Carnival of Souls

Unfortunately, every time he saw Mallory, he was consumed by thoughts of her for hours afterward. Kaleb hadn’t known much about Mallory when he was sent to find her, but in the past couple months, he’d studied how she moved, how she protected her home and her secrets. She was Marchosias’ daughter whether or not she knew it, and whatever human had sheltered her had clearly taught her caution that she took to very naturally. Once he’d started approaching her, she responded with interest, but she’d never allowed Kaleb anywhere near her home, had pretended not to be seeking threats as they spoke, and in general demonstrated an i

Haage hadn’t yet sent him to the human world to kill her, and the more time Kaleb spent with her, the more grateful he was for that. He liked her. It was foolishness, and he could work around it, but he found himself wishing Haage would change his mind. Stranger still, he had considered breaking his contract and bringing her to Marchosias. Both plans were risky; either option meant crossing one of the two most powerful daimons in The City. Soon, Kaleb would need to decide where his loyalties were—with Haage or with Marchosias.

His ultimate loyalty was to himself and his pack, regardless of whether he temporarily sided with Haage or with Marchosias. Right now, Kaleb’s pack was only two—him and Zevi—but Kaleb would do whatever he must to make them safe. Neither Haage or Marchosias were pack. They were simply daimons with a lot of power.

Tonight, though, Kaleb would bide his time in the Carnival of Souls. It wasn’t a hardship: everything of note started or ended here. Judgments were served here; negotiations of every sort took place in the shadows of vendors’ stalls. Marchosias had decreed, long before Kaleb was born, that the carnival would serve as the mercantile and service center of The City.

It was the epicenter of The City itself. Spiraling out around the carnival were a tangle of narrow streets and old buildings that made up clearly stratified living sections. At the edges, the Untamed Lands encroached; nature tried to consume The City, and they tried to keep it at bay. Before the Witch Wars, The City was larger, but the witches had set nature against the daimons in their final departing blow. For several centuries now, daimons had worked regularly to cut back the growth and try to protect The City. Here at the center, though, was a place of business and pleasure. Music played constantly. Blind drummers played outside the tents where delicate deals were arranged; ensembles in the employ of the pleasure vendors enticed customers with their music as dancers demonstrated their flexibility; and others simply played for the coins that were tossed into their baskets. At times it was a glorious cacophony. Jugglers and fire twirlers showed their skills in time to the music. All the while, hawkers sold their wares to those ensnared by the music, sometimes literally.

For all the violence in the The City—much of it in the carnival—there was beauty, too, especially here. As he walked, Kaleb’s steps caught the rhythm of a daimon who leaned against a vendor stall, tapping out patterns on a skin drum. The daimon had his eyes closed, and Kaleb smiled at the joy in the man’s face.

Carefully, Kaleb swung up into the rafters that supported the vast ceiling covering the centermost stalls and worked his way farther into the heart of the carnival. He stopped when the matchboard was directly across from him. Aya’s win over Belias had been posted, so Kaleb’s was the only match left undeclared. As with all matches, the public odds were listed for betting purposes. Kaleb wasn’t favored to win, but he hadn’t been discounted, either. It was a compliment to Nic’s and his standings that this fight was the final match in this round—or perhaps it was a challenge. Either way, theirs was the only nonticketed fight of the round, so the crowd would be overwhelming and unruly. A few fights, those expected to be particularly exciting, were left unticketed so anyone and everyone could enjoy the spectacle. In such cases, the fight circle would be as much for keeping the bystanders out as for ensuring that the fighters stayed in play. Neither crowd nor fighters could cross the circle without debilitating pain.

Kaleb tucked himself behind one of the pe

“Ten to one Kaleb is maimed,” one of the hawkers called.

“Bets on mercy deaths,” another beckoned.

“Death by claws,” suggested a cur. It was a popular bet for any of the cur fights; death by claws was a likely outcome, but the odds on claws were always better when Kaleb fought. He didn’t like using teeth, but claws were comfortable—and a crowd-pleaser. Audiences liked to see the sort of fights that invited foot-stomping, guttural-growling bloodthirst. Kaleb’s fights delivered what they wanted.

The cur met Kaleb’s gaze, waiting for the cue. He was the one Kaleb had been seeking.

When Kaleb nodded, the cur sauntered over to stand underneath Kaleb’s hiding place and leaned casually against a rough wooden post.

Kaleb crouched down and said in a low voice, “No claws before third blood. Cut me ten percent of the take, and I’ll guarantee it.”

The cur didn’t look up at him, but he flashed a toothy smile and nodded. He didn’t call out yet, but he’d only be able to wait for a few moments before attracting attention.

Side business complete, Kaleb hopped up and walked along the crossbeam. Once he was far enough from the betting house he’d tipped, he swung to the ground. Getting caught adjusting odds wasn’t likely since he didn’t tip any betting house regularly, and none of the houses were likely to submit him for judgment for adding to their profits. If the other fighters had any sense, they’d do the same, but too many of them were from castes that didn’t think creatively. That, as much as their skills in the matches, would keep them from changing their futures. Kaleb was a cur though—a daimon species that was near the bottom of the caste order. As a child he’d been even lower: he’d had no pack. His parents had abandoned him, so he survived as a street scab, too low to even have caste. Most such daimons died; Kaleb hadn’t. He’d fought, killed, and endured until he had the strength and power to earn respect on the streets. The competition could enable him to achieve far more than that.

Because most daimons couldn’t achieve caste mobility the way Marchosias had—through military actions—once every twenty years, Marchosias opened the caste lines to allow one daimon to win the right to join the ruling caste. It was a fierce fight, one with few survivors, and anyone of age to enter was forever disqualified from future competitions. To Kaleb’s mind, though, it was no less brutal than the future he’d face if he remained in the lowest caste. As a cur, odds were that he’d die by violence, better to try to change his status while he was at the top of his game than to grow complacent and be caught in the streets by a fighter intent on establishing status by eliminating an older cur. The only other fate he could have if he survived long enough was to find a protector who would use him for pleasure or violence. Or both. That was the lot in life for those in his caste. Those in the middle castes were educated or trained as tradesmen. The ruling caste made the decisions. In The City, one’s lot in life was determined by birth. Kaleb wasn’t content with that lot—but he wasn’t going to overlook the assets it offered either.

During the fight year, he had wandered the Carnival of Souls regularly. Being seen made him available for tips; it made him accessible to those seeking mask-work. He hadn’t accepted many jobs this year, but it kept him plugged into the underground where he’d grown up. The carnival was a thriving network of favors traded and impossibilities procured. It was as much a part of his success to date as his fighting skills.