You will soon take a fall.
His lips move as he reads the card, then pick up in a small grin. He rereads the words on his card, and I can see the flush climb up his cheeks, the pulse thumping in his neck. He is vibrantly alive. I can’t do it. I can’t. While his gaze flits over the words on the card yet again, I swish the curtain shut and dim the lights, dropping down to the floor of the booth.
As I sit there in the dark, my knees literally knocking, my chest vibrating with panic, the clumsy teenage boy steps circles around my booth, looking for me, or maybe a handle to get in to confront me. I am so, so glad for the hidden latch that opens the back door. The boy lets out a feeble, “What the hell?” before his steps recede into the sounds of other patrons, games, and rides.
I almost did it. I mean, I had no idea if the boy would have gone along with it or if he would have run off, but for a few seconds, I was going to trick that boy and steal him away from his family. To become a monster of the same brand as Sidney, callous and cold, willing to bring a kid to death’s door for my own freedom.
A great hiccupping shudder runs through my body and I burrow my head into my arms, wishing for something more than the all-encompassing darkness surrounding me. Because maybe it’s not even a matter of becoming a monster like Sidney. I had been willing to trick the boy, hadn’t I? Ready to pass on this horrible curse even though he thought he was just out for a fun night at a regular old carnival.
Maybe I already am a monster.
Chapter Eleven
Benjamin
The night is crisp and cool, though not as cold as it had been in the last town. Mrs. Potter’s dogs yap happily as she runs them through their paces. The Ferris wheel spins in a whirl of blue and orange lights against the navy sky; Lars stands at the base fiddling with the buttons on the new remote control I built. Nearby, someone has just rung the bell on the strongman game. I’m hit with the scent of turkey legs, followed quickly by butter and sugar as I near the kettle corn booth. The carnival food we sell to the townies usually gets real old, real quick, but tonight it smells delicious. That, or I’m starving.
I pass the red box again, but the bright rows of lights are off and Emma is nowhere to be seen. I stop in the middle of the busy aisle. What could have happened in the few hours since I last saw her? Is she already luring someone off, preparing him or her to take her place in the booth? I think that all she has to do is kiss him, or at least, that’s what Whiskey told me once. It could be happening right now. Sidney is standing across the way, and I walk over.
“Hey,” I say. I point to the box behind me. “What’s going on?”
He swallows a huge chunk of caramel apple. “I could ask you the same. Haven’t seen her tonight. I got here late, never saw her.”
My brows furrow together, and I try to keep myself calm. If Sidney never saw Emma tonight, maybe she just didn’t feel up to working. Either way, I’m sure she’s fine. And even if she was kissing someone else, that’s totally within her rights to do so. I shift my grip on my toolbox and walk on. If I drop off my things at the trailer now and run back from the yard, I might be able to catch Marcel before his next show. He’s unveiling a new act tonight, a routine he’s been working on with Gin, and it sounds like they’ve put together something spectacular.
But as I cross the alley, meaning to slip through the space between the box and the cotton candy booth it sits near, I hear a thump. And then another, this one followed by a soft whine.
Toffrey stands on his hind legs, tiny white paws scratching at the seam in the box. When I step around and he sees me, he lets out a long, trembling whine and paws at the door again. My fingers find the hidden latch and when the door swings gently open, my gaze drops to find Emma huddled on the floor. Pale arms hug her knees, elbows jutting out at stiff angles. I hear another one of those soft thumps as a great, rolling tremble starts at the base of her spine and rattles all the way up her shoulders, knocking them against the wooden wall. Toffrey scrambles into her lap, his nails clacking against her limbs, and her arms wind around him, hugging him tight.
“Hey,” I say, hoping the panic I feel over seeing her like this isn’t showing on my face. I crouch down to put us at eye level. “You okay? What happened?”
At the sound of my voice, her gaze drifts from my shoes to my face. Toffrey wriggles against her chest, tiny pink tongue darting out to lick the underside of her chin. “I should…” she says, glancing up at the darkened lights above, “I mean…”
“Girl in the Box!”
My shoulders tense. The Morettis crowd around us, their shadows covering the girl in darkness. Toffrey’s low growl is barely audible, but the idea of the small terrier going up against any one of the brothers is as laughable as a kindergartner going up against a seasoned marine.
“Miss, is this roustabout bothering you?”
I turn and am practically nose to nose with Fabrizio, the oldest of the meatheads. His eyes, normally dark, seem even more so ringed with the thick eyeliner he wears as part of his costume. A costume that leaves no doubts as to how strong and muscled he is. And while hauling lumber around the yard means I can hold my own, I’ve got no doubts that Fabrizio is much faster than me, not to mention the fact he’s flanked by a brother on each side.
I draw my shoulders back and don’t budge. “I’m not bothering her. She clearly needs a break or a walk or something. And it’s only her second time. I really doubt it’ll matter if she takes a night off at this point.”
Fabrizio glances down at the toolbox by my feet and the tiny dog barking madly from the girl’s lap. “Look, roustabout, these matters don’t involve you. She’s a performer. You are not. Now get lost and let the girl do her job.” He pushes me out of the way with one hand and flicks the other at his brothers. Each bends to grab one of the girl’s arms and heft her up.
“Hey!” Emma shouts as Lorenzo and Antonio lift her. The black tips of her leather shoes hover inches over the ground. She wriggles in their grasp, but the Morettis don’t falter.
“Let her go,” I say.
Fabrizio pushes his way into my space, his chest bumping into me, his eyes inches from mine. “This does not concern you.”
If that’s how he wants to play this, then fine.
I break our stare down to bend toward my toolbox and grab my staple gun. I slam a strip of half-inch staples into the reservoir and click the covering back into place. The handle butts into the healing gash on my palm, the dull throb of it anchoring me to the here and now. “I think you need to leave her be.”
Fabrizio’s face twists into a scowl. “Get back to work, roustabout!”
My mouth tightens.