“You have no idea,” I say, and reach out a hand to introduce myself. She shakes it.
“Sara,” she says. “Pleasure to meet you.”
She goes on to tell me about her training as an aerialist, her tours of New England and the Midwest, but I can’t follow. She reminds me of someone, and the thought makes my stomach churn.
Kingston sits next to me later on, when some of the troupe has wandered off to the beach. Melody and Sara are chatting on the other side of the table, the new girl leaning in just a little closer than socially acceptable for a first chat. Kingston seems amused by this as he slides his hand in mine.
“About earlier,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
“For kissing me, or for kissing Lilith?” The rest of my memories might be a tumble of fire and screaming, but those two stand out clear and strong.
“You know I just did that so she’d help us.”
I look away. “Turned out well.”
He puts his hand on my cheek and makes me look at him. He smiles, a little sad.
“Witches don’t apologize very often, V,” he says. “Don’t make me regret it.”
I don’t know what I’m more surprised by — the new nickname or the fact that he actually seems to mean it — but I don’t care. I lean in and kiss him. I close my eyes and let the rest of the world melt away under his cinnamon lips. Melody whistles. Without opening my eyes, I flip her off. She laughs, and I chuckle too, pulling Kingston tighter, never wanting him to go away.
I lie in my tiny twin bed, curled against Kingston, with one arm wrapped tightly over his smooth, bare stomach. I can just imagine his tattoo curling beneath my hands. His breathing is slow and deep and I listen to it like I would the waves of the ocean. I smile and nuzzle my face against his neck. His scent is so familiar, his body fits so well against mine. It’s easy to forget the horrors of the past couple days when I’m next to him, easy to convince myself that none of it ever happened. When I told him what Melody said about not dating within the troupe, he just laughed and said it was because she was the only gay acrobat, and her view would probably be changing rapidly with Sara’s arrival. Then he drew me down onto my bed and kissed me, and that seemed like answer enough.
I try not to think of the past few days. It’s easier that way. I try to ignore the way my hands tingle when they wrap around him, try to block out the awful light that swept through me on the battlefield: the bloodlust, the innate knowledge of how to kill. The power that seared through my fingertips. I focus instead on his breathing, on his scent. Deep down, some small part of me knows without a doubt that this isn’t over, that I’ve only stumbled over the tip of the iceberg that holds Mab’s secrets. And it’s not what she’s keeping from me that scares me; it’s what I’m keeping from myself that makes my blood run cold.
No. Focus on his breath. Focus on how his muscles move beneath his skin and how right this feels, how normal.
Normal. Things can go back to normal…
When I close my eyes, sleep laps over me in warm, grey folds.
I dream.
My pulse is racing. We’re crouched in a shabby room in some old apartment complex, the browning wallpaper peeling off and curling on the linoleum. I can barely breathe, but it’s not me gagging. Every joint in my body is tensed and like iron, the knife in my hands gripped in white knuckles. The blade bleeds.
My sister’s face stares up at me, brown eyes open, mouth open. Curly brown hair, red dripping between her fingers that clutch at her chest. There’s blood on my hands, blood on my jeans, blood pooling on the floor around us. Blood and iron and all I can smell is brimstone, all I can see is flame and white.
“Vivienne, please,” she says. She’s gagging blood between her words. She’s crying. “Don’t.”
I’m sobbing. I have to do this, I have to do this, I have to do this.
“I’m sorry,” I say, over and over again. The walls move in closer, the light in my head blinds. I want to claw it all away, want to rip apart the howls inside my skull. I can’t get rid of the visions, can’t make the sounds of fire and death disappear. I can’t fight it, just like I couldn’t fight the other visions. I’ve seen everything, everything, and I never want to see it again. There are things no one should see. No one should see. No one should ever know. I’ve seen it. I know.
And worse, I know in that blinding light that I’m the only one who can stop it.
And I will fail.
Claire isn’t fighting anymore. She never fought. Never would. I was the fighter, the older sister. I was the one who had to protect us: from Dad, from Mom, from this. I couldn’t. I failed. I tried so hard and I failed her, and now this is the only way to keep her safe. She’s flat on the floor and her eyes are searching mine, her mouth trying to voice the words I’ve already seen her say. I know how this ends. I’ve always known. There’s no escaping the visions. There’s no changing what I’ve seen myself do.
“Why?” she gasps.
“I’m saving you,” I say, sobbing, as I slide the knife in once more, this time between her ribs. She gasps, her eyes wince shut, and my whole body is shaking as I try to hold the light in. She’ll never understand, she’ll never run. She’d never escape what I’ve seen, the fire and brimstone and burning blood. She’d never escape a death worse than this. I lean down and press my head against her chest. Her blood pools against my lips as I whisper into her silent heart.
“I’m saving you from what’s to come.”
EPILOGUE: CIRCUS (REMIX)
Kingston sits across the desk from Mab. Both stare at each other in silence. Perched between them on a curling iron stand is Mab’s top hat; it’s covered in black sequins and raven feathers, and in the center is a bright red ruby that casts the trailer in a bloody light. There is no other illumination save the stone, no sound save the howl of wolves in the distance.
Finally, after what seems like hours, Kingston breaks the silence.
“You can’t keep her in there forever,” he says.
“That was never my intention,” Mab replies. She wears a dress of black cobweb and velvet. Her hair shines with a thousand dark pearls. She doesn’t look like a queen who recently lost half her kingdom, she looks like a goddess awaiting her tribute.
“Then why?” Kingston says. “Why capture her in the first place? Why not just let her loose and be done with all this?”
Mab pulls the hat closer to her and examines the ruby. Angry flames dance within.
“Because,” she says. “It is not yet time. The show is not ready.”
“You mean Vivienne isn’t ready,” Kingston replies. His voice is dangerous and low.
“I fail to see a difference,” she says.
“I won’t let you use her,” Kingston says. “Not like this. She can’t take on Kassia. She’s too young.”
Mab just chuckles and tosses the hat toward Kingston. Kingston catches it and turns it within his hands. The very thing makes his palms tingle with uncomfortable warmth. He smells brimstone.
“My dear friend,” Mab says, “don’t tell me you’ve grown soft. You know how little faith I have in love.”
Kingston looks over the hat to his queen. He says nothing, but his cheeks flush. This is answer enough.
“This show would play out no matter what,” Mab says. She stretches back in her chair and smiles. “I’ve merely done what I can to ensure it plays out in my favor. It cannot be stopped. Not by you, and not by me.”