Page 16 of Illusionist
“Or maybe,” he steps closer, his hand coming up to trace the edge of the chain against my collarbone, “you're distracted.”
The touch sends electricity shooting through my nervous system, and my fingers slip again. His satisfied smile tells me he knows exactly what effect he's having.
“That's cheating,” I manage.
“All's fair in love and performance art.”
The chains finally give way, falling to the trailer floor with a metallic crash. But instead of stepping back, instead of putting distance between us, I find myself moving closer to Silas.
“My turn,” I say, reaching for a set of handcuffs from the nearby hook.
His eyebrows rise, but he doesn't resist when I guide his hands behind his back. The cuffs click shut, and I'm suddenly very aware of how this position pushes his chest forward, how the fabric of his shirt stretches across his shoulders.
“Comfortable?” I ask, my voice slightly breathless.
“Getting there.” His eyes never leave mine as he tests the restraints. “Though I should warn you—I'm very good at getting out of tight situations.”
“Prove it.”
What follows is the most erotically charged practice session of my life. We work through various restraints and escapes, but every touch lingers a heartbeat too long, every brush of skin against skin sends heat shooting through my veins. When he demonstrates a particular wrist technique, his hands cover mine completely. When I show him another technique to dislocate a joint safely, my fingers trace along his forearms, feeling the raised texture of old scars beneath his sleeves.
By the time we've run through a dozen different scenarios, the trailer feels like a sauna and my heart is hammering against my ribs. Silas is breathing hard too, his hair mussed from our practice, and when our eyes meet across the small space, the hunger there nearly knocks me sideways.
“I think,” he says, his voice rough with want, “we're going to put on quite a show.”
6
TEDDY
The rental sedan kicks up dust in the carnival lot. I park away from the main entrance, somewhere between the RVs belonging to families chasing nostalgia and the beat-up trucks that probably belong to staff. I can blend in here, just another body drawn to the bright lights and questionable cotton candy.
The air smells like fried dough and diesel fuel, and music drifts from somewhere deeper in the fairgrounds. It's loud, insistent, pulling me forward like I'm a puppet.
I pay twenty bucks at the gate to a teenager who barely looks up from her phone. The ticket's cheap for a Friday night show, which either means they're confident or desperate. From what I've seen of the crowd filtering in around me—families, couples, groups of college kids already half-drunk—they're not hurting for attendance.
The midway opens up ahead. String lights crisscross overhead, bathing everything in gold and red. Game booths line both sides, barkers calling out to anyone who'll listen. A woman wins a massive stuffed bear at the ring toss, and her boyfriend hoists it over his shoulder like a trophy. It's all so normal.
Except the performers. They're everywhere—walking on stilts, juggling fire, contorting themselves into shapes that shouldn't be possible. Definitelynotnormal.
The crowd thickens as I approach the Big Top. The massive tent dominates the center of the fairgrounds, the burgundy and off-white canvas stretching three stories high, with music spilling out from the open flaps.
I show my ticket to the guy at the entrance. He's wearing a plague doctor mask, the beak gleaming gold. He tears my stub and gestures inside without a word.
The interior's dim, lit only by lanterns hanging from the support beams. Tiered seating circles a center ring, and I find a spot halfway up with a good sightline to the main floor and both side entrances. The seats fill quickly around me—the show's about to start.
The drums go silent, and darkness drops like a theater curtain. Someone near me gasps. A child whimpers. Then a single spotlight pierces the black, illuminating the center ring.
A figure stands there, impossibly still. He's tall—well over six feet—dressed in a striped ringmaster's coat. A top hat sits low on his head, casting his face in shadow, but I can see the mask covering his eyes—Venetian style, black leather with gold filigree curling across the surface.
His voice rolls through the tent, deep and commanding. Not shouting, but somehow filling every inch of space.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” He spreads his arms wide, and the ruby on his cane catches the light. “Welcome to the Seven Sins Carnival, where desire becomes spectacle and spectacle becomes sin.”
The crowd murmurs. He lets the sound build, that cane tapping a slow rhythm against the sawdust.
“Tonight, you'll witness feats that defy reason. Acts that challenge your understanding of what flesh and bone canendure.” The mask tilts, and even from here, I catch the pale gleam of his eyes through the eye holes. “But first, I must ask... who among you has the courage to confront what you truly desire?”
No one answers. He wasn't expecting them to.
