Three Slices Read online

  She tosses her chin and steps back, cool again. “Go on and best him, if you can. You’ll never own me, just as I’ll never own those horses.” And then she’s gone, taking my heart with her.

  With a jangle of rings, the curtain goes up, and I realize that I look like a moonstruck boy, staring after the lady who’s rejected his clumsy attentions. And so I do what any boy does then: I show off.

  With a bow to the crowd, I sweep off my tall topper and withdraw three flaming torches and a snow-white bludbunny with blood-red eyes. As I juggle them, a merry tune plays from a small, enchanted box in one of my many pockets. The rabbit snarls as it tumbles; this one in particular hates the party hat I’ve charmed onto its silky head. The flames change color, from the usual orange to ice blue to hot purple and spring green. The crowd claps and whistles, and I grin. I have enough of these petty tricks to keep them happy for hours, and at this rate, Phaedro’s incompetence and lack of showmanship might force me to do just that. Poor weasel’s probably pissing himself under the stage.

  When I sense the audience’s attention begin to wane, I let all the flames and bunnies fall back into my hat, boom boom boom boom, and sweep it back onto my head in a dashing bow. They go mad, simply mad, and I drink it in. And that’s when he throws his first fireball.

  I didn’t even notice Phaedro standing there, wrapped in his cape like a bat, but I feel a hot burst of pain explode against my vest, catching my fine cloak on fire, and I stumble back, snarling.

  A second ball of fire smacks me in the stomach, because let’s be honest, snarling doesn’t really stop that sort of thing from happening. I swat it to the ground, stomp out the fire licking my cloak, and tackle Phaedro before he can throw a third one.

  The scuffle is feral and rough, all magic and showmanship forgotten as claws tear for tender eyes and veins. Our teeth snap as we tumble and growl, each bite landing on air as we writhe. I’m slightly bigger than him, slightly stronger than him, a hell of a lot tougher than him, and yet I’m not gaining the ground I should be. Strikes that should rend him in half only make him fight harder. A claw to the jugular doesn’t yield the spurting geyser of blud that I crave. His wounds seem to close, his eyes always a hairsbreadth away from my talons.

  The crowd, at least, is eating it up, roaring their approval and pounding their fists on the stage as they place bets. I find myself defending more than aggressing, a situation forever untenable. And so I double my onslaught and force him onto his back, my claws poised to scoop his guts from his belly like blood sorbet from a porcelain dish.

  Something cracks in the air, and suddenly, I’m unable to breathe.

  My neck—something around it—my fingers claw for it, to loosen it.

  A whip.

  Merissa’s whip.

  The world is going dark, and the curtain is skittering closed, and I yank the taut leather and feel the floor thud under my knees as Merissa falls. Underneath me, Phaedro whispers incantations in a language I don’t know, his eyes closed. Just before my vision gives out, I make good on my promise and swipe out his throat with my claws.

  The last thing I feel is the rasp of his raw spine against my fingertips and the chest under me exhale and still.

  7.

  YESTERDAY, I would’ve told you that only weak little prats pass out during times of duress, but that was before I’d been throttled by a horsewoman’s whip. Today, I would confess that the aftereffects of a nearly crushed trachea feel a lot like a cravat tied far too tightly by someone who hates you. I can also tell you that Phaedro’s wagon is nice, if shabby, and that his bed is too soft for satisfying lovemaking. Still, it’s better than waking up out in the woods by a trash heap or staked on a pyre, surrounded by an angry crowd.

  “Awake finally?” Merissa asks, hovering over me like a delicately fanged angel.

  “I had the strangest dream,” I say. “See, I was a stallion, and a beautiful lady lassoed me...”

  “You were going to kill him,” she says, eyes downcast as she sits on the edge of the bed in a black chemise, not quite close enough to touch, her auburn hair all glossy perfection. “In front of the crowd. It’s bad for business. I had to stall your bloodshed until the curtain was closed.”

  I taste her lie on my open mouth and smile.

  “All’s well that ends well, eh, love? Although if I’m to live here, I’ll need a bigger bed, more bookshelves, and a desk with a few more bitty drawers. That Phaedro fellow’s decorating style was a bit grim.”

