Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
brEXLEY
The dark night twinkled with thousands of firebulbs, as if the stars themselves descended to shine their magic on us.
Colored lanterns, torches, and small fires in metal bins lit a path to the huge red and white striped tent.
Many of the vardos were set up as booths along the path, selling food and drinks, some performing outside theirs, luring in the spectators.
Like a child, I stared in awe at the scene before me, drawn to the lights like a magnet. The sultry music coming from the speakers coiled in my ear, whispering the promise of escape, of dark desires, and freedom from the woes that bind you.
Carnival Mystique reminded me of Carnal Row, minus the outright sex, though I had no doubt it was still on offer in the dark corners.
Adults and children alike flooded through the gates, eager to see the freakish shifters slinking around, performing for the audiences who had bought tickets, persuading them to dig deeper into their pockets for more coin.
The aromas of roasted peanuts and chestnuts filled the air along with the sweetness of candy that looked like painted clouds.
“How do you like it?” A raspy, deep voice slipped out of nowhere, a tall form making me jump.
“Jethro.” I slapped my hand to my chest, inhaling my surprise. “You startled me.”
The more days I passed with this group, the more of an enigma the mysterious ring master became. Jethro was definitely fae, or at least half, but what exactly he was, no one knew or spoke of. Not even his troupe.
His dark eyes peered down at me, the light from the flames glinting off them, making him appear frightening .
. . and sexy. Even more so tonight. Dressed in black pants, a dark maroon jacket, and a top hat, he was the epitome of a ring master—but not one who entertained children.
Jethro oozed sexuality and wickedness, leading you willingly down the path of debauchery.
If he had been at Carnal Row, he would have had everyone clawing to get into his establishment. To be the one he chose for the night.
“You must come and watch.” He tipped his head, saying no more as he slipped away into the shadows, heading toward the big tent, leaving prickles dancing down my arms.
“Damn,” I muttered to myself.
“There is something about that man.” Another voice jerked me to the side, this one belonging to a dark-haired, beautiful woman I’d seen around camp this week.
She and her grandmother were fortune tellers and stayed in the nicest vardo, doing card readings and séances for extra money as they traveled through towns and villages.
I had been introduced to everyone in the troupe, from animal handlers to the trapeze twins. Only a few had made any attempt to talk to me since.
“You are an outsider to us. We don’t trust outsiders.” She tipped her head, her eyes flicking to me.
I actually understood that.
“You should go watch him. Jethro is . . .” She let out a heavy sigh, wrapping her heavy wrap around her shoulders, filled with words she did not say. “Intoxicating. He’s unbelievable to watch. A different person when he’s Maestru.” Master in Romanian.
The sexual way she said it made my eyebrows lift.
Her mouth twisted up, almost in a dare, like she knew dark secrets about him.
“I’m Zelda.” She said her name like a performance.
“How . . . fitting.”
“My name is about as real as yours, Laura.” She smirked back at me.
“We all play a role here. Humans love the cliché. They want danger and excitement, but only in the comfort of what they know. Just enough outside their comfort to intrigue, but not enough to scare. Did you know I have very little talent for fortune telling? My twin brother is the one who got the gift from Bunica.” Grandmother.
“But have you ever seen a male fortune teller? One seeking the future in a crystal ball or doing a tarot card reading?”
“No.” I realized in all the books I read that the depictions were of women wearing exactly what Zelda was wearing tonight—her wrists draped in trinket jewelry, bright scarf in her hair, white blouse with a bodice, and a long, layered skirt. A costume.
“This is our life. The show is how we survive. We give them the show they want. We stay in our roles.” Her tone went serious, and she tossed me a shirt she had been holding under her shawl. “Be sure you stay in yours, seamstress.” She twirled around, heading back to her vardo.
Peering down at the torn item in my hand, I sighed.
Jethro had stated the same thing to me earlier this week.
If I was to stay, I had to pull my weight.
I was trained to fight; I knew where to punch someone to knock them out instantly.
Now the thing getting me by was my unexpected skill in mending clothes.
And here I thought prison hadn’t taught me anything useful.
