Page 39 of Magic for Nothing

The air inside smelled like sweat, popcorn, and horses; they had at least one animal act. I inhaled appreciatively before looking around at the collapsible bleachers and the two tall poles holding the artificial sky in place. As expected, they were kitted out for the flying trapeze, with a net stretched out beneath them to catch anyone who misjudged the distances and fell. Any carnival that cared this much about the condition of its equipment would also care about the condition of its people. Not too much, though. The sort of townie who pays to see a carnival trapeze act wants to think there’s the potential for a fall, for blood on the sawdust and screams ringing through the air: that’s why there was only one net, and no trampoline.

No trampoline . . . “Hey,” I said, looking around for the stranger. “When’s the last time you had a trampoline act?”

“No one pays to see somebody bounce up and down like a kid,” he said. I followed his voice to the edge of the bleachers. He’d stripped off his sweater, revealing the top half of what could have been a wrestler’s uniform. It also revealed his back and shoulders, which were muscled in that unique, incredibly appealing carnival-boy way.

“Um,” I said intelligently, before swallowing the surge of hormones (and shaking away the sparks in my fingers) and saying, “A good trampoline act does a lot more than that. But whatever, it’s your show. Where do you want me?”

“How about Minnesota? That would make a good start.” He started wrapping his hands. “I don’t know what you’re hoping to accomplish. I don’t do the hiring, and if I did, I wouldn’t recommend some weird chick who wandered out of the fields and started harassing me.”

“Maybe you would and maybe you wouldn’t. Either way, I’m here now.” I propped my suitcase against the nearest bit of bleacher and shrugged out of my backpack, looking thoughtfully at the trapeze rig. “You might as well get some use out of me.”

“You can break my fall if I land on you.” He untied his pants.

Under normal circumstances, a man I’d just met getting ready to remove his pants would be greeted with averted eyes, or possibly a kick to the junk. In this case, given what I’d already seen of his uniform, it wasn’t a surprise. He saw me looking and froze. I raised an eyebrow.

“Problem?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, retying the drawstring. “I don’t know you well enough for you to see that much of my ass.”

“Suit yourself,” I said. My own clothes weren’t the best for this sort of thing, but I had leggings under my jeans, and my bra was all-purpose enough that as long as I didn’t do anything overly fancy, I’d be fine. I pulled my sweatshirt off, revealing the tank top beneath, and bent to untie my shoes.

When I looked up, the stranger was watching me again, frowning slightly. He looked confused, like he couldn’t figure out why I was putting up with his crap. Honestly, if I hadn’t known about the Covenant team waiting for me to report back, it wouldn’t have made sense to me either.

“Can I help you?” I asked. I stepped out of my shoes before unbuttoning my jeans.

His eyes widened. “You don’t think we’re going to—I mean, I didn’t bring you here so I could—”

“As good as it is for my self-esteem to have strangers freaking out at the idea that I might be about to attempt having sex with them, no, I don’t think that,” I said, and peeled off my jeans. The dinosaur bones printed on my leggings were startlingly white in the gloomy tent. “I just don’t think denim is the best thing for workouts. How come you get to strip and I don’t?”

“Because I live here,” he said sourly. He turned and stalked toward the net. Lacking anything better to do, I followed him.

He went up the short rope ladder to the net proper. I followed him there, too. He stood, gripping the individual strands of the net with his toes, and glared at me.

“Seriously?”

“I’m your spotter,” I said, spreading my arms for emphasis. I wasn’t sure how he was staying upright; I needed the flats of my feet against the grain, or I would have fallen straight through. “Do something for me to spot.”

He muttered something unintelligible and made for the post that would take him to the trapeze. I followed as far as the net, climbing up and positioning myself on the rope lattice, feet spread, toes gripping hard to give me extra purchase. That was as high as I was planning to go. This carnival didn’t know me. Maybe more importantly, I didn’t know this carnival. Every swing and piece of rope has its own personality, its own quirks and difficulties. I would no more go onto someone else’s trapeze without a proper introduction than I would put on someone else’s underwear. (Actually, the underwear thing is a lot more likely. Bleach can forgive many sins. Gravity forgives nothing.)

The man climbed to the midpoint of the post before unhooking a swing. Not one of the really high, really dangerous ones: the most he could fall would be fifteen feet. Still high enough to snap a neck like a piece of kindling, but a decent height for the first time working with a new spotter. I moved to the side of the net, bracing myself, and prepared for what came next.

What came next was flight. He launched himself into the air, arms ramrod straight, body pointed like an arrow. I’ve seen a lot of flying trapeze in my time, from all sides of the rope, and it was still enough to bring my heart into my throat with delight and wanting. There are so many tricks that can’t be performed with only one person. I wanted to be up there so badly that it hurt.

I’m not Verity, with her singular passion for dance, putting it even above her duty to the family, and I’m not Alex, for whom physical exercise has always been something to support his research. I think she’d be happy if she never had to think about anything ever again, and I think he’d be perfectly content as a brain in a jar. I’m somewhere in the middle. I’m the greedy one. I want it all, right now, and all for me. I wanted to find a way to save my family. I wanted to know that I was doing the right thing by being here. And I wanted to be on that trapeze.

The stranger swung back and forth, flipping and twisting on the swing. His form was perfect, but there was something too tight about his shoulders, like he was holding back.

“Look alive!” I shouted.

He shot me a startled look and let go of the swing, twisting in the air before he grabbed it again and let it carry him back to the pole. He hooked the swing back into place, leaned forward, and shouted, “I’d look a lot more alive if you’d get out of here!”

“Not happening.” I crossed my arms. “Impress me. Or at least show me why you’re up there and I’m down here.”

“I’ll have you know, I—”

“Samuel Coleridge Taylor, what in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The stranger—Sam, apparently—blanched. I turned toward the source of the new voice. It belonged to a short, plump woman with pale brown hair, wearing a patchwork robe over blue jeans and an old yellow sweater. She wouldn’t have looked out of place in the stands of a derby match, shouting for her granddaughter to throw a couple of elbows already, did she think this was a game. She was striding toward us with remarkable speed, given the length of her legs.