Carniepunk: Parlor Tricks (Elemental Assassin) Page 5
“Thalia,” Olivia said, her guess confirmed when the Muse’s face lit up. Her pleasure sparked an answering warmth in Olivia. “Why sneak up on me like that?”
Thalia raised a finger. “Better question, Lady. Why allow me to sneak up on you?”
“I’m working.” Olivia tucked stray curls behind her ears. Mortal hair, she had long ago decided, behaved oddly. Thalia bent at the waist and peered under the covering.
“I hate to tell you this, but I think those little bunnies is d-e-a-d dead.” Her eyebrows rose expectantly. “Unless you wish to return them to life.”
“I doubt that performing mouth-to-mouth on melted snouts will raise them to the level of anything remotely resembling life.”
Thalia shrugged and looked around. They stood between shuttered gaming stands, isolated from a seething crowd by a pair of thin ribbons of yellow tape. To Olivia’s left, a man on stilts swung a baton, flaming on both ends. Below, the crowd twitched, pointing like dogs, anticipating misfortune. To her right, excited murmurs followed in the wake of a scantily clad bearded lady as she sashayed near the entrance gate. Performers building excitement for the nightly shows. Only at a carnival would a burned building not draw attention.
“Freak House”
A Strays Short Story
Kelly Meding
“How exactly does one acquire their very own djinn?” I ask the dour, mustached man in front of me. He doesn’t take offense at the probing question because I inject it with just the right amounts of wide-eyed amazement and breathless wonder to make it sound like I’m gushing over his incredible cleverness.
Which I’m really not. He’s the bad guy, and I’m not a gusher, even when gushing is warranted.
Still, the bad guy today is pretty blessed clever, this Stefan Balthazar fellow. He managed to capture and contain a djinn, after all, so I am factually curious about this feat. Not an easy thing for anyone to do, much less a mortal magic user (or, more likely in his case, magic abuser).
Balthazar runs a traveling carnival exhibit, but instead of pickled pig fetuses and the shrunken heads of pygmies, he displays the abilities of six different imprisoned Paras (that’s Paranormal Citizens, to you). Luck bought me an invitation to tonight’s show in the outskirts of Denver, Colorado, and what a show it’s been so far—you’ve never seen beauty until you’ve seen a pixie cloud dance—and now it’s mingling time. The two dozen of us who coughed up twenty-five grand a head to enjoy the show get an hour to gawk and chat with our host over plates of crab puffs and glasses of expensive champagne.
I hate seafood, and champagne doesn’t do anything except tickle my nose (a benefit of being only half-human), but gulping back the bubbly helps me keep my cover. Wealthy men who are desperate to hold on to their tenuous power and position, like Balthazar, love playing to an audience. Especially if that audience is a pretty, flirty, empty-headed bimbo of a woman, like me. (Or who I’m pretending to be—and managing an Oscar-worthy performance, I must say.)
Balthazar laughs at my question about capturing the djinn. He gives the four other men in our intimate conversational circle a knowing look. A look that clearly asks Isn’t she precious?
“A magician never reveals his secrets,” he says with a chiding tone I want to stuff right back down his throat.
Instead of bristling or retorting like instinct demands, I lean a little more heavily onto Julius, my fellow infiltrator and date for the evening. He’s got at least twenty-five years on me, which gives us an oddball May-December look and cements my position as a rich businessman’s idiot eye candy.
I tilt my head and twist a strand of my blond wig around my pinkie finger, then give Balthazar a winsome smile. “I didn’t know genies really exist,” I reply with a pout. “How come no one knows that?”
“Because they’re very difficult to summon, my dear.”
No kidding. I have more knowledge of the djinn in my little toe than he’ll ever hope to learn in his lifetime. I just can’t toss that back in his smug face.
Yet.
“The Inside Man”
A Jane True Short Story
Nicole Peeler
When someone comes into your office and tells you that small towns in the Midwest have gone dull, you don’t rush out with the cavalry.
But when the biggest, meanest supernatural boss in Chicago knocks at your office door, with the same complaint . . .
Well, then you take notice. It’s either that or risk losing an appendage.
