Flesh Circus (9 page)

Y
ou could find just about anything a serious practitioner needed at Galina’s, and if your credit was good you could get a whole
lot more. A neutral supply of necessities for all concerned is the least of the services a Sanctuary provides to a city’s
nightside inhabitants.

She poured us tea up in her kitchen. The night pressed against the bay window over the sink, the green bank of herbs in a
cast-iron shelving unit stirring slightly.

Sancs like growing things. They are gentle souls, really. It’s a shame so few people pass their entrance exams.

Galina set the tray of silverjacket ammo down on the butcher-block table. “What do you know about the last time the Cirque
was here?”

Saul blew across his tea to cool it. He was looking everywhere except at me.

I stared at her for a few seconds, the chill down my back growing more pronounced. “It was the hunter before Mikhail. I know
he told them not to come back until he wasn’t the hunter here either. Bad blood between him and the last Ringmaster. Or is
that the same one?”

“It’s the same one. He’s been controlling the Cirque for a few generations, which means he’s nasty and smart.” Her fingers
were steady on the teapot; she poured and pushed the ammo tray toward me. It was really strange to see her so pale. Not much
disturbs Galina’s serenity. “With that goddamn cane of his. The last time…”

I waited while she set the teapot down, the walls echoing slightly with her distress. Sancs don’t go outside much; it’s the
price they pay for being almost godlike inside their nice thick defenses. Being inside a Sanctuary’s space when they lose
their cool is an uncomfortable experience at best.

Saul slurped loudly. The scar ran with prickles, like icy water on burning skin. I began checking the ammo automatically,
sliding yet more extra cartridges into the loops sewn inside my coat. I could probably do this in my sleep, I’ve done it so
many times.

And hell, while I was here for the second time today I might as well load up.

“There was some trouble,” Galina finally said, lowering herself down to sit on a stool opposite me. “The hunter before Mikhail
was Emerson Sloane; he had a sort-of apprentice. Everything went sideways.”

Sort-of apprentice? That doesn’t happen.
But there are wannabes in this business, just the same as any other. Fucking amateurs trying to get themselves killed, since
they’re unfit for the job one way or another, or they’d be trained.

Silence stretched between us. I finally broke it. “Mikhail never told me about that.”

“He wasn’t an
actual
apprentice.” The kitchen, with its mellow shining counters and wood-faced cabinets, wavered slightly and solidified around
her. “He just kept following Sloane around until Sloane gave up and began training him.”

That’s how it usually starts.
My own apprenticeship hadn’t begun that way, but… Mikhail had been an exception all over.

And so, I suppose, was I. And if I was lucky, Gilberto would have vanished off my front step by the time I got home.

Galina sighed. “He got into trouble. There were some problems.”

“What type of problems?”

Her brow furrowed. “I… didn’t hear much. Sloane never opened up about it. I do know the kid ended up dead, after something
terrible.”

There’s certainly no shortage of terrible things on the nightside.
“And no word on what ‘something terrible’ entailed? Did it have to do with the Cirque, or—”

“I just don’t know, Jill.” She picked up her own cup, took a small sip. Her shoulders were sharp points under the robes. Some
of the shaking had eased out of her. The walls had stopped quivering with etheric distress. “The Ringmaster seemed to think
you had a hand in this attack, and he was… excited when he showed up. Perry was right behind him.”

Goddammit. I’ll just bet he was, with his little fingers in the pie as usual.
I couldn’t help myself—a sigh to match hers came out hard on the end of the sentence. The smell of incense, dust, and sleepy
power in her shop mixed uneasily with the aroma of spaghetti sauce and the fading tang of ’breed—she’d probably been at dinner
when they dropped by. “What can you tell me about this trouble?”

The line between her eyebrows got deeper. “Not much that I can recall. It had to do with the apprentice and a woman over near
Greenlea, I think, back when that part of town wasn’t very nice. Had to be, oh, around 1926 or so. Before the barrio moved,
before the big outbreak, and before all that new money moved in and turned it into a shopping district. The kid…” She
frowned. “There was something about him. I can’t remember. I’ll dig through my diaries, see if I can suss it out.”

Hm.
“It’s not like you to have a bad memory.”

