Page 8 of Carnival’s Playground

He crouches by the box, working with quick, sure fingers, and within a minute the raven's whirring back to life, swooping down its track with a screech that makes me jump despite knowing it was coming.

"There we go," Carnival announces, standing and dusting his hands off, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Show off," I mutter, though there's no real bite behind it.

"You love it," he teases, easy, casual, like it's just a fact and not something that makes my stomach do a slow flip.

"I tolerate it. There's a difference," I counter, moving on to the next prop, a fog machine hidden behind a fake tombstone, and this one, at least, fires up without complaint, thick white mist rolling out across the walk in slow waves.

We spend the next hour going through every effect in the haunt walk together, me calling out what's wrong, Carnival fixing wiring or connections while Petey watches, learning, occasionally offering to help in ways that are actually useful now that he's had his humbling.

"You two work well together," Petey comments, during a lull, watching us reset a motion sensor near the exit. "Kind of scary, actually."

"Don't read into it," I blurt, maybe too quick, and catch Carnival's eyebrow raise out of the corner of my eye.

"Wasn't reading into anything," Petey replies, holding his hands up, backing away like he's suddenly remembered somewhere else he needs to be. "Just an observation."

Once he's gone, it's quiet in the tent, just the low hum of the fog machine and the flicker of lights along the walk.

"He's not wrong," Carnival murmurs, low, testing the words like he's not sure how I'll take them.

"About what?" I ask, keeping my eyes on the sensor I'm adjusting, not looking at him, though I can feel him watching me.

"About us working well together," he says, stepping closer, just slightly, close enough that I have to look up to meet his eyes. "Yesterday you'd have fought me on every single thing I did today. Today you just handed me tools."

"Don't let it go to your head," I admonish, straightening up my stance and meeting his gaze directly now, refusing to be the one who looks away first. "I like working with people who know what they’re doing, it makes less work for me to clean up. Doesn't mean I like you."

"Didn't say you liked me," he conveys as his mouth twitches, almost smiling again. "Said we work well together. There's a difference."

"Careful. Statements like that almost sound like flirting," I echo, tossing his own words back at him from yesterday, watching his face for the reaction.

"Maybe it is," he admits, simple, no teasing in it this time, and something about the honesty catches me off guard enough that I don't have a comeback ready.

"Well," I begin, clearing my throat, glancing away toward the raven, still swooping obediently on its track, "good thing I've got standards."

"Lucky for you, so do I," he says with a smirk. This time, I let myself smile back—just a little, just enough that he catches it before I can hide it away.

Dutch's voice calls from outside, something about needing us both at the main tent for rehearsal setup, and as easy as that, the moment breaks, both of us heading back toward work like nothing happened at all.

Except something did happen, small as it was. As we walk together toward the main tent, generators humming and lights flickering behind us, I can't quite shake the feeling that the impending opening night just got a whole lot more complicated.

CHAPTER FOUR

CARNIVAL

Opening night arrives like a storm nobody warned us about, all nerves and neon and the smell of popcorn turning sour in my stomach. I stand at the base of the big top's center pole, running my hand along the rigging one more time, because the difference between a good show and a dead body is usually one bad knot.

"You're gonna wear a groove in that cable." Avery's voice cuts through the noise of the crowd gathering outside, closer than I expect.

"Better a groove than a snapped line," I answer without looking up, feeling along the line for any slack. "This rig holds the trapeze act. I'm checking it twice before anybody relies on it with their life."

"Careful. Almost sounds like you care about something besides your own hide," she observes, stepping up beside me, arms crossed, watching the acrobats warm up under the lights.

"Careful yourself. It almost sounds like you're impressed." I glance at her sideways, and there's color in her cheeks that has nothing to do with the cold.

"Don't let it go to your head, biker boy," she lightly tells me, but there's something steady underneath, something that wasn't there four days ago when I rode into this town and knocked her flat on her back in the dirt.

The big top hums with pre-show energy, canvas walls glowing orange from the string lights woven through the rigging, tonight's the night painted crooked across a banner near the entrance in Dutch's own hand. I check the last carabiner, satisfied, and step back to look at the whole rig from below.