Which is how I, Capitola Jones, found myself in a football field in the middle of nowhere, fighting for my soul and the souls of those I loved.
And here I thought the worst thing to be found out in the country were cow pies and rednecks.
They don’t tell you about the killer clowns.
“A Chance in Hell”
Jackie Kessler
A demon was eating my face.
I had a moment of confusion—out of all the ways to wake up, this was nowhere in my Top Ten—and then it sank in that a demon was eating my face. I opened my mouth and screamed, “Don’t stop!”
Well, you have to understand that “face” in this context was actually my clit.
Between my legs, the demon chuckled. “So controlling, babes.”
Before I could reply, that wicked tongue was used for much better things than scolding me. Oh, the things that tongue could do! My hips bucked wildly and my fingers clenched. I might have torn the sheets. Or the mattress. It had been forever since I’d had sex—no, really, vibrators don’t count—and the former succubus in me was lapping up how I was being lapped up. My nostrils stung from the stench of brimstone and sweat; my heart danced inside my chest as my breathing quickened. A delicious heat was building inside of me, heating my core, promising to set my blood on fire. Yes, just a little more . . . almost there . . .
In my head, his voice murmured: Say my name.
The words hit me like holy water. Getting pleasured by a demon was one thing—one delicious, delectable, but not quite damning thing. But calling a demon’s name in the middle of that pleasure would cost a soul. Specifically, in this case, mine. My soul was practically fresh out of the box—in the cosmic scheme of things, being mortal for ten months barely counted—and I wasn’t about to trade the essence of what made me human just for a quickie.
My eyes snapped open, and my sword, a Fury blade of magic and steel, appeared in my outstretched hand. My fingers curled around the hilt, and I aimed the weapon down my body until its tip hovered by the demon’s head.
I growled, “Bastard.”
“Hell’s Menagerie”
A Charlie Madigan Short Story
Kelly Gay
Why did I let her talk me into this? Why, why, why? “Your mother is going to go ape shit. Total ape shit. I’m so dead. And she won’t be swift about it, either. She’ll drag it out, enjoy it with that maniacal gleam she gets in her eyes. She’ll—”
“Rex.” Emma turned, stopping Rex in his tracks. “Focus. Mom is in Elysia for the week. She’ll never know.” Her gaze went narrow and suspicious; funny how she could do that—go from big brown-eyed innocence to shrewd and calculating. “Unless you slip up and tell her.”
“Yeah. Right. Not going to sign my own death warrant, kid.”
But he probably already had.
If Charlie found out he’d allowed her only child to track a kidnapper to hell of all places . . . Christ. He rubbed a hand down his sweaty face. He was in deep, deep shit. This fatherly role was way more complicated than he thought it’d be. Who knew that little piece of work walking in front of him could worm her way inside of him like some adorable little parasite and make his heart go all mushy and weak-willed at the first sign of a lip tremble or tears?
Weren’t fathers supposed to be stern and solid as rocks? Unmovable as mountains? Sounded way better than being whipped by a twelve-year-old k
id.
“Daughter of the Midway, the Mermaid, and the Open, Lonely Sea”
Seanan McGuire
If there’s one thing seventeen years of traveling with the Miller Family Carnival has taught me, it’s that harvesttime is carnival time.
Spring is good, if what you want is young lovers cluttering the Ferris wheel like clinging burrs, moon-eyed and drunk on the wonder of learning that lips can be used for kissing. Summer brings in the families, screaming children with fingers that smell like cotton candy and mischief, wistful parents who remember their own turns around the Ferris wheel. Springs and summers are profitable. We’re hopping like scalded cats all through spring and summer. The midway lights never go out, and my throat feels like twenty miles of bad road by the time we get to August from all the cheering and cajoling and calling for the townies to step right up and see the wonders of the world.
Springs and summers pay for new equipment, for repairs to the old equipment, for fresh ponies in the paddock and good bread on the table. Winters are for resting. That’s when we retreat to the family’s permanent home outside of Phoenix, Arizona, and take stock against the year to come. But autumns . . .
Autumns are harvesttime, and harvesttime is carnival time.
