Free Noir by Jacqueline Garlick
Authors: Jacqueline Garlick
both back up against a tree. Air pops from his lungs as he bounces off. I spring free.
“Leave me alone.” I turn, grabbing a sharp piece of bark and holding it out like a knife. “Leave me alone, or you’ll never open another present again!” I swing it low, trembling, my wrist injured in the fall.
“Don’t make me laugh.” The ringmaster’s chin waggles.
He reaches for me again and I swing, connecting and gashing open his arm. My wrist throbs with pain.
The freaks’ voices rise up. They ring their bars with their chains. My eyes dart wildly between them, the ringmaster, and C.L., out cold on the ground.
Please get up, C.L. Through wisps of fog I see blood on the rock near his head. No, please, God, let him get up . . .
The sound of the freaks’ screeches in my ears.
Teeth chatter in the trees at my back.
“Don’t make me do this,” the freakmaster says, pulling a knife from his pocket.
My eyes stick on the blade.
I look again to C.L. as the freakmaster storms toward me, closing my back in on a tree. I need a weapon. I’ve got to find something. My head jerks around, my mind searching. Wait, the dart. Iris’s weapon.
I grope my chain-mail pocket, searching for it.
I can’t find it.
Have I lost it?
Where’s the dart?
The ringmaster’s eyes flash. He presses himself up against me, dirty bits stiff and poking at my thighs. All the muscles in my back tense. “’Ow’s about we call a truce and have a little fun, eh?” I turn away. His breath smells of spirits and regurgitated sausage. I long to retch, but I hold it in. His teeth are yellow and tinged with brown.
He reaches up, running a grimy hand through my hair as I fumble through the folds of my armour, still searching for the dart, shaking.
“What’sa matter, love?” The ringmaster’s sour breath sweeps the hollow of my neck. “Your first time?” His eyebrows lift. He drags a slow, calloused knuckle down the side of my cheek as my fingers close around the reed. I snap it up to my mouth, sucking back a huge breath, and blow hard, only to discover . . . it’s empty.
“Whatchu gonna do”—the ringmaster smiles—“’histle me away?” Perversion flashes in his dirty, dark eyes. His stomach bounces jovially as he laughs and clutches me by the wrists.
Panic pulses through me like a drug as he pulls me away from the tree toward his lair, stopping to cup my chin and press his grimy mouth to mine. His rough lips grate my skin as I struggle to get away. He smells of grease and guts and unthinkable desire. “Please.” I squirm and turn. “Please, don’t do this!” I pound my damaged wrist against his chest. A quick rise of my knee and I’ve balled him square, but even that doesn’t seem to affect him.
“A fighter.” He moves in on me again, all lips and hands and rancid breath. “God knows I love a good fight.”
I pound and scream around the seal of his mouth.
Clementine turns her head.
The freaks roar, rock their cages, and angrily strum the bars.
My heart floods into my ears.
Out the corner of my eye, I see something rising. A quick flash of metal whips the air. The ringmaster’s head snaps forward, slapping hard against my chest bone. I fall back, screaming, splattered in his blood.
The freaks howl. They chant. They scream.
He melts to his knees on the ground in front of me, his head flopped at an awkward angle. His eyes are wide, entranced with shock, stuck in a forward gaze.
I cover my mouth with both hands and scream, flicking his blood from my fingers as he collapses dead over the tops of my boots.
At first I don’t realize what’s happened, and then it registers. Clementine stands, fetlock bent, blood dripping from her shoe, her long guilty face peering back at me from where the ringmaster lies face down in the dirt—unmoving.
Nine
Eyelet
“C.L.!” I run to him, crouching to my knees by his side. “C.L., wake up, please!” I shake him. “We have to get out of here! Clementine’s killed
“Leave me alone.” I turn, grabbing a sharp piece of bark and holding it out like a knife. “Leave me alone, or you’ll never open another present again!” I swing it low, trembling, my wrist injured in the fall.
“Don’t make me laugh.” The ringmaster’s chin waggles.
He reaches for me again and I swing, connecting and gashing open his arm. My wrist throbs with pain.
The freaks’ voices rise up. They ring their bars with their chains. My eyes dart wildly between them, the ringmaster, and C.L., out cold on the ground.
Please get up, C.L. Through wisps of fog I see blood on the rock near his head. No, please, God, let him get up . . .
The sound of the freaks’ screeches in my ears.
Teeth chatter in the trees at my back.
“Don’t make me do this,” the freakmaster says, pulling a knife from his pocket.
My eyes stick on the blade.
I look again to C.L. as the freakmaster storms toward me, closing my back in on a tree. I need a weapon. I’ve got to find something. My head jerks around, my mind searching. Wait, the dart. Iris’s weapon.
I grope my chain-mail pocket, searching for it.
I can’t find it.
Have I lost it?
Where’s the dart?
The ringmaster’s eyes flash. He presses himself up against me, dirty bits stiff and poking at my thighs. All the muscles in my back tense. “’Ow’s about we call a truce and have a little fun, eh?” I turn away. His breath smells of spirits and regurgitated sausage. I long to retch, but I hold it in. His teeth are yellow and tinged with brown.
He reaches up, running a grimy hand through my hair as I fumble through the folds of my armour, still searching for the dart, shaking.
“What’sa matter, love?” The ringmaster’s sour breath sweeps the hollow of my neck. “Your first time?” His eyebrows lift. He drags a slow, calloused knuckle down the side of my cheek as my fingers close around the reed. I snap it up to my mouth, sucking back a huge breath, and blow hard, only to discover . . . it’s empty.
“Whatchu gonna do”—the ringmaster smiles—“’histle me away?” Perversion flashes in his dirty, dark eyes. His stomach bounces jovially as he laughs and clutches me by the wrists.
Panic pulses through me like a drug as he pulls me away from the tree toward his lair, stopping to cup my chin and press his grimy mouth to mine. His rough lips grate my skin as I struggle to get away. He smells of grease and guts and unthinkable desire. “Please.” I squirm and turn. “Please, don’t do this!” I pound my damaged wrist against his chest. A quick rise of my knee and I’ve balled him square, but even that doesn’t seem to affect him.
“A fighter.” He moves in on me again, all lips and hands and rancid breath. “God knows I love a good fight.”
I pound and scream around the seal of his mouth.
Clementine turns her head.
The freaks roar, rock their cages, and angrily strum the bars.
My heart floods into my ears.
Out the corner of my eye, I see something rising. A quick flash of metal whips the air. The ringmaster’s head snaps forward, slapping hard against my chest bone. I fall back, screaming, splattered in his blood.
The freaks howl. They chant. They scream.
He melts to his knees on the ground in front of me, his head flopped at an awkward angle. His eyes are wide, entranced with shock, stuck in a forward gaze.
I cover my mouth with both hands and scream, flicking his blood from my fingers as he collapses dead over the tops of my boots.
At first I don’t realize what’s happened, and then it registers. Clementine stands, fetlock bent, blood dripping from her shoe, her long guilty face peering back at me from where the ringmaster lies face down in the dirt—unmoving.
Nine
Eyelet
“C.L.!” I run to him, crouching to my knees by his side. “C.L., wake up, please!” I shake him. “We have to get out of here! Clementine’s killed