A FATAL FESTIVAL (Alethea, The Circus Sleuth Book 3)
A FATAL FESTIVAL
Alethea, The Circus Sleuth 3
JENNA COBURN
Copyright © 2015
All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter I
Alethea couldn’t move. Both her hands and feet were firmly bound in iron shackles. Before her, not too far away, stood a man holding a knife, looking at her with clear intentions. Suddenly, metal gleamed as the knife flew through the air at a deadly speed. With a thud, its sharpened tip penetrated the wood a mere inch from her face.
She wasn’t sure anymore why she had agreed to replace Kati, who had come down with the flu. Of all people, it was Alethea’s brother, Braden, who threw the knives. He had been the one to convince her to fill in for Kati by reassuring her that he knew what he was doing. Now, even his experience did little to calm her nerves. Accidents were rare, and yet her heart rate increased with every throw.
The audience broke out in applause and cheers, and after a short bow, Braden hurled another knife in a quick-aimed trick throw. It impacted the wood right next to her wrist. More clapping followed, and there were broad smiles from both performers. They rarely had an audience this big, especially for old tricks like this, but the show wasn’t an ordinary one.
After they had fled from the encroaching winter along the East Coast, they only stopped, more or less, because they had to stop. At some point, any journey would be cut short by the ocean. Island-hopping was not yet in the program of the Virgil’s Circus, and so they had ended up in southern Florida.
The plans for any move were stored only in Virgil’s mind, and no one could be too sure where their steps—or their trailers—would take them next. Still, Florida was not only the perfect refuge to wait out the winter, but also the location of a festival like no other. It was only once every few years and a tradition started by none other than “Professor Virgilius,” or so he boasted.
It was the first day of the week-long extravaganza. Kati Couch had become sick just in time, leaving Alethea currently strapped to a wooden, colorful platform in the shape of a perfect circle. There were fixations all around her, even her neck and torso that prevented her from dodging and flinching, and to hold her in position as the wood started rotating.
Alethea wasn’t experienced in all this, but she tried to play it as cool as she could—much like Braden. She saw on his forehead that she wasn’t the only one sweating. People usually ascribed that to the heat of the spotlights, but they had only been warming up. After all her limbs had been marked—one knife for each end of her body—the platform began to rotate.
The music began to crescendo. The audience was breathless. Alethea wondered if her costume wasn’t too revealing, after all.
The knives came quickly now—impact after impact, followed by some gasps but mostly by silence. This was the hard part. Braden had practiced this endlessly, and Kati and Alethea had about the same proportions….
“You better not scratch that pretty face, boy!”
The yell came unexpectedly, but exactly as he was throwing his last, and perhaps most dangerous, knife. At the end of the performance, the knife would impact next to her throat. There was the dull thud, but it was too close. Braden’s hand had, in reaction to that sudden heckling, sent out the knife imperfectly by a tiny fraction.
Alethea was sure that she was bleeding, but she hoped the audience wouldn’t see it. Braden saw it; she recognized the flicker in his eyes, the urge to run at her, but she stopped him with a single look. Neither of them had seen who had suddenly yelled, and it wasn’t important. The show had to go on, or at least end like it was supposed to.
Virgil was there to distract, to conceal, but Alethea’s heart beat savagely, throbbing in her head, making her dizzy. The colors swirled, and the ground swayed, and there was a lot of red. Braden freed her, and with a hand on her throat, she smiled a red-lipped smile and gently bowed, swayed, and was pulled away. They were out of there fast—she blinked, and she hadn’t seen it.
She stared at everything, sat down, and felt like her limbs were faraway. When she finally looked at her crimson hand, she realized it was not so bad. “Goddammit, Braden,” she whispered. “Goddammit, guy in the audience,” she grumbled. Someone handed her a tissue, and she pressed it down on her neck. She looked up to see Braden, who looked like a sorry mess.
“I’m so sorry, Letha.” She wanted to be snappy, but he kept talking. “But really, there’s no excuse. I mean, the guy yelled at me, but I shouldn’t have let it affect me.” He sighed and sat down next to her on the bench behind the stage. Moments later, Virgil came in from the stage, too, dispersing the curious members who had gathered around.
“Alethea! Are you alright?” He looked earnestly concerned for her well-being; she was his apprentice, after all.
“I’m okay.” She attempted a brave smile. “It’s just a small cut, really. The initial shock was worse than this.” Lifting the tissue for a second, she looked at it, while the other two could look directly at her wound. From the first looks on their faces, they acted as if her head was falling off. She sighed, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes. They had an obvious case of treating her like a fragile little flower.
“We’re going to need to put a proper bandage on this,” Virgil concluded after looking at her wound for all of five seconds. Braden nodded in agreement. “And that man! He’s not going to get away with this.” The old man’s expression took on a very grim note. Apparently, he didn’t take this lightly, and why would he? It was obvious someone had specifically tried to shake Braden’s concentration at a crucial and dangerous moment.
