Chapter Seventy-Six
The flames rose from a disk at the base of the cage.
Syaoran took a deep breath as the flames began to crawl up the oiled bars, knowing he'd need every bit of oxygen he could get if wanted to survive this nightmare. Despite the situation, he felt strangely calm.
The flames spread slowly out and up the spherical cage, not close enough to consume him, but giving off such heat that he felt like he was trapped in an oven. The taste of smoke tainted the air. The audience cheered, oblivious to his discomfort.
He clutched the metal screw close to his chest, folding his wings as the fire licked at their tips. Wherever you are, he thought, images of Sakura's face flashing through his mind. I will find you again.
For as much oil as the crew had doused the cage in, the fire crawled along quite slowly. Almost ten seconds after the first flames had sprouted near his feet, the tips of the flames still only licked at the halfway point. Too slow, he thought, taking another careful breath. I'm going to get smothered before they reach the top.
"Little Wolf!" someone yelled. The voice was so strained, he didn't recognize it. It wasn't until the words themselves sunk in that he realized who was calling. He turned to the voice.
Beyond the wall of orange, Seishirou stood. The flames reflected in his glass eye, but the other one conveyed only terror. Syaoran watched him for a moment, then turned away.
That's right, he thought. Seishirou will help me. Everything will be fine. He blinked, trying to dispel the prickling discomfort in his eyes caused by the smoke.
The rumble of the audience drowned out any further cries. Syaoran watched the fire ascend past the halfway mark, then continue its steady crawl up the cage. The air around him wavered with a heat mirage.
Syaoran discovered vampires could feel heat a lot more clearly than they could feel cold.
Sweat dripped down his arms, falling to the metal plate below. Where the droplets fell, they turned into steam.
Everything around him was hot now, and he cringed at the thought of trying to touch the metal lever at his feet. I'll give myself severe burns if I touch any part of this cage, he thought. But if I don't get out, I'll die. Is this how the ringmaster chooses his subjects? Does he judge them based on whether they choose to maim themselves in this contraption for this circus? Is this just another form of entertainment for him?
No more. I won't allow this to happen to someone else.
He tried to breathe, but the air was so stifling, it felt as if there was no oxygen. Maybe there isn't. Maybe the fire is using it all up.
The flames reached eye level. Through them, he saw Seishirou fighting off a dozen strongmen. Syaoran could see the dark-haired man was trying not to kill them, but also the haste in his motions, the strain in his features.
Seishirou would not make it in time.
His body was starting to feel the lack of oxygen. Grey smudges swarmed the edges of his vision, and his muscles began to go limp without his permission. Some survival instinct prompted him to get as low to the ground as possible, where there might be some small pocket of oxygen beneath the smoke and fire. The shift brought little relief.
My life has always been filled with storms and fire, he reflected. From the moment I fell into Clow Country, my existence has been jeopardized and rejected. I have never known safety or security. I have never known a life where I didn't have to fear imprisonment or isolation. I have never been free. But I will not die a caged bird.
He tilted his head up, to look at the ceiling of the cage. The tongues of flame were just starting to nip at the metal circle on top. Is it enough to release the latch? he wondered, biting his lip. If I pull it too soon, I'll only burn my hand. But if I wait . . .
Orange and yellow overtook everything around him. Some say the world will end in fire, he thought. He'd read a poem with that line, once . . .
In his right hand rested the metal bolt. Compared to the blistering heat of the air, it was blessedly cool. I have to get this back to her, he thought. No matter what.
There was no more time to waste waiting for the wall of fire to rise. Syaoran bent down, looking for the latch. He found it, and paused only half a second as he decided to use his left hand instead of his right. I'll need my sword hand if I survive, after all.
The metal was hotter than the air. His first impulse when his skin encountered the mechanism was to yank his hand away. But logic dictated that doing so would only prolong his agony. So, skin blistering, he pulled up on the glowing handle.
The cage itself seemed to buckle, and any logic that remained to him yielded to panic as the floor disappeared underneath him. He crashed down, skin peeling free from the lever and leaving his hand raw and burned. It wasn't until he tasted oxygen that his terror receded.
He lay in the dirt under the stage for almost half a minute, gasping like a dying koi. Fierce pain crippled his hand when he tried to flex his burned fingers. Even through the chaos, he heard the crowd cheering. Their phoenix has flown the coop, he thought irrationally, dragging another breath through his lips.
"You did good," a voice said. Syaoran looked up to see Brinowy's smiling face above him. "Now come back up on stage and take a bow."
"My hand—"
"Take a bow first, then we'll take care of it."
The promise of relief was too tantalizing to pass up, even with the delay. He got to his feet, bumping his head on the stage above him. Brinowy took him by his upper arm and led him to a trapdoor. "Make sure the whole crowd sees you, then walk just past the concessions stands. The medics will be waiting."
"Okay." He hoisted himself through the trapdoor—not an easy task with one hand burned, and the other clutching a piece of metal. The crowd roared at his appearance.
Just take a bow, he thought, stooping down to make the appropriate gesture. He did his best to keep his blistered hand out of sight.
