The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels) Read Free

dead?”
    “What? You
think I’m the killer? You know I’m not that type.”
    And I’m not.
I’m too scrawny, too quiet. I’m a vegetarian, for Christ’s sake. I never got
into fights or did competitive sports. I’ve never even done gymnastics or
cheerleading. Or band. At least, not that I can remember. Which is probably why
the only job Mab could find for me was as a cotton-candy seller.
    Kingston
laughs. The doves ignite in that instant, flaring up like strobes and
disintegrating into ash. My breath catches at the way his brown eyes flash in
the flame.
    “Viv, this is
show business. Nothing here is what it seems.”
    Not, I’m
sure, even him.

    “This
isn’t like any other circus,” Mab said, her fingers idly caressing the handle
of a whip coiled on her desk. The book of names and contracts had flown back to
the shelf behind her, and now she was staring at me with green eyes as intent
as a jaguar’s. “All of our performers have…eccentricities.”
    A haze
surrounded the exact terms of our agreement, but I didn’t really care. I no
longer felt like the world was crashing down around me. Still, her gaze made me
wonder if I was stepping from the frying pan into the inferno.
    “What do
you mean?” I asked, though I already knew. My mind wrapped around the idea of
this place much more easily than it should have. Magic, circus freaks…it seemed
more natural than it rationally should. I knew in the corner of my mind that
these should all be warning signs, signals that something was terribly wrong,
that I should be getting out now. I shouldn’t be letting myself believe in
magic or flying books or any of this. That voice was tiny. The stronger voice
told me it was okay, it was all normal, and my tired mind was all too happy not
to fight it. Luckily, Mab didn’t give me any time to fret.
    “I only
hire exceptional performers. And, like you, they were often in a bind. And I,”
she said, flourishing her hands, “am a humanitarian at best. I help. In return,
they work for me, using their talents to capture the imaginations of our
audience.”
    “But I
don’t have any talents,” I said, thinking we should have had this conversation before
I signed the contract.
    “Oh, love,
everyone has a talent. Yours will blossom in time. Trust me.” She smiled at me,
and something in her eyes told me that I didn’t have a choice.

    “Circle up,
lovelies,” Mab says, striding into the huddle of performers. Inside the main
tent, the muted rumble of another full house is masked by the creepy tones of
live organ music. It’s just before the 8 p.m. show and somehow the sky is
already turning dark. Mab is wearing her ringleader outfit — a hideously
sparkling getup made of a bedazzled tailcoat and top hat, nude leggings, and
high-heeled black boots. Her whip is coiled at her side, and her long black
hair falls down her back like the River Styx. Despite having disposed of a body
earlier that day, she seems remarkably nonchalant.
    Everyone
does.
    “As you
know,” she says, once we’re all in a huddle, “this morning we lost a dear
member of our troupe. Sabina will always live on in our hearts, and she will be
greatly missed. Tonight, let our show be in honor of her work. A moment of
silence, please.”
    Everyone bows
their heads.
    I’m standing
just outside of the huddle. I’m not one of the performers, so I don’t get the
sparkly leotards and elaborate headpieces. I just get a black T-shirt that
reads Cirque des Immortels on the front and Crew on the back. But
at least they let me stay back here for opening, unlike most of the
concessionaires, who are just hired locals.
    After a few
moments, Mab takes a deep breath that even I can hear, and everyone looks up
again.
    “For Sabina,”
she says.
    The members
of the troupe put their hands in the center and shout.
    After that,
the twenty-something performers run to their places. Everyone goes out for the
opening act, the charivari. They don’t need me to sell cotton