The Contortionist (Harrow Faire, #1)

by Kathryn Ann Kingsley

“Locks only keep out the honest” was a motto her dad always used to say to her, usually while he was cutting the padlock on some abandoned building so he could take her in to look around. Poking around old places made for a weird father-daughter hobby, but it was still bonding time.

He was handsome. There was nothing obviously unusual about him. But he was dressed in clothing that looked like it dated from the forties. He had a white shirt and wore black suspenders over it that held up a pair of trousers stained with paint. He was broad at the shoulders and had an easy, casual flair about him. Even with the weird dated outfit.

Living with constant pain was a gradient. Either it hurt, or it hurt worse. Physical therapy helped, insomuch as it kept her joints from randomly dislocating. Less frequently, anyway.

“You said you only offer it to the ones you like. Why?” “Why eat a hot dog when you can have a steak? We pick the ones that burn hot. The ones with a lot of personality to go around. And you…” He reached out and picked up a strand of her long dark hair. She yanked her head away from him and shot him a glare. He lifted his palm as if to say he was sorry. “You burn bright. Brightest I’ve seen in a long, long time.”

grunted at the impact. “No running. Can’t have you hurting yourself, now, can we?” She screamed and could only hope someone could hear her. She broke off as hands cradled her face, holding her between gloved palms. Their touch was warm and shockingly tender. But they still sparked a deep and intrinsic terror. Whoever it was shushed her. “There, now…take a deep breath.”

The hands tilted her head back, as if turning her to look up at him. Whoever the madman was, he was freaking tall. “I can feel it in you. This sickness. Waking up every day in miserable pain. It took your life away from you—all your happiness and your joy. Drinking away your passion and leaving you the sorrow of your broken life and broken body. Being told there’s no cure—being told to accept your new facts and move on. What would you trade—what would you give away—to make it never hurt again?”

“Other way, cupcake. Go left.” She snarled in frustration. But she obediently followed his instructions. “Asshole.” “Mmhm. I don’t like that one as much. Not nearly as clever. Think about my offer, Cora.” “You want clever?” She turned in the darkness to face the voice. “Go fuck yourself with a pogo stick.” “Much better! Now, go on and enjoy your night. Your friends are looking for you. Come back and see me if you want to make a deal.”

He smiled. “Tell me something. What’s your favorite color?” She opened her mouth to answer and stopped. She didn’t know. It was right there on the tip of her tongue. She knew it. She had to. She always had a favorite color—she had ever since she was a kid. Everybody had an answer to that question. Didn’t they? But suddenly…she had nothing.

He watched her from the shadows with a smile. Although, to be fair, he was almost always smiling. Madness was funny that way. He supposed there were two ways to go. He could either be the kind of brooding flavor of nuts that sat in its tower and lurked, or he could be amused by it and the voices in his head. He preferred option B. At least it was entertaining.

She had big, beautiful gray eyes. They seemed to change from dark to light as he watched. They had been brimming with wild terror and edged with some kind of dark and haunted memories. She was so full of pain—in her body and her mind—and it made her all the more delicious. He was going to savor this one.

He had stood there in the shadows and listen to Barker harass the poor girl. “What’s your favorite color?” And she hadn’t been able to answer. The fear on her face was stunning. The answer was red. Her favorite color had been red.

It was his favorite color, too. Wasn’t that charming? But that wasn’t what had really pulled him out of his tent and away from his practice. It was the flavor that went along with the red. He ran his gloved finger over his lips, as if he had actually tasted her.

It might take a few attempts. It might take a few pieces of bait on the line. But she would come to him. She would also learn there were far worse things in this world than a liar. And he was the very worst of them all.

With the same elated humming, he shut his eyes and let himself picture her in his head. He wanted to taste her again. He wanted to make sure he never had to stop until there was nothing left of her. “I will have the rest of you soon, Cora Glass.”

The whooshing sound of the carts rushing by on metal tracks, of the machinery, and the grind of the hurdy-gurdy made for a heady mix. Coupled with the smell of grease and sugar, it made her all at once a little uneasy but also brought a smile to her face. Places like this were just…fun. That was the only thing they were about. Well, okay, and making a buck. But that was American entertainment, wasn’t it? Do a dance, get a dollar.

“Why do I get the feeling it was an exceptionally bad idea to come here?” “Oh, my dear, sweet, wonderful child.” Maggie reached out and picked up the old and battered deck of cards. Her fingers shook a little with age. The woman’s eyes were warm, and almost sympathetic. “That’s because…it was.”

His face split in a grin. An unkind, sadistic, cruel grin. It seemed like such a far cry from what he had been a second prior. Then…he looked at her. “Hello, Cora dear.”

He reached out his hand to her, stained red with the oozing ichor. “Your favorite color was red. Mine, too, cupcake.”

