The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels) by A. R. Kahler Page B

and figuring out why
I fainted in the first place. More important things. I stand up and  search my
shelves for a clean shirt. There are much more important things than a guy I
barely know. A guy who’s gorgeous and strong and could set my ass on fire if he
wanted. A guy who I’m now only ninety percent certain is dating my best friend. Right.
    I can still
smell his cologne.

    An hour
later, I’m milling about in the promenade with the rest of the punters. Stalls
and booths of every kind flank each side of the makeshift road that leads up to
the blue-and-black tent. Cirque des Immortels blazes in acid-purple neon
above the gaping maw of an entrance. I’m in my everyday jeans and T-shirt,
nothing to set me apart from the rest — no Crew splashed across my back,
no tower of cotton candy in one hand. Tonight, I’m just like everyone else. I
hadn’t realized how appealing that thought would be.
    I grab a box
of popcorn from the concessionaire booth and am saved from making small talk;
today it’s run by a new girl from the nearby town, someone I haven’t met and
maybe never will. All she sees is a girl with a VIP pass that entitles her to
free food and drink. Even that small act of anonymity makes me feel a little
more at home. Being surrounded by people who know you 24/7 isn’t something I’m
used to. Small memories of another life flutter through my head like moths — all
grey images and tearstains — and then I’m leaping out of the way to make room
for a stilt walker.
    It's dressed
like a giant black rabbit trundling around on eight-foot-tall legs, except the
rabbit head is actually a raven’s. And when the beast walks past me, I
distinctly see the eye blink. A whole line of walkers moves through the crowd.
All the creatures are like some tame sort of nightmare, their legs nimbly stepping
around and over the people below. Kids are calling and screaming and laughing,
and even the adults stare up in wonder as the creatures roam and pirouette and
leap. They’re all headed in the same direction. To one side of the promenade
there’s a wooden archway set up between concession booths. The stilt walkers
narrowly duck under a sign as they vanish down the side alley. Freakshow ,
the sign reads .
      I
grin in spite of myself. Although they are technically hired as tent crew,
sometimes, when they’re really bored or want to shake things up, the Shifters
set up their small carnival-styled area to put on their own show. It’s like a
two-for-one deal. For once, my luck seems to be swinging toward the positive.
    I take a step
toward it, but then the music inside the tent changes, and the jugglers come
out into the promenade twirling clubs of fire. They shout at the top of their
lungs, “Show begins in five minutes!”
    I’d kill to
see what the Shifters are putting on at this site. Last time, Roman made
himself rotund and covered every inch of his torso in tattoos, so he resembled
an old-school globe. But the ticket in my hand burns at the thought of some kid
stealing my seat. I follow the throng toward the black entrance curtains. I’ll
catch the freaks at intermission.

    “You’ve
never seen anything like this before,” Kingston said. Two days in, and he and
Melody were still the only ones who talked to me, but it was better than
nothing. We stood at the back of the tent. He was in his costume and I wore a
new pair of jeans and T-shirt that had miraculously appeared in my bunk the
night I settled in. The performers were running in and out of the tent to catch
their cues. To me, it all looked like well-orchestrated chaos. Kingston
motioned for me to sneak closer, so I did, standing beside him and peering out
through a crack in the curtain. Even then I was horribly aware of his
proximity. I could see the contortionists doing their dance onstage, their
white costumes sparkling in the magenta lights above as they folded themselves
on top of each other, balancing on elbows and chins, tips of toes curling