"And The Phoenix Boy rises from the ashes!" the ringmaster called, grabbing him by his right wrist and lifting it up in a gesture of victory. "A wonderful end to a wonderful performance! Thank you all for coming, and I sincerely hope you never forget the spectacle you witnessed tonight."
The crowd cheered again, rising from their seats in exalted applause. Syaoran stood there as long as he could bear, then stepped away from the ringmaster. I'll deal with you later, he thought, as he walked offstage.
Seishirou had just finished felling the strongmen. A few people who'd been nearby when the fight had broken out were staring at the dark-haired man, but most had been too occupied watching the burning cage. As soon as his teacher saw him, he abandoned the unconscious bodies and ran up to him.
"I'm fine," Syaoran said quickly. It was only half a lie.
For once, Seishirou appeared at a total loss. His hair was disheveled, his golden eyes wild. He spoke not a word as the emotion seeped out of his expression.
A group of girls—many of them among the women who'd applied his makeup—trotted over to them, bearing bandages and cylinders of salve. "For your burns," Erii told him, unscrewing the cap of one of the tubes. Syaoran extended his hand gratefully. "You did good."
Syaoran sighed as the cool gel spread out across his burn. The pain faded so fast it almost didn't seem real.
"Is it safe to stay here?" Seishirou finally asked.
"No, but I have business with the ringmaster."
The other vampire looked at him as if he were crazy, then let loose a shaky laugh. "You scared me, Little Wolf. I didn't know you had an escape plan."
One of the women wound bandages around his hand. He thanked her, then returned his attention to his teacher. "There's something I have to do. I can't die until I accomplish it."
"Can't and won't are two very different concepts, Syaoran."
He shrugged. "Not in my case."
"Since you were part of the show, you're allowed to come back and relax with us," Brinowy said, approaching from the stage. Her brown eyes slid over to Seishirou. "You, too."
Seishirou looked at him for some signal. Syaoran nodded. "That would be divine," his teacher said, grinning.
They were brought to the restricted part of the tent, where the acrobats and fire-dancers came to relax after a performance. Liquor was distributed in vast quantities. Syaoran refused everything he was offered. He'd need a clear head for the next part.
The party went well into the night, until most of the performers had either passed out on the ground or staggered to their rooms to sleep. When everything was quiet, Syaoran slipped out and went to the ringmaster's room, shadowed by Seishirou.
The ringmaster was still awake, if slightly inebriated. His performance clothes lay discarded by his bed, all except for his shirt, which hung delicately from a hook in the wall. "Excellent show tonight," he said.
"I'm glad you enjoyed it," Syaoran said stiffly. "It was nearly a disaster."
"Yes, but that's the best kind of performance. Real danger is so much more interesting to watch than parlor tricks. Besides, I knew you would pull through."
Syaoran advanced another step, keeping calm as he summoned his sword. "I'm told you do this to test all your new recruits."
"Oh yes," the ringmaster said. Syaoran brought a wall up around his thoughts, ready to block the man if he tried to hypnotize him.
"And what happens to the performers who don't escape in time? Do you let them go, or do they simply burn to death?"
The man smiled knowingly. "If you're asking, you must know the answer."
Seishirou barked out a laugh. "You're almost as cryptic as I am."
Syaoran advanced another step. "Is that normal for this world? Killing others for entertainment?"
"There have been a great many cultures where games of death were held for fun. What I do is nothing new."
"I see." Syaoran tilted his blade so it reflected his face back at him. His eyes were brown. Tranquil. Controlled.
The ringmaster died quickly, impaled on his sword with little ceremony. The blade pierced the thick muscle of his heart. As soon as Syaoran withdrew it, the blood ran free, and he toppled forward.
For one second, Syaoran saw what he thought might've been a flash of fear on the man's face. But he would not have bet on it.
He licked the blood off his sword. No sense wasting a potential meal, even if he was still full from Cirrus. Then he went and plucked the feather from the colorful shirt. He didn't even have to cut the threads; the feather fell free at the slightest tug.
"We can go now," he said, bringing the feather inside his body.
Seishirou nodded. They left.
Once they were well past the red and yellow stripes of the circus tent, Seishirou asked him something. "Why did you kill him?"
"For Brinowy," Syaoran answered. His teacher looked at him oddly, and he explained. "That woman with the brown hair, who invited us to the back of the tent, after the show. She was the ringmaster's mistress."
"Won't she be rather torn up that he's dead?"
"Maybe," Syaoran allowed. After a moment, he said, "But she deserves better than him."
Seishirou looked at him for a long moment, not smiling for once. "Do you want your pills now?"
"I'd like that."
His mentor handed him the orange bottle. Syaoran popped one pill into his mouth and swallowed. Whatever it takes to keep the nightmares away. He returned the pill bottle, then put his hands in his pockets. They'd returned his clothes during the party, enabling him to abandon the gaudy outfit they'd put him in.
His fingers found the metal bolt and closed around it.
Whatever it takes to keep the nightmares away.