She froze. Her friends didn’t notice. They all walked past him, thanking him, and went to find a place where their group could sit in the relatively packed tent. It left her standing there, gaping at the man in shock. It left her alone. With him.

He straightened, and the next thing she recognized was the sadistic and insane grin on sharp, handsome features.

He tilted his head to one side, as if pondering her. “Hello, Cora dear.” His grin twisted into a smile that looked predatory and hungry. “So wonderful to see you again.”

Everything about him seemed too smooth, even as everything about him also seemed too sharp. He took a slow step toward her. And she took a matching one back. She hit the edge of a long wooden bench and ended up sitting on it rather unexpectedly. She let out a startled noise. He moved closer until his legs brushed against hers and he towered over her.

He poked himself in the chest a few times. “I feel quite real. Ah! I know what the problem is. You’re referring to your dream, yes? Well, I hate to say, but we’re a bit linked now, you see. I have a piece of you within me. It was quite delicious, too, if I may say so. I could go for a spot more, Cora, my little cupcake.”

With a broad flourish, he took a step back and bowed, folding one arm in front of him and the other at his back. “I am Simon Waite. I am the Puppeteer.” He snapped back up to vertical with alarming speed, making her jump. “I am very delighted to meet you, Cora.”

But she couldn’t stop poring over what had just happened. And every time she thought about it, she began to panic. And every time she panicked, she forced herself not to think about it. And every time she forced herself not to think about it, she thought about it. And around and around she went.

“Really? A knife? For me? Aw, I’m touched.” He smiled, as if it were the most adorable thing in the world to him. As if she were a child who came up to him with a drawing that was ostensibly trash, but that was to be highly valued because of her innocence. “One, we’re dreaming. Two, it wouldn’t work.” He pulled in a breath and, on the exhale, let all his words out in a fast rush, everything streaming together. “Trust-me-better-people-than-you-have-given-it-a-go.” His grin twisted into that toothy, overly hungry smile that reeked of insanity and malice. He was a lunatic. And he was in her dreams. Again.

“This is just a dream…this isn’t real.” “Who are you trying to convince, you or me?” He took a step toward her, halving the distance between them. He was so close now, nearly touching her hand. He carefully took the knife from her fingers with his free hand. She let him. She was shaking too hard to fight him. “Good girl. Now…yes, this is a dream. But I’m afraid to tell you that this particular gift of mine, my strings, are very real. Perhaps when you come to see me tonight, I will show you.” He grinned. “What fun that will be!”

“The Faire doesn’t eat people.” “Oh, yes.” He grinned at her, sadistic and cruel. His voice dropped to a low, husky sound that sent a shiver up her spine. “It does. It very much does.”

“Now. Can I begin? Or are you going to have a panic attack?” “Begin…what?” “Convincing you.” “Of what?” He grinned. Or maybe he never stopped. She wasn’t quite sure. Leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees, he hovered close to her. She recoiled, suddenly worried he was going to kiss her. His words felt like they came from the pits of Hell, even if she knew he meant them to sound like a trumpet of the Heavens. “That I am the end to all your problems.”

His ever-present grin widened, and he leaned forward. Suddenly, he was caging her against the back of the sofa. His knee was on the cushion between her legs, and his hands were on either side of her as he moved, lithe as a panther, and trapped her. He placed one hand to her cheek, and she jolted at the touch. He shushed her quietly and leaned in just a few more inches. He smelled faintly like an antique shop and cologne. A little bit like that pleasant and warm smell a place gets when it’s filled with old things.

“Goodbye, Hernandez. You made a good puppet.” “Goodbye, Simon.” Simon leaned his head up to kiss the smooth wood surface of Hernandez’s forehead. And in that moment, Simon consumed the last bit of life left flickering in the wooden frame. He let the now-empty wood fall to the stage with a clatter, limbs twisted akimbo with no rhyme or reason or relation to human anatomy.

There was no grief in his heart from losing another one of his dolls. But there was a bit of sadness in seeing another one of his “kind” fade away. Not because he cared a lick for any of them—the Family could all rot, for all he cared—but because it was a reminder of his own possible mortality. That someday he, too, might go the way of the dodo. Such a shame about dodos.

The fear in those big, gray eyes of hers had been beautiful beyond words. She really was quite stunning. Long, dark hair against soft skin that begged to be touched. And she was so delectable when she was afraid. And so confused! But instead of fleeing, she had brandished a knife. It had been so sweet he had wanted to hug her. Nobody had threatened him with a knife in ages.

“Don’t pity me,” Simon snarled. “And don’t deny her the right to make her own mistakes. If she wishes to come to me—and she will—then that is her choice. You, who always rants and raves about how people must make their own decisions! You do not funnel everyone who comes here through the Dark Path because you want them to know what they give away. But you’ll deny her the freedom to choose? Why?”

