What the cat dragged in

[Marek]

Their trailer felt too full tonight, too loud with the clatter of Tereza's annoyance and Sámiel's disruptions. The conversation about the sisters didn't sit right with him either; the Caravan looked after its own, and disappearing without a trace was just another line that could snap. When lines started to snap, the whole thing collapsed.

He moved toward the big top, the main tent, its silhouette a looming, familiar beast against the low, starless sky. The rest of the carnival was half-asleep, the muffled laughter from the firepit near the Ferris wheel distant. Marek preferred this quiet. He preferred the sound of bolts tightening to the sound of voices, and right now, the silence of the tent felt like an invitation to burn off extra energy.

He needed to check the main rigging again. Jaro had taught him to anchor the tent so it could outlast the weather, and with the wind picking up, the cables needed to be taut. Two years ago, when the storm tore through the Carnival, Jaro went up the central rigging to cut a tangled line. Lightning struck the mast, and by morning, Jaro was gone. Marek had simply taken his place, doing the work without saying he wanted the post. Now, he was the invisible skeleton holding the Carnival upright.

His muscles moved like machinery as he approached the mast. The cold night air didn't bite as deep through his worn work clothes, and the lingering scent of grease was a comfort. He reached out, his calloused hands finding the familiar hemp and steel. The rope felt slightly slack beneath his grip. Unacceptable.

He started the climb. It was second nature, a vertical walk up a familiar friend. Up here the faint sounds of the Carnival receded. He could feel the small vibrations of the wind in the lines, reading the weather like a book, just like Old Jaro could. Jaro had taught him everything, and sometimes, when Marek was tightening the ropes, he'd catch himself listening for Jaro's old whistle in the wind. He tightened the line with a practiced, powerful pull, testing the tension. It was perfect.

He heard the faint, distant sound then: a strange, high-pitched clamor, almost like a wail or an uncontrolled laugh, quickly swallowed by the night. It was too raw, too loud for the subdued evening quiet. It didn't sound like the merrymaking near the fire, but something wilder. He paused, his hands still gripping the cold cable. He knew that sound. It was Sámiel. And if that high, slightly deranged laughter was Sámiel, the other sound had to be Lalitha.

Lalitha.

The name itself was a tremor that ran through him. She was light and colorful, and he couldn't stop thinking about her, not in any gentle way. She made him feel both alive and sick.

He was high up now, peering out through a gap where the tent met the ground. He could see them, two figures in the half-light near the empty popcorn stand. They were moving, spinning, their limbs a chaotic, beautiful blur against the shadows. It was a dance, but not a graceful one; it was manic, consuming, almost a fight against the cold ground.

He watched Lalitha drop to the dirt, her body sprawling, and a tension of emotion strung Marek's muscles as taut as the tent cables; Sámiel standing over her. The wildness of the sound had gone, leaving an unnerving silence. Marek gripped the line harder, his knuckles white. He was nothing here, not handsome, not charming. Just the man who kept the ropes from slipping, the man who preferred the sound of tightening bolts to voices. He was the one who just watched, pretending he was fixing something when she passed.

He saw Sámiel drop down next to her, sharing the bottle. The sight was like a bolt of cold steel through his chest. He didn't understand that kind of carelessness, that easy intimacy of shared laughter and madness.

[Sámiel]

He lifted his head from the cold ground, the rush of blood momentarily dizzying. He let his gaze drift across her face, the way the inadequate carnival light caught the shine in her eyes, still high and wide with eagerness. Her hair was a wild tangle against the dirt.

He rolled from his back onto his side, settling close enough that the lingering scent of her mingled with the weed smoke clinging to him. He reached out, his serpent-tattooed finger finding the sweat-slicked hair near her temple, gently sweeping the strands back behind her ear, exposing the delicate curve of her neck. His movements were languid, almost impossibly slow, drawing out the moment.

He leaned in, his lips just brushing the cool skin of her ear, close enough for his breath to tickle. This was the point where the air grew thick, where the game tightened. He could feel her anticipation, the profound, the mystical, the word that would unlock him. She wanted a piece of his darkness.

He paused, letting the silence stretch, savoring the small, satisfying tremor he sensed in her stillness. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a full smile, but the barest hint of one. He took a shallow breath, holding the air in his lungs. Then, he finally whispered, his voice a husky rasp against the chill air: “The thing I call you, the thing I whisper to myself when you’re being most demanding… is ‘Colossal pain in the ass.’”

He pulled back just enough to watch her reaction, a flash of pure mischief in his eyes. The truth of his pet names the real ones, the ones that spoke to the strange, untethered thing she was to him was too precious, too potent to be tossed out like a drunken offering. She’d need to work harder than this. Getting him high was easy; truly getting a secret from Sámiel required more finesse, and certainly more sincerity.

He gave a genuine, soft chuckle, the sound settling around them in the dark.