Chapter 6 #2
My eyes went to the red tent just in time to see Mortis emerge. The tiniest of mischievous-looking smiles on his face that disappeared the minute he was at his full height. Without seeing me, he went the other way around the tent and headed back to the carnival.
Every part of my gorilla pushed me toward the tent.
But I couldn't. Not with Fang sulking around, already blaming me for the carnival being what it was.
But every instinct I had was screaming that the tent was some kind of trap, some dark magic bullshit designed to lure in and take advantage of idiots like me.
And yet there was something there calling, urging, almost begging for me.
As much as I didn't want to, I forced myself to go the opposite direction of the red tent, catching up with Fang near the large central tent he'd mentioned earlier.
Up close, it was even more impressive—at least fifty feet across, with walls made of heavy canvas that had been painted with intricate designs.
Symbols and patterns that seemed to shift and writhe when I wasn't looking directly at them, similar to the tattoos on Mortis' face.
"This is the rehearsal tent," Fang said, his tone still cold but at least professional. "Performers use it to warm up and practice acts that are too dangerous or too big for their personal spaces."
He tried the entrance flap, which was secured with a heavy padlock that looked like it'd been fished from the bottom of the ocean. Satisfied, he nodded and continued the patrol.
The next hour was a study in torture. Every step we took seemed to bring us closer to that red tent, then we'd veer away at the last moment.
The pull was constant now; a living thing coiled in my chest that tightened with every breath.
My gorilla was beyond agitated—it felt furious and desperate.
This wasn't normal. I was beginning to think this was more than Mortis fucking with my head.
We'd just completed our second full circuit of the lodging area when Fang's radio crackled to life.
"Fang?" The ringmaster's voice slithered through the speaker, making my skin crawl even through the distortion of the radio. "There are matters we must discuss regarding the change to the VIP night. I require your presence at my office immediately."
Fang's jaw tightened. "Copy that. On my way." He turned to me, his expression torn between suspicion and duty. "You look like hell. You alright?"
"Yeah, I'm fine." I stood to my full height. "Nothing wrong with me," I lied.
"Fine. Keep walking the perimeter. If anything happens, radio immediately. And Runt?" His eyes narrowed. "Don't fuck it up."
"Got it," I managed, my voice steadier than I felt.
I watched Fang sulk back toward the main carnival area, his broad shoulders tense with his customary anger. The moment he was out of sight, my gorilla roared inside my head, demanding action as the pull intensified to an almost unbearable degree.
I tried to resist. I tried to tell myself this was exactly what Fang had warned me about, exactly the kind of stupid mistake that would prove his accusations right.
But my feet were already moving. I hurriedly zigged in and out of trailers and tents, carrying me toward that red tent like I was being reeled in on a line.
As I got closer, more details emerged. The tent wasn't just red—it was the color of fresh blood, deep and rich and somehow wet-looking despite the fabric being dry when I carefully touched it.
The entrance was different from the other tents—heavy flaps shut with three thick leather straps with brass buckles.
I circled the tent, taking in the details.
The ground, unlike the other tents, was bare earth.
At three-foot intervals around this circle, someone had driven stakes into the ground.
Each stake had a symbol carved in the top.
I bent to look at the first one. As soon as my eyes took in the symbol, my head felt like it was going to explode.
I stood, shook my head, and blinked several times.
The pain ended. From each stake, ropes were tied with objects hanging from them—small, corked glass bottles filled with dark liquids, mirrors that reflected nothing, bundles of sticks bound with red cord, and various feathers.
This wasn't a normal tent. This tent had a purpose. And whatever was calling me was inside.
Lucky fucking me.
My hands shook as I reached for the highest buckle binding the entrance flaps. It was tight but nothing for my gorilla's strength. I then undid the bottom one and finally the middle. I tentatively pulled the weighty flap back and stepped inside, closing the tent behind me.
The interior hit me like a physical assault.
First, the smell—something definitely lived in here.
Or was held here. Second was the temperature.
It was cold. I could see my breath. I ran my hands up and down my arms. It had to be forty, maybe even fifty degrees cooler inside than the warm outside.
Third, the tent was larger inside than it should have been.
The cramped exterior opened into a space at least fifteen feet across.
Brass oil lamps hung from the support poles, their flames burning without smoke in colors that shifted from hues of orange and yellow.
Ornate Persian rugs covered every inch of ground, layered on top of each other in a riot of patterns and colors that seemed to move in the flickering lamplight.
The walls were draped with tapestries depicting scenes I couldn't quite make sense of.
A few had figures dancing, burning, transforming, dying, being reborn.
Some figures were being devoured by odd-looking creatures.
One was covered in locks of all shapes and sizes.
Shelves made from what I thought was driftwood held jars filled with things I couldn't and didn't want to identify.
Crystal orbs sat in stands carved from dark wood, their surfaces swirling with internal light.
Bundles of dried herbs hung from the ceiling, along with feathers, bones, and what looked disturbingly like preserved organs in glass containers.
Against one wall stood what I guessed to be a throne—an elaborately large black chair, its thick arms and back carved with hundreds of symbols that hurt to look at directly.
The symbols, I swore, were rearranging themselves into new patterns that my mind refused to process.
Resting on the left arm was an ornate black iron birdcage.
In the middle of the tent was a small table covered in black cloth.
On it sat dozens of candles in various stages of burning, their wax pooling in patterns that looked deliberate.
Among the candles were more bones, more feathers, and what I guessed was a human skull that had been carved with the same painful symbols.
One side of the tent caught my attention. A simple single bed with white sheets and a red blanket. Next to it, a cup, plate, and bowl rested on a wooden table no more than two feet in length and half that in width.
My physical symptoms were getting worse. My heart was racing like I'd been running for miles. Sweat beaded on my forehead despite the cool October air. My hands trembled slightly. Waves of nausea rolled through my stomach, and my head was starting to pound.
I slowly turned around, taking in the tent as a whole. I didn't understand what had drawn me here. What made me enter this empty tent.
What's going on?