Page 53 of Starfall

Ari

“ E lias!” I hissed, sprinting after, thinking of the soul bond when he obviously had forgotten. I swerved to the right, eluding a couple dressed as a star maiden and raven, and crept into the warm embrace of the gathering onlookers.

I couldn’t let him think like that. It was unacceptable.

Elias might have hurt people and lied for his boss, but he’d been forced to carry out Darren’s actions because he feared for his own safety. He was a victim, too.

It was no wonder he kept his past close to his chest.

An older man sporting a long white jacket that brushed the ground stood front and center upon a raised stage three feet in height.

He had a thick beard, patches of white blotting out patches of reddish-blond hair.

He possessed a knowing smile, his shrewd green eyes sparkling as he surveyed the circle of guests gazing up at him in anticipatory wonder.

In his weathered hands, he held a single raven feather, which he twirled incessantly as more and more people shoved inside, keen to see what otherworldly magic he’d bring to their evenings.

I couldn’t make out Elias anywhere, which was astonishing, given his immense stature.

Then again, it was exceptionally dark, and only a few lamps hung from the wooden beams above my head.

The inside of the tent had been painted black, and heavy red curtains draped from each rafter, giving the impression of the darkness closing in, of death itself squeezing the life from your lungs.

I startled when the entertainer clapped his hands, urging the enthusiastic audience to hush.

Several patrons blocked me in, a full skirt of feathers tickling my arms, a man wearing dangerously pointed shells standing on my other side.

My search for Elias would have to pause until I could actually move more than a few inches.

I recalled why I hated crowds. Even now, my throat tightened.

“They say that the feather of a violet-eyed raven brings you closer to the dead. That by merely holding it, you can whisper to the departed, even if you can’t see them with your own eyes.

” The entertainer looked around the room, landing on me last. He lingered for a beat too long, a single reddish-blond brow lifting.

“But pray tell, what do you think might happen if one possessed hundreds of these enchanted feathers? If you were to combine them all in one place with the help of a very talented seer, such as myself?”

The crowd of nymphs, ravens, sprites, and star maidens murmured, a bubbling excitement taking hold.

As the whispering continued and people turned to gossip with their companions, I found a window of open space to slip into.

I passed hazardous costumes and their owners as I made my way to the front of the crowd.

There, I’d have a better chance of spotting Elias.

He certainly wouldn’t get off easily once I got my hands on him.

I winced when the performer brought his fingers to his lips and let out a shrill whistle.

The hairs on my arms raised as a gusting wind burst through the flaps and into the space, the scent of rot permeating the room.

People yelped as the icy breeze ruffled skirts and knocked off some of their elaborate headpieces, but the wind blustered past them, aiming for the stage like it had been summoned.

It wrapped around the man and his long jacket, puffing up his coat’s hem and elaborate sleeves.

He laughed, holding out his arms as a shower of midnight feathers fluttered down from overhead. I tilted my chin, searching for a hidden assistant, but there was no silhouette lurking in the rafters dropping the feathers; they had just appeared . Out of thin air .

The audience devoured the impressive display, clapping frantically as the man twirled around and gave a dramatic bow. I couldn’t fault his smug grin.

“Ah, ah!” He held up a finger. “Don’t get too excited just yet.

There’s more.” He bent down to pluck one of the hundreds of feathers coating the stage’s floor.

Bringing it to his nose, he inhaled deeply, his lids fluttering wildly.

“Penelope,” he intoned with all the practice of a true showman.

“Who lost someone named Penelope? Penny, perhaps?”

A choked shriek came from my right. A woman shoved to the stage, her chest heaving as she peered up with heartening tears in her eyes.

She wore a long black dress that blanketed most of her body, a checkered red handkerchief clutched securely in her hands.

She held it out, revealing the looping ‘ Penny’ stitched on the fabric’s corner.

“I lost my daughter two weeks ago,” she said somberly, her voice cracking. “Is it her? Please tell me it’s her.”

My breathing grew strained as her grief saturated the room.

I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose a child.

I’d witnessed enough pain through the dreams of parents who had, and it destroyed me every time I entered their minds and couldn’t ease their suffering.

