our wages for our work. I say this is separate. Ours, but it has to stay just between us." He glanced around. "What do you two say?"
Bulldog and I nodded in agreement.
"My thinking too. It's ours, and this stays between us," I said, extending my hand.
"Me too. We put up with all the shit this week. Fuck, we've earned it. Stays between us," Bulldog agreed, shaking my hand.
Swinger put his hand on top of ours. "We don't speak of it from this point on."
We pocketed our cash and continued with our patrols.
I kept checking my front jeans pocket where I'd stashed the money.
This was the first time since I joined the club at age fifteen that I had my own non-club money.
All mine. Shit, I didn't even get to bet on my own fights.
I was going to have to play it cool and hide it well.
If one of those guys found it, there would be hell to pay for sure.
Only it wouldn't be the money paying the price.
The rest of the night felt different. I saw the clowns and carnies taking things from people, hiding in shadows, getting their sex on.
But the feeling was different, like I'd crossed some kind of line, like I was one of them.
It wasn't the money. It centered around Ringmaster Mortis himself.
He'd shown us his care for his people and his true power if something happened to one of them.
Although the three of us had proven ourselves worthy of his respect, I felt that respect was fleeting.
"You feel weird?" Bulldog asked as we walked our last walk-through at the end of the night. "Like you saw something, but you can't place what happened?"
"Yes," I side-eyed him. "That's exactly how I feel."
"I'm telling you two, it's dark magic," Swinger looked over. "Like voodoo or some shit like that. Dude probably put a spell on us."
"Shit," Bulldog muttered. "The way he grew."
As we pulled into the clubhouse parking lot, I could see lights on in the main room. The debriefing was about to begin, and I had a feeling tonight's stories were going to make everyone even more desperate for a piece of the action—which meant Fang wasn't going to be happy.