the flying horses and the carnival that never stops.
Our world ended the day the Underground Circus came to town.
Sometimes I think we pulled a window shade down to cover our dark night, to keep our safe light inside. Let the vampires wander the streets and only invite them in when we need company, when we’ve grown tired of looking in the mirror and seeing no reflection.
I wish I could undo the black-market flesh trade, that I could burn the hands off every pretend mother and father willing to pay for a few hours of family-time-and-then-some.
The Circus had three levels of hell. As if one wasn’t enough.
It all began with a cast of kidnapped children, displayed in the black-market video bars and ordered like after-dinner desserts. The first level was trained, like pets, to perform at secret events for the wealthy. Sometimes these youngsters pretended to be members of the family, in a mock-celebration or holiday, kindling long-forgotten memories of a life when families gathered together, when a house echoed with the voices of brothers and sisters and cousins.
The second level was taught to dance and sing, a tiny cabaret on a candy-colored stage. Like nimble acrobats, they leaped across floors covered in expensive Persian carpets, tumbled between priceless antiques. Swift and lithe, their innocence erased with rouge and eyeliner, they acted out plays, entertained with rehearsed poetry.
But it was the third level that ripped out my heart, one swift wolf bite of flesh and blood and muscle, one devouring hunger that both maimed and killed. In the third level, prepubescent children were dressed in harlequin diamonds of black and white; they rode a carousel of flying horses. Here, the performance was dark and unrehearsed, the children were required to play adult roles…
Here, in a wassail feast of licentiousness, we destroyed the holy innocence of those we should have died to protect.
In my mind I can see the black market like a midnight bazaar in Marrakesh. Dark streets lined with open stalls, moon hidden behind the clouds. The air fills with the chatter of trained monkeys and the fragrance of exotic spice. Snake charmers linger in the shadows while someone offers to paint your body with henna tattoos. Colored lanterns flash within the stalls that you pass, revealing secret merchandise behind the counter. Illegal drugs, forged death certificates, clone bodies made to order. Anything you want, here and now, while you wait.
For a pound of flesh, the Underground Circus will come to town.
The horrors of the world, shimmering in veiled incandescence.
For a price, it can all be yours.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Chaz:
I waited forever, waited for the elevator doors to open. Outside, the sirens reached a fire-bright crescendo, an explosion of noise and light that demanded attention. The lobby filled with a cheap hothouse collection of real/not-real mugs, some dressed in VR skinsuits, some wearing actual flesh and blood.
Despite all the frenetic activity that pulsed around me, I stayed focused on the light above the door, the light that told me where the elevator was.
Third floor and descending.
Muscles tensed in my chest and arms.
Second floor. A pause.
I glanced again at the stairwell. Sweat on my brow, my neck.
First floor. A ringing sound. Gears grinding to a halt.
I heard the swoosh of the doors before they actually opened, I leaned forward, ready to push the inhabitants aside, to punch the elevator button and shoot up to the—
The doors were open now. A body lay crumpled in the corner. Long white-blonde hair, slender figure in a black dress and boots.
A dart in her leg, the feathered plume tagging her like a prize.
Angelique.
My heart thundered out the rest of the world, pushed aside the sirens and the cacophony of voices. I rushed to her side, gently took her wrist, caught my breath when I felt a pulse.
She blinked her eyes, wearily, glanced up at me. Tried to smile. Whispered my name. Sounded more beautiful than I wanted to admit.
She was in my arms then. I was carrying her into the lobby; a medic with a big red cross on his white coat was running toward me; her head was on my shoulder and she whispered my name again.
I placed her, ever so gently, on a stretcher, my lips brushing her cheek as I did.
A kiss, I think. Unintentional perhaps.
But then again, maybe not.
Rules are meant to be broken sometimes, I think, when life and death collide on the street corner, when everything we value gets mangled in the wreckage.