Even the trees know it, and they dress themselves up in reds and yellows and kiss-a-carnie gold. Especially in the South, where the pulse of the seasons runs right under the skin of the world. Alabama met us at the border with a celebration, and the mood spread through the carnival like a rumor. Everything was going to be good here. The ticket sales would be fantastic, the marks would be easy, and the people would be easy to please.
But first, we have to get them to come. There’s where I come in: me, and the rest of the scouts. I ride into Huntsville on the roof of Duncan’s pickup truck, sitting with my legs dangling and my face turned toward the road behind us. It falls away like a secret no one cared to keep. My heels drum against the glass with every bump and pothole, setting up an uneven tattoo that says Carnival’s-coming, carnival’s-coming, carnival-is-almost-here.
It’s a perfect day.
I should know by now that perfect days can’t last.
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About the Authors
Rachel Caine is the New York Times, USA Today, and #1 internationally bestselling author of more than forty novels, including the Morganville Vampires, Weather Warden, Outcast Season, and Revivalist series. She has also been featured in many anthologies, including Many Bloody Returns, Hex Appeal, and Shards and Ashes. Visit her online at www.RachelCaine.com and @RachelCaine.
Delilah S. Dawson is the author of Wicked As They Come and Wicked As She Wants, the first two Blud novels in her steampunk paranormal romance series with Pocket Books, and two e-novellas set in the enchanting land of Sang, The Mysterious Madam Morpho and The Peculiar Pets of Miss Pleasance. She is at work on a young adult series for Simon Pulse. Delilah lives with her family in Atlanta. Visit her at www.delilahsdawson.com and @DelilahSDawson.
Jennifer Estep is a New York Times bestselling author prowling the streets of her imagination in search of her next fantasy idea. Spider’s Bite, Web of Lies, Venom, Tangled Threads, Spider’s Revenge, Thread of Death, By a Thread, Widow’s Web, Deadly Sting, and Heart of Venom are the other works in her red-hot Elemental Assassin urban fantasy series for Pocket Books. Jennifer also writes the Mythos Academy young adult urban fantasy series and is the author of the Bigtime paranormal romance series. Visit her at www.JenniferEstep.com and @Jennifer_Estep.
Kelly Gay is the author of the Pocket Books urban fantasy series featuring Charlie Madigan, which includes The Better Part of Darkness, The Darkest Edge of Dawn, The Hour of Dust and Ashes, and Shadows Before the Sun. She is a two-time RITA Award finalist, a 2010 finalist for Best First Book from the Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance, and a recipient of a North Carolina Arts Council fellowship grant in literature. She also writes as Kelly Keaton and can be found online at: www.KellyGay.com and @KellyHGay.
Kevin Hearne is the New York Times bestselling author of the Iron Druid Chronicles. He’s a middle-aged nerd who still enjoys his comic books and old-school heavy metal. He cooks tasty omelets, hugs trees, and paints miniature army dudes. He lives with his wife, daughter, and doggies in a wee cottage. Online at www.KevinHearne.com and @KevinHearne.
Mark Henry gleefully twists urban fantasy into extremes of comedy, filth, and horror. He also writes young adult horror and fantasy (as Daniel Marks), spends way too much time glued to the internet, and collects books obsessively (occasionally reading them). He’s been a psychotherapist for children and adolescents, a Halloween-store manager, and a cafeteria janitor (gag), and has survived earthquakes, volcanoes, and typhoons to get where he is today, which is to say, in his messy office surrounded by half-empty coffee cups. He lives in the Pacific Northwest with his wife, Caroline, and three furry monsters with no regard for quality carpeting. None. Urban Fantasy for the Twisted: www.markhenry.us and @Mark_Henry.
Hillary Jacques is an up-late, Alaska-based author of speculative fiction. She has a love of words, travel, small-plate dining, and action movies. Sometimes her husband and son allow her to play grown-up. She has worked jobs as diverse as carnival vendor and federal contractor. She is drawn to risk management occupations because she wants to make the world a safer place. Also, because she gets paid to figure out how things can be blown up. Her urban fantasy Night Runner series is published under the pen name Regan Summers. Find her online at hillaryjacques.blogspot.com and @HillaryJacques.
