Page 6 of Circus From Hell

I can feel Micha’s eyes on the side of my head, never leaving.

The circus girl unravels rapidly, making the crowd fear for her again, but she catches the silk and lets it spin her body as three sets of bars descend around her. She swings back and forth on the silk before jumping to the first one, flipping herself to balance on top of it with one hand, her legs dropping as she performs the splits upside down, twenty feet in the air.

“Damn,” Micha mutters, and I think that’s the first semi-positive word I’ve ever heard come out of his mouth at the circus.

She jumps from pole to pole, performing different acrobatics on each one before they begin to lower, until she drops to the ground, immediately diving forward to flip herself over in a walkover.

Her movements aren’t as languid anymore. There’s a jerkiness to them.

The tip of a pink tongue traces against her teeth, sharp and jagged and surely not real.

The audience is screaming, crazy for her and what she can do with her body. I’ve never seen anyone so flexible.

There’s no chance to properly look at her face now that she’s on my level before she bends herself in half backwards, pressing her forearms on the ground behind her head. Her thick pink and green pigtails hang upside down, and she stays in position as the crowd claps.

She walks upside down on her feet and forearms, nearing the edge of the ring until she’s almost directly ahead of me, facing me, and when she opens her eyes, my breath catches in my throat.

Glowing green eyes land on me, staring into my soul, and Micha’s don’t leave the side of my head.

Ensnared.

CHAPTER THREE

KARMA

Ihate the bright lights.

They flash when I swing and momentarily blind me. My glowing eyes were made for the darkness, not the show ground.

Cheers from the audience fill my ears, gasps and applause coming after each trick. Everyone in the crowd has come to see the circus, come to see me. The contortionist with pink and green hair. The girl with a creepy smile and glowing eyes. The star.

My hands are wrapped around the red-painted steel bar, my eyes locked on the next one like a target. But the audience draws my attention. It always does.

Who will I choose tonight? No one is yet to spark my interest, but it’s impossible to see all their fleshy human faces with the bright lights blocking my vision.

When I flip onto the next bar, it slowly descends for me to drop to the floor with elegance. I finish with a forward walkover that makes the stitching in my leg pull awkwardly.

Kreo will have to check that later.

Electricity pumps through my veins now that I can see the faces of my victims. My mouth waters, the tip of my long tongue running across the jagged edges of my teeth as I stare into their small, white eyes looking back at me with expectancy.

Humans don’t like to look at me for very long. I fascinate. And then I disturb.

As I turn and slowly bend backwards to lay my forearms to the ground, twisting my body to stretch and bringing the tips of my toes to rest beside my head, the crowd’s eyes bulge. Moving my body in extreme ways always brings out a good reaction from the watchers.

My movements become jerky, my hunger nearly insatiable. I need to hunt. To eat. And I’m growing really frustrated that I can’t find the perfect face in the crowd.

I’m allowed one human to hunt, kill, rob, and eat per show night. That is as much as Kreo permits. One person isn’t enough anymore. I want more. Need more. More fear, more chase.

But I don’t disrespect Kreo.

As I walk on my feet and forearms, my spine still bent backwards, I look out at the humans who surround me. They all stare at me in a way I’m used to—morbidly interested, with a hint of fear and disgust. I hate the attention. I do better in the shadows where no one can see me.

Finally, the sharp face of a young man catches my attention, stealing my focus for a passing moment, excitement making me salivate. As soon as my eyes land on him, I know I want him. I want his flesh. His soul.

He’s covered in shiny things like me. Shiny things are my favourite. I love taking and wearing them. And he’s got loads.

His hair is bright blonde with pink streaks and beautifully curled. Black ink trails around every inch of unclothed skin up to his neck. His eyes, too far away for me to certify the colour, watch me with rapt attention. It’s a look I can’t understand. No one has ever looked at me like that. I see no disgust.