The Contortionist (Harrow Faire, #1)

by Kathryn Ann Kingsley

Not that it had ever kept the teenagers out. There wasn’t much else for the local kids to do, except drink, get high, or bum around abandoned places. Or all three.

“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.

The smell of popcorn and spun sugar filled the air. She could hear laughter and the sound of rides clanking. The hurdy gurdy and pipe organs of all the rides made for a cacophony that joined the other perfectly archetypical sounds of a circus.

It was like a traveling circus had humped a theme park and Harrow Faire was its bizarre, mutant offspring.

If it wasn’t her ankles, it was her knees. If it wasn’t her knees, it was her hips. If it wasn’t those, it was her wrists or her shoulders.

I hate crowds. I hate being looked at.” Emily gagged dramatically. “No, thank you.

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.

She flipped the first card over. It was painted to look like a tarot card, but she didn’t recognize the figure. To be fair, she knew jack shit about tarot cards. Only what she’d seen in movies or on TV. The figure was a woman with long dark hair, bent backward at an alarming angle. The text on the bottom read “0. The Contortionist.”

“You will suffer a great loss. An enormous loss. But if you do not see it for what it is—as a new beginning—it will destroy you.”

She hadn’t found herself attracted to anyone in a long, long time. It was for a good reason. She had decided that between her history and her illness, dating just wasn’t in the cards for her. She turned that part of herself off. Oh, she got lonely. She just stopped bothering to look.

Shitty sleep was a super fun side effect to chronic pain. It was like insult to injury.

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.

The bearded woman smiled. “We’re all freaks here. I just wear mine on the outside.”

Come one, come all, to Harrow Faire, To greet your sweetest nightmare. Rejoin your dreams and memories, Of carnivals and reveries. Seek the truth in mirrored lanes, That show you all the hidden planes. Enjoy the sights, see what we’ve made, Let all life’s sorrows wilt and fade. For like all things, we’ll call away, To all the gloom and shaded gray. Join us now, my friends, be brave— Laugh now. Laugh long. Soon comes the grave.

I think I’m being haunted by a carnival. Fuck my life.

She didn’t recognize what she was wearing. A skin-tight outfit of white and black lace accented with matching striped leggings. Her hair was carefully curled and done up in a way she never had the time for. Loud makeup made her look like…a circus performer.

Chronic pain led to many things. Loss of sleep. Loss of hobbies, and for her, her livelihood. And it also tended to result in things like anxiety and depression. And she had both in spades. But the girl in the mirror had looked unrecognizable to her, not because of the outfit, but because of how much life burned in that version’s gray eyes.

Her usual understanding of everything in the world had been thrown out. Logic. Reason. Science. Poof. Magic was real.

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.”

“Have a lovely night, you giant tub of lard.”

“Nothing beats a good old-fashioned kitchen floor reset. They make for the best sob sessions,” he had told her. And he was right.

He was monstrous. He was wicked. He was beautiful. He watched her with those fiendishly colored eyes, and she saw desire in them. She saw mischief. She wanted to know what he was planning…because she might want it a little bit, too.

She wasn’t a lightweight by any means—but neither was the moonshine.

They were a rainbow of bizarre oddities. Each one seemed to be strange in a unique way.

“Ah! You aren’t a complete idiot. Hallelujah!” He cackled. “Devils be praised.”

The idea of her, dangling from his strings, bent into all sorts of seemingly impossible angles. And oh, how he could enjoy those positions.