Circus of the Damned

“What, and miss the Halloween blowout of all time?”

“Who’s that with you?” Stephen asked.

“Death,” I said.

Edward bowed.

“Trust you to bring death to the ball, ma petite.”

I looked up the dais, to the very top. Jean-Claude stood in front of the throne. He was finally wearing what his shirts hinted at, but this was the real thing. The real French courtier. I didn’t know what to call half of the costume. The coat was black with tasteful silver here and there. A short half-cloak was worn over one shoulder only. The pants were billowy and tucked into calf-high boots. Lace edged the foldover tops of the boots. A wide white collar lay at his throat. Lace spilled out of the coat sleeves. It was topped off by a wide, almost floppy hat with a curving arch of black and white feathers.

The costumed throng moved to either side, clearing the stairs up to the throne for me. I somehow didn’t want to go. There were sounds outside the curtains. Heavy things being moved around. More scenery and props being moved up.

I glanced at Edward. He was staring at the crowd, eyes taking in everything. Hunting for victims, or for familiar faces?

Everyone was in costume, but very few people were actually wearing masks. Yasmeen and Marguerite stood about halfway up the stairs. Yasmeen was in a scarlet sari, all veils and sequins. Her dark face looked very natural in the red silk. Marguerite was in a long dress with puffed sleeves and a wide lace collar. The dress was of some dark blue cloth. It was simple, unadorned. Her blond hair was in complicated curls with one large mass over each ear and a small bun atop her head. Hers, like Jean-Claude’s, looked less like a costume and more like antique clothing.

I walked up the stairs towards them. Yasmeen dropped her veils enough to expose the cross-shaped scar I’d given her. “Someone will pay you back for this tonight.”

“Not you personally?” I asked.

“Not yet.”

“You don’t care who wins, do you?”

She smiled. “I am loyal to Jean-Claude, of course.”

“Like hell.”

“As loyal as you were, ma petite.” She drew out each syllable, biting each sound off.

I left her to laugh at my back. I guess I wasn’t the one to complain about loyalties.

There were a pair of wolves sitting at Jean-Claude’s feet. They stared at me with strange pale eyes. There was nothing human in the gaze. Real wolves. Where had he gotten real wolves?

I stood two steps down from him and his pet wolves. His face was unreadable, empty and perfect.

“You look like something out of The Three Musketeers,” I said.

“Accurate, ma petite.”

“Is it your original century?”

He smiled a smile that could have meant anything, or nothing.

“What’s going to happen tonight, Jean-Claude?”

“Come, stand beside me, where my human servant belongs.” He extended a pale hand.

I ignored the hand and stepped up. He’d talked inside my head. It was getting silly to argue. Arguing didn’t make it not true.

One of the wolves growled low in its chest. I hesitated.

“They will not harm you. They are my creatures.”

Like me, I thought.

Jean-Claude put his hand down towards the wolf. It cringed and licked his hand. I stepped carefully around the wolf. But it ignored me, all its attention on Jean-Claude. It was sorry it had growled at me. It would do anything to make up for it. It groveled like a dog.

I stood at his right side, a little behind the wolf.

“I had picked out a lovely costume for you.”

“If it was anything that would have matched yours, I wouldn’t have worn it.”

He laughed, soft and low. The sound tugged at something low in my gut. “Stay here by the throne with the wolves while I make my speech.”

“We really are going to fight in front of the crowd.”

He stood. “Of course. This is the Circus of the Damned, and tonight is Halloween. We will show them a spectacle the likes of which they have never seen.”

“This is crazy.”

“Probably, but it keeps Oliver from bringing the building down around us.”

“Could he do that?”

“That and much more, ma petite, if we had not agreed to limit our use of such powers.”

“Could you bring the building down?”

He smiled, and for once gave me a straight answer. “No, but Oliver does not know that.”

I had to smile.

He draped himself over the throne, one leg thrown over a chair arm. He tucked his hat low until all I could see was his mouth. “I still ca

“You gave me no choice.”

“You would really see me dead rather than have the fourth mark.”

“Yep.”

He whispered, “Showtime, Anita.”

The lights suddenly went off. There were screams from the audience as it sat in the sudden dark. The curtain pulled back on either side. I was suddenly on the edge of the spotlight. The light shone like a star in the dark. Jean-Claude and his wolves were bathed in a soft light. I had to agree that my pumpkin sweater didn’t exactly fit the motif.

Jean-Claude stood in one boneless movement. He swept his hat off and gave a low, sweeping bow. “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight you will witness a great battle.” He began to move slowly down the steps. The spotlight moved with him. He kept the hat off, using it for emphasis in his hand. “The battle for the soul of this city.”

He stopped, and the light spread wider to include two blond vampires. The two women were dressed as 1920s flappers, one in blue, the other in red. The women flashed fangs, and there were gasps from the audience. “Tonight you will see vampires, werewolves, gods, devils.” He filled each word with something. When he said “vampires,” there was a ruffling at your neck. “Werewolves” slashed from the dark, and there were screams. “Gods” breathed along the skin. “Devils” were a hot wind that scalded your face.

Gasps and stifled screams filled the dark.

“Some of what you see tonight will be real, some illusion; which is which will be for you to decide.” “Illusion” echoed in the mind like a vision through glass, repeating over and over. The last sound died away with a whisper that sounded like a different word altogether. “Real,” the voice whispered.

“The monsters of this city fight for control of it this Halloween. If we win, then all goes peaceful as before. If our enemies win…” A second spotlight picked out the top of a second dais. There was no throne. Oliver stood at the top with the lamia in full serpent glory. Oliver was dressed in a baggy white jump suit with large polka dots on it. His face was white with a sad smile drawn on it. One heavily lined eye dropped a sparkling tear. A tiny pointed hat with a bright blue pom-pom topped his head.

A clown? He had chosen to be a clown? It wasn’t what I had pictured him in. But the lamia was impressive with her striped coils curled around him, her naked breasts caressed by his gloved hand.

“If our enemies win, then tomorrow night will see a bloodbath such as no city in the world has ever seen. They will feed upon the flesh and blood of this city until it is drained dry and lifeless.” He had stopped about halfway down. Now he began to come back up the stairs. “We fight for your lives, your very souls. Pray that we win, dear humans; pray very, very hard.”

He sat in the throne. One of the wolves put a paw on his leg. He stroked its head absently.

“Death comes to all humans,” Oliver said.

The spotlight died on Jean-Claude, leaving Oliver as the only light in the darkness. Symbolism at its best.

“You will all die someday. In some small accident, or long disease. Pain and agony await you.” The audience rustled uneasily in their seats.

“Are you protecting me from his voice?” I asked.

“The marks are,” Jean-Claude said.

“What is the audience feeling?”

“A sharp pain over the heart. Age slowing their bodies. The quick horror of some remembered accident.”