“But… the hate you’re so eager to escape, I cannot erase—only shift it. There’s so much of it in this place and time, and more will come.” Sabine gazes out in the distance like she can see it. “So in return for the hate you can try to avoid now, that hate will linger inside you and your bloodline.”
Sabine tugs at her dress, and its color shifts from white to royal blue.
“I don’t understand. You said—” Titus quivers with fear.
“I’m done with this game.” I look around, frantically wondering if it’s still possible to get away on the boat.
“And, Venus, I could’ve let you bleed to death.” Sabine’s dress spouts into an elegant upside-down tulip shape. “You and your bloodline will also be blessed with gifts, but in turn you shall experience the Baldwin family’s hate in the most agonizing ways.” She shakes her head, and the messy bun crowning it falls to curling strands that darken from red to brown. “From this moment on,” she declares as the lines around her mouth and eyes soften, her face no longer wizened but beautiful and barely twenty, “you and your descendants will live to see their babies die. You will be the cause of it.”
“No!” My voice is sharp as I yell it.
Her red pupils almost glow. “Your families will seek violence and vengeance. It’s important to anticipate your opponent’s actions. Every move matters. Play without a well-informed plan, and you’re going to lose,” she says. “And your freedom will be wasted, buried in the ground.”
I can’t look away. I can’t make sense of what she’s trying to say.
“Bloodlust will bubble up like boiled cane syrup whenever members of your bloodlines share the same space for too long. A hunger for violence that will only be satisfied by the kill. It’s unavoidable. Hatred demands an outlet, and that bloodlustmustbe satisfied.”
“Why are you doing this?” I ask.
“My reasons are between me and my gods.” She cracks her knuckles. “You live at and by my mercy no matter how long you live and how long your bloodline grows. Every generation the tax for freedom must be paid. The Baldwins and the Davenports will be forced to play a little game—my game—my Tethered Gambit. But first, I hate disloyal men.” Sabine shoots Titus in the chest.
I cover my mouth, the shock freezing me in place.
His eyes turn glassy as the blood pours out of him. He exhales his final breath with a gentle whoosh.
Sabine smiles. “Such tender skin we all live in. My Tether will show your entire bloodlines how much it bleeds.”
The earth shakes under my feet. The clouds above the trees tremble, and stardust rains down on the ravens and me. My hands soften despite the rage inside me.
Sabine coos, “Now the nightmare begins…”
PART TWOTHE DEADLY PLEDGE
CHAPTER ONEEmma BaldwinHARLEM, 1943
When the moonlight hits the circus tents, they bleed. Ruby drops turn to rose petals before raining down on the audience.
“A symbol. That’s all anybody wants. Something that feels bigger than them. No matter the city, no matter the time.” Mom always said this when we were fortifying the fabric together, using our hands to imbue the crimson silk with our gifts. “Something magical, something beautiful. And if we remind them that we’re the best Black circus on the circuit in the process, what’s the harm?”
Oohs and aahs ripple as the crowd begins to file into the big top. They settle in their seats and prepare for the show as that bloody rain begins.
I watch from my perch above in the tent’s sky well, distracted by a full moon the color of decaying bones. A warning. It looks close enough to touch.
I’m tempted to launch myself into the Harlem night as fireworks splash across the sky. I’d become a beautiful dark comet. Then I’d burn away.
My sister Grace used to say doing something like that would give our enemies too much joy, though. And I’d be dead before the show began. A waste. A disappointment. I suppose she was right.
The crowd gapes up at the light spectacle as they enter from outside. Our signature start to every show. But they never seem to see me, oblivious to where I sit, legs dangling over the side of the massive gold ball that crowns the big top. Because no one is really looking. No one wants to see the strings or learn how magic is really made. They don’t want to know the sacrifice.
The wind sends a ribbon spiraling from my hair. I lean forward, trying to grab the swirling silk, but it’s pointless. The breeze has freed it while I’m stuck here, fulfilling a duty I never wanted.
My existence is a movie stuck on repeat. Show after show. Eight o’clock: the lights dim. 8:05: fireworks. I glance at my watch: 8:10. I look down. Click. Right on time, the ball under me illuminates, a beacon inviting the audience to prepare for wonder and amazement. This week marks our circus’s arrival in the hundredth city of my short lifetime. Countless rabbits turned into rainbows; countless stars spun into dreams. My fake smile masking my boredom all the while.
At eight thirty, my stage performance will start. The thought of doing the same thing again, night after night without my sister, makes the downward slope of the tent roof and the crumbling path below look delicious. My blood would join the rose petals collecting on the fedoras and pillbox hats. No one would notice.
Voices roar below. More fireworks explode above, leaving trails of smoke and fountains of glowing pink flashes. My pulse pounds in my ears. I wish I could fly away from it all. If I had that sort of magic, I’d be long gone, but sadly that’s not how my gifts work.
The light show winds down like clockwork, the gold sparks burning the air. Briefly, I wonder: What if I wasn’t there to watch my brother, Demetri, as he reaches into the minds of the audience members, compelling them to join us onstage? What if I never saw Mom, “the Infamous Isabel Baldwin,” use her telekinetic skills to lift the big top and its crowd high above the city like nothing more than dolls? What if I never again admired my papa in his decadent ringmaster suit as he conjured animals and transformed our silk tents into faraway landscapes like Moroccan deserts or Grecian arenas?
