Free The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels) by A. R. Kahler Page A

guy.
    Moments
later, every Shifter around the fire was doing their best impersonation of Mab —
some aiming for exactness, others just going wild. There were snake-headed
medusae and Mabs with red skin and devil horns. Others had two heads or five
breasts. It just got worse from there, as they deviated from impersonating Mab
into creating the weirdest creatures they could think of. Soon, the campfire
was surrounded by bleeding harpies and twelve-foot-tall stick men and — strangest
of all — a round blob of human flesh with no eyes or appendages, just a giant
mouth filled with broken-syringe teeth.
    “That, my
friend,” Melody laughed, “is why they’re called Shifters. Shapeshifters, if you
want to be precise.”
    “How the hell
do they do that?” I asked, watching the blob slurp itself back into the form of
a tiny girl with a green buzz cut.
    “Lineage,”
Kingston said. “You know all those stories about gods mating with mortals?” I
nodded, thinking of Zeus and all his bastardized offspring. “Yeah, well,
replace ‘gods’ with ‘faeries’ and that’s what you get.”
    I watched as
Heath — at least, I thought it was Heath — mutated into one giant blue breast.
    “Not as
refined as the stories, eh?” Melody laughed.
    “Never is,”
Kingston said.

    Roman is the
first guy I recognize in the throng, though it takes me a moment to connect the
guy I’m looking at with the heavily pierced, blue-mohawked guy I’m used to.
This new, changed Roman is wearing a three-piece suit that looks like it was in
at least a dozen pieces before he resurrected it. Patches are fraying off the
elbows and I can’t tell if it’s mostly brown or tweed or black pinstripe. He’s
also at least seven feet tall, with thick black tattoos curling around his bare
wrists and tunnel plugs in his ear that are big enough to pass a tennis ball
through. His general face shape is still roughly the same, albeit pointier, a
bit more elfish. But he still has the blue mohawk.
    “Vivienne,”
he says. His voice is much deeper than usual, rumbling in the depths of his
chest. “Enjoying the show?”
    “Yeah,” I
say, looking around, trying to find my quarry. Everything here seems dusty and
antiquated, from the hand-painted signs proclaiming the bearded lady (classic),
bat boy, and serpent fingers, to the makeshift tents and pavilions set up for
the shows. I don’t see Mab or the blond guy anywhere.
    “Looking for
something in particular?” he asks, the hint of a joke on his lips. “I hear the
fire eater’s quite hot this time around.”
    “Mab,” I say,
ignoring the horrible pun. His face becomes serious in an instant.
    Roman clears
his throat. He doesn’t ask me why I want to know, doesn’t ask if I’m getting
into trouble. We stare at each other for a moment; it's clear he already
knows something’s up, and he’s not interested in getting involved. Mab doesn’t
come into the freak show; whatever’s going on is serious.
    “She went
that way,” he says, pointing to the side.
    I glance
around. The tents back here are chaotic, all jammed together with no real rhyme
or reason. Small alleys appear between a few tents, leading off in more
directions and more shows. Hiding somewhere behind them is Mab and the man, and
my time to find them is running out fast.
    “Any idea
which one?”
    He shakes his
head. “Went down Alligator Alley. You’ll have to look.”
    Across the
circular pitch from Roman stands a tank as wide as I am tall, and twice my
height. In its depths, waving slowly with a grin on her face, is Penelope. Her
red hair floats around her in a halo, her pale skin looking even paler in the
clear water. She’s wearing a bra made of sequined seashells, and from the navel
down, her body is that of a fish, with opalescent blue scales and a beautiful
fin as diaphanous as a betta's. She smiles at me, a tiny trail of bubbles
escaping her lips, and I wave back, trying not to look as rushed as I feel. To
the right of her giant