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

aquarium is a space between a couple tents. A wooden
sign strung above it reads Alligator Alley with a bitten-off chunk
missing from the side. There are a few people walking in and out of the narrow
space, heading for or returning from the other tents nestled in the back.
    “Thanks,” I
say.
    “Be careful,”
he says in return, not looking at me. I nod and head into the crowd.
    The air back
here is stifling. It smells of sawdust and horses, kerosene and sweat. I cram
down the tight passage next to a couple others and squeeze my way forward. I
can’t see Mab or the blond guy over the heads of everyone, and I’ve got a
sneaking suspicion they wouldn’t just be standing out in the open. They’re
hiding.
    I come to an
opening in the tent on my left. I glance up. Tarantina the Tarantuless — spiderphobes
beware is written in black ink on the wooden sign. A rubber spider hangs
off the edge. Deciding to start at the beginning, I duck inside.
    The moment I
enter the tent, I feel like I’ve stepped into the Amazon. Stunted trees arch
under the tent’s canopy, and long strands of moss droop down like broken wings.
All I can see is the winding path in front of me. The floor is dirt and the air
is thick and moisture immediately starts dripping down my forehead. There isn’t
much of a crowd in here, and it doesn’t take long to figure out why; every
surface is covered in spiders. Big Brown fuzzy creatures the size of my
thumbnail or larger than a plate roam freely over the tent. They dangle from
webs in the ceiling, crawl over the moss. A few scurry across the path in front
of me.
    I shiver in
spite of myself. I’ve never been afraid of spiders, but that doesn’t mean I
enjoy the idea of a large one dropping down the back of my neck.
    I creep
through the undergrowth, careful not to step on any of the spiders making their
oblivious way underfoot. The only sound in the tent is the hum of cicadas and
the occasional disturbing crunching noise; I can’t hear the music from outside
or the voices of the audience. I feel completely alone. I walk a few steps
deeper and turn a corner. The trees close in, reaching out with their leg-like
branches. Cobwebs stretch from floor to ceiling.
    Something
slides across my neck and I jump, my hand immediately swatting at it.
    A woman
stands behind me. Her hair is long and braided, her skin deep brown. She’s
wearing leopard skin and leather. Her feet are bare. There’s a tarantula the
size of my fist on her shoulder and another creeping through her hair. Tiny
spiders crawl up and down her legs.
    “Vivienne,”
she says, flashing a razor-toothed smile. Her eyes glint gold and black.
    I take a
deep, steadying breath and thank the gods I didn’t scream.
    “Taran…tina?”
I say.
    She laughs,
though her voice deepens. Her face changes.
    “ Heath?”
    He chuckles.
It’s just Heath’s face — stubble and all — that’s similar. The rest is
definitely feminine. He gestures to his body with the hand not holding the
spider.
    “Convincing,
eh?” he says. “Janet usually does this gig, but she’s on security instead.”
    “Security?”
    Heath’s smile
slips. He doesn’t answer.
    “Oh, right.” I
pause. “Has Mab come through here?”
    “Hell no,” he
says. “You’re my only visitor so far. Well, a couple kids came through but they
ran off when they met Honey.” He holds up the tarantula.
    “Okay,
thanks,” I say, turning around.
    “You’re not
looking for trouble, are you?” he asks, his voice sliding back into cool
feminine tones.
    “Never,” I
say, and head toward the exit.
    “Good,”
he/she says. “Because I’ve got a feeling trouble won’t have any problem finding
you.”

    The alley is
a little less crowded now. I can hear the music from the big top and know
they’ve probably already called out that the second half is about to start.
Everyone is heading toward the chapiteau. I stand on tiptoes, trying to peer
over the crowd, and see a shock of pale white hair