Well, obviously not the huge, mahogany-skinned man with the sharpest cheekbones I’ve ever seen and the plushest lips on this planet. He’s tossing around a humongous barbell like it’s a baby’s rattle. Then there’s the one playing with knives like they’re made of rubber, his slanted eyes signaling a different heritage to the rest.
Somehow, though, they seem to be tied, as if they’re orbiting around each other like planets in a solar system. And the sun? It’s the man in the middle.
“So step right up,” he says, his hands in the air, the red sphere at the top of his cane glinting. “Leave your expectations at the door. Leave your innocence if you’re brave enough. Because once the show begins… there’s no turning back.”
The single powerful drumbeat makes my breath catch in the back of my throat. Still, I don’t join the crowd in its applause, soaking in the sight of the ringmaster while he’s still in the spotlight.
Just then, his eyes sweep over the crowd where I’m standing, then cut back to me. I blink, wondering if I’m imagining his icy gaze sucking me in like a black hole.
His hold over me is gone as fast as it came, his heavy coat swishing with his long, determined steps.
“Are you ready?” he says like the perfect showman. The crowd goes wild around me, cheering, clapping, stomping their feet. “I said… Are. You. Ready?”
“Yeah!” the audience yells like one entity. I’m startled to see that I got sucked in too, shouting along with them.
“Then, please, welcome… The Illusionist!”
As the man who was performing tricks on the sideline takes center stage, carnival workers bustling around him to set up his props, I realize my lungs are struggling to get fresh oxygen into my veins.
I pull my leather jacket away from my overheated skin, then stumble to the exit. Thankfully, I didn’t move far from it, and the humid but cooler night air fills my lungs as I take a deep breath.
What was that? Am I so excited by the prospect of this story? Or is it the incredibly handsome ringmaster? The black leather gloves, the skillful grip on his cane, the top hat casting a shadow over half of his chiseled face…
You’re not here to write a romance book. Put your game face on, bitch.
As I turn around, I think I see a long coat turning the corner behind the main tent. Was that…
I’m there in a flash, looking around, but all I see are the few carnival-goers who didn’t bother to watch the opening show—mostly teens who probably think they’re too cool for the pomp—and workers moving with purpose.
He’ll be back, though, right? I mean, he’s the one tying the various acts together. So I just need to pull my big girl leathers on and take a seat inside. Then, once the show is over, I’m going to follow him to his trailer. That’ll be a good place to start.
3
ELIAS
Ezekiel Moore’s house is a lie.
It sits at the end of the town, where houses thin out and the lots grow larger—just far enough off the road that the darkness around it is thicker. A broad, two-story house with pale stone and dark shutters. The windows are dark, the glass reflecting the moonlight, and the porch is wide, supported by clean white columns, the wood immaculate beneath a hanging lantern. Tasteful architecture. Conservative. A façade for the corruption of its owner.
The lawn is flawless, curated, with sculpted hedges and evenly cut grass. A mature oak stands off to one side, branches draped in Spanish moss that sways gently in the humid night air. At the end of the gently curved driveway waits a luxury sedan, polished and spotless.
Everything here speaks of success. Of a life well-lived and rewarded. Ezekiel Moore thinks he got away with the atrocities he committed as a Prophet of the Sanctum of Ash. We’re here to show him the memories of the abused cast long shadows.
“They always live in fucking McMansions,” Jonahrumbles, his green eyes, inherited from his Prophet father, hooded with disdain.
“Evil pays,” Cole mutters. He’s leaning against a tree trunk, cleaning his nails with a knife.
“Let’s just set it on fire and find the next one,” Logan adds, his fists clenching and unclenching by his side.
It’s something he always says. And I always ignore it.
The ritual is my favorite part. The psychological terror we inflict before we go in for the kill. It makes my dick hard, gives me a rush that makes my head spin.
“That’s not going to happen,” Marek says with a neutral voice. He’s staring at the swaying moss like it’s telling him a story.
“Did your cards tell you that?” Rowe asks with a smirk. He cracks his neck, visibly pumping himself up for what’s coming. He’s as bloodthirsty as his animals.
“I don’t need cards to know our brother,” Marek replies gently, the teasing sliding off like water off a duck’s back.
