No one speaks for a moment. Then I chuckle, tugging on my red striped tie. “I usually am first,” I mutter, and pull out my pocket watch. As the ringmaster, I’ll be the first to perform for the gathering crowd tonight. “It’s showtime,” I add, effectively ending this meeting.
My brothers get up and start shuffling out as I take a few deep breaths, grounding myself in the silence they leave behind. Well, a carnival is never silent. There’s music from the rides, and soon there will be music from various performances. There’s laughter, followed by shrieks of terror. Therumbling of machinery, the chatter of the crowd, the popping of guns from the shooting gallery. A raucous cacophony that feeds my starving soul—an ever-expanding black void that hungers for violence.
Perhaps hunting down every last Prophet will appease it, make it stop growing. And maybe it won’t. Maybe nothing will.
On the way out of my trailer, I grab my striped top hat. As soon as I’m outside, I put it on, pulling the brim low; I prefer my face to stay half hidden by shadows at all times.
The last traces of the setting sun survive in the west, painting the sky a deep purple. Two fireflies dance around me in tandem as I stride to the back of the huge Big Top with its burgundy and cream stripes, the flags flapping in the breeze.
I make sure my costume is in order—nothing unbuttoned, nothing creased—before sliding in under the stands, the wood creaking as the audience shifts above me.
I give Matt, my technician, the cue, and the lights die all at once.
The crowd hushes, breath catching in a single, communal inhale. For a heartbeat, there’s nothing but darkness and the low creak of canvas shifting overhead, the smell of sawdust and oil and sugar thick in the air. I live for this moment. The pause before belief. The second where fear and anticipation are indistinguishable.
Then the drum begins. One slow beat. Deep. Steady. It vibrates through the ring beneath my boots, through my bones. Another beat follows. Then another. The rhythm of a heart. Or a countdown.
A single spotlight ignites at the center of the ring, cutting a clean white circle into the dark. Smoke curls along the ground, rolling in low and deliberate. I step into it.
My coat sits heavy on my shoulders, velvet brushing mycalves as I move, my black gloves snug against my skin. Gold glints, catching the light when I lift my cane and tap it once against the ring.
Silence.
I don’t need a microphone. I never have.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say, my voice carrying easily, wrapping around the crowd like silken threads. At least that’s how I picture it. “Sinners and saints. The curious and the condemned.”
A nervous laugh breaks out somewhere to my left. I let it die on its own.
“Welcome,” I continue, pacing the edge of the ring, eyes scanning faces—families, couples, teenagers pretending they’re not afraid. “You’ve come looking for wonder. For spectacle. For a little magic to distract you from the ordinary horrors of the world.”
I stop. Turn back toward the center.
“Lucky for you,” I murmur, “you’ve found us.”
Warm gold bulbs flicker back to life overhead, outlining the tent’s ribs like a cathedral built of canvas and wire. Figures emerge from the shadows at the edges of the ring.
Jonah first, massive and still as stone, arms crossed over his chest. Cole spins a knife between his fingers, flashing the crowd a grin sharp enough to draw blood. Logan exhales fire in a controlled bloom, heat washing over the front rows as they flinch back. Rowe stands beside his animals, calm hands steady against fur and muscle. Silas appears and disappears in a shimmer of smoke and mirrors. Marek lingers at the edge, half in shadow, eyes already elsewhere.
“This is the Seven Sins Carnival,” I say. “Where temptation wears a smile, and every thrill comes with a price.”
The drumbeat quickens.
“For the next two weeks,” I continue, voice lowering, “you will see things you won’t be able to explain. You will feelthings you won’t be able to forget. And when you leave…” I pause, letting the silence stretch. “When you leave, you’ll swear you were changed.”
A ripple of applause rolls through the tent. Excited. Uneasy. Perfect.
I spread my arms wide, coat flaring like wings.
“So step right up,” I command. “Leave your expectations at the door. Leave your innocence if you’re brave enough. Because once the show begins,” I say softly, smiling at last, “there’s no turning back.”
The drum slams once, hard, and the crowd erupts into raucous cheers.
My eyes sweep the audience one last time. I’m about to turn when something blue flashes, catching my gaze. A tall woman is leaning against the railing, not sitting, not clapping, not smiling. Her eyes, something dark, are glued to me, unblinking. It’s like she’s assessing me,judgingme, weighing my goddamn soul on the scales of justice.
Curious.
Really fucking curious.
