The Immortal Circus (Cirque des Immortels) Read Online Free PDF

the people in
black masks far outnumber the white. Mab’s been inviting people in, and it’s
clear from their garb that they know the occasion well. I watch as two men in
black masks and torn suits tilt a white-masked guy’s head back, pouring wine
down his throat. Oh yes, they know the occasion well. The music pulses, the
heat grows. Something deep down inside of me is growling. It doesn’t want to be
sitting in a corner. It feels the music. It wants out. It wants to play.
    On a chaise
longue in front of me, a man is stripped naked, except for his porcelain mask.
Black-masked men and women caress his arms and thighs and neck with fingers and
tongues. The man groans as one of the men bites into his hip. The sight of it
makes my heart thud faster, and my fingers grip tighter at my side. A small trail
of blood drips down his pale skin but he doesn’t seem to notice. In fact, he
reaches down and runs his fingers through the man’s hair as he laps up the
blood, slowly, slowly licking.
    “Trust me,
dear, he isn’t to your taste.”
    It’s Mab. She
stands beside me with a grin on her lips and a drink in her hand, watching as
her black-masked patrons bite and lick and bleed her guest.
    “What…what is
this?”
    “If you’re
interested,” she says, ignoring the question, “there’s a delightful young man
next to the birdcage. Twenty-one, wishes to be a dentist…”
    “I don’t…”
The man being drained is writhing in ecstasy or agony. More and more
black-masked patrons come in to bow at his side, and bring their lips to his
bleeding flesh like some lustful Communion. No one comes to his aid; no one
seems to notice anything is even wrong. Around him, couples and groups are
locked in limbs and lips as they sway to the hypnotic music. No one in a white
mask is clothed or alone, not that I can see.
    “In that
case, what about the young woman being entertained on the hoop over there? I
don’t judge. Besides, she’s much too young for Stephanie.”
    “I’m not…” I
glance over to where she’s pointing, to the girl hanging naked on one of the
hoops, her arms bound above her head and a woman running her hands over her
chest and back. Red lines trace themselves into her skin, but she doesn’t seem
to be in pain. If she is, she likes it.
    “You see,
Vivienne,” Mab says. She takes a sip from her glass. “We are the peddlers of
dreams. Some people come to see a show, but for many, that isn’t enough. Their
dreams are darker, less…publicly recognized. And as I said, I am a
humanitarian. This is my way of giving them what they truly, deeply desire.
This is how we get the strongest dreams of all.”
    “You’re
killing them,” I say. I can barely see the man on the chaise longue through the
crowd of hungry patrons.
    Mab shrugs.
    “Not everyone
wishes to live forever.” She sets her glass down on the table and takes a
half step forward. Then she stops and looks back. “Although we cater to all
wants here — even voyeurism — I might recommend leaving. The party’s just
beginning, and I doubt you’d want to be here when the Night Terrors arrive.”
She winks like it’s our little joke and slips into the crowd, disappearing in
the sea of black masks and ball gowns.
    A cool breeze
blows at the back of my neck. I turn. There, like a deeper shadow on the wall,
is the entrance. I move toward it and then close my eyes. The music behind me
is a hook, an anchor. The fire in me burns, wants to lose itself in the throng.
But all I can picture is the bleeding man. I try to block out how his blood
would taste, how his skin would feel beneath my fingertips. I bite my lip until
I taste my own blood and force myself to leave the tent. When the flap closes
behind me, the cool air hits me like a snap to my senses. I drop my mask on the
table and head to my trailer.
    I don’t look
back.
    By the time
I’m a few steps away, I’m running.

    “How’d it
go?” Melody asks.
    She’s sitting
on a lawn chair in front of the