Chapter One
Happily Never After
The fire
is almost beautiful, in a way. It smolders against the setting sun, weaving a
trail of thick white smoke into the pink and fuchsia sky. It’s just after the
final curtain of our last show at this site, and the patrons who filter from
the big top’s black-and-violet canopy take in the spectacle as though it were
all part of the show. After all, it’s set up in the center of the promenade
leading to the main entrance. And no one’s rushing around to extinguish the
self-contained blaze. A few patrons stop and point and take pictures when they
get closer, when they realize that it’s not just a bonfire in the middle of the
walk. No, there’s something inside the pyre. Something that looks an awful lot
like our ringmaster.
I stand a few yards back and watch the scene with a detached sort of
dread. I know there isn’t meant to be a burning effigy right outside the tent.
I know it wasn’t there before intermission. The only thing keeping my heartbeat
even is the knowledge that the burning figure isn’t human: I can see the tightly
bound twigs splintering and can hear the crackle of snapping sap. Whoever made
the effigy of Mab did a damn good job, from the black top hat to the whip
that’s now just a stub in one smoldering hand. The figure’s porcelain-hued skin
was probably plaster, judging from how it cracks and peels. But the Swarovski
crystals and sequins are real, as are the thigh-high leather boots that already
smell like crisping skin. It’s eerie, watching Mab burn on a pedestal of
carefully laid wood. Especially when the real Mab appears beside me.
This Mab, all five-feet-six of her, practically quivers with rage. She
keeps herself in check, however; her only tell is the way her knuckles whiten
around the handle of her corded leather whip. I’ve known her long enough to
understand that this one small crack in her composure is sign enough. Everyone
else might think she’s calm, but I know there’s a storm raging beneath that
rouged facade.
Like the effigy, Mab’s in black leather stiletto boots that reach her
knees. From there on up it’s fishnet and corset and a ringmaster coat that
looks like it was pulled from some kinky Victoria’s Secret photo shoot. Mab’s
eyes are green as crystal, her white face perfectly painted with blushed cheeks
and crimson lips. Once more, I can’t help but think she looks like a young
Cher, complete with her flowing black locks and cheekbones of a goddess. That
and her affinity for leotards and bare skin.
“I trust, Vivienne,” she says, her words as tight as her grip on the
whip, as smoky as the trail weaving spirals above her disintegrating doppelgänger, “that you have no clue who did this.”
“I was watching the last act,” I say.
There’s a pop from the effigy, one that causes a few of the punters—the
more PC term we use for the show’s guests—to jump. The figure’s top hat falls
off and rolls to burn at the feet of a rather stunned-looking Asian couple. The
man raises his camera and takes a photo; the flash doesn’t go off, and I wonder
if he was secretly snapping away throughout the show. I wonder if the Shifters
standing further off notice, and if the man will still have his camera when he
reaches his car.
“What does this mean?” I ask, finally. It’s rare that Mab speaks to me.
After what happened only a few months ago, she’s made herself increasingly
scarce when she’s not onstage. I can’t say I blame her. After all, she was attacked by the Prince of the Summer Court.
“It means,” she says, “that Oberon is done playing games. This is a
declaration of war.”
*
When the
crowd has cleared and the effigy has faded to ash, the troupe gathers around
the spent pyre and does what circus performers do best: gossip. I don’t try to
find a place among them; instead, I stand on a small hilltop, the entire circus
splayed out below like a child’s toy set. I have no desire to be down
Happily Never After
The fire
is almost beautiful, in a way. It smolders against the setting sun, weaving a
trail of thick white smoke into the pink and fuchsia sky. It’s just after the
final curtain of our last show at this site, and the patrons who filter from
the big top’s black-and-violet canopy take in the spectacle as though it were
all part of the show. After all, it’s set up in the center of the promenade
leading to the main entrance. And no one’s rushing around to extinguish the
self-contained blaze. A few patrons stop and point and take pictures when they
get closer, when they realize that it’s not just a bonfire in the middle of the
walk. No, there’s something inside the pyre. Something that looks an awful lot
like our ringmaster.
I stand a few yards back and watch the scene with a detached sort of
dread. I know there isn’t meant to be a burning effigy right outside the tent.
I know it wasn’t there before intermission. The only thing keeping my heartbeat
even is the knowledge that the burning figure isn’t human: I can see the tightly
bound twigs splintering and can hear the crackle of snapping sap. Whoever made
the effigy of Mab did a damn good job, from the black top hat to the whip
that’s now just a stub in one smoldering hand. The figure’s porcelain-hued skin
was probably plaster, judging from how it cracks and peels. But the Swarovski
crystals and sequins are real, as are the thigh-high leather boots that already
smell like crisping skin. It’s eerie, watching Mab burn on a pedestal of
carefully laid wood. Especially when the real Mab appears beside me.
This Mab, all five-feet-six of her, practically quivers with rage. She
keeps herself in check, however; her only tell is the way her knuckles whiten
around the handle of her corded leather whip. I’ve known her long enough to
understand that this one small crack in her composure is sign enough. Everyone
else might think she’s calm, but I know there’s a storm raging beneath that
rouged facade.
Like the effigy, Mab’s in black leather stiletto boots that reach her
knees. From there on up it’s fishnet and corset and a ringmaster coat that
looks like it was pulled from some kinky Victoria’s Secret photo shoot. Mab’s
eyes are green as crystal, her white face perfectly painted with blushed cheeks
and crimson lips. Once more, I can’t help but think she looks like a young
Cher, complete with her flowing black locks and cheekbones of a goddess. That
and her affinity for leotards and bare skin.
“I trust, Vivienne,” she says, her words as tight as her grip on the
whip, as smoky as the trail weaving spirals above her disintegrating doppelgänger, “that you have no clue who did this.”
“I was watching the last act,” I say.
There’s a pop from the effigy, one that causes a few of the punters—the
more PC term we use for the show’s guests—to jump. The figure’s top hat falls
off and rolls to burn at the feet of a rather stunned-looking Asian couple. The
man raises his camera and takes a photo; the flash doesn’t go off, and I wonder
if he was secretly snapping away throughout the show. I wonder if the Shifters
standing further off notice, and if the man will still have his camera when he
reaches his car.
“What does this mean?” I ask, finally. It’s rare that Mab speaks to me.
After what happened only a few months ago, she’s made herself increasingly
scarce when she’s not onstage. I can’t say I blame her. After all, she was attacked by the Prince of the Summer Court.
“It means,” she says, “that Oberon is done playing games. This is a
declaration of war.”
*
When the
crowd has cleared and the effigy has faded to ash, the troupe gathers around
the spent pyre and does what circus performers do best: gossip. I don’t try to
find a place among them; instead, I stand on a small hilltop, the entire circus
splayed out below like a child’s toy set. I have no desire to be down
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