“It’s okay, guys. You don’t have to be my knights in shining armor.” She looked at the two of them. If she could pick anyone to be her knight—or knights—it surely wouldn’t be the old man and her little brother. Alethea stood up. “I’m going to go to America, so she can put a bandage on this and give me a cup of tea.” She looked at the tissue again, perhaps to reassure herself, but there really wasn’t much blood there.
Before she left, she turned around to Braden, putting her left hand on his shoulder. “Don’t beat yourself up. Nothing happened. This is just the risk of the job.” She tried another upbeat smile, and her brother gave her a halfhearted one in return. It was visible he was beating himself up. It was his first performance in the festival, and it didn’t bode well. Alethea only hoped this didn’t discourage him from performing again, or make him develop some complex regarding the Wheel of Death.
It was named that for a reason. It wasn’t an easy trick. “Tell America what happened,” Virgil told her. It was a strange request, because she’d have done that anyway. “I think something’s up again.” Alethea rolled her eyes.
“If this is about a jade platypus or something,” she berated him as she walked off, “I’ll have no part in that! Ask those clowns.” Leaving the two men to themselves—probably to plot some terrible revenge against the heckler—she passed to the outside of the tent. Even with the supposed urgency of the cut on her neck, she couldn’t help but stop and take in the sights.
Virgil’s Circus, alone, was a sight to behold with its huge, ancient big top, the colorful wagons and painted trailers (first among them was Virgil’s own 19th century callback), the sideshows and extravagant costumes, the music in the air and the sweet smells carried on the wind. But this was a grand occasion called Four Rings Festival that went beyond the norm as its very name implied; this was no three-ring circus anymore.
It was thanks to men like Virgil and their extensive connections in the business that the greatest performers met here and put on a show—an infrequent show taking place every few years—that none of the guests would so easily forget. Throwing knives at one’s sister was only a tiny fraction, and the performances went way beyond that in their daring and danger. Braden was young, and even though he had grown up in the circus, he was still building his repertoire. All ages were welcome, even if the Victorian flair and often darker twist that had grown in recent years invited more mature audiences and not as many children.
Because of the large festival area, it took Alethea much longer than usual to reach the part of the circus where America offered her gift of seeing the future to hapless mortals who wandered into her sinister tent. There was a line, but Alethea snuck by it. It was unfortunate that people would have to wait a little longer, but that, at least, made their immediate future pretty safe.
Sometimes she played beautiful assistant to Madame Lécuyer, as well, and that didn’t involve getting knives thrown at her. Now, she kept to the darkness; the inside of the tent was more than a little atmospheric, and the twilight served well to hide herself in while there was a session going on. America offered everything, from reading hands to laying cards and calling on ancestral ghosts.
It was all nonsense, of course. At least, Alethea had been completely sure of that until her skepticism had been shaken by the old woman’s insistence that magic was real—perhaps not the magic she was offering for sale, but a different kind of magic. Since then, there had been doubts in her.
They were still keeping the black-and-white cat, Leo, who had belonged to a man called Dan Hishimi, one of the weirdest guys she had ever met. He had cried all the way to the police station. Even Holden Westley had kept an uncomfortable silence. America and Leo had exactly the kind of understanding that one would expect, but he usually wasn’t around; he wasn’t supposed to be a circus animal, after all.
“There are chances and opportunities abound, if you dare to grasp them. It is important for you to be ready, and to keep your eyes and your heart open, so that your hands may grasp the treasure in front of you, that may shimmer for only a moment before it disappears into the past forever.”
The doe-eyed woman in front of America nodded, impressed by the words that, to Alethea, sounded grand but vague—empty phrases that anyone could offer anyone else in order to make them believe that there was some sort of grand fate just waiting for them. The trick was that it was true. Life is full of opportunities, if one is daring enough to find them and take them.
“There is an alignment of Saturn with the eleventh moon of Jupiter, which will influence your feelings and thoughts the coming days, even if you might not notice it directly. It depends on your sensitivities. What it brings is a chance for love, and a deep connection with someone you could meet right here, if only you align your own soul with the cosmic energies that surge from the distant sky.”
Alethea sighed, but it seemed like the session was going to be over soon. The curly-haired recipient of prophecy asked her questions, which all were answered in the same mysterious measure. Finally, she happily stood up, Madame Lécuyer stood up, and they shook hands and bid each other good-bye. “Watch out for the color blue!”
It was good to give some sort of last advice that was oddly specific.
“I’m sure she’ll find immortal love, by the twenty-seventh moon of Jupiter.” Alethea stepped out of the shadows, her hand still pressing that bloodied tissue against the side of her throat. “Sorry for the interruption, but I have a little scratch that needs some looking at.” Walking over to the table, she sat down across from America, who was looking at her critically.
“Poor Letha! Did someone throw a knife at you?” America’s warm expression belied the joke; she reached out, and Alethea lifted the tissue. She could read in America’s eyes that it really wasn’t as bad as the men seemed to have thought. “That’s really just a scratch. Let me fix you up.”
