The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels)

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Who the hell did this?” Kingston whispers, staring at the corpse.

Sabina’s body is on the pedestal she uses in the show, and she almost looks like she’s performing. Almost. Her legs are tucked behind her ears in a perfect backbend, her fingers laced under her chin. She’s even smiling, her brown eyes fixed on a point far away.

I’m right beside Kingston, doing everything I can not to vomit on his black Chucks, run from the tent, or do an embarrassing mixture of both. Right then, I’d give my left kidney for him to wrap an arm around me to shield me from the atrocity before us. But he’s not mine, and probably never will be. And even if he were, he’s not the comforting type. I can feel his heat against my arm. I don’t know why that sticks out at the moment, but maybe that’s just the way shock works.

We’re both standing in the dust of the center ring. The rest of the troupe quickly filters in with gasps and screams. Sabina looks perfect — poised like she’s holding a pose for the audience’s applause. Except her sparkling unitard is usually white, not stained a wicked crimson. The long gash across her throat is a second smile leaking its secrets into the ring.

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