scared of you. I think you’ll find that I am neither.”
It’s a tense moment, and I tap my talons on the table, one-two-three. Quincy sniffles to himself, trying to lick the cuts on his cheeks, and Catarrh touches the scratch on his neck and breathes hard through his nose for a moment before whispering, “I submit.”
“Good.” I snatch Catarrh’s teacup and drain the dregs, exposing my throat in the sort of way that tells another predator that it is not now or ever a threat to me.
Catarrh and Quincy watch, sullen and slumped against the back of the bench.
“I didn’t submit,” Quincy snarls, and I set down his brother’s teacup and lean forwards with a ferociously mad smile and the all-too-sharp letter opener I’ve just whipped from my vest. “But I do. I do!” he whimpers.
I relax and nod. “Smart lads. Now, tell me about this other magician.”
They shrug, which tells me all that I need to know.
“The Great Phaedro,” Catarrh says, flapping a hand. “Whoopty-doodley.”
“Not great,” Quincy mutters, still compulsively rubbing the place where I took a divot out of his pimpled cheek with his own cup.
“What’s his specialty?”
Quincy snickers, and Catarrh says, “Cutting girls in half. What’s yours?”
“Cutting magicians in half.”
But the small hairs on my neck rise up. I don’t just cut girls in half; I make them disappear completely.
I F THIS caravan is like the other two in which I’ve worked, then no matter how poorly it’s run, things will start to warm up just as the sun is setting. Sure enough, some of the more talented carnivalleros who actually have jobs are practicing, as they should be. There’s a sprightly old man on the tightrope, gray and wrinkled but still wiry as the twisted metal under his slippers. Far below him, on the ground, sit two small girls in outlandishly bright costumes, doing their sums on a chalkboard as they share stale popcorn. A middle-aged lady with horse teeth checks her flea circus with a monocle screwed over her eye, while a young blonde Bludwoman slips into a tailpiece and prepares to launch herself into an unkempt mermaid’s aquarium. A patchy, defanged wolf boy is manacled to a stake in the ground, which he’s trying to dig out with bloody paws.
Further on, I meet a troupe of daimon acrobats and, surprisingly, a strong woman with arms that each weigh more than my entire body. Mademoiselle Caprice dances with a handsome Bludman covered in tattoos, while a voluptuous dwarf lady does her makeup in a cracked mirror. The Freak Tent is at the end, a cluster of fraying pavilions that sets me frowning when I find the entrance unguarded.
It’s bad enough that this Bailey fellow never leaves his wagon, but if he doesn’t have a second-in-command capable of maintaining order, he’s just begging me to snatch this languishing jewel from his crusty grasp. I duck under the striped canvas and nearly run into the light blue daimon I met in the dining wagon as he double-checks his bed of nails.
“Want to have a curl-up?” he says mockingly, and I try not to roll my eyes.
“I know the trick, fool. If you want to impress me, learn to hammer a nail into your eye.”
“That’s impossible,” he says, and I laugh.
“Give me a nail and a hammer then, if you’d care to wager.”
With a rude snort, he picks up his hammer and tosses it in the air, catching it expertly. “What are the terms, then?”
“If I can successfully hammer a nail into my eye, you’ll stop being a prat and accept that I’m most likely going to stick around and one day become your boss.”
“And if you end up in an eye patch?” He hands me a nail, and I grin, because there are a dozen ways he could’ve sabotaged me, and he’s far too stupid to have even tried.
“If I lose, I’ll give you a spell to make your skin brighter.”
Considering a water-colored half-daimon’s skin is his greatest shame, I take a certain joy in watching his eyes take on a holy
It’s a tense moment, and I tap my talons on the table, one-two-three. Quincy sniffles to himself, trying to lick the cuts on his cheeks, and Catarrh touches the scratch on his neck and breathes hard through his nose for a moment before whispering, “I submit.”
“Good.” I snatch Catarrh’s teacup and drain the dregs, exposing my throat in the sort of way that tells another predator that it is not now or ever a threat to me.
Catarrh and Quincy watch, sullen and slumped against the back of the bench.
“I didn’t submit,” Quincy snarls, and I set down his brother’s teacup and lean forwards with a ferociously mad smile and the all-too-sharp letter opener I’ve just whipped from my vest. “But I do. I do!” he whimpers.
I relax and nod. “Smart lads. Now, tell me about this other magician.”
They shrug, which tells me all that I need to know.
“The Great Phaedro,” Catarrh says, flapping a hand. “Whoopty-doodley.”
“Not great,” Quincy mutters, still compulsively rubbing the place where I took a divot out of his pimpled cheek with his own cup.
“What’s his specialty?”
Quincy snickers, and Catarrh says, “Cutting girls in half. What’s yours?”
“Cutting magicians in half.”
But the small hairs on my neck rise up. I don’t just cut girls in half; I make them disappear completely.
I F THIS caravan is like the other two in which I’ve worked, then no matter how poorly it’s run, things will start to warm up just as the sun is setting. Sure enough, some of the more talented carnivalleros who actually have jobs are practicing, as they should be. There’s a sprightly old man on the tightrope, gray and wrinkled but still wiry as the twisted metal under his slippers. Far below him, on the ground, sit two small girls in outlandishly bright costumes, doing their sums on a chalkboard as they share stale popcorn. A middle-aged lady with horse teeth checks her flea circus with a monocle screwed over her eye, while a young blonde Bludwoman slips into a tailpiece and prepares to launch herself into an unkempt mermaid’s aquarium. A patchy, defanged wolf boy is manacled to a stake in the ground, which he’s trying to dig out with bloody paws.
Further on, I meet a troupe of daimon acrobats and, surprisingly, a strong woman with arms that each weigh more than my entire body. Mademoiselle Caprice dances with a handsome Bludman covered in tattoos, while a voluptuous dwarf lady does her makeup in a cracked mirror. The Freak Tent is at the end, a cluster of fraying pavilions that sets me frowning when I find the entrance unguarded.
It’s bad enough that this Bailey fellow never leaves his wagon, but if he doesn’t have a second-in-command capable of maintaining order, he’s just begging me to snatch this languishing jewel from his crusty grasp. I duck under the striped canvas and nearly run into the light blue daimon I met in the dining wagon as he double-checks his bed of nails.
“Want to have a curl-up?” he says mockingly, and I try not to roll my eyes.
“I know the trick, fool. If you want to impress me, learn to hammer a nail into your eye.”
“That’s impossible,” he says, and I laugh.
“Give me a nail and a hammer then, if you’d care to wager.”
With a rude snort, he picks up his hammer and tosses it in the air, catching it expertly. “What are the terms, then?”
“If I can successfully hammer a nail into my eye, you’ll stop being a prat and accept that I’m most likely going to stick around and one day become your boss.”
“And if you end up in an eye patch?” He hands me a nail, and I grin, because there are a dozen ways he could’ve sabotaged me, and he’s far too stupid to have even tried.
“If I lose, I’ll give you a spell to make your skin brighter.”
Considering a water-colored half-daimon’s skin is his greatest shame, I take a certain joy in watching his eyes take on a holy
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