Page 13 of The Sin Eater (Carnival of Mysteries #27)

Ezra

Grandma always said I was too ornery for my own good.

I tell myself that going out to dinner with Damon was a mistake.

And I lie like a rug . He’s fucking gorgeous, he can hold up his end of a conversation, and I can’t wait to get those big strong hands all over my body.

I’ve stopped warning myself to stay away from him.

The ending’s going to suck so I’m determined to enjoy the ride.

But a carnival? Da fuck is he even thinking?

I’m going along with it, though, which makes me just as crazy as he is.

On Thursday morning, he’s later than usual. He rolls in with my coffee right before I’m ready to leave for lunch. “‘Bout time,” I say, trying to sound like I’m joking. He grins, so I must have hit the mark.

“Jesus, Z. Were you raised by wolves?” Geneva’s muttered grumble travels from her work station just fine.

“Maybe,” I shoot back. I accept the paper cup of goodness from Damon and manage a gruff, “Thanks.”

“No problem. We had a scene on the rehab floor that sucked up most of my morning.” He raises his cup and I tap it with mine.

His hair is shorter than yesterday and slicked back to show off his awesome cheekbones.

At no point in history were his polyester uniform shirt and trousers anything close to fashion.

I stare into my coffee to keep from drooling.

The ugly can’t disguise the breadth of his shoulders and his thick thighs.

My internal temperature rises and I sip my cappuccino to cover my momentary fluster.

“My sister learned something that might interest you,” he says, leaning against the counter closest to the door. “It doesn’t look like the cops are going to do much to figure out who your cadaver killed.”

Geneva spins her office chair around. “What are you talking about?”

Down, girl .“Remember when the cops got that anonymous tip about the guy who died in the ICU?” I wave her off and turn back to Damon. “I’m not surprised, though.”

He shrugs and takes another sip of coffee. “They don’t have the resources to deal with living murderers.”

“I did some digging, too. Of all the James Smiths living in Seattle, only two who were the right age, and only one who died recently.”

“That must be our guy.” Damon’s smile raises my temperature even higher.

“Figured.” My voice is a little breathy. “It’d be nice if we could come up with a timeline for where he lived and when. I just wish we had something... anything about the victim.” Besides what she looked like when she died.

Fortunately, Geneva jumps in before I can spill anything more. “What, Z, the cops won’t investigate, so you’re going to solve the crime?”

I’m so tempted to say something rude, which is why it’s good Damon answered her. “Why not? Be nice if we could.”

My answering eye roll is automatic. “Or something.”

“Why?” Geneva has a knack for asking the obvious question.

I can’t say because she’ll haunt me if we don’t . This whole conversation is like tap-dancing through land mines, and I’m grateful when Damon saves me again. “So we can send it to a true crime podcast and live in the reflected glory.”

“Oooh.” Her mouth makes a perfect ‘ O ‘. “Do you ever listen to that one podcast where they talk about murder and drink wine? That’s my favorite.”

“I would never have guessed,” I say dryly. “You seemed like more of a crime junkie to me.”

She gives me a glare that’s probably supposed to make me shut up. Instead, it makes me laugh.

“To be honest”—Damon keeps us from getting any further off topic—”I’ve heard of Wine and Crime . Are there others you like?”

Within seconds, he’s got his phone out and Geneva starts rattling off a list of names I’ll never remember.

I’d be jealous—okay, I am a tiny bit jealous—but I’m not much into podcasts, so I sip my coffee and distract myself by admiring the bulge in Damon’s biceps and the way his smile is sincere without being creepy.

We’re interrupted by Dr. Chen, who comes through the door with a bag from the Brew and, apparently, a bee in her bonnet.

As the Head of Pathology for the hospital, she’s our boss, and when she says, “We don’t have any cases for this afternoon, so I want you to give everything a thorough cleaning,” Geneva and I both jump.

Damon says he’ll text me and takes off, and I spend the rest of my shift inventorying sterile supplies and wondering what the hell we’re going to do at a carnival.

I have to wait until Saturday afternoon to find out.

Damon picks me up in an older Toyota Prius, one that smells way too much like perfume to be a guy’s car.

The graduation tassel hanging from the rearview mirror could be his, although the thread is looped around a plastic ring studded with fake diamonds.

Between the ring and the smell, I poke at him a little and he admits, “My sister bought it when she was clerking for a judge on the East Side. Now that she’s working downtown, it mostly sits in our parking stall. ”

I inhale, catching traces of his warm masculine scent. Penance is over, baby, and I want to bury myself deep enough to find the musk underneath the surface. “Didn’t think you were that into roses.”

“I’ll never tell.” Laughing, he takes a right on Broadway toward the freeway. We pass one poor soul who’s bent from the waist in a classic fentanyl fold, the goths and street kids walking past him without comment. I guess if he’s on his feet, he must be alive.

“I’m glad you’re dressed warm,” Damon says, pulling my attention back to the interior of the vehicle.

I raise a gloved hand. “I’m still not convinced you’re not punking me.”

“I’m not.” He shows me the gloves he’s got stuffed in his pocket without taking his eyes off the road. “Although I’ll admit that this might have been Jett’s idea.”