There was no better way to convince a righteous man to do the unrighteous thing than by using his own words against him.

His excitement was dead in his chest, and he needed to go clean up the mess that the former Contortionist had made. His excitement was dead. Right until he saw her. There she was. Cora. His interesting quarry had returned to the Faire despite all her strong words to the contrary!

He had wanted to kiss her because he had, well, wanted to kiss her. Those gray eyes of hers seemed like liquid. They changed from light to dark and back again like the clouds in a stormy sky. Sometimes as pale gray as the beautiful, white, and happy fluffy things overhead, and sometimes as dark and swirling as a storm. He did miss clouds so very much.

He furrowed his brow in confusion. No. That couldn’t be. He wanted to consume her. To peel away her seity, a little bit at a time, and drink her like a fine wine. It must be lust. He chuckled to himself. That was it. Well, damn. His libido hadn’t flared up for a long time. But there it was, clear as day, waving at him like his damn shadow, and it was desirous of the girl with the eyes that changed colors.

A hand settled on her shoulder. “It’s so easy to convince mortals that what they’ve seen is false. They’d rather ignore the impossible than rethink their understanding of reality. Isn’t that true, Cora dear?” She jerked away from him and took a few steps back. Not that it would help her if he wanted to do anything. He’d shown her very quickly that his bizarre strings were not just in her dream.

“Talk to me. That’s all I ask.” “Let me go.” “Talk to me, and I will.” “Fine!” She shoved him. He released her obediently and she quickly put distance between them. He stood there, eerily smiling, the lights flashing off his sunglasses, and waited for her to explain herself. She sighed. “There’s no getting rid of you, is there?” “So many people have asked that question that I’m starting to take it personally.”

“Are you crying from the pain?” “No,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’m scared and I’m angry.” “Ah. Hm.” He stood in front of her and scratched the back of his neck. “Not much I can do to help you there, I’m afraid. I’m generally frightening and infuriating.”

Aaron looked at her. “Are you all right? We heard screaming.” She nodded weakly, rubbing her sore shoulder. It was going to be absolute misery tomorrow. “He was helping me. I dislocated my shoulder in the maze when I ran into the wall. He was just putting it back into place. I asked him to do it.” “See?” Simon pointed at her. “I didn’t do a thing. She asked me to hurt her.” He smiled. “She’s into that kind of thing.”

much less of a rush. “Does everybody have…freaky superpowers like you?” “Hm? Super-what?” He paused. “Ah. I get it. No. Well, yes. But most of them have far less…useful and spectacular gifts. I lucked out, all things considered. However, I did go entirely bonkers. I suppose there’s that to take into account.” He cackled. A liar and an admitted madman. She had to remember that.

“I really do wish you’d give me my gun back.” “Later. You don’t need it. You could put as many holes in me as you want, and you’d just ruin my nice clothes and scare the patrons.” He grinned. “But later, I can strip naked, and you can pop me with your little toy as many times as you like.” She grimaced. “Hard pass.” “Damn.”

“They all hate you, don’t they?” “Mmm, hate is a strong word.” He grinned. “I think ‘loathe to the point where they wish I would burst into flames and spend the rest of eternity screaming in agony’ is a stronger and far more appropriate descriptor.”

“Cora, Cora Cora…” He sighed and suddenly stepped into her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder to hug her to his side. “You really are adorably slow. You should be so happy that you’re beautiful. You heard me when I said we cannot die. I fear that without the threat of permanent harm, arguments become a bit more spectacular.” He grinned viscously. “I would never dismember you. There are many things I would like to do with you…Oh, such a list I’ve created in my head.” His fingers on her shoulder spread, caressing her. “But you’re safe with me.”

“I’m sorry.” He looked at her, an eyebrow quirked up. “Are you really?” “I—” What the hell kind of question is that? “I mean, yeah. I’m sorry that happened to you. It sounds terrible. I don’t know what I’d do in that situation.” There was an odd, knowing smile on his face. But it was paired with a strange, unsettling, overeager twist that made her uncomfortable. “I will do my very best to ensure that does not happen.”

When the Puppeteer could breathe, he lifted his head to look at her. “It’s all over now, Cora. I could have saved you. I could have helped you. But you made your choice.” He laid his head back down on the dirt. “Nobody ever listens to me.”

The Faire wanted her…and it wanted to keep her for itself. He found himself at odds with the very creature that kept him alive. But he’d be damned a second time before he let the Faire take anything else away from him. It had taken everything—literally everything—that was valuable to him. He would not let it take this newest prize from his fingers. The Faire owed him one.

The mental image of her naked and pressed up against the tile of his shower wall made him shudder. Lust was entertaining, and it was an emotion he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time. He savored it. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get to act it out, since he was going to steal her life and place it into one of his dolls. But perhaps she might entertain the idea in their dreams. After she forgave him. Which she would. Eventually. Maybe.