  I vastly prefer caravan wagons divided into two portions, a bedroom and a parlor, but this one is a large, lightless rectangle with all the appeal of a crypt. The out-of-date wallpaper is purple with damask gates, while the heavy, black tables and chairs and trunks crowd together like a meeting of humpbacked witches. The lamps are turned down, the coverlet so black, I can’t see my legs.

  And I, a grown Bludman, am half dressed under a dead man’s blanket like an invalid, which is utterly unacceptable, even if my throat feels like a cracked egg and there are two burned spots on my torso that will most likely carry scars for the rest of my life. I bolt upright gracefully, throwing over the covers and standing before my darkling nurse can protest. The ground wobbles under my feet.

  Or does it?

  It does. Because the wagon is on the move.

  “Where are we for?” I ask.

  Merissa smiles. “Southpool, Deadpool, Blackpool.”

  “And where is Phaedro the Not As Great as Advertised?”

  She blows air like an angry horse. “Cremated in a small jar. Was that really necessary?”

  I reach for her hand, and although it’s rigid at her side, she softens to let me lift it. I press her palm to make her fingers splay and trace the tender line up her thumb’s Mound of Venus, straight up the white talon, to the tip.

  “We’re predators, my sweet. And cheetahs don’t change their spots. Especially when they’re rather fond of being cheetahs. If I hadn’t killed him, he’d have killed me.”

  A small chuckle as she snatches her hand back. “That sounds like the Phaedro I know.”

  “The Phaedro you knew.” I step closer, close enough to smell the scent of violets and musk drifting about her like clouds in a graveyard, overlaid with the warm, meaty scent of horse. “And now you can know me. You were his sometimes assistant. Will you be mine?”

  I pull her to her feet. She sways back and forth, seductive as hell, and looks up at me through dark lashes. White skin, black eyes, ruby lips; she’s the birch forest, and I’m the beast caught in her branches. “Depends on what’s involved, I suppose.”

  “First things first, love.” I cup her jaw and bend to kiss her, slow and sweet and deep and dark. If she didn’t know me before this moment, she knows me now. Her breath catches, and she sighs and softens, kissing me back.

  After thorough exploration, I pull back and nip her lip. “Secondly, perhaps you could help me rip down these burial shrouds and find something a little less atrocious for the walls. I’m going to need some real light. And we’ll want the painter to start on the wagon.”

  “Oh, well, complete redecoration on a moving train. That’s not much to ask.” She runs a hand down the wall with an unreadable expression on her face. “That’s how it works, then? You show up, murder someone, and change every detail to suit yourself?”

  My smile is wolfish, purposefully so.

  “Exactly, love. Exactly.”

  “And will you ask the same of me?”

  I grasp her waist and pull her close, but only because she lets me.

  “I don’t change things that are already perfect,” I say.

  And she kisses me, a small peck on the cheek.

  “Neither do I, Stain. Neither do I.”

  I’M FULLY dressed and back at Bailey’s window, but this time, it bangs open before I can assault it with my knife. The train has stopped in the middle of nowhere, which means everyone else is taking a break in the dining car, enjoying some fresh air before we resume travel and they’re all
locked in their wagons again. But I’ve already tossed down four vials of blood—for Phaedro’s are mine now, are they not? And I’m ready for my next fight.

  “What now?” the voice barks through the speaker. “You got what you wanted. Quite a show.”

  I incline my head a scant bit. He might be in charge, but he’s still a human, after all.

  “I wish to make some changes in my lodging.”

  As anticipated, my words are welcomed with a glob of tobacco that I easily dodge.

  “And who made you the bloody magistrate? Wagon ain’t good enough for you? Well, we’d best be trundling off for London so the kitty-puss can stretch out on a silk cushion.”

  I sigh. “If you’re done, I was just hoping for a few more lanterns and a bigger mirror. That Phaedro fellow had all the panache of a blind bat.”

  His growl is tinny through the speaker. “Have someone show you the prop wagon. If you can’t find what you want in there, you can find it your own damn self. You might be a murderer, Mr. Stain, but you don’t scare me.”

