Flesh Circus

“Good evening, everyone.” I paused for a breath. All eyes turned to me except Saul’s, and the crowd of ’breed and Traders took in a collective breath. Silver hissed in my hair, the charms moving angrily. “Seems someone has a bit of a grudge against your hostage. I just saved his life.” Another pause, this one taking a different tenor as the gun came down and swept slowly, leisurely, along the front of the crowd. “Anyone have a problem with that?”

There’s a definite proportion of this job that is just plain theater. The little bitches don’t take you seriously unless you act the part. I used to think Mikhail enjoyed the acting, but then I figured out he was really a fan of getting the job done in the shortest amount of time so he could move on to the next. It just goes more efficiently with the right proportion of fuck-you posturing.

The gun swept the front of their ranks again. Saul had stopped growling, but he still quivered with readiness. The Ringmaster straightened slowly, shook himself like a cat shedding water. Half his face was peppered with threads of damage. The black spikes of hair covering his head were plastered down, and thin foul-smelling ichor splashed free of his quick little movements. Little threads of white smoke curled up when the droplets hit the dust.

Silence stretched. Even the calliope was silent, the entire glass bowl of the Cirque holding its breath. If this went on much longer I’d probably have to actually kill someone to keep the peace.

My only trouble was figuring out where to start.

The Ringmaster hobbled forward. “Our hostage still lives,” he rasped, and I tried not to feel relieved.

Watch him, Jill. He’s a tricky little bastard. I hopped down, avoiding the broken steps. “Of course he does. He ends up dead and I have to kill every motherfucking last one of you. What the fuck are you up to out here?” And where’s Perry?

“I do not,” the Ringmaster husked, slowly, “answer to you.”

I made a small beeping noise. The gun settled on him, my pulse cooling immediately. “Wrong answer, hellspawn. This is my town, you do answer to me. I am not having my city fucked up because you guys brought bad business with you.”

“You blame this on us?” He actually bristled.

Yes, bristled, his hair standing up in ichor-stiffened spikes, his skin turning mottled and pinpricks of the shape underneath poking out through the skin. Each hole I’d blown in his shell ran with diseased orange foxfire.

An elegantly manicured hand closed around his shoulder and squeezed, grinding. Perry pushed the Ringmaster down, the thin ’breed’s knees folding until they hit the dirt.

“Of course she blames you,” he said conversationally, his eyes glowing gasflame-blue, a deep indigo inkstain threading through the whites. “I must confess I am halfway to blaming you myself, brother.”

The assembled ’breed and Traders drew away in a single coordinated movement. Perry twisted his wrist slightly, and ground his fingers in. It was a slight movement, and didn’t look like much unless you know how horribly, hurtfully strong hellbreed are. A meaty popping sound—like bones crunching in a side of beef—cut through the breezy silence, and I heard another short cry from somewhere in the Cirque’s depths. It was either a peacock’s scream, someone dying, or a woman in full-throated orgasm.

Take your pick. The show must go on, I guess.

“Let me be exquisitely clear,” Perry continued. Another one of those meaty sounds, and the Ringmaster turned the cheesy-pale shade of a mushroom in a wet cellar. I’d shot him in that shoulder, and I was suddenly sure Perry was grinding the silverjacket bullet—or whatever was left of it after it mushroomed in hellbreed flesh—in deeper. “Our hunter will follow this attack to its source. If that source co

The scar had turned to a hot pucker of acid. I swallowed, kept the gun steady. Saul’s shoulders were rigidly straight, and I suddenly wished I was in front of him. He was between me and a whole fuckload of ’breed and Traders, and some of them were eyeing him instead of watching Perry and their boss.

Just be cool, Jill. No need to sweat anything. I eased forward two steps, my coat whispering as warm redolent air caressed it.

“Understood.” Great pearls of watery ichor beaded up on the Ringmaster’s narrow face. He wasn’t nearly as pretty now. The prickling hadn’t gone away either. The thing that lived under his mask of humanity snarled and cringed.

“That’s very good.” Perry’s gaze flicked across me. The urge to freeze warred with iron training; training, as always, won out. I took another single step, the scar twisting and burrowing, my pulse ratcheting up before I could force it back down. “Kiss?”

Don’t call me that, goddammit. God, I wanted to say that to him just once and wipe that smirk off his face. But if I did, it would be blood in the water. Who could guess what he would come up with if he knew something so simple bugged the shit out of me?

It took an effort of will to lower the gun. “Something was definitely attacking the hostage.”

“So I gathered.” He simply stood there, as if he wasn’t holding a cringing hellbreed like a mama cat will hold an offending, writhing kitten. “Who is the offender, avenging one?”

“Don’t know yet.” I paused, weighing the next sentence. “I’m fairly sure it wasn’t ’breed, though.”

It had the intended effect. Everyone, including Saul—and he had to twist halfway around in his lean easy crouch—stared at me.

All eyes on you, Jill.

“You are certain of this?” Perry didn’t drop the Ringmaster, but his eyes narrowed slightly. His fingers still held the other ’breed immobilized, but some of the hurtful tension drained out of him.

“Fairly certain. Last time I checked, hellspawn don’t use voodoo. Any reason why someone on the side of the loa would have a hard-on for a Cirque de Charnu hostage?”

If the silence before was glassy, the silence that followed was molasses-thick. It was broken only by the soundless buzz of my pager in its padded pocket. Bright eyes sparked in the gloom, the hellbreeds’ with varying red and orange tones, an occasional yellow speckle; and the Traders’ with their flat dusty shine.

Nobody said a fucking word. The trailer behind me rocked a little on its springs, and a faint groan slid from its depths. Ikaros was probably feeling a little better.

Saving a Trader’s life was a novelty, and not one I liked.

“Someone had better start explaining things to me.” I took perverse joy in using the same tone a teacher would with a class of young imbeciles.

Perry’s fingers tightened again. The Ringmaster’s pale face contorted, but he didn’t make a sound. If this kept up we were going to have yet another Bad Situation.

“Ease up on him, Pericles.” I dug for my pager, every nerve alert. It would take very little to turn this entire mob into a melee, especially with the way most of them were now shifting their attention, ever so slowly, toward Perry. And while I didn’t particularly mind the thought of them tearing him apart in little quivering pieces, I minded the thought of dealing with the Cirque and a scramble for power among the hellbreed who jostled in Perry’s long deep shadow. “He’s got the most to lose if the hostage bites it.”

The number on the pager was familiar, and my intuition tingled. Huh.

“Voodoo?” Perry pronounced the word like he didn’t know what it meant. Saul rose as soon as I took another step forward, gravel shifting under his booted feet. His was the only warmth in this place that didn’t make me feel like slime was trickling over my skin.