“Knock it off, Simon.” She climbed down the stairs. She couldn’t see the strings, so she didn’t dare go much closer. She knew they were likely filling the air around her. “No more. Stop this now.”
“Say please, cupcake.” He grinned at her.
Cora’s jaw twitched. He was proving yet another point. Fine. Be that way. “Okay, asshole. Please let Aaron go.”
The Puppeteer sighed, and with another slight movement of his hand, Aaron fell to the ground, gasping and coughing. “Fine. It’s a waste of effort, anyway. I came here to inform you that we will begin rehearsing your act every day at two in the afternoon.” He fished out his pocket watch and, flicking it open, checked the time. “Twelve-thirty. Go eat lunch. I don’t want you fainting from an empty stomach while we work.”
“I am not going to train with you, Simon.” She raised her chin, trying to sound stronger than she felt.
“Oh?” He arched a dark eyebrow and tilted his head. “I wasn’t aware your schedule was already full.” He smiled thinly. “The truth is, you need to learn how to become the Contortionist. And by right and tradition, I am the one who is going to teach you. Unless you want to reject your role in this Family, you’ll be at your tent at two, Cora dear. We have a lot of work to do.”
“Enjoy waiting for me when I don’t show up.” She shrugged a shoulder. “I’m not performing. There’s no point in training.”
“We’ll see, cupcake. We’ll see.” And with that, he walked away and waved over his shoulder as he left. “Ta, gentlemen.”
“Jackass.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. She wanted to set him on fire, and she wanted to rip his clothes off in the same breath. He liked calling her bluff, and she always seemed to have crap cards, so all she ever ended up doing was putting her hand on the table and watching him rake in the pot.
“Yeah, he wants you something bad.” Jack whistled. “I’ve never seen him like that. I’m sorry, Cora. That’s not something anybody needs.”
“I can handle him.” Mostly. She shook her head. She wondered if there was a time limit on drinking in a nether-realm. She really wanted something stiff. “Hey, Aaron?”
“Yeah, toots?” The Barker had picked himself up off the ground and was still brushing himself off.
She wanted to rip out her hair. Damn him to hell.
Training at two. She vowed that she wasn’t going to go. But now, as her anger cooled, she wasn’t so sure. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see what she was capable of. She was deeply curious. And the last two times she had trained with Simon, she had nearly ended up a tangle of limbs in a very different way.
It was tempting. Very, very tempting.
And very, very wrong.
She shut her eyes and let her internal debate rage. But there was no making heads or tails of it at the moment. She’d need something to help her decide. “Go get a jar of your ’shine. I think I’m going to have a mostly liquid lunch.”
Booze fixed everything.
Right?
4
The answer to the question of whether it was ever too early to drink at Harrow Faire was a resounding “No.”
Cora hadn’t been the only one at lunch trying to get a little sauced. When she had shown up, Bertha the Bearded Lady was already a few drinks deep. The food was good—chicken parmigiana—and the company nice. The mood was light, full of laughter and stories. It was an hour spent in friendly companionship.
Mostly because Simon hadn’t shown up.
She had been equal parts disappointed and relieved. She had fun laughing and joking with Aaron, Jack, Bertha, and Bruce, the Firebreather. But she kept glancing over her shoulder to see if Simon’s tall silhouette was creeping up behind her. Or his manic and grinning shadow.
Neither arrived.
And so, she drank.
When she walked out of the tented area that served as their dining room, she wasn’t drunk. Not really. Maybe just a little. Just fluffy enough around the edges that it both fixed and exacerbated her problem.
Aaron’s moonshine was growing on her. She wasn’t going to admit it to the sleazebag, but the alcohol, like the man, was starting to become a bit easier to stomach as time went on. He was funny, easy to banter with, and amusing to tease. She’d never screw him, but she enjoyed their burgeoning friendship.
Then there was Jack, the ever-supportive one. The sweet one. It was easy to see why either one or the other would be tempting companions for most normal, sane, rational people. Why most people with their heads on straight would take Jack as a lover, instead.
Apparently, she wasn’t normal, sane, or rational. Nor did she have her head screwed on straight. At least I have a head. Unlike Clown.
As she made her way back to her boxcar, she hesitated. It was almost two in the afternoon, not that the empty void overhead would have hinted at that. Bowing her head, she scratched at the back of her neck.
She wanted to learn what she was capable of. She wanted to see what it meant to be “The Contortionist.” She wanted to feel like she served a purpose. And the idea of sitting in her boxcar alone wasn’t attractive to her.
With a long, wavering sigh, she turned and walked into the Faire. All the while, her thoughts circled Simon like a planet caught in orbit.
What was she thinking? He was violent, evil, and cruel. But he made her laugh. He made her smile. His touch could bring solace or spark a hunger deep inside her. And his kiss…
Damn it. Damn it all to hell.
She walked to her tent. She stopped to take in the façade on the front again. A painting of her, stylized and…beautiful. The figure was mysterious, graceful, elegant, and magical. I could become that person if I let myself.
She walked into the tent, trailing her hand along the white and black striped fabric. The blood—and the rest of Clown—were both missing. Either the Faire took care of it, or someone else had. She didn’t really care which. She was grateful she didn’t have to stare at the gore.
The stage in the center was calling to her, pulling her toward it even without the help of Simon’s strings. The white and black spiral begged her to stand in the center. It should have frightened her, to be compelled like that, but she was too entranced to care.
“You’re late.”
She jumped at the voice and whirled to find Simon sitting in the shadows by the entrance. It broke the spell that had come over her. He stood gracefully, a slow and sinful smile creeping across his face.
He stepped up to her, his fingers tracing a line along her jaw before crooking under her chin. She held her ground. She wouldn’t give him the pleasure of watching her retreat. “I thought you might not show after all.” He hummed thoughtfully, then sniffed the air. “Cora, are you drunk?” His smile turned amused.
“No.” She stepped away from him and walked toward the center of the tent. “I’m not drunk.”
“You smell like the rubbing alcohol that Aaron passes off as liquor.”
“I needed a drink.”
Simon chuckled. “Am I to blame for this?”
“No.” Yes. She stood at the edge of the two-tiered stage. Now that she looked at it more closely, there were a few small holes in the top, each about an inch in diameter. She wondered what they were for. “I had two drinks. That’s all.”