Flesh Circus

“I do not—” The Ringmaster began.

“I think it’s best, don’t you?” Perry interjected smoothly, taking a single step closer. “So nobody is tempted to run amok while my dear Kiss is on the scene. It would be so embarrassing to have a hunter become justified in killing a few more of your performers.” He didn’t look at the other ’breed, though. Instead, he was staring at me like he was hungry and I was a bowl of lunch.

I wish I could say I didn’t know that look. But men have been giving it to me all my life.

The other ’breed stared at me, the pumpkin hellfire smearing from his irises not abating one iota. I was suddenly glad we were inside Galina’s shop. If he moved on me she’d drop him—or more precisely, the Sanctuary warding on the walls would. If all else failed, it would give me enough time to put a few silverjacket slugs in him. And maybe sink a knife right into one of those orange-glowing eyes.

“If I find that you are, indeed, involved in this… unfortunate… event—” The cane twirled smartly, the crystal hissing as it clove unresisting air.

That’s the trouble with this job. It’s full of threats, both veiled and naked. After a while it gets ho-hum. Except when you’re dealing with Hell’s scions. The slippery, twisting, twitchy bastards threaten all the time—and they’ll get away with what they can.

“I sure hope that wasn’t a threat,” I remarked to the empty air over his black-spiked head. “Because for a member of the Cirque de Charnu to threaten a resident hunter is exceeding bad taste. Not to mention stupid. And dangerous. And—”

“That’s it.” Galina stepped forward just as the Ringmaster did, a synchronized movement that would have been fu

Our hunter. A pucker of hot liquid prickling filled the scar. The bottom dropped out of my stomach. Perry gri

Great.

Crackling tension rose another notch. The Ringmaster paced toward me, and I realized he would have to pass very close to get out the front door. I stepped aside, so did Saul, and I did my best to keep myself between him and the ’breed. The smooth incense quiet of Galina’s shop trembled like the skin atop fresh milk. My hands literally itched for a weapon.

The Ringmaster halted for a bare second. Adrenaline spiked through my bloodstream. I caught a whiff of sawdust and glitter, spice and fried food, with the faint thunderous note of rotting underneath. The edges of his red frock coat twitched, as if tiny insect feet were stabbing the threadbare crimson velvet from underneath.

Amazingly, he didn’t stop to threaten me again. He just passed by with a sound like fresh-ta

“Now you, Perry.” Thunder smoked and roiled under Galina’s voice. “I’ve business to transact with Jill.”

“What if I do, too?” He gri

“Perry.” Just the one word. Galina’s eyes turned incandescent. The silver at her throat sparked, a clean springtime green swirling at the surface of the metal. “It would be undignified to be tossed out of here on your ass.”

“True.” He rocked back on his heels, gri

My shoulders dropped. I let out another, far gustier sigh, and Galina swayed before she pulled herself upright. The glass on the floor quivered again. I watched as the broken pieces of the display case twitched slightly, arranged along spiraling rays of reaction.

Huh. That’s interesting.

Saul’s hands caught my shoulders. “You okay?” He sounded worried.

I realized the scar was twitching against the underside of my arm as if an enthusiastic seamstress was pleating the skin. At least Perry hadn’t really tried to play with it. “Just ducky. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Someone’s looking to kill Cirque performers?”

Galina said it, so I didn’t have to. “Or they have a deeper plan, and they’re going to try to pin anything that happens on you. I don’t like this.”

“Sorry about your display case.” I stared, willing the pattern to come clear, and finally blinked it away when it refused. Hunters always become full-blown psychics before the end of their apprenticeships; damn useful when dealing with the nightside. But sometimes intuition won’t tell you anything. It will just muddy the waters.

I looked up to find the Sanctuary studying me, a line between her dark eyebrows. “Don’t worry about that.” Galina was pale, and shaking just the slightest bit.

“Oh, Christ,” I said. “Drop the other shoe. And get me some more ammo. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

Chapter Seven

You could find just about anything a serious practitioner needed at Galina’s, and if your credit was good you could get a whole lot more. A neutral supply of necessities for all concerned is the least of the services a Sanctuary provides to a city’s nightside inhabitants.

She poured us tea up in her kitchen. The night pressed against the bay window over the sink, the green bank of herbs in a cast-iron shelving unit stirring slightly.

Sancs like growing things. They are gentle souls, really. It’s a shame so few people pass their entrance exams.

Galina set the tray of silverjacket ammo down on the butcher-block table. “What do you know about the last time the Cirque was here?”

Saul blew across his tea to cool it. He was looking everywhere except at me.

I stared at her for a few seconds, the chill down my back growing more pronounced. “It was the hunter before Mikhail. I know he told them not to come back until he wasn’t the hunter here either. Bad blood between him and the last Ringmaster. Or is that the same one?”

“It’s the same one. He’s been controlling the Cirque for a few generations, which means he’s nasty and smart.” Her fingers were steady on the teapot; she poured and pushed the ammo tray toward me. It was really strange to see her so pale. Not much disturbs Galina’s serenity. “With that goddamn cane of his. The last time…”

I waited while she set the teapot down, the walls echoing slightly with her distress. Sancs don’t go outside much; it’s the price they pay for being almost godlike inside their nice thick defenses. Being inside a Sanctuary’s space when they lose their cool is an uncomfortable experience at best.

Saul slurped loudly. The scar ran with prickles, like icy water on burning skin. I began checking the ammo automatically, sliding yet more extra cartridges into the loops sewn inside my coat. I could probably do this in my sleep, I’ve done it so many times.

And hell, while I was here for the second time today I might as well load up.

“There was some trouble,” Galina finally said, lowering herself down to sit on a stool opposite me. “The hunter before Mikhail was Emerson Sloane; he had a sort-of apprentice. Everything went sideways.”

Sort-of apprentice? That doesn’t happen. But there are wa