  “If requesting a lamp is akin to murder, I respectfully hope you’ll consider reexamining your ethics,” I say drily, and the shutters slam closed.

  After checking the time, I hurry to the prop wagon. I can probably dig out some supplies before the train starts up again, and it’s customary to blow a horn or otherwise alert the carnivalleros before the train starts to move, if one doesn’t want to accidentally leave one’s employees behind to be eaten by rabbits. Considering the smaller size of Bailey’s show, the prop wagon takes up half of the costume wagon, both of which are ruled over by a vicious old Bludwoman who resembles a vulture. I’ve avoided her up until now, and if she’s in the dining room during my little raid, I shan’t be sorry. When my polite knock goes unanswered, I impolitely jigger the door with my lockpicks and hurry inside.

  I light a lantern by the door and hold it up to a kingdom of junk. It’s jumbled, of course. That’s the whole point of a prop wagon. Most of the furniture and equipment is damaged somehow: chairs missing a leg, a broken guitar, a dented tuba, a tragically cross-eyed mechanical bear smeared with oil. I push further in, knowing very well that the best things are often the hardest ones to find.

  Props tower overhead, and I can’t take the lantern any farther without risking fire. At my whispered word, a small light blooms from my fingertips. I abandon the lantern and press on. A chaise and a large box are shoved together like a barricade, which means someone is trying to keep people out of this corner, which means I very definitely need to poke around. It’s a shame how dusty my coat will be once I’m back outside, but costumes can always be mended, whereas secrets aren’t always at leisure to be discovered. A loud blare sounds outside, and the boards shake under my boots. Only one horn of warning? Tacky. But blast it all—I’m staying. Better to be trapped in here with possibilities than trapped in Phaedro’s old wagon, brooding about in the darkness and hating it.

  Perhaps another man would see a grimy crypt filled with broken things, but I see endless possibilities. Sofas can be fixed. Ripped paintings can be torn from their ornate frames and replaced with, honestly, less cross-eyed bearded ladies. I push farther in, slithering around half a staircase, and something rustles up ahead. I go silent and focus my senses. If it’s a person, they’re using something to cloak their scent—probably the same powder I’m using to cloak mine.

  “Who’s there?” I bark, putting every inch of ferocity into my voice that I feel most of the time and shove down as often as necessary.

  “Stain? What in the name of Aztarte are you doing in here?”

  “Might as well ask you the same, love.”

  A shadow detaches up ahead, and the blue light dancing on my fingertips shows me Merissa’s small form. She’s not in her grand gowns or sweet chemise now but is clad in slim black breeches and a short cloak, her hair tucked up under a black kerchief. Washed in blue and black, she resembles a wide-eyed shadow, and I know that she’s up to no good.

  “I’m looking for something,” she says crossly, and I grin.

  “As am I. Shall we find it together?” Just for fun, I waggle my eyebrows lasciviously.

  Her gloved hand flaps, dismissing me. “I suspect we’re looking for different things. But the lanterns are over there, if you’re still trying to illuminate your wagon. I was going to bring you one on my way. They never do give enough warning before the wagon starts.”

  Right before I look where she’s pointing, I catch her eyes darting away and mark the spot: a trunk hastily shoved under an old rug. I think perhaps she’s an accomplished liar who’s unaccustomed to doubt; pretty creatures often are.

  “Ah, my thoughtful, skulking girl. What are you looking for?”

  “Something that belonged to Phaedro. Nothing you can find.”

  “This game of Twenty Questions isn’t going my way, so I’ll try again. How old is this caravan?”

  She shrugs and edges away. “Older than me. Bailey’s father ran it before him, I heard, back when each wagon was pulled by a draft horse. One of the original wheels is there, against the wall.” I look where she’s pointing but notice that she uses my glance to slip something into her pocket.

  “Impressive,” I murmur, a hand to flaking red paint on the carved spindles.

