When I wander in at nightfall the next eve, I hear a loud, accented voice from the mess tent. It's Mr. Tall, making announcements as to the next performance, which is the next night.
Crepsley meanders over from the crowd in the tent with indolently excited eyes. "We'll go through our act tonight, in preparation."
I nod, looking over his shoulder at the crowd of people that whisper behind my back, yet somehow hold a draw on me. I want so badly to join in their laughter, to sit at a table and be accepted. Their sentiments towards my half-vampire state echo through my dreams.
I follow my mentor through the city of wheeled living quarters, and wait outside his van while he fetches Madam Octa in her cage.
"You've met the good lady spider," Crepsley says, brandishing the cage at me.
So he does remember that night in the abandoned theater, when he intimidated me for the sake of his act. I'd wondered about that. Does Crepsley regret bringing Madam Octa within coveting range of Darren, which in turn saddled the vampire with me? When I take the cage gingerly, Octa scuttles closer to the bars, eight eyes sizing me up in that skin-crawling sentience that astounds me.
It occurs to me how easily I could blame this spider for all my woes. She did bite Darren (swallow, don't show it), after all, and set this whole mess into motion. I could take her out and squash her like the bug she is.
Crepsley walks off, presuming I will trail him. I do with some distance, still locked in a staring contest with the arachnid. "I could blame you, you know," I tell her softly, neutrally. "You did bite my brother, make me save his life at the cost of my own." Looming my face closer, I say sinisterly, "Friend of the vampire or not, I could avenge myself and my brother on you."
The spider bares her fangs at me, four legs flicking up like she's daring me. I pull my face back with a sigh, and say with complete honesty, "I could, but I won't, Madam Octa. To blame you for being a spider is stupid, like blaming the sun for shining. So I'll make you a deal: I won't harm you, if you won't harm me."
The spider lowers her legs, folds back her fangs slowly. Yeah, there's no doubt now: she understands me, and knows I'm telling the truth to boot. One furry leg slides between the narrow bars to stroke my thumb lightly.
I take it as an agreement. "Good. I look forward to working with you. Even if I don't look forward to working with your keeper."
"Are you talking to my spider?" asks Crepsley, pausing at the top of the steps of the newly repaired wooden stage.
"Maybe," I shoot back, climbing up after him.
"Do you understand her?" he asks.
I tilt my head. "Like, understand her? No. But I can get the gist of her, and she of me. You know how critters are."
As I draw abreast of him on the stage, Crepsley gets a thoughtful expression, as though he's interested in the topic. "How do you mean?"
I fumble for an explanation for years of cultivated instinct. "Well... dogs' tails show their mood. Horses' ears show theirs. I dunno, being observant goes a long way with animals. And arachnids, I suppose." I fall silent, sure that my synopsis has fallen short.
Crepsley, to my surprise, nods and faintly smiles. "I am one of two vampires who can psychically connect with spiders."
"Really?" I say, stiffening. "That's amazing!"
He eyes me longways. "You accept that rather readily."
"Well, it certainly explains your Cirque act. How does that work? Will I be able to do it because you made me - ?" I struggle to keep my face from imitating the plummet of my heart, at that moment. It's the first time I've admitted Crepsley's hand in my rebirth in any way short of despising.
"Like I said," Crepsley replies briskly, none the wiser. "I'm one of two. Seba Nile, my old mentor, can do the same."
"Incredible," I murmur. To Madam Octa in the little cage, I say, "You're a special lady."
The arachnid preens with delight, and Crepsley chortles. "Now, if you can stay on her good side, this might work. Remember: she's deadly."
How well I do remember, fuck you very much, but I decline to answer.
We begin to pace through his - our - act. Crepsley inserts me in various roles. First is the grand gesturer, who reveals the spider's empty cage, which is a decidedly simple task.
My second role is more daunting, as after Crepsley's fake lost-the-spider, oh-wait-there-she-is bit, I become the graceful jungle gym, upon whom Madam Octa weaves her webs. I strike a Tai Chi double crane's bill, close my eyes, and bite back a little whimper of fear as Octa starts to scuttle over my body. Crepsley plays a jaunty tune on the flute, and Madam Octa seems to respond well to it, as though it's one of her favorite songs. The thought of a spider having favorite songs is absurdly funny, but I force my giggles down.
