Page 14 of The Sin Eater (Carnival of Mysteries #27)

Damon

T his is a-maz-ing.”

I survey what has to be the big top, a red-and-white striped circus tent that’s easily the width of a soccer field.

There are at least four smaller tents spread out in a row, with kiosks for games and food stands between them.

There are rides, too: a circle of spinning critters with googly eyes filled with laughing children, one of those swing things that twirls riders around until they’re parallel to the ground, and a Ferris wheel so high the roof of this place must be three stories, maybe four.

This has to be one of those art installations.

It’s completely cool and just a little odd, like someone’s trying to challenge my take on reality.

I interlace my fingers with Ezra’s, a little surprised at my own boldness, happy that he doesn’t seem to mind.

I point at the big top. “Let’s stick our heads in there. ”

A young man stands at the entrance, a doorway blocked by a canvas flap. “The Flying Galliers won’t begin for an hour, but in the next tent, you’ll be treated to a performance by Darius the Wonder Dog. Please enjoy.”

I smile and say thanks, impressed that someone so young could have such an old soul looking through his eyes. It’s a little like Ezra, if you substituted tortured for old . We keep walking until we reach a smaller green tent. There the flap door is held open by a rope, and we go in.

Three rows of bleachers line the walls, except for the gap at the entrance, and the ground beneath us is fine, soft dirt. “Setup and takedown must be a huge project.”

“Or not,” Ezra says. He’s twitchy, his gaze flicking from one spot to the next.

I squeeze his hand gently, hoping to calm him, though I’m not sure it helps.

His obvious discomfort makes me wonder what we’re even doing here.

One of those seemed like a good idea at the time things.

The setup is cool, and I really hope Ezra can relax and enjoy himself, or he’ll never go out with me again.

And that would suck.

There’s quite a crowd already: young and old, hippies and yuppies, families and singles who make up a cross section of Seattle.

Ezra and I walk along the edge of the floor until we find an empty spot at the top of the bleachers.

He climbs the stairs ahead of me and at the top, my hand falls naturally to the small of his back.

He doesn’t shake me off, exactly, more like slides away from my touch, and when we sit, he keeps his hands to himself.

Slow down, Clemens, or you’ll scare him off .

There are a few props at the center of the open space: a big red ball, a very narrow balance beam that’s a good couple feet off the ground, and a pile of brightly colored hoops of various sizes.

The lights dim and Ezra shifts in his seat, his elbow resting against my forearm.

Okay, so I haven’t scared him off yet. A spotlight comes on, accompanied by a drumroll, the light aimed at the center of the big open space.

A dog sits there, surveying the crowd like he’s some kind of royalty. “Welcome to this evening’s entertainment. Darius will surprise and delight you, along with his able assistant Stanley.”

The voice comes from everywhere at once, soothing, mellifluous, and a little eerie. A smattering of applause breaks out and I join in. Ezra doesn’t.

Darius the dog stands up and tilts his head.

He’s a golden lab or thereabouts, his coat so rich and thick it makes me want to pet him.

I realize I’m holding my breath, as if I’m anticipating something crazy.

Do dogs tap dance? Sing? Fly? There’s something about the vibe in this place that has me thinking anything is possible.

Trotting over to the red ball, Darius leaps, landing lightly on top of it without the thing squirting out from under him, which is sort of amazing. Ezra and I share a glance, and he shakes his head. “Gotta be some kind of AI thing,” I murmur.

He shakes his head again.

The dog stays on top of the ball, his plume of a tail wagging and then, well, he doesn’t tap dance, but he does start walking, which makes the ball roll.

He circles the tent, scanning the crowd like he’s looking for someone in particular.

On his second circle, he goes backward, then begins jumping on and off the ball in time with a rhythm the invisible drummer is beating.

Throws in a couple flips for good measure.

“Damn.”

The crowd around us is oohing and aahing, and the drumbeat speeds up. Matching it, the dog makes another circle, this time coming to a stop in front of a kid who looks like he’s about ten years old. Darius yips once, then a growling voice says, “Come help me with something.”

