Cirque

13: 𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒐𝒓 𝑨𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆

Wind was now rushing past us, like the sound of a car going down the highway during the middle of a tornado. My tears dried up and were replaced with anger and betrayal. Listen, I may have signed up to join a circus but I sure didn't sign up to die. Griffin held on tight to me, and I was grateful for his anchoring embrace in the vortex we were trapped in.

I turned around, and the pain and rage in my eyes must have hurt him, because he looked like I had twisted a knife into his gut. "I'm literally not even old yet, I don't want to die," I snapped. "So, what? Am I dead? Because that's seriously not cool."

Griffin released one of my arms from his grasp long enough to brush against my jawline. I shivered. "Not you," he growled, his hand not leaving my skin. He certainly didn't feel like a dead man, no matter what he said. "But I am."

"You don't feel dead," I said automatically, then immediately flushed. I had not meant to say that out loud.

"Wanna test that?" He said, pulling me even closer. There was an anger and a hunger in his eyes unlike anything I had ever seen before. It was as though he was hoping I could satisfy his thirst for life, remind him of the world he had lost.

I let him pull me closer. This was crazy, all of this was, but out of everything that had happened lately this felt the most right. But before his hands could travel further, before his lips could meet mine, he was wrenched away from me. Pulled, like a puppet who could never become a boy again.

"Cassandra," he hissed, swearing under his breath, "don't listen to a word he says."

"Who?" I called, already feeling myself slipping away, the vortex dying away like clouds clearing away after a rainstorm, drawing me far away from anything familiar.

But it was too late for him to answer. He was gone, and I was alone, collapsed on my hands and knees on a very posh dark hardwood floor. It smelt like wildflowers and polished dance shoes, although that could have just been my muddled imagination. "Griffin? Carlos?" I said weakly, pushing myself onto my feet.

"How naughty," a smooth voice slipped into my ear, and I felt the presence of a tall man behind me. "To call out another man's name in my bedroom? However shall you make it up to me?"

I jumped away. The ringleader himself was right there. If he was angry about my impulsive challenge, he wasn't showing it. I looked around myself, realizing that I was indeed in a very elaborate bedroom, with a tiger-skin rug thrown on the ground, a four-poster bed with curtains like a circus tent and a chandelier with glass juggling balls holding miniature candles. I had no doubt that he was, for once, telling the truth. I had met too many men like this, bringing you to their bedroom the first chance they got. I rolled my eyes.

"Nice try, Ringleader," I told him. "But if you think I'm that type of girl, you're dead wrong."

"Please," he said smoothly, grabbing my hand and pressing his lips to my skin. "Call me Kylian. And I'm afraid you have my intentions completely mistaken. I only wish to show you the view."

Not sure what I should believe at this point, I let him lead me to the window, covered by thick blue curtains embroidered with silver stars and moons. "What about you?" I couldn't help but ask. "Are you dead too?"

The ringleader, Kylian, as he wanted to be called, laughed lightly. "Who's been telling you that, mon cherie?"

I was about to respond, but then I thought better of it. Kylian sounded like he was only making light conversation, but I detected something darker in his words, carrying the threat of death or something much worse. "I figured it out by myself," I lied. "Come on, it's pretty obvious. Mysterious circus showing up one night? Obviously ghosts."