“Oh, huzzah. What a relief!” He read the article, mumbling the poem to himself. “Seek the truth in the mirrored lanes, that show you all the hidden planes. I think, my dear, that you’re on a bit of a wild goose chase. And this poem is downright atrocious.” He handed the article back to her and pushed his glasses back up with a ring finger.
“I want to know what this place is. And why.”
“I can tell you the what, my dear. I already have. As to the why? Nobody knows. Nobody except Mr. Harrow himself. But he is…a bit of a recluse.”
“He’s—he’s still alive?” She looked up at Simon, stunned.
He smiled thinly. “How old do you think I am?”
“I don’t know. Thirty?”
“I was thirty-one when I came to Harrow Faire on that fateful day that ensured I would never leave again. So, I will give you credit for your guess. But the year, my darling, sweet, and wonderful Cora…was 1885. And I am not the oldest who remains ‘employed’ by Mr. Harrow, if you would like to call it that.”
“You’re trying to tell me you’re a hundred and…” She did some math in her head. “Sixty-five years old?”
“Sixty-six.” He corrected with a smile. “And indeed I am. Save for Mr. Harrow himself, Ringmaster is the oldest of us. This year marks Ringmaster’s two hundred and tenth. Well. In normal years.”
“What do you mean, normal years?” This was all insane. But she would play along for now.
“It’s hard to explain.” He waved his hand dismissively. “And unimportant. Anyhoo, Mr. Harrow is very much alive.” He paused. “If we’re alive. I’m not quite sure, honestly. I mean…we bleed, we sleep, we eat, we can still make love, as your friend Trent is very well aware. Save for the part where we cannot die, everything else is quite standard. That makes us alive, yes?”
It sounded like he was really asking her. She shook her head. “I don’t know. Sure. Good for you. Can I talk to Mr. Harrow?”
“Sadly, no. Nobody talks to him, save for Ringmaster.” Simon’s expression flickered to one of anger. “Believe me…I’ve tried.”
“Is Trent in danger? Has this place…fed on him?” It was hard to say that out loud and not cringe. She still felt like she was going insane. “Ludwig isn’t dangerous, is he?”
“That genetically altered, overblown hamster?” Simon let out a loud hah of laughter. “Hardly! And the Faire has all it has planned to take from you, as well. I am the only one here with any continued interest.”
“And why do you have interest in me?”
“I told you. I want to help you.”
“Sorry, but you don’t seem like the charitable type.”
“I stand to benefit, as well. Don’t worry.”
Cora rolled her eyes. She could see the hall of mirrors just up ahead. It looked like one of the oldest attractions in the park. Wiggly panes of the reflective surface were arranged to either side of the entrance. On a sign next to it read “Come find the truth of your soul!”
It would seem like terrible marketing to anyone else. But to her, it was another clue. This place had to mean something. Simon might be able to give her answers—but like hell if she trusted anything that came out of that man’s smirking face.
When they reached the entrance, he leaned against the railing. “You won’t find anything interesting in there save your own reflection. But if you wish to chase this red herring down the stream, by all means.” He gestured. “I’ll see you at the exit, then I can answer all your questions.” He glanced to her camera. “And maybe pose for a photo or two.” His face lit up as though he were actually excited to have his photo taken. “I’ve heard a rumor that I’m tall and sexy.”
She glared. “You’re insane.”
“That is not news.” He jerked his head toward the entrance. “Go on. See for yourself.”
With a beleaguered sigh, she stepped into the hall of mirrors.
11
The winding rows of mirrors reflected all the surfaces around them. Again, and again, fading off into infinity, she saw herself stretching out in all directions. Every post, every light, whirled around her in an endless array of shapes.
It was meant to be disorienting. It was incredibly effective.
She had to put a hand in front of herself to keep from ramming into the reflective walls. There were no arrows or guides to tell her which way to go. The fire marshal must have a field day with this place.
Then again, a supernatural, man-eating murder-circus probably didn’t need to worry about building inspectors and fire code. She wound her way through the maze and was fairly certain she had gotten turned around more than a few times.
She could still hear the faint music of the park. The never-ending pipe organ and hurdy gurdy tracks that were beautiful, joyful, and inherently creepy.
“Okay. I’m here now. I don’t know what you want from me,” she said to the empty air. There was nobody else to judge her for talking to the freaking circus as though it were conscious. The floor creaked as she walked, the old surface made of wide planks of wood, heavily polished and smooth with age. The hall of mirrors looked to be over a hundred years old. “I don’t know why you showed me those photos this afternoon. I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.” She picked up her camera and, flipping it on, took a few photos of the infinity mirror around her.
Click. Click. Click.
“But I’m here now. I’m listening. Tell me what you want.”
She checked the images. The first two seemed normal.
The third…was not.
The third had no right to be on her camera. It had nothing to do with where she was. It was Trent…and he was lying on the packed dirt walkway of the Faire. A halo of red around his head. His eyes were open, lifeless, and glassy. He was dead.
“Oh, God…” She put her hand over her mouth. “No, please.” It was a warning. She knew it was. But what could she do about it? She flicked the switch back to photo mode, bit down her horror, and lifted the camera. She took three more photos. “Not Trent.”
Click. Click. Click.
She reviewed the photos. All three were of Trent. All three were him dead in a different way. But each one was her best friend in the world, butchered and lying dead in the dirt, covered in blood.
She wailed. She found the jamb of one of the mirrors to lean against to support herself. “This can’t be real. It can’t be!” She took three more photos.
Click. Click. Click.
Three more images of Trent’s murdered body. Each in a different pose. One with his eyes gouged out. One with his face split open. Another with his entrails on the ground around him.
She bit back her tears. Her voice cracked as she spoke. “Tell me how to stop it.”
Click. Click. Click.
She flicked over to review the photos. They were all blank. Just three empty black squares. “No. You can’t do this! Tell me how to stop this from happening. Tell me how to protect Trent.”
Click. Click. Click.
Three more photos, and three empty black squares.
“No, please…don’t do this to me. Tell me what I can do!” Fear was making her voice crack. She thought she might cry. She was begging. “Please. I—I’ll do anything. I’ll give you anything. I’ll do whatever you want. I just…” Images of growing up with Trent flashed in her mind. Of him crying on the playground because a bully had called him a fag and split his lip. She had held an icepack to his face and told him he was still prettier than she was. It had made him smile. The images of him bleeding out on the ground had reminded her of those days. She protected him when they were young. She had to protect him now. “Tell me what you want me to do.”