“Oh my fucking god,” I groan. “Seriously? I’m not sure I’d take Jett’s advice on anything besides coffee and donuts.”

“They don’t sell donuts.”

I roll my eyes. “Can I smoke in here?”

“No.” There’s a chuckle under that one firm word and the combination makes me want to pant like a dog. The things this man does to me.

Flustered, I fish around in my pocket and pull out an emergency Dum-Dum. “I’d offer to share but I only got one.”

“Knock yourself out.”

Keeping my mouth busy helps calm my nerves, at least until he goes and asks me why I smoke. “Isn’t vaping safer?”

“That’s between me and my god,” I say.

His gaze slides in my direction. “I thought you didn’t believe in God.”

“Keep your eyes on the road.” I do not want to get into this here and now. Talking about God, or worse, telling him I smoke so I’ll find an early grave, will not get me laid.

He takes the hint and between hospital gossip and James Smith, we fill the time on the way out to Marymoor Park.

Safe topics. Nothing too personal. I don’t even bring up Dorothy May.

If I’d wanted to show off my classic ride, we could have taken her out for a spin.

I don’t let just anybody ride in Dorothy May, and I’m not quite ready to admit Damon is more than anybody.

Sure. Keep telling yourself that, dumbass .

It’s dark enough that Damon’s driving with his headlights on, even though it’s just after four p.m. When we cross Lake Washington, the clouds hang so low it’s hard to tell where they end and the water begins.

Traffic’s not too bad and we roll into Marymoor Park without having run out of things to say.

The park’s right off 520, though we wind around one of the Lake Sammamish Parkways to get to the parking lot, which has a few open spaces.

And right there, sure as shit, is a carnival.

There are some tennis courts near the parking lot, and past them what looks like baseball diamonds. The carnival itself is on what are probably soccer fields. “Wonder how they got permits for that?”

Damon climbs out of the car, shaking his head. It’s raining—of course it’s raining—the kind of tiny droplets that seep down under your clothes no matter how well-wrapped you are. I shiver in anticipation, and not in a good way.

Most of my attention, though, is on the entrance to the carnival.

There’s an archway lit by bands of neon, with a ticket box on one side.

Everything behind it is covered in shadows, which is more than a little creepy.

There’s movement in the darkness, and there are a few people in line at the ticket box, so I stifle my doubts and follow Damon to the line.

When it’s our turn, we’re greeted by a young woman with an eyepatch and a ruffled blouse straight out of some pirate fantasy.

She grins, showing off a black front tooth, and asks us for ten dollars each.

Damon hands her a twenty, and with her head at a different angle, it’s obvious her tooth might not just be black.

She might have an actual gap where her front tooth should be.

Or maybe I’m freaking out for no good reason. The closer we get to the threshold between the parking lot and... whatever’s going on in there, the weirder the vibe is. I cross my arms, rubbing from shoulder to elbow.

“You okay?” Damon asks. The raindrops sprinkled in his hair glitter under the arch’s neon.

“We can still back out. I’ll pay you back for the admission.”

His grin makes it plain that he has all his teeth, and somehow that comforts me. “Come on. This’ll be fun.”

He takes my hand and gives me a little tug. I don’t resist—much—then give in to the path of least resistance. This carnival thing is the fastest way for us to be rubbin’ bellies, so let’s get ‘er done.

Just like that, we’re through the archway and into...

A much warmer place. One with no rain, and a source of light that I can’t find. It’s not daylight, exactly, but it’s a fuckton brighter than it was outside. And warm. Warm . That’s the thing that surprises me most. I exhale, suffused with a feeling of... safety.

“This ain’t normal.”

“What do you mean?” Damon pulls off his gloves, his smile breaking into a laugh. “It’s like that Meow Wolf installation I went to in Vegas. We’re obviously in some kind of building and this is all... art.”

“You’ve lost your damn mind,” I mutter, half-convinced I should try to escape. Vague feelings of safety only go so far, and this place is weird as fuck.

We’re interrupted by the tallest dude I’ve seen in a good long while, and while some of his height could be attributed to his top hat, those long legs contribute their fair share.

“Welcome, Travelers, to the greatest show in the multiverse!” he says.

“Prepare yourself to witness sights that will amaze and delight, intrigue and terrify! Forget all that you think you know about what is possible and give yourself over to the wonders of the Carnival of Mysteries! I’m your Ringmaster, Rafe Harper, and I will tell you of all the amazing acts we’ve brought to entertain you today! ”

His eyes are dark, his accent’s straight outa some black-and-white movie, and his red jacket with gold trim fits his big frame like a glove. Handsome as a movie star and creepy as fuck; there’s something about Rafe the Ringmaster that sets my teeth on edge.

He gives me a look that’s halfway to an invasion of privacy and puts his hand on my shoulder. “You were right, cousin. This is a safe place. Enjoy the midway and perhaps stop by Madam Persephone’s tent. You, sir”—he points at Damon—”might well benefit from her wisdom.”

He leaves us standing there like a couple of fools until Damon takes my hand again. His touch helps anchor me, making it possible for me to find a smile. “Come on,” I say without sounding too freaked out. “We’re here. We might as well check things out.”