“I was taken. Some choose to be here. Others…do not.” He grimaced, and agony flashed over him as though a memory had caused him visceral pain. It faded. “No matter. It’s a deed long concluded. I’m here now, you’re here now, and we have business to attend.”
They reached a part of the park she hadn’t seen before. It was behind a few of the tents, tucked way back, and behind a fence. A gap in the fence had an archway over it, which read “staff only.”
It was a collection of little buildings, haphazardly placed around in a smaller portion of the huge field and bordered by the woods on three sides. One large, open-air tent had a scattering of park benches underneath it. It definitely lacked the loud signs and the flashing lights of the rest of the circus, although bits and pieces of painted facades and props were laying around on boxes or up against walls.
Everything looked, like the rest of the park, like it hadn’t been updated in a long time. It was in pristine condition, but still vintage. No. It’s old. And alive. This isn’t a reproduction. It’s meant to be like this.
Simon led her through the buildings and tents until they reached an array of—
She stopped. They looked like old caravans. Or train cars. The wheels on them were designed to have ridden on metal rails, although she could tell they had clearly not moved in ages from the grass and vines that were wound around them. They were wooden, antique, and all identical. Each one was about forty feet long and maybe sixteen feet wide, with windows running along all sides.
Some were lit from inside, but most were not. Some had curtains drawn, others didn’t.
They were exactly what she had seen in her photo.
At the back end of each car, a little set of stairs were folded out to climb up to their doors. And on each door was painted a number. Seven, twelve, nineteen, eight…her eyes settled on one in particular. Its lights were off. The curtains were drawn. Grass and vines had begun to climb up the stairs as though no one had walked on them in a very long time.
It was painted with a zero.
A hand settled on her back. She jumped, gasping, and looked up at Simon. She hadn’t expected him to be there at her side. He was watching her with a strange and eager fascination. “This is what you saw, isn’t it?”
“Y—yeah.” It was the third photo the Faire had shown her. The first was that terrible mirror. The second, his tent. And the third was there, right in front of her. She felt cold. She shivered.
“I almost didn’t believe you, until I saw the color drain from your cheeks just there.” He sighed. “For shame. I was hoping this was all an elaborate hoax the others were playing on me.”
“Huh?”
“I thought perhaps Barker and Rigger had secured your affections and were using you to play a prank. They’re always trying to take from me what I want. I do not know if I’m happy or sad that my theory was wrong.” He lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “Come along, Cora dear. Mr. Harrow’s boxcar is this way.”
It took her a solid few seconds to snap herself free of staring at the boxcar with the gold zero on the door before she followed after him. “Have you ever seen Mr. Harrow?”
“Never. He doesn’t leave his boxcar. Ever. Ringmaster speaks to him via a series of notes passed under the door.” Simon’s expression darkened. “I have tried to bash in the door a thousand times. I have tried to set fire to it. I have tried to shatter the glass. Nothing works.”
“Why were you so desperate to talk to him?”
Simon winced. “As I said…I was taken. I am not here by choice. It took me many years before I gave up and grew to enjoy my new life.”
“I’m sorry.”
He looked at her, an eyebrow quirked up. “Are you really?”
“I—” What the hell kind of question is that? “I mean, yeah. I’m sorry that happened to you. It sounds terrible. I don’t know what I’d do in that situation.”
There was an odd, knowing smile on his face. But it was paired with a strange, unsettling, overeager twist that made her uncomfortable. “I will do my very best to ensure that does not happen.”
When they rounded a corner, Simon stopped short. She did the same. His shoulders lifted, and he went tense. Anger came over him so quickly it was almost palpable in the air. She took a step away from him reflexively. But luckily, it wasn’t pointed at her.
They weren’t alone.
Set away from the rest, nearly touching the woods, was a boxcar labeled twenty-one on the door. Standing at the base of the stairs was an enormous man with bronze skin and a dark mustache, wearing a green, gold, and cream striped tailcoat. He wore knee-high black boots, and canvas-colored pants tucked into them.
He looked just a little past his prime. He was handsome and had probably been an absolute showstopper in his youth. He also looked like he had once been muscular, but it had started to slide a little. He wasn’t out of shape, per se. Age had just happened to him. His skin was bronze, his hair was short and dark, with a dusting of gray at the temples, and he boasted a broad and long mustache. His features gave her the impression he was probably somewhere from the Middle East or the Eastern Mediterranean.
There was no doubt he commanded whatever room he was in. He must have been as tall as Simon, but easily twice the Puppeteer’s bodyweight. The tall, black top hat he wore made him seem that much more imposing. He held a coiled leather bullwhip in his hand.
And beside the man she assumed was “Ringmaster” stood Aaron and Jack.
It was clear that none of them were fond of Simon, and the feeling was mutual.
“You ran to Daddy, I see,” Simon seethed. “Hello, Ringmaster. Hello, boys.”
“Leave, Simon.” Ringmaster walked toward them. “Go back to your tent, or to your boxcar, I don’t care which. But leave Cora alone.” The man turned warm, dark eyes to her. There was such a look of sad sympathy in them that she was taken aback. He was looking at her like someone might look at a person dying of cancer. “Your game ends here.”
“No!” Simon snarled. “She belongs to me!”
What?
She took a step away from Simon. That was it. She was done. Sorry, Trent. She tried to leave, but suddenly, she couldn’t move. She struggled, but it felt like there were a thousand tiny wires surrounding her. She caught the faintest reflection of light off silvery, spider-like strings in the air around her.
Simon twitched his fingers, and she lurched, moving beside him. It was not of her own doing. Her feet moved, and she had nothing to do with it.
She wailed. “Oh, God—oh, God!”
His arm snaked around her, yanking her against him possessively, flush to his side. The smell of antiques and cologne washed over her. Now that she was this close to him, there was the scent of something like paint buried deep in there as well. “Be quiet, Cora.” He was not looking at her but glaring a hole at Ringmaster. “We had a deal, fat man.”
“Let me go!”
“Shush, Cora!” Simon snarled down at her. “Not now.”
“Why have you brought her here, Simon?” Ringmaster narrowed his eyes, matching Simon’s expression of rage with one of taciturn disapproval. “What is going on?”
“It isn’t any of your business.” Simon squeezed her again, as if afraid she’d be ripped away from him.