“Jesus, the PA in here is fantastic,” I murmur in Ezra’s ear. “That sounds like it came from the dog.”

“It did.” His terse words make me glance sideways at him. He’s leaning against me, his body tense, his jaw set.

I shift so I can put an arm around his shoulders. “Come on, dude, relax. It’s a mix of AI and computer-generated images.”

“Hmm.”

Is he enjoying himself? His tentative hum is less convincing than by the way his body softens.

Leaping off the ball, Darius runs over to the pile of hoops. He noses through them and comes up with one clamped in his jaw. The kid takes it and a man steps out of the shadows.

“Throw it to me,” the man says and after a moment’s hesitation, the kid does.

“Now catch it.” The man throws it back, and when the hoop is in the air, the dog jumps through it. Right through the middle. From a standstill. The hoop lands near the kid, who grabs it and tosses it back. Another jump. Another bull’s-eye.

This goes on for a while using different-sized hoops, the kid laughing, the crowd applauding, and the dog jumping. He never misses.

The kid goes back to his seat and Darius and the man moved to the balance beam, where Darius does a routine showing speed, agility, and a couple of flips like he’s a four-legged Simone Biles. The man asks if he’s tired and someone—the dog?—growls a “hell no.”

That makes Ezra jerk. “I’m gonna go get... um... “ He scrambles over me and is halfway to the dirt floor before I can respond.

I stand more slowly, apologizing to the other people in our row. Hunching so I’m not quite so tall and don’t block any views, I jog the perimeter till I get to the door. The whole way I’m wondering what I’ll do if Ezra’s not there.

Thank fuck he is. “Are you okay?” Yes, I sound like someone’s parent, and no, I don’t care.

“Yeah, that was... “ His voice trails off. “Let’s walk around some.”

He heads off in the direction of the entrance, though when he starts to veer toward the arch, I gently steer him the other way.

“Let’s get a snack.” I point to one of the kiosks.

It’s a small booth strung with a strip of LED lights tacked to the edge of the counter, the rainbow colors running an endless race, with matching rainbow fairy lights flickering behind the young server.

“What can I get you?” they ask.

I keep a hand on Ezra’s shoulder, nervous that he might try and take off like he did in the tent. I wouldn’t stop him if he really wanted to go. I just hope he won’t. “Are you hungry?” I ask him.

He peers at the tray of frosted cupcakes on the counter. “Do y’all have any whiskey?”

The server laughs, a friendly sound. “No. Mr. Ame doesn’t let us sell alcohol.”

“Too bad.”

I give his shoulder a squeeze. “We could split a cupcake.”

“We could do a lot of things.” He softens his sharp tone with a small grin. “But we can start with a cupcake.”

They sell coffee too, which is surprisingly good. We take our booty to one of the small tables that dot the area. The hubbub around us—laughing children and braying teen boys most prominently—fades once we’re seated.

“This place is weird as fuck.”

I hand Ezra the cupcake. “Have a bite. I think your blood sugar is low.”

He squints at me. “And you’ve been to medical school when?”

“Just eat.”

Somehow he manages to sneer with chocolate frosting on his lips.

“That dog was cool,” I say, still amazed by the tricks.

He shakes his head. “I knew you’d be a dog person.”

“What do you mean?” Surprised, I shift in my seat. Ezra doesn’t usually make observations like that.

He wipes the frosting away and sucks it off the tip of his finger, managing to be both coy and lewd as fuck. “You’re the kind of guy who’ll end up with a big house and a dog.”

“Someday.” I blink back the image of our crowded apartment, unable to deny his accuracy. “And you’re a cat person, for sure.”

Raising his paper cup of coffee, he laughs. “More like a honey badger.”

We both laugh, tapping our cups together. “We should go find the psychic before the big guy comes back to haunt us. Then we’ll know what your future will really be.”

I’m halfway through a big bite of cupcake, savoring the perfect balance of chocolate and sugar. Blink to get myself back in the moment. Chew and swallow. “You’re not going to let her tell your future?”