Seeing this woman, so desperate for a connection to her daughter, had me praying against all hope that this man wasn’t a fraud.

Dropping into a crouch, the performer held out the feather he’d plucked. “Take it,” he instructed, and the woman’s knees nearly gave out. “Your daughter is calling to you, just like so many others call to their loved ones from beyond the veil.”

With trembling hands, she accepted the feather and held on to it for dear life. Tears dripped from her eyes, her face a painting of sorrow.

I nearly forgot about searching for Elias when the feather disintegrated inch by inch.

The audience sucked in a collective breath as a cloud of ash bloomed in the feather’s place, the dust rising in front of the weeping mother’s eyes.

She let out a scream and stumbled back, caught by two kind audience members who held her up.

“It’s her!” she said, pointing a finger in the stage’s direction where the ash moved. It shifted, slowly changing into the outline of a face. Sweat banded my brow when the features of a pretty young woman took shape.

The audience panicked, most gasping and pointing at the spectacle, but the woman advanced, drawn by her daughter’s image imprisoned in the mysterious cloud.

“It’s truly you,” she said, running her hand over the swirling ash. It shuddered in answer before the younger woman’s cheeks lost the deathly gray, a warm tan spreading over her face, color returning to her features.

The mother whispered something into the apparition’s ears, and the daughter’s eerie smile broadened.

“Only the dead speak in this tent,” the performer announced as the woman shared a private moment with the child she lost far too soon.

“Those who have passed on are eager to say their goodbyes, to say all the things they couldn’t speak in life.

It has been my most humble mission to deliver such messages.

” People tossed coins onto the stage, and the man smiled broadly as his pockets grew stuffed with gold.

His humble mission . He was getting rich off people’s pain, parading about as a savior when he charged a fee.

He picked up another feather, this one frayed and worn. “Hmm.” He twisted the stem, his eyes narrowing. “A father. A husband. He hailed from the north, and his heart forever lies in the open woods. Has someone lost a father here?”

No one spoke.

The man turned to face the other side of the crowd. “Jonah. His name was Jonah,” he said, his pitch rising.

A body thrust forward, nearly sending a couple of sprites onto their backs.

Elias?

“Is he calling to you, young man?” the performer asked, lowering his tone, making it seem soft and sympathetic. The Elias I knew would have scoffed at the display, but he stood slack-jawed, his body inching closer as though drawn by an invisible string.

The man placed the feather in Elias’s hand, closing his callused fingers around it.

Smoke curled up from his loose fist, floating into the air before him. Elias swayed in place as it spun, the cloud shifting to produce the top half of a lean man, his smile matching Elias’s.

Elias made a strangled sound that I felt deep within my chest. “F-father?” He spoke in a hesitant whisper, a hopeful plea.

The masses raised their hands to whisper, and I heard Bloody Fist murmured several times. They all knew who he was by reputation, and they stoically watched as he lost himself to what had to be his most painful loss.

“I-I’m so sorry,” Elias said, his jaw clenched impossibly tight. From my position, I saw the back of the apparition’s head. “I just watched. I did nothing.” I could hear the sorrow aching to be released, but Elias held it back, staring at the fog like it held the answers to the universe.

“Forgive yourself,” a song of a voice said, seeming to come from above our heads. The wind hissed, and the apparition shuddered. “It wasn’t your fault. Never was.”

Elias visibly tensed before twisting to the performer, a tangible rage darkening his eyes. “This has to be some trick,” he snapped. “Some sort of illusion.”

I wasn’t sure what I believed, but if it was a trick, the performer was due to have a chat with me. In private. Still, the apparitions had appeared so lifelike, that I wondered…

“No, I assure you, it is not a trick, dear boy.” The older man, probably sensing Elias’s growing anger, hastily glanced about the stage for another feather, hoping to shift the focus from the scowling fighter with bloodlust in his eyes.

I was about to run to Elias when the performer’s practiced voice rang out.

“Don’t run away, little star. It’s your turn.”

I froze.

Little star . That was what Xavier called me.

A rush of adrenaline chilled my blood. Prancing about the stage, the man combed through the piles until he produced a feather with a golden sheen .