She gave me an exquisitely sarcastic look. “When you’ve put in almost a century of tending a Sanctuary, Jill, then we’ll talk.
Mikhail and Sloane both liked things close to the vest, too. Most of the time I didn’t have a clue what either of them were
up to.”

And I was no different when a case was heating up. It was my turn to shrug as I finished stowing the ammo. “Mischa was a private
person, all right. I didn’t hear much about the former hunter either. Except that Sloane wasn’t of our lineage, he was part
of Ben Cross’s crowd.”

“Yes. Sloane died after the outbreak in 1929.” She stared into her tea mug like it held the secrets of the universe. “We were
in freefall for years. That was a bad time for any hunter.”

“Yeah.” The second-biggest demonic outbreak of the past century, 1929 was a bad year for hunters all over the United States,
and it got exponentially worse in Europe ten years later. So much of what was unleashed during the two decades after ’29 is
still out running around—it’s like the Middle Ages all over again, only this time we have more firepower to put things down.

Still, the firepower’s no good without people trained to use it. And quality apprentices are few and far between.

I thought again of Gilberto and hoped he was gone by the time I got home. Which might not be soon. This had all the makings
of a complex situation, which meant a lot of blood and screaming. Not to mention gunfire and ugliness.

“Oh.” A sudden, abrupt movement. Galina finished trolling through her memory and blinked. “Gregory. That was the kid’s name.
Something Gregory. I’ll look through my diaries.”

“I’d appreciate it.”
Great. And I really have to get over to Greenlea, now that you mention it. I’ve got business there too.
“Hey, has anyone been in to buy voodoo stuff lately? Anyone making a big serious purchase?”

“No. I don’t do much voodoo or Santeria here. That’s more Mama Zamba on the edge of the barrio, or Melendez. I sometimes send
people to either of them.” A curious look crossed her round, pretty face. “I wonder…”

I hate going to either of them. Jesus.
“Well, give ol’ Zamba a call as soon as I leave. Let her know I’ve got a few questions. It’s about time I went and scared
her again.” I fished out a fifty-dollar bill. “Here’s all I’ve got on me for this load of ammo; I’ll take care of the rest
when I get my municipal check. Okay?”

“You can put it on account, you know.” But instead of saying it with a grin, Galina looked troubled. “Jill, are you sure you
want to go out to the Cirque?”

“I’ll go where I have to.”
You should know that.
“It’s just a bunch of hellbreed playing games. Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“I really hope you don’t mean that,” she muttered, but she let it go.

It wasn’t like her not to get the last word in, so I left it at that. Saul finished his tea, I got a few more odds and ends,
and we left her up in her kitchen, tracing the ring of spilled tea from the bottom of her cup, drawing it on the table like
it might give her an answer.

Of course they would settle near the trainyards, far north of my warehouse and on the fringes of the industrial section. A
cold night wind came off the river, laden with flat iron-chemical scent. It was usually a space of empty, weed-strewn lots,
a few squares of concrete left over from trailers or something, and a festooning of hypodermics and debris from when it used
to be a shackville. The homeless were rousted out during a huge urban renewal drive five years ago, but the drive petered
out and the fencing around the lots turned that bleached color everything gets after a winter or two in the desert.

Now it was cleaned up, the fencing was taken down in some parts, replaced in others, and it was starred with lights.

Everyone who told me about the Cirque was right. It
does
look bigger than its sorry little caravan would ever lead you to dream of. It sprawled like a blowsy drunk on a tattered
divan, cheap paste jewels glittering.

Cirque de Charnu,
the painted boards on the fence barked. The bigtop was up, canvas daubed with leering clown faces and swirls of watery glitter.
Faint music rode the flat, whispering wind. The smell of fried food mixed uneasily with the blood-tang of the river, and I
caught the undertone of sweat and animal manure too. Shouts and laughter, and a Ferris wheel I would have sworn wasn’t part
of the caravan spun like a confection of whipped cream and glass. Its winking lights were sterile eyes, and it shuddered as
the wind changed. One pair of lights winked out, and I heard the faint ghost of a scream before it righted itself and went
whirling merrily on.

