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He’s right, we absolutely can’t lose track of the brothers. If we do, we might never get Mal and Ophelia back in one piece.

We keep our distance but make sure they are always in our line of sight. I’m glad Roman taught me and Malachi how to hunt. Properly hunt, as in for our food. It means we’re really good at tracking things quietly.

We follow the brothers around the back of the twisting chairs and the Helter Skelter, past a small ride that looks like something made for children with teacups on it, although I can’t imagine children ever being brought to this carnival. They take a right and stop. Looming in front of them is a red tent with white stripes down it, almost like the circus tents I remember from my childhood. Except this is graying in places and drab.

A cold shiver creeps down my spine. Something about the tent feels very wrong.

As the brothers open the flap leading into the tent and drag them in, Ophelia lets out a muffled gasp of horror. My blood runs cold. Just what the hell is inside that thing?

We race toward the structure, taking care to keep our footsteps light and quiet. We go around the back of the tent, being careful not to get too close at first. Then oh-so-slowly, we creep up toward it. The bottom of the marquee style tent isn’t pinned fully to the ground, only in the corners.

I lean close to Roman and whisper, “I think if we lie down flat, we will be able to crawl inside.”

He jerks his head in agreement. Carefully, we creep even closer to the heavy canvas, which ripples every now and again in the breeze. Cruel laughter comes from inside. I strain to listen, and I’m sure Ophelia is quietly crying, too. They’d better not be fucking touching her. I will tear their limbs from their bodies with my bare hands if they hurt so much as a hair on her head. God, I want to destroy them so badly, it makes me worry I’m almost close to losing it. The same way I fear Rome is.

Together, we crouch and crawl up to the gap between the billowing fabric and the ground. Once we reach it, we lie flat on our stomachs in the dirt and wriggle beneath the canvas.

It’s hard to see properly at first, especially from this angle, plus the light is dim. I make out the feet of two men surrounding Malachi. I recognize his black boots and long leather jacket. And the other guy stands with his legs spread wide, caging in Ophelia. I try to angle my head to get a better view. It’s difficult, but I can see more if I lie on my side. The light inside is the red glow of a brothel, but what I can finally make out inside… is bizarre.

What the hell? Freakish, twisted bodies hang from the wooden side poles of the tent. I wonder if this is where they keep the extra props for the funhouse, but it’s a lot of trouble to go to. Except these things look way more gruesome than what they have in there. They look much more realistically done, too, and I can’t understand why they’ve got their cheaply designed dolls hanging from the ceiling in the funhouse when they’ve got this stuff in here.

Years ago, I went to a stupidly expensive haunt in New York, and the props were so realistic they made me gag. Bodies that looked mangled by chainsaws, and half eaten maggoty corpses. There were actors who chased us and jumped out at us, and some of the actors had such excellent makeup that they were terrifying. That’s the level of expertise on display in the things in this tent. There are two girls, like vampire brides, almost, with their pale skin, hanging from one pole. A woman with stringy red hair from another. An old man…

As I stare around and take in the jars on the shelves, with—is that a hand?—a creeping realization dawns on me, turning my blood to ice.

Holy shit, I don’t think these things are props.

Beside me, Roman whispers a chant under his breath. I realize it’s an incantation to one of his gods. Whatever the fuck it is in that tent, it’s bad enough to make Roman send up every single plea to his gods to help us. The chanted words, the nightmarish vision, and a man in a clown mask with a knife to Ophelia’s throat. It all has me praying, to the God I was raised to believe in. Please help us.

Except I really do think that God, the saints, Roman’s gods… all the deities might have deserted us this time. Nothing good can reach us here. This is fucking hell, and the only way out is to fight.

16

OPHELIA

What the hell is this place?

The large fairground tent is lit by the same red emergency lighting that was used beneath the funhouse. A terrible smell permeates the air, sweet and cloying, and I’m fighting my gag reflex so I don’t throw up the lemonade and cotton candy I’ve eaten all over these assholes’ shoes. We’re surrounded by Halloween decorations, except they’re freakishly realistic. I understand now why they called this the freak show, and I pray we’re not about to be added to it. Large jars filled with clear liquid suspend body pieces—a hand, a set of eyeballs, a single breast, the nipple pale and puckered. The worst are the bodies strung from the poles holding up the tent at the sides. They seem hollowed out, somehow, their faces missing their eyes, their features loose and slack, their hair in straggles. The bodies are mostly young women, though there are a couple of men, too.

Not wanting to process exactly what the ‘decorations’ mean, I quickly avert my eyes. But doing so brings them directly in line with the son of a bitch who has hold of both my wrists.

It’s not often that I wish I was different, but right now I hate how tiny I am. If I was big and strong, I might stand some chance of hurting this fucker.

He lets go of my wrist with one hand and uses it to lift his clown mask. Underneath, his face isn’t much better. His head is shaved bald, his eyes are set too close together, and his jaw reminds me of a British bulldog. There’s madness in those close-set eyes, and it terrifies me.

I glance over at Malachi, and we lock gazes. He’s terrified, too, and I hate that. One of my big, strong men has fear in his eyes, except I know it’s not for himself. No, it’s for me and what these pricks are going to do to me.

“Keep an eye out for the other two,” the big one says. “They’re gonna be around here somewhere, and they’ll cause trouble.”

Clown Face scoffs. “Nah, they’ll have run for the fucking hills by now. Seen their chance to escape and taken it. We’ll track them down once we’re done with these two.”

They have no idea that there’s zero chance Roman and Cain would leave without us. They’d cut their own throats before that would happen. But cowards, like these assholes, don’t understand how it feels to be brave for someone else.

Mal tries to reason with them. “Let the girl go and you can do whatever you want with me.”

Clown laughs again. “We’re going to do whatever we want with you anyway. You don’t have any chips in this game, cutie-pie.”

As though agreeing with him, the biggest brother slugs Mal in the gut. Mal doubles in two, air punching out of his lungs.