If I get as scared as I was dangling from Crepsley's back on that hospital wall, the lights might be drawn to me again. Internally, that idea sounds wonderful. I'm hungry, and the constant tickle in my brain and dull ache of my stomach is an unwelcome distraction. But the more I understand what the lights do, and come to grips with the strange hunger that inspires them, the less I want to tell anyone about them.
It occurs to me that the need for these lights is despicable. It's bad enough I need to consume blood to live. To have a secondary appetite on top of that, much less one I have fed repeatedly in secret, borders on shameful.
"What's the flute actually do?" I query, trying not to move my chest as I breathe for fear of jostling the busy spider.
Crepsley pauses his music. "I can control spiders perfectly without the flute's help, but it helps keep Octa soothed. It is also part of the act. No one wants to sit in silence as a spider spins, no matter how fascinating the process."
I hmph in agreement. It is not a stretch of my imagination to call this part of the act fascinating. Nature's many little tableaus have always garnered my attention, from flowers to clouds to bees.
He gestures with the flute. "In a pinch, you could use it. If Madam Octa escaped while I slept, she could be calmed by a handful of notes, like this." He blows a series of notes, and I pay attention to how his fingers move on the instrument. It's a pattern of lifts and presses of fingertips, more than anything. I'm confident I could replicate it. The notes sound a little familiar, even, but I can't place where.
"You can look, you know," Crepsley says, with more tease and less mockery. "She's in a good mood tonight."
I peek down at the little weight hanging off my boob, then further down to my show dress. The pattern of the silky strands on the black and red fabric is pretty, and I can tell the spider put effort into working something eye-pleasing. The lightest strands form a traditional spiderweb shape, with my waistline being the center, and the heavier strands form geometric designs. The spider even framed out my chest in a flattering fashion, with edging on the top of my cleavage, whalebone-corset-like branches up my ribs, and a pleasantly confusing tangle crowning each breast that makes the entire thing look like a gossamer lace bodice.
"Wow, Madam Octa," I marvel. "Remind me to find you a particularly juicy cricket to eat."
When I look up, I find Crepsley studying me. And that, in itself, is befuddling. What does he see? Is he examining the work of his pet, or is he checking out the womanly form the webs accentuate? I suddenly realize how alluring the spun silks could look to someone as weird as Crepsley.
And just how do I feel about being seen as attractive by my sort-of kidnapper?
Crepsley steps forward, breaking my disturbing train of thoughts. With care, he swipes a handful of the webs on my skirt, eyes inscrutable. I don't know what to make of the little electric tug that runs from his hand to the fabric to my skin. With his fingers, the vampire rolls the web into a ball and pops it in his mouth. "Cobwebs are a delicacy where I come from," he murmurs his punchline with a veiled expression.
Well, two can play at that game. I mentally shake myself. For a split second, I actually thought...
I actually thought he was looking at me.
Cirque life is tough when all you've got to contribute is labor. I mean, I'm stronger now, but I think they give me the hardest tasks because I'm a half-vampire.
I'm charged with holding up the center stake for the bigtop tent, a telephone pole sized thing, while the rest of the crew pitches the tent with ropes. It takes them twenty minutes, and by the time the last line is secured, I'm shaking with fatigue. When I unwrap my bear hug from the pole, several splinters in my arms' soft undersides, chest, and even my neck make themselves known.
Thankfully my dress is already blood-red.
After that I am pulled from one task to another, as fast as I can finish them. I go from cleaning out the WolfMan's horribly stinky cage, to hauling huge sacks of corn kernels, to helping set up the folding chairs.
Their whispers very nearly drive me to tears, repeatedly.
"Blood slut."
"Harlot."
These and more creative terms breeze to my sensitive ears. More loudly, I receive harsh criticism for my work.
"Straighten those chairs, new girl!"
"Not fast enough, prissy!"
Jesus Christ, let up a little! I only just held up a telephone pole while you all took your sweet time securing it! I'm tired and hungry and so damned beaten down, I can barely put one foot in front of the other...
It's a sober indicator of how worn my spirit and body is when I find the swish of Crepsley's approach a comfort. "Are you prepared?" he asks simply, taking up two huge handfuls of metal folding chairs like they weigh nothing.
