Page 64 of Magic for Nothing

“I am the prettiest fucking princess you are ever going to see,” I replied. “You think I’m going to walk through a crowd of townies in sequins and fishnets? You’re high.”

“I did it.”

“You do not have double-D breasts.”

“I’d look sort of silly if I did,” he said. “With my shoulders, I’d definitely want a G-cup.”

I snorted and elbowed him in the side. Sam grinned.

Much of his earlier asshole routine had been exactly that: a routine. Now that he knew I wasn’t going to freak out on him for the crime of having a tail, he was actually pretty decent company. Snotty and snide and prone to making terrible jokes when we were practicing, which had dropped me into the net more than once, but still, decent company. It helped that even when he was cracking wise, he caught me every time. I can forgive a lot of sins for a trapeze partner who never misses their grip on my ankle.

The fire dancers, minus Umeko, were leaving the ring. Emery strutted out to the center, and began winding up the crowd with her next spiel. I wasn’t sure I’d call Sam’s and my routine “a daring glimpse of athleticism and grace,” but whatever got butts into seats was okay by me.

She stopped talking. The crowd applauded. I untied my dressing gown and let it slide to the floor before following Sam out into the bright lights of the ring, both of us smiling and waving to the people in the bleachers. I couldn’t make out individual faces from where we were, but I didn’t need to. If you’d seen one crowd, you’d seen them all. They would be watching us with wide eyes and clasped hands, some because they wanted to see us fly, others because they wanted to see us fall. There will always be people who watch the flying trapeze the way they’d watch a train wreck, and as long as they aren’t jinks or mara, that’s fine by me.

(Jinks are human-looking cryptids that feed on luck—either good or bad. I wouldn’t mind losing a little bad luck in midair, but when there’s nothing between me and a messy end but a thin net, I don’t want to risk losing so much as a crumb of good luck. A jink who wanted to screw with a trapeze act could wind up killing a lot of people. Mara are also human-looking cryptids, but they feed on life energy, putting their victims into a dreamlike stupor. A mara who wanted to screw with a trapeze act would wind up killing a lot of people. Sleepwalking is one thing. No one does sleep trapeze.)

I reached my platform and spread my arms, back straight as an Olympic diver. On the other side of the wire, Sam stood on his own platform, posture mirroring mine. If we’d been part of a larger show, something like Cirque du Soleil, we would have been fifty feet off the ground and protected by filament-thin harnesses designed to give us a few more seconds to react if we slipped and fell. Since we were in a small, family-owned show, with the smell of sawdust clinging to our nostrils, we had a net, and we had each other. We had to trust that what we had would be enough.

Sam unhooked his swing. I unhooked my swing. Together, without saying a word, we flew.

Sam was always going to be a little stiff and over-precise in his human form. I thought he still performed astonishingly well, given that he was essentially performing on the flying trapeze while clenching every muscle in his body. It put us on roughly the same level, his stiffness counterbalancing the fact that I was still getting back into practice. It was only Sam vouching for me, and the fact that my time on the trampoline made me an essentially professional faller, that had convinced Emery to let me into the ring at all.

We spent a few minutes doing the standard tricks, swinging back and forth, trading positions, flipping in midair—the things that are incredibly hard but still look easy enough for people who’ve seen a trapeze act before to take them for granted. Then we returned to our platforms, and I picked up a heavy bandolier, holding it up to show the audience. Most of them wouldn’t be able to see exactly what it was, just that it was some sort of shoulder sash that glittered when the light hit it. Getting it on took almost thirty seconds, because it had about a dozen Velcro straps, all of which had to be fastened tight. When it was done, I took down my swing and turned to the middle of the tent, nodding to Sam. He nodded back.

We jumped.

There was nothing ornamented or fancy about this jump: it was pure business. When we reached the center, we released our swings and exchanged them, me letting his swing carry me higher, him landing upside down, feet now hooked over my swing, so that his locked knees held him in place. We passed each other, crossed back, and when we were approaching the center for the second time, I let go of my swing, going into a tight corkscrew fall. Sam grabbed my feet before I could drop too far. The audience dutifully applauded, thinking this stunt had been the point of our setup. It was impressive, after all, and not something I would have attempted with someone shorter, or without a net.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid you’ve been somewhat deceived about the nature of tonight’s routine,” purred Emery over the loudspeakers. “Boys?”

