It was Lucy, with her pale skin, metallic hair, and those remarkable forest eyes challenging me even as fear made her pulse jump visibly in her throat. The memory hit me with unexpected force. Back then, I'd wanted to terrify her. Now...
I’d cut anything that scared her. Slice it to ribbons. Make it bleed.
I wouldn’t let her fear me again, not ever. My grip tightened on the handle of my throwing knife, the intricate design pressing into my palm.What if Lucy wanted to be part of this world? What if she craved it the way I did?Now I imagined different scenarios altogether. Lucy secured to that wheel, her gaze sparkling with anticipation. The whisper of a blade against skin, not to harm but to heighten sensation. The thin line of red that might rise in its wake, just enough to make her gasp, to make those remarkable eyes dilate with something other than terror. We could enter this world as a mode of foreplay. I could show her how delicious a sharp edge could be.
Christ. I needed to focus.
The wheel began to spin, Musa's form blurring as it picked up speed. I centered myself, pushing away the inappropriate thoughts, finding that place of perfect calm where nothing existed except the target and my blade.
The first throw landed perfectly—inches from Musa's extended arm.
The second and third followed in quick succession—framing her face without coming close enough to endanger.
Each throw was met with gasps and applause, but I barely registered them. It was taken all my mental effort to stay in the game and not let my mind wander back to Lucy.
The wheel slowed for the finale. This was the most dangerous part of the act, where absolute precision was required. I backed away to the mark on the floor and lined myself up facing the target. I took a deep, centering breath, and then I rushed forward, bending my knees, pushing upward from the floor, and doing a front flip. Time crawled as I spun through the air, the tent around me blurring into indistinguishable colors. As I was coming back down to Earth, I released my blade. It flew true towards a small bullseye positioned just above Musa's head.
The crowd erupted as the blade sank into the target. I turned, giving them a sharp bow. When I straightened, I only had eyes for Lucy. She was standing up with the rest of them, her pale face coated in crimson, her smile dazzling. There was so much pride in her gaze that I nearly stopped breathing at the weight of it. How could she look so sweet standing there covered in blood?
The stagehands released Musa from the wheel, and she took her bow to renewed, enthusiastic applause. I barely noticed. The scope of my world now existed in a two foot by five-foot space, with Lucy at its core. She was all I cared to see, all I cared to hear, all I cared to want.
Keep going, I told myself. I walked, rolling my shoulders, ready to take on the lungs. I lined up, took the first knife from the left thigh holster, and threw.Thwack.Another throw.Thunk. A third blade soared.Thump.A fourth. A fifth. The sixth pierced the trigger. The lungs began to breathe. Above the crowd, fog began to pour from ducts. It built thicker and thicker, until the entire tent was filled, making it impossible to see.
In the moments before the ventilation system began to draw the mist back out, I stood motionless, my stomach clenching. I couldn’t see Lucy. It was irrational, but if I couldn’t see her, then I couldn’t be sure she was safe. Panic tried to well up in my throat and choke me. I grabbed one of my knives, gripping theblade end brutally.She’s fine. There’s no reason to worry. Stop being a pussy.
I didn’t breathe easily until the air cleared and I saw her standing in the same spot.
As the crowd began to disperse, moving towards other attractions, I collected my knives with practiced efficiency. The needed to be inspected, cleaned, and put away. But my mind was already elsewhere. For the first time in my life, I found myself rushing through my post-performance routine, eager to be done, eager to find her. I, who had never needed anyone's approval, now craved the reaction of a slip of a woman. Lucy was wound around my heart, squeezing it gently, coaxing me to get close to her as fast as possible.
From now on, it was a single pair of green-gold eyes that I performed for. A single smile that made it all worthwhile. A single voice that could cut through the crowd as easily as a razor-sharp blade.
FALLON.
Lucy was here, but I tried not to look at her again. Her presence was both a comfort and a distraction.
When I’d looked at her before entering the ring, I’d been amused. She’d obviously gone to Nitro’s show. Her face was mostly clean, but the collar of her shirt was stained, and her platinum hair was streaked with crimson drying to a sickly reddish-brown.
Standing on the leather saddle, I rolled my shoulders, mind running through the routine. Half a dozen targets around the ring’s perimeter, four more positioned in the aisles between stadium seats, three above the emergency exits, two on the king poles—those would release nets hung above, sending black and crimson confetti over the crowd.
Fifteen arrows in the quiver. Fifteen shots.
And the first ten shots involved human assistants.
No room for error.
The motorcycle’s thrum vibrated into my feet, traveling up my legs and settling in at waist level. I’d long ago learned not to fight against the machine that carried me but move with it. When the bike wanted to pull left or right, I leaned slightly, allowing it gains, then I carefully coaxed it back into position.
The weight of the compound bow in my hands didn’t register as a foreign object, but instead as an extension of my arms. Approaching the first target, I drew back the string, feeling the tension build in my shoulders as my gaze locked on a single point—the apple perched atop the man’s head sixty feet away. The audience held its collective breath, the silence in the tent broken only by the low rumble of the motorcycle's engine.
My mind tried to drift to Lucy as the motorcycle tilted, but I eased both back. She was watching, and I desperately wanted to see her expression. Not now thought. Not when the slightest tremor in my hand could turn this performance into a tragedy.
I exhaled slowly, letting all extraneous thoughts drain away. The arrow’s shaft rested against my finger, eager to be released and fulfill its purpose. The only thing that now existed was the target—that bright green Granny Apple balanced precariously atop a living human. The man’s expression remained impressively neutral, despite me holding his life in my hands. We’d been practicing this for weeks, and every stagehand assisting today stood rock solid, zero trembling.
The trust was humbling, making me think of another pair of eyes that now looked at me with the kind of faith I feared breaking. I pushed thoughts of Lucy away. Later. I could dwell on her later.
The target. The apple. The show.
My fingers released the string with a whoosh. The arrow cut through the air with a sharp hiss, the carbon fiber shaft maintaining perfect trajectory. It struck the apple dead center, pinning the fruit to the wooden backdrop behind the man with a resounding thunk. Droplets of juice sprayed outward, catching the light like crystals before falling to the ground.
