AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Of a performance that boasts of causing arrhythmia, according to this program?” He flicked the black-and-white-striped show bill he held. “Not at all. I cannot wait for my heart to burst. Really livens up an otherwise monotonous Sunday evening, Wadsworth.”
Before I could respond, a drum thundered and a masked man emerged from a cloud of smoke in the center of the stage. He wore a frock coat the color of an opened vein and a starched shirt and trousers that were an endless black. Scarlet ribbons and silver bullion trimmed his top hat, and a burnished filigree mask covered everything from his nose up. His mouth curved in wicked delight as every eye in the saloon went to him and each jaw dropped.
Men jumped in their seats; women’s fans snapped open, the sound akin to a hundred birds taking flight. It was unsettling, witnessing a man materialize, unscathed by the tempest raging about him. Whispers of him being the Devil’s heir reached my ears. Or Satan himself, as Miss Prescott’s father would have it. I nearly rolled my eyes. I should hope he’d have better judgment as a chief magistrate. This was clearly the ringmaster.
“Allow me to introduce myself.” The masked man bowed, mischief sparking in his eyes as he slowly drew himself back up. “I am Mephistopheles—your guide through the strange and magnificent. Each night the Wheel of Fortune will choose your entertainer. However, you may barter with performers after the main show and indulge in any of our acts. From flame swallowers to lion tamers, fortune-tellers, and knife throwers, your wish is our command. I warn you, though, beware of midnight bargains, taking your fate in your own hands is poorly advised.”
Passengers fidgeted, probably wondering at the sort of bargains they might make—how low they might fall in the pursuit of pleasure so far from society’s watchful shores.
“Our tricks might appear sweet, but I promise they are not treats,” he whispered. “Are you brave enough to survive? Perhaps you’ll be another who loses their heart and their head to my midnight minstrel show. Only you can decide. Until then?”
Mephistopheles prowled onstage, a caged animal waiting for an opportunity to strike. My heart thudded wildly. I had the distinct impression we were all prey dressed in our finest, and if we weren’t careful, we’d be devoured by his mysterious show.
“Tonight is the first of seven in which you will be dazzled.” The ringmaster lifted his arms, and a dozen white doves flew from his sleeves into the rafters. A few excited cries erupted, Mrs. Harvey and Miss Prescott among the first.
“And horrified,” he continued, a slight croak now in his voice. From one blink to the next, his tie was no longer made of cloth—it was a writhing snake, wrapping itself about his neck. Mephistopheles clutched
his throat, his bronze face turning a deep purple under the filigree mask. My own breath caught when he bent over and sputtered, gasping for air.
I almost stood, convinced we were bearing witness to this man’s death, but forced myself to breathe. To think. To compile facts like the scientist-in-training I was. This was only a show. Nothing more. Surely no one was going to die. My breath came in short gasps that had nothing to do with the corset of my fine dress. This was utterly thrilling and horrible. I hated it almost as much as I loved it. And I adored it more than I cared to admit.
“Good heavens,” Miss Prescott muttered when he dropped to his knees, wheezing. His eyes rolled backward until all I saw were their whites. I held my own breath, unable to release the tension in my spine. This had to be an illusion. “Someone help him!” Miss Prescott cried. “He’s dying!”
“Sit down, Olivia,” Mrs. Prescott whispered harshly. “You’re not only embarrassing yourself, but me and your father as well.”
Before anyone could aid the ringmaster, he pried the serpent away and drew in air as if he’d been submerged in the seawater we traveled through. I slumped back, and Thomas chuckled, but I couldn’t quite pull my gaze from the masked man onstage.
Mephistopheles shoved himself into a standing position, staggered a bit, then slowly lifted the snake above his head—light from the chandeliers caught his mask, turning half his face a furious orange-red. Perhaps he was angry—he’d tested us and found us lacking. What well-dressed monsters we must seem, carrying on with our elegant supper while he fought for his life, all for nothing more than our mere entertainment.
He spun in a circle, once, twice, and the slithering beast disappeared. I leaned forward, blinking as the ringmaster proudly bowed to the audience again, hands no longer occupied by the serpent. A roar of applause went up.
“How in God’s name?” I mumbled. There were no boxes or places for him to have hidden the snake. I sincerely hoped it didn’t find its way to our table; Thomas would surely faint.
“You might even fall…” he called as he somersaulted across the stage, top hat remaining in place without his touching it, “… in love.”
Mephistopheles tipped the hat and it tumbled down his arm as if it were an acrobat vaulting over a trapeze. Like any great showman, he held it out so we could see it was a regular top hat, if not a bit gaudy. Once he’d made an entire circuit around the stage, he tossed it in the air, then snatched it back with a snap of his wrist. I watched, unblinking, as he stuck his arm in up to his elbow and yanked out a dozen ink-blue roses.
His hat had been utterly ordinary. I was almost certain of it.
“I warn you once more—do not get too attached.” Mephistopheles’s voice boomed so loudly I felt an echo of it in my own chest. “While we boast death-defying acts, no one escapes its grip forever. Will tonight be the end for some? Will you lose your hearts? Or perhaps,” he grinned over his shoulder at the crowd, “you will lose your heads.”
A spotlight illuminated a crudely painted harlequin doll—which hadn’t been there a moment before. Pivoting in a single, graceful movement, the ringmaster threw a dagger across the stage. It flew blade over handle, sinking into the doll’s neck with a thwack that hushed the audience. For a taut moment nothing happened. All was wretchedly still. We sat there, scarcely breathing, waiting. The doll’s body stubbornly remained pinned to the board it had been propped against. Another moment passed and Mephistopheles tsked.
“Well. That won’t do.” He stomped his feet. “Everyone… do as I do!”
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
Passengers obliged, slowly at first, then sent the dining saloon into a vibrating frenzy. China rattled, silverware scuttled across tables, goblets sloshed merlot onto the expensive linens, our tables now appearing more like crime scenes than elegant spreads. Deciding to let go of my well-bred reserve a bit, I stomped along. Thomas, a bemused expression on his face, followed my lead.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
The pounding drummed into each of my cells, prompting my blood to pump to the beat. It was animalistic and feral, and yet so… thrilling. I could not believe so many lords and ladies and highborn passengers of first class were swept up in the hedonism and debauchery.
Mrs. Harvey brought her gloved fists down on the table, adding a new fervor to the sound thrumming in my ears. Miss Prescott did the same. A breath later the doll’s head thumped to the floor, rolling toward the ringmaster’s gleaming boots.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. It seemed no one was quite ready to give up the devil’s rhythm once it had started. Mephistopheles was the conductor of this wicked symphony, his hand punching the air as the stomp stomp stomping reached a fever pitch.
“Silence!” he shouted, voice booming above everything else. As if he were a puppet master snipping strings, the clomping of feet ceased. Some in the crowd stood, cheering, while a few men in silk top hats whistled loudly.