With the prickles of eyes on me, I lifted my head. The soft light from inside a vardo outlined the figure in the doorway, watching me. Sucking through my teeth, I forced myself not to flinch back.
Esmeralda.
Or at least that was her stage name. The matriarch and the main fortune teller.
She lived up to the part. Her hair was graying, but she was still beautiful in an outfit similar to Zelda’s, but with less skin showing.
She was swathed in mystery, her granddaughter and grandson paling in comparison to the intense power she gave off.
Her brown eyes dug into me, peeling back my skin as if she could see inside me, reaping my soul and taking all my secrets.
No emotion, but it was like she was reading me, seeing my strange aura, though I knew she couldn’t.
Perceiving the blood staining my hands, aware of the things I was running from, and seeing nothing but trouble.
Tucking the shirt inside my cloak pocket, I turned away, her intensity crawling up the back of my neck as I jogged toward the big tent, keeping to the edges of the festival to stay away from the circus goers.
“Hey, sweetheart.” A blond, nine-foot bearded man with an American southern drawl grinned down at me, smoking his cigarette as I approached the back entrance of the tent.
“Hey, Hank.” I grinned back, my most honest grin in a while.
Hank looked like he was half giant or something.
Scary when he didn’t smile, he had muscles larger than my head and legs thicker than most trees, but he was the sweetest one I had met here.
The only one asking how I was, calling me sweetheart, and making sure I got enough to eat.
He was a happy, jolly guy with a boisterous laugh, except when I saw him rehearsing his axe and gun tricks with his partner and wife, Lulu.
There, he was focused and terrifying, throwing them faster than the eye could pick up as she spun on a giant wheel.
Where Hank was tall and broad, Lulu was short and tiny. I mean, she didn’t even hit four feet tall. They were an awkward pair, but they had two kids, so somehow, they made it work.
“First time seeing the show, huh?” Hank talked slowly, his sentences drawing out. “Better get in there, don’t want to miss when he takes the stage. He’s somethin’ else, sweetheart.” He pulled away the canvas, waving me in.
The backstage area was filled with performers. White horses were decorated with jewels and feathers, their riders in almost matching outfits. Jugglers, hoopers, and trapeze performers roamed the space, and the back area was alive with loud noises, adrenaline, hairspray, and cheap perfume.
Music swelled from the stage as I snuck around the side, staying in the shadows. The lights went off, making the spectators in the packed seating gasp, before a single light went on Jethro. He absorbed the light, claiming everything, including every speck of attention, as his.
You couldn’t keep your eyes off him. He radiated every fantasy you desired, every sin you wanted to commit.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls . . . Are you longing for the most dazzling, magical, death-defying show ever? Do you want that and more?
His deep, seductive voice rose through the tent. My skin prickled with energy, having no idea what to expect. I had seen nothing like this before.
The crowd screamed out, stomping their feet and clapping. Starry-eyed fans cried out, “Yes! More!”
Chanting. Pounding.
In one instant, everything flipped. My breath stuck in my throat, excitement twisting to utter terror.
My heart thumped as flashes of death flickered through my head, the distinct taste of dirt and adrenaline coating my tongue, the smell of piss and sweat filling my nose.
I could feel their blood covering my skin.
The memory of the crowds’ chants growing louder with each kill. The pounding of their feet.
The sound of the patrons in the tent chanting for the ring master curled up my spine, bending me over, blurring my vision and stealing my air. I was back in the pit. Fighting for life, murdering friends, and hearing them cheer for more.
“Let me hear you!”
The assembly amped up their excitement until it rung in my ears, sparking panic through me. Wind gusted through the tent flaps, and a flicker of lightning crackled in the air, making some in the crowd gasp with excitement, thinking it was part of the show.
I needed to go. To run. Yet my legs refused to move, my muscles frozen in trauma.
“This night, we will twist the facts, contort what is possible, and shed you of your boundaries. Don’t fight the lure of your most wicked dreams, where truth and logic no longer apply.
This is the place where you are truly free.
” The fanfare upped like it was drilling into my bones, my body shaking.
The dim firebulbs around the sides crackled again.
“Welcome to Circus Mystique! Where your fantasies come true!” Jethro’s voice rose to a crescendo, making the audience go wild.