Three Slices by Chuck Wendig, Kevin Hearne, Delilah S. Dawson Page A
Tags: General Fiction
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shine. The brighter the daimon, the better the show, they say, and it’s no wonder this poor faded fellow is so cranky.
“You’re on, mate,” he says.
We shake hands, and I hold the small nail to the corner of my left eye. Three sharp and dramatic knocks, and it’s lodged flawlessly. I hold out my arms and shout, “Tada!”
“That’s impossible,” he says, half in awe and half starving to possess my trick.
“That’s five years in the freak tent,” I say. But I make a little show of prying the nail out because no geek deserves to feel out-geeked in his own domain. Poor lad just needs better training, a firmer hand, and some manners, all of which I’d be glad to give him once I’ve murdered a few people. Tossing the nail to him, I balance the hammer on my nose and say, “Now, what can you tell me about this Phaedro fellow?”
The daimon’s yellow goat eyes go all shifty as he turns the nail over in watery blue hands, still hunting for an illusion that isn’t there. “Doesn’t seem right to tell a gent’s weaknesses to a stranger.”
“My name is Criminy Stain,” I say, holding out a hand. “And I might be strange, but that’s just part of my charm.”
“I’m Laraby.” We shake hands and I return his hammer, and he finally makes his decision to not infuriate someone who clearly knows how to handle weapons.
“Phaedro’s act is mostly illusion. When he cuts a lass in half, it’s the legless lady from the third booth down in the Freak Tent. When he makes someone disappear, it’s a daimon with good control over color-changing. And when a bludbunny pops out of his hat, it’s because he keeps a toothless bludbunny in his hat all the time.”
“So, he has no real magic?”
Laraby shrugs. “Not much, by my count. But he mostly keeps to himself to himself. Seen him among the other Bludmen, from time to time, but never really talked to ’im. Now, about that trick with the nail?”
“Business first. But I do appreciate your help, and so I’ll thank you with this.” I pull a tiny bag out of my pocket, for my jacket has hundreds of such pockets sewn into the lining, and I’ve memorized exactly where everything is and have the proper bits and bobs apportioned for just such an occasion. “Place one grain—only one, mind you—on your tongue, and you’ll find it far easier to hold onto brighter colors, at least for a few hours at a time.”
He takes the small bag, pokes it with a finger the color of melting snow. “Not permanent, then?”
“Sorry, lad,” I say, walking on. “Nothing is.”
F URTHER EXPLORATION of the Freak Tent shows me nothing new. I’ve seen all these freaks before and in better form. The dwarf is drunk and abusive, the wolf boy has sores from his manacles, the legless lady wants more than the going rate for being sawn in half, and the two-headed boy simply sits sullenly on a small chaise and stares. Pizzazz is lacking and morale is nonexistent.
I smile. This place wants me, needs me.
Outside again, I turn right to see what the other side of the wagon train holds and find...nothing. Blank spaces and darkness. I guess I know now how Catarrh and Quincy get their dessert—by dragging customers back here and charming them before releasing them, dizzy and confused and down a few pints of blood, back into the well-lit crowds. The wildlife creeps close on the dark side of the train, thanks to the lack of lights. The grasses crunch and whisper as bluddeer and bludbunnies stalk and hop and drool and wait, mere inches from innocent flesh. There’s not even a sign warning the audience not to come this way. This traditional setup is foolish, but so are most things that need changing. It feels good, pissing on the nearest wagon. That’s how we predators claim things, after all.
Back in the light, I find Merissa working a white horse and fuss with my cravat. I haven’t seen a mirror since I left my old home, much less a pitcher of water or a wardrobe wagon. Not that
“You’re on, mate,” he says.
We shake hands, and I hold the small nail to the corner of my left eye. Three sharp and dramatic knocks, and it’s lodged flawlessly. I hold out my arms and shout, “Tada!”
“That’s impossible,” he says, half in awe and half starving to possess my trick.
“That’s five years in the freak tent,” I say. But I make a little show of prying the nail out because no geek deserves to feel out-geeked in his own domain. Poor lad just needs better training, a firmer hand, and some manners, all of which I’d be glad to give him once I’ve murdered a few people. Tossing the nail to him, I balance the hammer on my nose and say, “Now, what can you tell me about this Phaedro fellow?”
The daimon’s yellow goat eyes go all shifty as he turns the nail over in watery blue hands, still hunting for an illusion that isn’t there. “Doesn’t seem right to tell a gent’s weaknesses to a stranger.”
“My name is Criminy Stain,” I say, holding out a hand. “And I might be strange, but that’s just part of my charm.”
“I’m Laraby.” We shake hands and I return his hammer, and he finally makes his decision to not infuriate someone who clearly knows how to handle weapons.
“Phaedro’s act is mostly illusion. When he cuts a lass in half, it’s the legless lady from the third booth down in the Freak Tent. When he makes someone disappear, it’s a daimon with good control over color-changing. And when a bludbunny pops out of his hat, it’s because he keeps a toothless bludbunny in his hat all the time.”
“So, he has no real magic?”
Laraby shrugs. “Not much, by my count. But he mostly keeps to himself to himself. Seen him among the other Bludmen, from time to time, but never really talked to ’im. Now, about that trick with the nail?”
“Business first. But I do appreciate your help, and so I’ll thank you with this.” I pull a tiny bag out of my pocket, for my jacket has hundreds of such pockets sewn into the lining, and I’ve memorized exactly where everything is and have the proper bits and bobs apportioned for just such an occasion. “Place one grain—only one, mind you—on your tongue, and you’ll find it far easier to hold onto brighter colors, at least for a few hours at a time.”
He takes the small bag, pokes it with a finger the color of melting snow. “Not permanent, then?”
“Sorry, lad,” I say, walking on. “Nothing is.”
F URTHER EXPLORATION of the Freak Tent shows me nothing new. I’ve seen all these freaks before and in better form. The dwarf is drunk and abusive, the wolf boy has sores from his manacles, the legless lady wants more than the going rate for being sawn in half, and the two-headed boy simply sits sullenly on a small chaise and stares. Pizzazz is lacking and morale is nonexistent.
I smile. This place wants me, needs me.
Outside again, I turn right to see what the other side of the wagon train holds and find...nothing. Blank spaces and darkness. I guess I know now how Catarrh and Quincy get their dessert—by dragging customers back here and charming them before releasing them, dizzy and confused and down a few pints of blood, back into the well-lit crowds. The wildlife creeps close on the dark side of the train, thanks to the lack of lights. The grasses crunch and whisper as bluddeer and bludbunnies stalk and hop and drool and wait, mere inches from innocent flesh. There’s not even a sign warning the audience not to come this way. This traditional setup is foolish, but so are most things that need changing. It feels good, pissing on the nearest wagon. That’s how we predators claim things, after all.
Back in the light, I find Merissa working a white horse and fuss with my cravat. I haven’t seen a mirror since I left my old home, much less a pitcher of water or a wardrobe wagon. Not that
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