I wipe my brow, then start setting up the chairs from his hands. "I've got the act down pat," I reply shortly, tempered with relief that someone is talking to me without yelling or insult. In fact, I might be even a little bit excited about my debut. Maybe if I prove myself a good Cirque actor, the other freaks will accept me. It's a long shot, but I'm desperate for something, anything to take the heat off my ass.
"Good," the vampire continues. "You and I will meet backstage before we go on."
"I'll find you," I reply with a nod more confident than I feel.
Crepsley empties his hands of chairs then moves along, and I finish the task in loneliness once more.
Night falls gracefully. The bigtop is lit from within with archaic light, like something straight out of a sepia shot. I enter and quietly dodge the mingling crowd of observers jostling for a seat, finally finding the backstage area. It's a veritable sea of makeup, props, mirrored vanities, and bare bulb lights. Freaks are dolling up, accentuating their various odd features for impact, and practicing little parts of their acts. I nearly step between a pair if lithe men who are juggling jars labeled 'ACID'.
"Adrienne, dear!" Madam Truska strides up out of the fray, resplendent in beard and chest-flattering dress. She sweeps me under her arm and guides me to what is clearly her makeup vanity. "You look wonderful."
I chuckle nervously, ignoring the evil eye from the midget woman in the next chair. "You might be biased," I say. "What with it being your handiwork, but thank you anyway."
The bearded lady sits down and starts to rapidly clip her facial hair with a pair of sharp scissors, barely seeming to pay attention to the blades as she watches me in the mirror. "Are you prepared for your act?"
It occurs to me there must be a general consensus of worry regarding a greenhorn performer's first appearance on stage. And really, that's understandable, except I know that out of that consensus, only Crepsley and Truska are interested in seeing me succeed. And Mr. Tall, I suppose. "Cre - erm, Mr. Crepsley and I rehearsed. So yes, I'm ready."
"Is this your first time on stage?" she asks, too lightly to be casual.
"Other than spelling bees in school, yes," I reply. The midget in the next mirror snorts loudly, scoots off the seat, and stomps off with an air of disdain.
I look after the elf with anger. "What?!" I bark after her, but she either doesn't hear or flat-out ignores me. Ugh, it's like fucking highschool all over again!
Madam Truska, having completed the baring of her feminine jaw, completes the last pass with an electric razor and ignores my outburst. "Come dear," she tuts, emptying the seat before the mirror. "Let me put some color on your cheeks, at least. You're quite pale."
I reluctantly take the proffered seat. "A half-vampire, pale? I can't imagine." It comes out as more sarcastic than I intended, and I wince at the insult of one of my few friends in this place.
The un-bearded woman lets it slide, bringing eyeliner to bear on my gently trapped eyelid. "You're right. Larten is practically flourescent. I forget, sometimes, what vampirism entails..." She drifts into silent concentration as she fools around with my face.
The dressingroom area starts to empty, and a trumpet fanfare plays from behind the curtain, accompanied by applause from the audience. Madam Truska stays put, dancing a fluffy blush brush over my cheeks. "How are you faring?" she asks, quietly and meaningfully.
Thankfully, my eyes are closed to her ministrations, or she would have seen them well up. So she does know what Crepsley put me through to get me here. Momentarily, it angers me that she's not come to my defense. But logic reminds me that would mean going against her long time friend, the laws of a people she knows little about.
I guess that, by remaining neutral, she's giving me a safe place to land. Friendship with her is safe. And really, that's a depth of friendship I was never expecting. So instead of bullshitting her with platitudes, I sigh and reply, "As well as can be expected, Madam."
She pats my knee as the crowd roars at the completion of the Twisting Twins' act. "It will get better," she insists, putting down the makeup brush.
The sentiment reminds me so strongly of my mother's "It'll be okay," outside of the hospital that night Darren got bitten, my eyes fly open to reveal the mistiness therein. "Do you promise?" I rasp.
The Bearded Lady is wise enough not to make an oath she cannot keep. She just smiles a little sadly, tipping my face towards the mirror.
I look good in dark red lipstick, apparently. And crazily enough, that lifts my spirits the tiniest bit. "Thank you."
"Anytime," she responds, rising with a rustle of her skirts.
I follow her out of the dressing area a minute later, composed. Finding Crepsley is a bit of a chore. Backstage is a rabbit's warren, seemingly laid out with no rhyme or reason. I first walk around searching, then start to dash as panic sets in. If I'm late for my act, Crepsley will... Threaten to spank you again? jeers the voice in my head.
