Spectacular!

Chapter Four

"This is Kenna Oberman," Cyrus announces with a grin that seems to stretch wider than the night itself. "Our new Fortune Teller."

"Fortune Teller?" The petite blonde steps forward, her tone cool and laced with suspicion. "What happened to Poppy?"

My heart skips a beat. There was someone before me? My gaze flickers to Cyrus, but his expression remains unconcerned, almost dismissive.

"Didn't work out," he says with a casual shrug, as if tossing aside an old coat.

I swallow hard, feeling the blonde's penetrating gaze on me. Her green eyes are sharp, almost predatory, and I can't help but feel like I'm being measured for something I don't yet understand.

"Cyrus," she tuts, her lips curving into a frown. "We can't keep—"

"Kenna," the Ringmaster interrupts smoothly, turning to me with a grin. "This is Cosette Delacroix, our resident contortionist."

Cosette's movements are graceful and fluid as she tilts her head ever so slightly, her neck bending with an ease that makes her look almost doll-like. Her skin is pale, porcelain, glowing under the soft lights of the big top. "Kenna," she murmurs, the words smooth as silk.

I lick my lips nervously. "Nice to meet you, Miss Delacroix."

Her smile is demure, almost secretive. "Cosette," she corrects softly.

Before I can say more, Cyrus gestures toward the shadows, where two figures linger with matching scowls. "You've already met the Koslov Brothers."

I give them a small wave, but they only nod stiffly before retreating further into the darkness, their presence barely more than a flicker at the edge of my vision.

"I'm Honey Blossom," a voice calls out, drawing my attention to a woman draped in a pink taffeta gown. Her bronze skin shimmers in the low light, and her long black braid is twisted elegantly around her arm adorned with cherry blossoms. She exudes a confidence that I wish I could muster.

"Hi," I manage to squeak as Cyrus rests his arm on my shoulder.

"Ventriloquism is her specialty," he adds with a grin.

Honey Blossom's lips flip into a smirk as she raises her right hand, the silver bracelets on her wrist jingling like tiny bells. From behind her, she produces a doll—no, not a doll—a dummy. Its face is painted a garish white, with crimson circles around its eyes and hair as wild as flickering flames.

"This is Pickens," she says, holding up the dummy as if it were a prized possession.

"Why the extravagant costume?" the dummy asks, the sound a scratchy rumble that seems to come from somewhere deep within him.

I flinch, stepping back as my eyes widen. "H-how is it talking?"

Honey Blossom laughs warmly. "It's me, of course."

"But it doesn't sound like you," I blurt out. "And your lips didn't move..."

The dummy—Pickens—grumbles. "I have a name, you know."

"I can change my voice and keep my mouth perfectly still," Honey Blossom explains with a wink. "That's the trick."

"I speak for myself," Pickens retorts, his head swiveling to glare at me.

"And this," Cyrus cuts in, steering me gently to the left, "is Freya Stone."

Freya stands tall, her scarlet hair falling like a river of fire all the way to her thighs. She places her hands on her hips, her eyes glinting with amusement. "Tightrope and trapeze," she says, low and smooth.