“Fuck no.” Most of the laughter fades from his voice. “The present is enough for me.”

He shuts down almost completely and it reminds me of when Geneva and I busted him praying over the corpse.

There’s something there, something I want to poke at, something he doesn’t want me to know.

It’s even more apparent that Ezra Morgue has a secret.

I stifle my curiosity since the goal is to have fun rather than get into anything uncomfortable.

We’ll have to get into it at some point, though. I’m pretty damned sure his secret is something serious, maybe dangerous, and I grew up with a mother who couldn’t find the truth if it bit her in the ass. If he can’t be honest with me, Ezra Morgue is the last guy I want to get involved with.

Yet here I am. Maybe there’s some truth to the dumb jock stereotype .

I pass him the cupcake, taking a moment to admire the way his hair frames his face. At work, he wears a headband. Tonight his hair is loose, artfully disheveled, a curtain he can hide behind when he needs to.

He takes another bite, licking the frosting from his lips, the action less coy and more lewd. Heat starts to build down low in my belly. If he’s trying to distract me, it’s working.

One more bite and he pretty much finishes the frosted part of the cupcake. He hands me the bottom. “Here. You can have the rest.”

“Dude.” I laugh at his smug expression more than anything else. “You would eat the best part.”

“You had some of it.”

“I did.”

We grin at each other for a moment. He’s over whatever upset him at the dog show, and I’m almost done with my coffee. “Are you ready to find the psychic?”

Tossing off the rest of his own coffee, he pushes back from the table. “Sure. Let’s do this.”

By the time we’re both on our feet, his easy smile has grown tense and I wonder if maybe we should do something less fraught instead. “Look, if you’re not into it, we can get in line for one of the rides.”

Ezra waves me off. “Nah, it’s cool. You want to know when you’re going to find the big house and the dog, so we should do that.”

“With housing prices these days . . . “

“Let’s go, Big D. Maybe she can tell you what kind of dog.”

“Big D,” I snort, shaking my head. It’s close to D-Clem but I like it better. He prods me with an elbow, giving me a burst of cigarettes and lavender. “All right,” I say. “Let’s go find the psychic.”

So far, we haven’t come across anything close to a map. There’s a line of people waiting to get into the big top—our new friend Rafe the Ringmaster is at the front, singing the praises of whatever act is going on next—and we wander in the opposite direction.

The next tent we come to isn’t quite as big as the big top, though maybe the dense black color makes it look small in comparison. A little guy with a big handlebar mustache stands in front of the door flap like some Mario cosplayer. When I slow my steps, Ezra clutches my elbow and drags me forward.

“What? I was just going to ask him where the psychic is.” I glance his way, surprised that his eyes are so wide open that I can see the whites.

“Just keep walking. We’ll find someone else.”

“Hoo-kay.”

We walk.

The next closest attraction is another ride.

It’s a tower that’s at least as tall as the Ferris wheel, with bright neon outlining the structure and rows of bulbs on each corner that flash in succession.

Riders are strapped into a capsule in the center and the bulbs flash slowly as the capsule lifts.

Then the capsule drops and the bulbs streak down the sides. It stops about a foot from the ground, close enough that I almost yell.

“Damn.” Ezra exhales hard. “We should do that later.”

I side-eye him. “Sure. I might need to blow off some steam.”

Laughing, we approach the next kiosk, where a young woman is running a shell game of some kind. “Wanna play, gentlemen?” Her smile is friendly and her eyes glow like a cat’s.

“We were looking for your psychic,” Ezra says. I stand slightly behind him, my hand on his shoulder making it very clear this one is mine.

Miss Cat Eyes tilts her head, giving Ezra a close once-over. “Down there.” She points past us into a pool of shadows. “And if she says you’re about to have some good luck, come back and see me.”

“Thanks,” I say. I take hold of Ezra’s hand, as much to borrow some confidence as anything else. In all honesty, I like having the future wrapped in mystery. Jett and their damned Tarot cards are really all I need.