"Excuse me," I say, lightly clasping a bird-like feathered woman by the elbow as she walks past. "Can you tell me - ?"
She gives an honest-to-God squawk, jerks out of my grasp, and scampers.
I stare after her incredulously. "Well, fuck," I mutter. "That'll teach me to sneak up on people."
The next two people I run into maliciously give me wrong directions. I get so flustered after running into my third dead end, I finally break down and summon my vampire hearing. Every sound surges into clarity, a whole cacophony that I struggle to make sense of: instruments and voices and bangs and clatters and clapping and a jaunty little flute practicing scales - there!
I follow the sound of the flute, shaking off the hunger pangs from using my powers, and wind up in front of a miffed Crepsley a few minutes later. "You're late," he grouches. The mumble of his voice doesn't carry to the queued up performers, dressed in their full show attire and talking softly amongst themselves.
"Sorry," I reply. "I got turned around."
He merely grunts in a displeased way, tugging me out of the way of a green-scaled boy carrying a large boa constrictor. "Ladies and gentlemen, Evra Von, the Snake Boy!" triumphs Mr. Tall's grand voice.
"We're next," Crepsley informs. He reaches into his pocket and draws out a cageless Madam Octa. "Hold her," he commands casually, shoving the large spider at me.
"Whoa!" I cry, trying to take the arachnid without touching her excessively. She skitters ticklishly around on my palms, and I struggle not to instinctively drop her to the floor. I look up to notice Crepsley staring pointedly at my chest. Just as I begin to flagellate him indignantly, Madam Octa clambers up my arm and into my cleavage, slightly prickly. I tense like a tree, staring down my dress as the spider stares back up, clearly more at ease than I with the arrangement.
"Try not to jostle her," Crepsley warns with a dangerous wink.
"You disturb me," I inform him, deadpan.
He just smirks, and damn, that's not fair. "Here, for you." He holds out a vial of red liquid from his pocket.
Instantly, my mouth starts to water. Even as my attention zeroes in on the blood vial, it expands to sense all the eyes watching the two of us, judging me. Blood slut. Harlot. If I go for this blood in front of them, I'm doomed to a life of exclusion.
"I'm good," I clear my throat, averting my gaze. "Not hungry."
Crepsley give me a stern look. "This standoff has to end eventually, Adrienne," he growls.
My eyes flash with defiance and my mouth opens to rejoin, but suddenly, Evra is slithering (pun intended) past us and Mr. Tall's voice booms, "And now, the amazing Larten Crepsley - "
Wait a minute, is he going to...?
" - Madam Octa - "
Holy shit, don't tell me...
" - and Adrienne Starr!" Fuck, if I wasn't deathly pale, I'd be beet red. An uncomfortable tingle of nerves crawls my spine.
Crepsley glances over his shoulder at the break in the curtains, then back at me as he stormily pockets the vial. "This isn't over." And with that, his arm snakes around my waist, grasping me firmly to him, and we flit in a dazzling blur out onto the stage. My squeak of shock is drowned out by the applause.
The lights are blinding for a split second, during which the vampire disentangles from me and sweeps a charismatic bow to the shadowed audience. I manage to curtsy in my short skirt, but it distinctly lacks the swagger of my mentor.
A pounding sound starts in my ears, and I realize it's my pulse. Shit, I'm stiff as a board, a deer in the headlights. I can hear Crepsley speaking muffledly, distantly, like he's underwater. It is sheer instinct that flings my arms up, highlighting the empty cage as Crepsley whips the sheet off to 'find' it empty.
The vampire plays disconcerted well. "Uh-oh," he mutters, just loud enough to be heard by the audience.
I zone out again after dropping my arms. There must be a couple hundred people beyond the pool of light we stand in: watching, judging. I'm unnerved by the scrutiny of so many strangers.
Crepsley's exclamation of horror brings me back, and I find Madam Octa has made herself known, clinging to my bodice front. I lock up with a high degree of natural fear. The spider is flicking her front four legs up, hissing with quiet ferocity just under my chin.
Shit, what if this isn't part of the act? We certainly didn't rehearse it! I thought 8-legs and I had an understanding! What if Crepsley was blowing smoke about controlling the poisonous spider mentally?
