The Faire owed him one.
And he wouldn’t let Ringmaster, Mr. Harrow, or even the very ground beneath his feet deny him Cora, so he did something he honestly hated to do, despite what everybody claimed. He lied. “I only know what she told you. That her camera has shown her bizarre photos, including one of a boxcar with a painted digit on the door.”
He just wouldn’t tell Ringmaster which digit in particular. Let the fat fool believe himself to be the smartest man in the room. Let him come up with his own theories. Simon had his.
The Faire has a hole to fill. And it wants her.
But she belongs to me.
“What else is there, Simon? What else has she told you?” Ringmaster narrowed his eyes, as if that might let him see past his deception. Honestly, Simon was certain Ringmaster always expected the worst from him. And he usually wasn’t wrong.
“Cora is confused and scared. She’s worried about her friend and asked the Faire what she had to do to save him. It gave her a riddle. When she told me she saw a boxcar with a painted number, I assumed it must be Mr. Harrow. I was taking her to see him. I assumed he might have something to say to her.” That was all true. Mostly true. He left out giant details. He owed Ringmaster nothing. Simon shrugged innocently. As best as he could do anything innocently, anyway. “I think you should be talking to Mr. Harrow, honestly. It’s his reign of Master of the Faire that’s being challenged, not anything to do with me.”
“And why would you protect Mr. Harrow? You hate him.”
“To set the record straight, I hate all of you.” He laughed. “But I only want one thing in this endeavor, and I’ve made that perfectly clear. I have no interest in letting anyone take her from me. So, if these means serve my ends, then I’m happy to play along.”
Ringmaster rubbed his hand over his face. “Why do you have to be so difficult, Simon?”
“See previous comment about hatred.” He smiled sweetly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go to my boxcar and clean up. I need a change of clothes, as these are sticky and ruined, and I seem to have lost my sunglasses. I do hate to terrorize the patrons. Well, at least when I’m not trying to.” He stood from the chair and brushed himself off. He was a disgusting mess. Blood had really soaked his clothes. “I should probably take the back way, speaking of terrifying the patrons…”
“If I find out you know more than you’re telling me, Simon…you will regret it.”
“When have I ever regretted a single thing in my life?” He shrugged as he walked toward the exit. “Have a lovely night, you giant tub of lard.” He whistled to himself as he left, grinning once more. He rubbed his face as he felt the muscle twinge, and it still came back sticky. He needed a shower and a stiff drink. He wished he could share both with Cora.
The mental image of her naked and pressed up against the tile of his shower wall made him shudder. Lust was entertaining, and it was an emotion he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time. He savored it. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get to act it out, since he was going to steal her life and place it into one of his dolls. But perhaps she might entertain the idea in their dreams.
After she forgave him. Which she would. Eventually.
Maybe.
On his way back to his boxcar, he passed the one with the painted zero. He paused to look at it. It was overgrown and abandoned. No one had lived in it for thirty-eight years. All that remained of the Contortionist was now dead and gone. But, just like all the times a slot in the Family had gone empty, the Faire sought to fill it. Usually, it was Mr. Harrow who issued the order. It had never come directly from the Faire itself, not for as long as Simon could remember. But it seemed Simon wasn’t the only creature overeager to play with his fiery little Cora Glass.
All the others shunned the empty and vacant boxcar of the previous Contortionist. So many other Family members had come and gone in the century-and-change that Simon had spent as Puppeteer. Although nobody else had gone in quite such a spectacular method as Hernandez. All the rest simply faded out until they were gone like a spent candle waiting to flicker its last bit of light.
And they were always quickly replaced. There had to be twenty-two of them. And Mr. Harrow was ever eager to draw a new fly into its web. But they had never had another Contortionist in all those years…and now he knew why.
Because Hernandez was still here, wasn’t he? It was no coincidence that the last dregs of that pathetic man had asked for his freedom at the same time that Cora set foot into Harrow Faire. The Faire itself had pushed out the last remains of the old to welcome in the new.
It wanted her. The moment she told him about what she had seen in the funhouse mirror—that strange vision of herself as a contortionist covered in blood—he knew. It had erased any doubts in his mind about what was going on.
“You won’t get her,” he muttered under his breath. He often talked to himself or his shadow. No one would pay him a second glance for talking to himself now. “She’s mine. Do you hear me? I haven’t wanted anything in a long time—a very long time—and now that you let me taste her, I know you want to rip her away. I won’t let it happen, you stupid, glorified sea urchin.”
I will find a way to burn this place down if you dare take anything more away from me. Never again.
“She belongs to me.” He said it as a threat. He said it as a promise.
Now, in order to make good on it, he just had to find a way to get Cora to come back to him. He let his eyes drift shut. He was so tired. And that poor girl must be exhausted. He smiled as it gave him another idea. He had many gifts in this world, and one of them was talking people into giving him what he wanted.
And oh, how he wanted her.
And he knew just how to get her.
Cora made it home before she burst into tears. It wasn’t until she closed the door behind her and leaned against it that she let it happen. Mostly because she was frustrated. Partially because she was in a great deal of pain. And also, y’know, because she was having a major existential crisis.
I guess I’m allowed.
She wiped her sleeve over her eyes. Nothing made sense anymore. Why was the Faire whispering to her? Why was it showing her all those weird images? Why was it after Trent?
She decided she needed a drink. She moved to pull off her coat and paused. She had put her hand in her pocket, where she had put Simon’s sunglasses.
They were gone.
She checked her other pocket and blinked. They had definitely been there. Things didn’t fall out of her coat—she hated when that happened, so she always bought ones with super deep pockets.
Mysteriously disappearing sunglasses definitely went on the bottom of the list of weird shit she had seen that week. She shrugged it off. With a long sigh, she took off her coat and hung it on the peg on the wall. Heading to her kitchen, she grabbed a beer, popped the cap off, and sat at her table with her camera. She flicked it on and almost dreaded going through the images.
But she had to know if there was anything there. If there were any more clues to the riddle she was trying to solve. One she was pretty sure Simon had the answer to, but never got to tell her.
Not that she trusted that tall creep.
She ran through in her head what the camera had shown her. The images that were now gone. An image of the funhouse mirror. An image of Simon’s tent. And an image of the boxcar painted with the gold zero. That was what it had shown her. The first had come true already, showing her an image of herself, twisted and warped. The second…she couldn’t tell if it meant for her to avoid Simon or go to him.