  Past the wheel, way in the back, the wagon’s junk takes on a distinguished sort of languor, as if it’s been sitting unwanted so long that it’s grown superior about it. The boxes still bear adze marks and handmade nails, and instead of lanterns, rusted candelabras tangle together in forgotten heaps. There’s a smell here, a layer of magic and age that calls to me, makes me hunger for the solid feel of my grimoires and leather-bound books under my palm. I flip through a series of portraits, hand-painted posters of long-gone freaks including a lizard man, something I’ve never seen in person before and would literally, literally kill to have in my future show.

  Merissa steps close to my back now, peering inquisitively around me.

  “Grotesque,” she says, and I shrug.

  “Depends on which side of the velvet rope you’re on, I suppose.”

  Beyond the paintings, a strange gleam of orange shimmers in my blue light, and I reach out to touch the faded, frayed canvas of a tent, folded neatly and crusted with age. Rummaging underneath it, I’m overcome with a vague sense of unease. Tiny hairs raise up on the back of my neck, and a chill creeps down my spine as I uncover a collection of lanterns and a single dusty brazier. I have seen these objects before. Recently. And they still seemed new then.

  “Do you know anything about this?” I ask, holding my blue flame to an ancient wooden box. Inside nestle a twisted ladle, dozens of tarnished silver plates, , and a carefully folded flowered scarf.

  “It’s all junk,” Merissa says. “From fifty years ago, when Bailey was a boy. I asked the costumer once why we never had a fortune-teller, and she went over all queer and said, One tyromancer is enough. Never again.” She reaches past me to hold the fire-blackened ladle up to the light. “Scrying with cheese.” She shakes her head. “So primitive. So...human. I kept pushing to find a glancer, and Mrs. Cleavers told me that the elder Bailey put the fortune-teller to death. Burned her at the stake all those years ago and swore we’d never have another. Perhaps she gave a bad fortune.”

  “So, there’s no fortune-teller in the caravan now?” I ask, an open hole filled with ice where my stomach should be.

  “Of course not. Surely you noticed when you were taking stock?”

  “Of course not,” I echo, remembering the warmth of the light on the young girl’s dark hair, the penetrative weight of her gaze. “Have you ever had your fortune told?”

  Merissa shakes her head and pulls her hands away. “Wouldn’t want to. It’s personal, what they see. Right down to your toes, and you can’t hide.”

  “If you’ve nothing to hide, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “There’s always something to hide. Like all this old flotsam. Don’t know why someone doesn’t toss ev
erything out, or at least sell it to a scrap man on Portobello Road.” She reaches for a pierced tin lamp, and I swat her hand away.

  “I wanted light, and this will do. There’s something to be said for objects with a purpose and a choice bit of tarnish, don’t you think? An electric light can go out, but a lantern is a vessel. When the light shines through, it connects the viewer to everyone who’s ever looked into the lamp, who’s read a book by its light or held it up in the darkness to frighten away the monsters.” I pick up the pierced lantern I remember, the one with the hooded figure surrounded by stars, forever chased by a wolf. The beeswax candle within still has a wick, and I brush the dust away, snap my fingers to light it, and close the little door. Stars and leaves dance around us, golden warm, and Merissa’s honest smile is its own light. “See?”

  “I do. There’s a poetry to it, isn’t there?”

  “That there is, love.”

  When I offer her the lantern, she takes it, holding it high for me. The old box is heavier than it looks, but I manage to maneuver it to a clear space by the door. So, I have what I came for, light and secrets, but I’m now stuck in a moving vehicle with a woman I’d very much like to woo, which is about the loveliest situation I can think of. We have privacy, we have romantic lighting, and we have one forgotten, three-legged velvet chaise that won’t suffer for a stain or two.

  Tossing open the sliding door, I breathe in the afternoon sunlight. Gold fields and green trees rumble past under a leaden gray sky, and the air smells of ozone and wildflowers.

  “Are you going to jump out?” Merissa asks, clutching the jamb tightly as she looks outside.

  My hands find her waist and pull her back, spin her around against the wall. Ever so gently, I tip my head to kiss her, giving her every chance to pull away or push me away or say something or turn her head. But she doesn’t, and I knew she wouldn’t, and we’re kissing and the ground is moving and I know the fortune-teller told me that I’d only get one of my desires this soon, but a woman like this is better solace than a circus.