A group of bare-chested carnies in tight satin pants began strutting out from between the bleachers, to the delight of some, the discomfort of others, and the confusion of even more. Each of them was carrying a bullseye on a stick. The shortest was four feet tall; the tallest, ten.

The men took up positions around the outside of the ring, in front of the watching bleachers of townies, and hoisted their bullseyes into the air. I reached into my bandolier and pulled the first two knives, holding them so they glittered in the light, making sure people had a chance to see the sparkle. They might not understand it at first, but I had every faith they’d appreciate it once they realized what was going on. I moved the first knife into a flinging position. Letting it go would signal Sam to begin the next part of our routine.

Then I froze.

The lights were only blinding from the platform. With Sam holding my feet, while I still looked dazzlingly high, my head was really only about twelve feet up. That was part of why Emery had agreed to this act: I wasn’t firing blind.

Margaret Healy was in the fourth row of the bleachers, a box of popcorn in her hand and a sardonic expression on her face. At least she was eating the popcorn, one kernel at a time, utterly relaxed. She knew there was no one in this room she couldn’t take.

She shouldn’t have been here. I’d been checking in every day, I’d been making my excuses and telling my lies, and she shouldn’t have been here. There was no reason for her to be here. Not unless they’d decided to doubt me for some reason. I felt my fingertips heat up, until the knives I was holding were so hot that I could barely keep my grip. My fire couldn’t hurt me when it was on me, but the heat I created was a killer once it had transferred to something else.

“Annie, come on,” hissed Sam through gritted teeth. “We’re going to run out of momentum.”

I was supposed to be Timpani Brown. The sight of Margaret Healy shouldn’t have terrified me: it should have reassured me that everything was okay, my allies had my back. The combination of the pain from my heated knives, his voice, and who I was supposed to be brought me back. I shook off my paralysis, slapped a smile across my face, and flung the first knife. It flew straight and true, impacting with the tallest of the bullseyes before most of the audience realized what had happened. The carnie holding the pole gave it a spin, showing off what I’d done, and the room erupted into applause. Throwing knives from the flying trapeze? Now that was something new!

None of them seemed to notice that the knife was smoking where it had slammed into the wood. Hopefully, no one was going to ask me about the scorch marks.

Sam tightened his grip on my ankles and threw himself to the left, starting us spinning wildly. Only it wasn’t really that wild, because we had practiced this move until we could do it blindfolded (not that Emery was going to let me add “can’t see” to the list of things making this particular knife-throwing act so dangerous). We spun, and I threw, drawing knife after knife and flinging them at the waiting targets. It was a variation on the routine I’d done to impress Leo on my first day of Covenant training, and it worked exactly as it was intended to. The audience roared louder with every knife I threw, until my hands were empty and I spread my arms in the signal for Sam to let me go.

He released my legs, and I fell to the waiting net, landing on my back and rolling for the side to finish my dismount. Once my feet were on the ground, I bowed to the crowd which roared appreciatively, and trotted for the bleachers, vanishing beneath them.

On the trapeze, Sam was pulling himself out of his spin. He’d go into another series of flips and tricks after this, keeping the audience entertained while the clowns finished setting up their act. Normally, I would have waited for him, letting him walk me back to the bone yard. Not today. The sight of Margaret sitting in the bleachers had chilled me to the core, and I didn’t want to stay out in the open a moment longer than I had to. Maybe more importantly, I didn’t want her paying too much attention to Sam. Let her see him as the guy I was doing a random trapeze act with and nothing more. Please. Let her overlook him.

The corridor we used to get between the bone yard and the big tent without passing through all the rides was clear, and I broke into a run when I was halfway down it, realizing only as I hit the tarp “door” to the bone yard that I’d left my dressing gown behind. It was too late to go back for it now. I kept running, hoping the worst that would come out of this day was a lecture from Emery about being careful with my things.

I hit the door to the RV so hard and fast that the mice didn’t have time to cheer before I was inside. The phone was on my bed, the screen telling me I had four missed messages. The door slammed. The mice began to cheer. I whipped around, stabbing my index finger at where they stood on the counter. They stopped, going still as only prey animals truly can.