chapter nine
giselle
T he tent still smolders. Half of it collapsed, a charred ribcage jutting from the earth, soaked in blood and ash. But we’re still here.
Still performing.
Because chaos doesn’t cancel the show—it fuels it.
The crews are working around the ruin, hauling bodies and stomping out the last of the fire while the rest of us keep the madness alive. We don’t apologize. We adapt. The gods want a feast, and we’re not about to send them home hungry.
The stranger vanished after the collapse—right before Lux stepped toward him. One second, he was there, half-lit by flame, finishing himself in front of a ruined altar like he belonged to the end of the world… and then? Gone. No footprints. No smoke trail. Just disappeared like he’d never been real.
But we know he was.
We all saw him.
And none of us will forget.
He’s not like the others. He didn’t come to play.
He came because he understood.
And honestly?
He’ll fit right in.
I let the thoughts slip from my mind as I step into the Screaming Tent. The crowd is different now—raw, feral, twitchy with whatever’s left of their laced drinks and post-collapse hysteria. Everyone’s shaken. Everyone’s buzzing. Everyone wants to feel something.
Perfect.
I stalk onto the center platform like I own the godsdamn place, hips swaying, bones in my hair clicking together like laughing teeth. I’m barefoot, drenched in dried blood, painted in ash and red runes that shimmer under the torchlight. Leather straps hug what little flesh I’ve left untouched. The rest? Marked. Bitten. Claimed.
My spine cracks as I drop into a backbend mid-stride, stretching slowly and obscenely while I drag the violet wand across my ribs. It crackles to life with a hiss and a spark—pure static seduction—and the sound alone earns me a collective moan from the pit.
Gods, I love this thing.
Little wand of wickedness, gifted to me years ago by some poor bastard who thought pain was something to flinch from. He’s mulch now—buried under the bones behind the blood bar—but his toy? Oh, it lives on.
It’s not magic, not really. It’s science dressed in latex and bad intentions. A wand tipped in glass, arcing violet current with every swipe. Electricity that kisses the skin like fire and leaves your nerves screaming thank you.
Hurts so good. Hurts so pretty .
I named it Darling. Because that’s what everyone says when I press it between their legs.
“Darling, please ? —”
“Darling, I can’t ? —”
“Darling, again ? —”
And me? I just giggle and crank the voltage.
Because pain is foreplay in this tent, and I’m the one holding the whip and the wand.
Let them ache for it.
“Blood. Bones. Boobs,” I mutter under my breath, smiling wide enough to split the world. “It’s showtime, bitches.”
To my left, a guest is crying—begging someone dressed like a bear for forgiveness. To my right, a masked woman with painted teeth is being worshipped by three men on their knees. Someone screams from behind a rusted cage. The scent of sweat, sex, and smoldering canvas clings to every breath.
And in the middle of it all?
Me.
Giselle.
The girl your nightmares cross their legs for.
I climb the frame, slowly and deliberate ly , my limbs bending like water, back arching until I’m upside down above the crowd. Below, hands reach. Tongues wag. Eyes dilate. Everyone wants something from me.
But I don’t play favorites.
I drop into a split, legs open wide above a circle of writhing guests and let the wand dance between my thighs—crackling against my skin, lighting me up from the inside out.
The crowd howls. Some cheer. Some moan. One guy drops to his knees and starts jacking off before I even start my act.
I flip up onto one hand and kick my legs out wide, holding the pose just long enough to watch a woman gasp so hard she spills her drink.
“Keep the booze in your mouth, sweetheart,” I coo. “You’ll need the hydration.”
A whip cracks from somewhere in the back—probably Indie warming up. The whole tent stinks of sex and steel and wrongness.
Gods, I love this place.
I twist into a full scorpion bend, arching so far back my head brushes my ass, then roll forward into a split so fast it makes the front row flinch.
I blow them a kiss.
Then I zap a man’s thigh with the wand.
BZZZZT!
He screams. Then moans. Then screams again.
“You like that?” I giggle. “Good. I haven’t even started hurting you yet.”
I climb up onto a table, stepping right on a woman’s lap. She squeals and grabs my ankle. I bend over backward above her, upside-down, nose to nose.
“You beg real pretty,” I whisper, then jolt the wand against her collarbone. “But this is a performance , babe—not a cuddle puddle.”
I move on. Sparking and bending and grinding my way across the crowd. Electricity dances across flesh. People beg. Cry. Touch themselves. Some touch each other.
There’s a man with a spiked gag drooling into a bowl of milk while a Viking-masked clown pisses on his back.
A pair of women ride a mechanical goat while another guest beats a drum with a severed leg.
At the edge of the stage, a group of handlers pour drinks from carved horns into open mouths—probably laced with something. Maybe LSD. Maybe truth serum. Hell, maybe both. It’s an old Lux trick. Not that these sickos need any help letting loose.
“You’re all such good little sinners,” I sing, standing tall in the center of the ring. “Wanna see how a goddess says thank you ?”
They scream. Chant. Beg.
So I give it to them.
I strip slowly, leather straps dropping one by one as I twist and contort. Back bends. Chest pops. I climb the scaffolding like a demon in heat and dangle upside-down, wand between my thighs.
Below me, five guests form a writhing pile of limbs and moans. I land right in the middle of them and zap the whole pile.
Screams. Shudders. Come.
“Blessed by the Valkyrie!” I cackle.
My body drips with blood and sweat and something I hope is not motor oil. I’m glowing. Euphoric. High on violence.
And that’s when he catches my eye.
Again.
Fur-draped. Shadow-drenched. Staring like I’m his favorite bedtime story—right at the part where someone gets their throat cut.
I straighten up slowly, my back cracking like a shotgun, wand still buzzing like a wasp in my hand. And gods help me, I grin.
He’s always there, isn’t he?
Lurking like a bad idea with good timing. Right on the edge of the madness—just close enough to taste it, but never close enough to drown. He watches me twist and break and bleed and fuck and kill —then disappears like smoke through fingers.
No hello. No scream. Just gone.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he’s standing there like he’s meant to be seen.
And my spine hums like the gods just whispered his name in my ear.
Wherever he came from, whoever he is—he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t beg to be taken.
No. He’s the kind who waits.
And I? I’m the kind who wants to know why.
He steps onto the edge of the ring. Silent. Intent. Watching.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t flinch.
He just holds out his hand.
I cock my head, grin spreading slow and sweet like blood down a throat.
“You want my wand, baby?” I purr.
He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t do anything a normal person would do. But I give it to him anyway. Because let’s face it—I wanna see what he does with it.
His fingers brush mine as he takes it, cool and deliberate, and that’s when I see it. A flick of tongue against the metal, forked. Split. Like the devil got bored one night and decided to make art out of skin.
Gods, I like him.
He kneels in the puddle of blood I left behind, casual as hell, and presses the wand to the throat of a guest still twitching from my last round. The zap crackles, violet light dancing across skin as the poor thing spasms and gasps, caught between agony and bliss.
And him? He just smiles.
Not big. Not loud. But calm. Eerie. Like the type of guy who sings lullabies while sharpening knives. That smile belongs in a locked room full of bones and secrets. I’m obsessed.
I crouch beside him, giggling into my hand.
“Oh, you’re fun,” I whisper, heart hammering like I just found a new toy I don’t know whether to kill or kiss.
He finishes the shock, pulls the wand back, and without a word, hands it back to me. The blood on the handle glistens. His tongue flicks once more against his teeth, and then—he stands.
Turns.
And walks away like none of it mattered.
But I know better.
People like him? They don’t leave a mark on the night.
They are the mark.
And now?
I can’t wait to see what he does next.