Jackie Kessler writes about demons, angels, and the hapless humans caught between them; superheroes and the supervillains who pound those heroes into pudding; ghosts; and, in her pseudo-secret identity as YA author Jackie Morse Kessler, witches and the occasional Rider of the Apocalypse. She also had a stint in the Buffyverse, writing a short comic for Dark Horse. She lives near Albany, New York, with her Loving Husband, Precious Little Tax Deductions, and a sweetly psychotic cat. For more about Jackie, including the full bibliography of the Hell on Earth series, visit her at www.jackiekessler.com and @JackieKessler.
Seanan McGuire comes from good carnival stock and had her first Ferris wheel–related injury when she was seven years old. Both she and the Ferris wheel recovered nicely and are currently in good health. She attended UC Berkeley, where she majored in folklore and mythology. These two things go a long way toward explaining why she now writes urban fantasy.
Seanan is the New York Times bestselling author of two ongoing urban fantasy series, the InCryptid and the October Daye series, and she also writes under the name Mira Grant. She is a founding member of the Hugo Award–winning SF Squeecast, and her short fiction has appeared all over the place, sometimes including on the floor of her bedroom. She won the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer in 2010 and was the first woman to be nominated for four Hugo Awards in a single year.
It is widely rumored that Seanan doesn’t sleep. The rumors are pretty much true. She lives in a crumbling farmhouse, which she shares with her collections of books, horror movies, and creepy dolls, as well as her three ridiculously large blue cats. Seanan is happiest when at a carnival or in a cornfield, and she collects machetes. This tells you everything you need to know. Her online homes are www.SeananMcGuire.com and @SeananMcGuire.
Born and raised in southern Delaware, Kelly Meding survived five years in the hustle and bustle of Northern Virginia, only to retreat back to the peace and sanity of the Eastern Shore. An avid reader and film buff, she discovered Freddy Krueger at a very young age and has since had a lifelong obsession with horror, science fiction, and fantasy, for which she blames her interest in vampires, psychic powers, superheroes, and all things paranormal.
Three Days to Dead, the first book in her Dreg City urban fantasy series, follows Evangeline Stone, a paranormal hunter who is resurrected into the body of a s
tranger and has only three days to solve her own murder and stop a war between the city’s goblins and vampires. Additional books in the series include As Lie the Dead, Another Kind of Dead, and Wrong Side of Dead.
Beginning with Trance, Kelly’s MetaWars series tells the story of the grown-up children of the world’s slaughtered superheroes who receive their superpowers back after a mysterious fifteen-year absence, and who now face not only a fearful public but also a vengeful villain who wants all of them dead. Other books in the series include Changeling, Tempest, and Chimera. See her online at www.kellymeding.com and @KellyMeding.
Allison Pang is the author of the Abby Sinclair urban fantasy series from Pocket Books as well as the online graphic novel Fox & Willow. She spends her days in northern Virginia working as a cube grunt and her nights waiting on her kids and cats, punctuated by an occasional husbandly serenade. Sometimes she even manages to write. Mostly she just makes it up as she goes. She loves Hello Kitty, sparkly shoes, and gorgeous violinists. www.heartofthedreaming.com and @Allison_Pang.
NicolE Peeler received an undergraduate degree in English literature from Boston University and a PhD in English literature from the University of Edinburgh, in Scotland. She’s lived abroad in both Spain and the UK, and all over the United States. Currently she resides outside Pittsburgh, teaching in Seton Hill University’s MFA in Writing Popular Fiction program. When she’s not in the classroom infecting young minds with her madness, she’s writing the Jane True series for Orbit Books and manga for Yen Press, and taking pleasure in what means most to her: family, friends, food, and travel. www.NicolePeeler.com and @NicolePeeler.
Rob Thurman lives in Indiana, land of cows, corn, and ravenous wild turkeys—the rural velociraptor at large. Rob is the author of the darkly gritty Cal Leandros urban fantasy series: Nightlife, Moonshine, Madhouse, Deathwish, Roadkill, Blackout, Doubletake, and Slashback; the Trickster novels Trick of the Light and The Grimrose Path; and the thriller-suspense novels Chimera, Basilisk, and All Seeing Eye.