We sat in the car overlooking the spectacle; there was a footpath down the embankment leading to the temporary parking lot,
already full of vehicles. Little dust devils danced between the neat rows. The fringes of contamination and corruption were
thin flabby fingers poking at each tire and dashboard.

Saul was smoking again, cherry tobacco smoke drifting out his window. The tiny bottle of holy water on a chain around his
neck swirled with faint blue. “Smells like a trap,” he finally said.

“It is.”
A trap for the weak or unwary. Or just for those who don’t care anymore.
“You sure you want to come with me?”

A shadow crossed his face. He tapped the ash from the cigarette with a quick, angry motion.

I glanced quickly away, over the carnival. The Ferris wheel halted, its cars swinging and trembling slightly, like leaves
in a soft breeze. Its gaunt gantry looked hungry, and a couple lights flickered on the verge of going out.

“I haven’t changed my mind yet.” He took another drag. His face settled against itself.

I’m not so sure about that.
But I didn’t say it. “You realize we can’t interfere down there. Once we step through the gate—”

“I know the rules. You repeated ’em twice. I’m not stupid, Jill.”

“You’re right, you’re not stupid. But maybe I am.” I eyed the layout again. The alleys between the tents looked regular and
even, but they also ran like ink on wet paper in the corner of my vision. I had the idea that if I looked away they would
move, and snap back together in a different configuration once my gaze returned.

The music halted as the wind veered, then started again. Calliope music, faint and cheery, with screaming underneath. It sounded
like a cartoon. The Ferris wheel shuddered again, and another light blinked out. It restarted, creaking, and the music swallowed
any sound that might have made its way out.

I blew out between my teeth. Measured off a space on the steering wheel between two index fingers, tapped them both rapidly,
a tattoo of dissatisfaction.
Time’s wasting, Jill. Get moving.

When I reached for the door-handle he did too. The Pontiac sat in shadows, her paint job glistening dully. It was a cleaner
gleam than the cars in the lot below, or the bright winking lures beyond.

The music struggled up to us as we made our way down the hill, my bootheels occasionally ringing against a stone, Saul silent
and graceful. Between the rows of cars, windshields already filmed with dust, gravel shifting under our feet. There was no
need to be quiet.

There wasn’t much of a crowd milling around the ticket booth. The scattered people were mostly normal, and they looked dazed.
I kept my mouth shut, watching for a few moments as a round brunette in her mid-thirties tilted her head, listening. The calliope
music sharpened, predatory glee running under its surface, and she finally stepped up to the booth and handed over a fistful
of something. It looked like wet pennies, and the Trader manning the booth—female, heart-shaped face and short black Bettie
Page bangs, big dark eyes, and a pair of needle-sharp fangs dimpling her candy-red lower lip—made a complex gesture, then
stamped the woman’s hand and waved her past.

Saul let out a short sigh. We strode through the confused, each of them averting their eyes like we were some sort of plague.
A couple Traders milled with the normals, uncertainly. Most of them flinched and drew into the shadows when they saw me.

The Trader in the booth studied us. She opened her mouth, and I saw all her teeth were sharp and pointed, not just the fangs.

I beat her to the punch. “I’m here on business, Trader. Where’s the Ringmaster?”

She shrugged slim, bare flour-white shoulders, her rhinestone-studded Lycra top moving supple over high, perky breasts. Visibly
reconsidered when I didn’t respond. “Around and about. Probably in the bigtop. Want your hand stamped?”

I snorted. “Of course not. Come on, Saul.” I took two steps to the side, heading for the turnstile.

Her sloe eyes narrowed. “Just what are you—” The words died as I stared at her. The corruption blooming over her was strong,
and I’d bet diamonds she had weapons under the sightline of the flimsy booth. She tried again. “You can come in. But I’m not
so sure
he
can.” She actually pointed at Saul with one lacquered-yellow fingernail. It was amazing—I wondered how she wiped herself
with claws that long.

Oh, yeah? Quit pointing at my Were, bitch.
“He’s with me. Go back to seducing suicides,” I snapped. We strode past, through the clicking turnstile. Each separate bar
of the stile ended in a cheap chrome ram’s head, lips drawn back and blunt teeth blackened with grime. The Trader didn’t say
anything else, but the swirl of corruption lying over the entire complex of canvas and wood tightened.