"Miss Adrienne, just remain calm," Crepsley soothes nervously. "I have a solution." Slowly, eyeing the primed spider like a loaded gun, he pulls his flute from his sleeve and brings it to his lips. A single sweet, pure note rings out, and Madam Octa does a hateful little dance on my decolletage. I actually whimper in fear, thoroughly convinced.
Crepsley motions to the crowd placatingly, as a few have echoed my whimper, wets his lips and tries again. This time, Octa sways in place a bit, like she's not completely convinced.
A loud BANG! from backstage makes me jump hard, half-whirling before I realize what I've done. The curtain behind us flutters, and my sensitive ears pick out a mean couple of mean chuckles from the darkness beyond the red velvet. My eyes narrow. Someone's playing a dirty trick on me. If Madam Octa gets startled, despite Crepsley's control, I could wind up dead!
There are people at this Cirque who literally wish me harm!
I'm panicking inside, eyes wide. What if I unintentionally summon scarves of light in front of all these people? What if I air my beyond-freakishness out of sheer terror? I remember fear being a trigger, and hunger only helping it. Right now, I have both in spades.
Crepsley blows a low, serene note. Over the flute, his eyes are urging me to stillness. He knows, too. The first bars of Octa's favorite song ring out at half-speed, clearly spinning a web of their own around the anxiously creeping spider. And slowly, bit by bit, I can sense the arachnid come back under full control. Crepsley speeds the tune up, and the spider begins to wander over my body in a pattern similar to rehearsal.
BANG! The sound makes me flinch mightily, but I manage to stymie my turn. Octa waggles at my hip, confused as Crepsley's control and song falters for a split second. The vampire brings her back to order, and she continues to spin my dress.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the lurching form of Mr. Tall sidle backwards through the curtain. If I weren't so terrified, I might be able to summon my super ears to find out who he's laying into. When he emerges a moment later, shaking his head surreptitiously at Crepsley, I know the pranksters have vanished.
Crepsley nods slightly in acknowledgement, still playing, and starts adding little riffs to the end of each stanza. I dare not look down at the agitated spider, but I can feel her imitating the little riffs in her design.
With a flourish, the flute drops from Crepsley's lips. Madam Octa crawls to the top of my head as Crepsley grabs my hand, conducting me into a spin as the audience applauds wildly. I sneak a glance down and find this dress even more beautiful than the last: little rosettes dot the overskirt, line the hem, trace my bodice.
Crepsley's hold on my hand is bone dry, firmly leading. It occurs to me it's the most physical contact I've had in days. He gives a squeeze of warning, then sweeps a low bow. I catch on in time to curtsy, my free hand swishing my improved skirt.
Mr. Tall strides onto stage as we back through the curtain, giving us a grand sendoff.
I immediately jerk my hand out of Crepsley's, a sob wracking my chest. "Get her off, please!" I beg.
Crepsley removes the placid spider, caging her away. "Adrienne, it was just a - "
"These people hate me!" I snarl. Turning on my heel, I blindly stumble past the queued up performers, somehow finding my way out of the tent and into the cool night air.
"Adrienne, stop!" Crepsley commands, exiting behind me.
I do as bade, but my tears catch up with me, and my fists clench. "I don't belong here," I declare forlornly.
My mentor's feet come into my view. His tone is not sympathetic. "If freaks offend you in some way - "
"No!" I shout, getting in his face. "Apparently, I offend them! If you weren't utterly blind, you'd see just how much they despise me!"
He pauses, his ignorance lifting. "You're a stranger to them."
"Someone might have gotten me spider-bit, and you defend them?! Ever since I stepped foot into this camp, I've heard them whispering nasty things about me." I bury my face in my hands, agonized. "I can't do this. I can't live here."
My mentor hardens. "Our bargain - "
"Says nothing about me living in a hostile environment." I shove past him, blearily stalking towards the woods.
"Adrienne, stop right there!" He comes up beside me. "If you will just give it time..."
"NO!" I yell. "My bargain is with you, and you alone!" I turn the full bore of my anguish on him. "I will keep my promise, and all it entails. But I will not be around these people."
His jasper eyes search mine, damnably inscrutable. If he forces me to stay here, to live under this persecution, I will never forgive him. After a long minute of staring me down as I cry, he finally gives a curt nod.
Relief and unbearable sadness flood me in equal measures. "You know where I'll be," I say hoarsely, backing away a few paces before turning and running at top speed through the waving grass meadow, and into the woods.