Flesh Circus

Chapter Twenty-three

I left his quiet little house a half hour later. I paused only once, standing on his threshold, to look back at the courtyard and the dry fountain. I was cold, and not even the white-yellow eye of the sun could warm me.

It was the damndest thing, but the Cirque’s dogs didn’t come up Melendez’s driveway. Instead, they clustered up and down the street, each piece of knife-edged morning shadow full of writhing slender shapes and winking colorless-glowing eyes.

The Pontiac’s door slammed and I stared at the steering wheel. Measured off a slice of it between my index fingers, bitten-down nails ragged, my apprentice-ring gleaming on my left third finger. Tendons stood out on the back of my scrawny hands, calloused from fighting and sparring, capable work-roughened hands.

Jesus.

When all else fails and you’re looking at a huge clusterfuck, sometimes you just need a moment to sit and collect yourself before you start running the next lap toward the inevitable.

What came next?

The Cirque. Get out there and take a look at the newest body. Chances are you’ll be able to triangulate her position from the traces, now that you know what she’s doing and how they’re linked. If you can get to her before she gets what she wants—

But there was another consideration. If Mama Zamba, nee Arthur Gregory, was out for vengeance against the Cirque, she had a right. Sloane had been working the case, which meant it fell to me to tie up loose ends and finish the job.

Helene took the brother in, and the fortuneteller—Moragh—had something to do with it. The Ringmaster too. That’s who Zamba blames, at least. Reasonable as far as I can see.

But what about Ikaros? Why does she want to kill the hostage?

I reached over, grabbed Sloane’s file from the passenger seat. Saul should have been there with me. He would be looking at me right now, his head tilted slightly and his eyes soft and deep.

The pain hit me then, gulleywide sideways. I blinked back the tears rising hot and vicious. Shut up, I told myself. Shut up and take it. You can take this.

I hadn’t really thought he would leave me. Well, I had; it was the song under every thought of him, the fear under every kiss. But I’d hoped.

That great human drug, hope. It makes fools of everyone, even tough-ass hunters. And I was so tired. When was the last time I’d slept?

“Goddammit,” I said to the glaring-hot dash, the burning steering wheel, the flood of sunlight bleaching everything colorless-pale. “Do your job, Jill.”

It was left to me. It was always left to me. That’s what a hunter is—the last hope of the desperate, the last best line of defense against Hell’s tide. No matter what shit was going on in my personal life, it was up to me to see that the entire fucking house of cards didn’t fall.

My pager buzzed again. The goddamn thing just would not shut up. I fished it out with my free hand, glanced at it, and swore.

Perry, again. Which could only mean trouble.

I flipped the file open. Past the picture of Arthur Gregory’s young, heartbreaking smile to the précis of the case.

Brother disappeared. Last known contact was outside the Carnaval de la Saleté. Suspects: Helene, hellbreed of the lesser type. Moragh, hellbreed of the higher type, refused to give information when questioned. Henri de Zamba, hellbreed of the higher type. Also refused to give information.

Holy shit. There it was—Arthur Gregory’s gauntlet thrown down. Zamba. I’ll be damned. It was there, staring me in the face. Another piece of the puzzle fell into place, clicking hard.

Maybe she wasn’t trying to kill the hostage after all. Maybe she’s been after the Ringmaster all this time, and it’s just echoing through the bloodbond since the Trader would be his weak point. Jesus.

I slapped the file closed, dropped it on the passenger-side floorboard, and twisted the key in the ignition. The Pontiac roared into life; I didn’t bother buckling myself in.

Come on, Jill. Get this done, and you can rest.

It sounded good. The trouble is, as soon as this was done something else would come along.

I’ll deal with that when it comes up. And if it does, that will mean I don’t have to think.

There’s something to be said for drowning your sorrows in work.

I parked on the bluff and locked my doors, then took the path down to the parking lot. The cars were hooded with dust, the paint already looking weary and sucked-dry. There were a lot of them, and the empty spots looked like knocked-out teeth. It was barely noon and the calliope was going full-bore, a souped-up version of “Let Me Call You Sweetheart” punctuating the air. The reek of cotton candy, animal shit, and fried fat painted the heavy motionless air. I checked the sky—over the mountains hung a dark smudge.

Rain, finally. Which would mean flash floods and misery, wet boots and cold hanging out on rooftops, steaming mornings and dripping against every surface. It would also mean old-fashioned hot chocolate, Saul’s signature hash browns, and chili.

I pushed the thought away.

There were only two or three shufflers outside the ticket booth. The same Trader was on duty, her rhinestones sending back a vicious glitter, sweat-sheen greasing her pale skin as she kept as far as she could in the shade. I didn’t pause, just strode straight past and jumped the turnstile. She gave a high piercing cry, but I paid no attention.

During the day, the Cirque did look shabby. Holes in signs, tawdry glitter, most of the booths deserted. The murmuring of Helletöng spilled under the surface, plucking at the visible world with flabby fingers. Dust rose in uneasy curls, and the calliope belched, missed a beat, caught itself, and went on.

Where is everyone?

I was cold, despite it being in the high nineties under the sun’s assault. The alien scents of the Cirque swallowed me, teased at the inside of my skull. It was a few degrees cooler inside the Cirque’s borders, but not enough to be a relief. Just enough to pull out some humidity and make every surface cloying and sweaty.

I heard a low wet chuckle and spun, steelshod heel grinding in dirt. My coat flared like a toreador’s cape, the pockets weighted down.

Nothing but the shadow-dogs, crowding close. One slid a smoky paw out into the fall of sunlight and snatched it back, an angular curl of dust rising and dissipating on a breeze I didn’t feel.

Something is very wrong here.

Another eerie cry went up, somewhere else in the Cirque. A thin, chill knife ran through my vitals.

They boiled out of the shadows, the dogs smoking with violet fumes, the hellbreed cringing and flinching, and the Traders hissing as they closed on me. The sun was suddenly my best ally, and my hand flashed for my whip just before the first one reached me.