The old woman stood up and dug through a box of not-so-mystical content hidden under colorful blankets and more magical-looking things. There was a small first aid kit, and America dressed the wound while Alethea was simply sitting there with her lips pursed. The disinfectant burned a little, but that was all. In the end, both of them nodded at each other, and Alethea gave thanks in a small voice.
Just as she wanted to get up and say bye, America held her back. “Wait a second. While you’re here, why not do a personal reading for you, my dear? It will be free of charge.” That made Alethea laugh, and she turned back, even while crossing her arms.
“Is this going to be my first practical lesson in magic?” There was a challenging look in her eyes. She was probably going to be told that the knife hitting her or not hitting her was some magician influencing things behind the scenes. “I think you have me far enough. What if I want to accept that magic is a thing? What do I have to do? Call out to the voodoo gods and promise them my allegiance? Cut the head off a chicken?”
America shook her head. “Not that. It’s one way, but not the way I’d be walking. There’s some wisdom in our old and strange traditions, in the superstitions and legends they have created, and the difference between wishful thinking and the real thing can be thin sometimes. I’m not someone who does big rituals, who sings and calls loudly. My way is the subtle, silent way—glances and passing gestures, a certain word, a certain herb, a good, warm tea on an autumn evening when the winds howl outside our door and rain beats against the windows.”
“I know, America. I drank that tea, didn’t I? I remember drinking your tea when I was trying to help my brother, and it made me feel like it was full of drugs.” She bit her lip for a second. “Good drugs, but…an old lady shouldn’t put drugs in her tea.” She gave an innocent wink.
“Sometimes she should, girl. I hope you know that I’m your friend and your ally, and that you’re very dear to me. If fate is ever cruel to you, then fate’s going to pay for that, I’ll make sure. Tell me what exactly happened in the ring.” America leaned forward, curiosity gleaming in her wise eyes.
Alethea found it peculiar to speak with her like this without a cup of tea in her hand, but it was always good to have new experiences like that to broaden one’s horizons. “We were doing the Wheel of Death when someone from the audience suddenly broke the silence by jeering at my brother. Braden’s hand slipped, even if only slightly, and the blade nicked my skin. I felt a bit light-headed, perhaps it was all the lights and the pressure of the audience, and then the show was over and Virgil covered for us. I don’t think people saw that I got hurt.”
The old witch nodded slowly during the story, as if each detail created some profound echo in her mind, a recognition of some element that made her able to understand more about it than Alethea, even though she had been there. After the young woman’s mouth closed, America instantly asked, “Do you believe in curses, Letha?”
Letha rolled her eyes. “That’s about the same as believing in magic, isn’t it? Believing in one of them kind of is believing in the other. Are you saying I was cursed?”
America nodded. “Maybe you don’t know, but in ages past, people believed in the evil eye. If something bad happened to someone, they searched for someone else at fault. Of course, they were not always correct, and much injustice was done. There never was as much wizardry in the world as some suspected.” Sure enough, a thermos was produced from under the table, and Alethea was soon handed a cup of tea. She sipped it, feeling thankful.
“Let me guess, he yelled something directly related to what happ
ened, or perhaps the opposite of it. Words and names can have strange power. That is what people call coincidence, an accident, or in this case, they’d even think it was Braden flinching because somebody yelled, but was it really that? The boy is young, but he is good. If there were a chance he might injure you so easily, he would have never gone through with the Wheel of Death and use his sister as the target girl.”
Wrinkles showed up on Letha’s forehead, and both her hands clasped the tiny plastic cup. The warmth was scarcely needed, but it felt comforting to do so. Perhaps what she was feeling now was exactly what made Alethea so apprehensive about the whole idea—loss of power. The feeling that strong outside forces full of intent, whether malignant or benign, could push her across that invisible chessboard of life.
“A curse that causes a tiny cut in my skin isn’t exactly much of a curse,” she grumbled reluctantly. “And why would some sort of…dark wizard want to hurt me anyway!” She was wondering what went on in America’s mind. Still, she recognized that the rage she felt was misplaced.
“The cut is not that small, Thea, you know that.” America was calm, speaking softly, looking so understanding. It made Alethea sigh. “And where there is a force for evil, there is an opposed force. If someone wants to hurt you, whether through your brother or directly, the cosmos might redirect it and deflect the calamity.” America reached out and put her hand on Alethea’s, whose eyes now sank to the table.
Inscribed into the wooden tabletop were strange symbols and runes depicting a celestial map that served to mystify Madame Lécuyer’s lair and enhance the power of her predictions by allowing her to point out the meaning and reference of the grand phrases she incanted.
Alethea stared at them, perhaps seeing them for the first time, as if doing so would allow her to perceive some significant truth about herself and the small incident that had occurred. It had seemed insignificant, and she had wanted to forget it, but now she wasn’t so sure. It was a hidden stone in her shoe; she could not walk with it there.