“Welcome, Travelers, to the greatest show in the multiverse!” he says. “Prepare yourself to witness sights that will amaze and delight, intrigue and terrify! Forget all that you think you know about what is possible and give yourself over to the wonders of the Carnival of Mysteries! I’m your Ringmaster, Rafe Harper, and I will tell you of all the amazing acts we’ve brought to entertain you today!”
His eyes are dark, his accent’s straight outa some black-and-white movie, and his red jacket with gold trim fits his big frame like a glove. Handsome as a movie star and creepy as fuck; there’s something about Rafe the Ringmaster that sets my teeth on edge.
He gives me a look that’s halfway to an invasion of privacy and puts his hand on my shoulder. “You were right, cousin. This is a safe place. Enjoy the midway and perhaps stop by Madam Persephone’s tent. You, sir”—he points at Damon—”might well benefit from her wisdom.”
He leaves us standing there like a couple of fools until Damon takes my hand again. His touch helps anchor me, making it possible for me to find a smile. “Come on,” I say without sounding too freaked out. “We’re here. We might as well check things out.”
Chapter Ten
Damon
This is a-maz-ing.”
I survey what has to be the big top, a red-and-white striped circus tent that’s easily the width of a soccer field. There are at least four smaller tents spread out in a row, with kiosks for games and food stands between them. There are rides, too: a circle of spinning critters with googly eyes filled with laughing children, one of those swing things that twirls riders around until they’re parallel to the ground, and a Ferris wheel so high the roof of this place must be three stories, maybe four.
This has to be one of those art installations. It’s completely cool and just a little odd, like someone’s trying to challenge my take on reality. I interlace my fingers with Ezra’s, a little surprised at my own boldness, happy that he doesn’t seem to mind. I point at the big top. “Let’s stick our heads in there.”
A young man stands at the entrance, a doorway blocked by a canvas flap. “The Flying Galliers won’t begin for an hour, but in the next tent, you’ll be treated to a performance by Darius the Wonder Dog. Please enjoy.”
I smile and say thanks, impressed that someone so young could have such an old soul looking through his eyes. It’s a little like Ezra, if you substitutedtorturedforold. We keep walkinguntil we reach a smaller green tent. There the flap door is held open by a rope, and we go in.
Three rows of bleachers line the walls, except for the gap at the entrance, and the ground beneath us is fine, soft dirt. “Setup and takedown must be a huge project.”
“Or not,” Ezra says. He’s twitchy, his gaze flicking from one spot to the next. I squeeze his hand gently, hoping to calm him, though I’m not sure it helps. His obvious discomfort makes me wonder what we’re even doing here. One of thoseseemed like a good idea at the timethings. The setup is cool, and I really hope Ezra can relax and enjoy himself, or he’ll never go out with me again.
And that would suck.
There’s quite a crowd already: young and old, hippies and yuppies, families and singles who make up a cross section of Seattle. Ezra and I walk along the edge of the floor until we find an empty spot at the top of the bleachers. He climbs the stairs ahead of me and at the top, my hand falls naturally to the small of his back. He doesn’t shake me off, exactly, more like slides away from my touch, and when we sit, he keeps his hands to himself.
Slow down, Clemens, or you’ll scare him off.
There are a few props at the center of the open space: a big red ball, a very narrow balance beam that’s a good couple feet off the ground, and a pile of brightly colored hoops of various sizes. The lights dim and Ezra shifts in his seat, his elbow resting against my forearm. Okay, so I haven’t scared him off yet. A spotlight comes on, accompanied by a drumroll, the light aimed at the center of the big open space.
A dog sits there, surveying the crowd like he’s some kind of royalty. “Welcome to this evening’s entertainment. Darius will surprise and delight you, along with his able assistant Stanley.”
The voice comes from everywhere at once, soothing, mellifluous, and a little eerie. A smattering of applause breaks out and I join in. Ezra doesn’t.
Darius the dog stands up and tilts his head. He’s a golden lab or thereabouts, his coat so rich and thick it makes me want to pet him. I realize I’m holding my breath, as if I’m anticipating something crazy. Do dogs tap dance? Sing? Fly? There’s something about the vibe in this place that has me thinking anything is possible.
Trotting over to the red ball, Darius leaps, landing lightly on top of it without the thing squirting out from under him, which is sort of amazing. Ezra and I share a glance, and he shakes his head. “Gotta be some kind of AI thing,” I murmur.
He shakes his head again.
The dog stays on top of the ball, his plume of a tail wagging and then, well, he doesn’t tap dance, but he does start walking, which makes the ball roll. He circles the tent, scanning the crowd like he’s looking for someone in particular. On his second circle, he goes backward, then begins jumping on and off the ball in time with a rhythm the invisible drummer is beating. Throws in a couple flips for good measure.
“Damn.”
The crowd around us is oohing and aahing, and the drumbeat speeds up. Matching it, the dog makes another circle, this time coming to a stop in front of a kid who looks like he’s about ten years old. Darius yips once, then a growling voice says, “Come help me with something.”
“Jesus, the PA in here is fantastic,” I murmur in Ezra’s ear. “That sounds like it came from the dog.”
“It did.” His terse words make me glance sideways at him. He’s leaning against me, his body tense, his jaw set.
I shift so I can put an arm around his shoulders. “Come on, dude, relax. It’s a mix of AI and computer-generated images.”
“Hmm.”
Is he enjoying himself?His tentative hum is less convincing than by the way his body softens.
