But not enough to distract me from tonight’s activities.
The first act is about to begin.
2
JULES
Ipull my Harley up to the carnival’s designated parking lot and take off my helmet. Running my fingers through my short blue hair, I look up at the glowing sign, backdropped by a deepening purple sky, with several bulbs flickering or burned out—The Seven Sins Carnival.
Uncovering sins is what I do best.
I lean my bike on the kickstand and leave the helmet on the handlebars, tucking my gloves inside. No one touches bike gear in small towns like Marrow Falls—too many one-percenter motorcycle clubs around these parts to risk messing with someone’s property. I know the Wicked Sinners run things a couple of counties over. How do I know? Because I tried to do an exposé last year and got the runaround, that’s how.
I’m not going to let that happen here. Thanks to my contacts in law enforcement, I’m certain this carnival has skeletons in its funhouse. It could, of course, be a coincidence that missing persons reports pop up more often than not as they roll out of town. But… I don’t think so. And that’s why I’m here tonight.
It’s opening night, and I want to get a good foothold. Not much is known about the people behind the carnival. It’s owned bySeven Sins Entertainment LLC, though from what I uncovered, the name changed a few times over the years. I saw two names on the permits I could dig out—Elias Vale and Silas Crowley.
Finding more about them, however, proved to be a challenge. I’m up to it, though, no doubt about that.
I pass under the lit-up entrance arch, flinching when a clown runs past, seemingly chasing a black cat and laughing maniacally. I don’t think the cat is part of an act.
Okay, IthinkI’m up to it.
Why’d it have to be clowns? I almost prefer burly bikers with guns and very few scruples.
I inhale deeply, taking in the smell of popcorn, cotton candy, and frying oil. It’s been a long time since I was at a carnival, and I almost wish this were a leisure visit. Then again, what better way to blend in than to enjoy the food and rides?
I veer over to the ticket booth and buy ride tickets, enough to do everything once.
“When do the shows start?” I ask the bored-looking teenager at the till.
“Opening act’s first,” he says with a forced smile. “That’ll be any moment now, in the main tent over there. Can’t miss it.”
“Thanks,” I reply amicably. No point in asking more questions now, raising suspicion. I have two weeks after all, and this teenager is probably not in the know. He might even be a local—it’s not like I know everyone in the area, and he might be from a neighboring town like me.
When I step deeper, music from the rides starts overlapping, the chatter of the crowd pressing against me from all sides. Warm yellow bulbs illuminate the paths as night settlesin, neon lights from various attractions flickering over impenetrable shadows.
The main tent is slightly removed from the rides and, like the teen said, impossible to miss. Dark red and off-white stripes lead to flags waving high in the air. That’s where I’m going to find my targets.
A deep drumming sounds from the huge tent, vibrating the dirt under my feet, and I pick up my pace. I don’t want to miss this.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a smooth voice says from inside just as I trade the outside world for darkness and the smell of sawdust. “Sinners and saints. The curious and the condemned.”
The audience laughs uneasily as I climb up to the stands. They’re plunged into darkness, a single spotlight illuminating the figure standing in the center of the ring. A tall, built man, wearing a top hat, striped suit, heavy coat, and holding a cane decorated with gold.
This is the ringmaster. Elias Vale or Silas Crowley? Or someone whose name is still shrouded in mystery?
“You’ve come looking for wonder.”
No, I’ve come looking for a story.
As a freelance journalist, finding hinky stuff, such as murderous carnies, puts food on the table. Wherever that table may be at the time.
“Lucky for you, you’ve found us.”
The overhead lights turn on just as I lean against the railing. Now that I have a good view of the man in the spotlight, I can’t stop looking at him. He has the palest eyes I’ve ever seen. From this distance, I can’t tell if they’re blue, green, or gray, just that they’re piercing and otherworldly.
I’m so wrapped up in him that I don’t notice the men behind him until one breathes fire over the audience’s heads, making them gasp in alarm, then giggle nervously. Butthey’re all almost as striking as their ringleader. The one with the torch and the one casually resting his hands on the flanks of a lion and bear look nearly identical. Though the one doing magic tricks and the one shuffling cards kind of look alike too. Are they all related?
