Circus Supernatural

Chapter 9

I woke for the second time in twenty fours hours feeling like I was experiencing the worst hangover of my life. Something I would have excused if it was complimented with a bloody brilliant night out. Not that I knew how that felt. Being homeless didn't give you a lot of opportunity to get glammed up and hit the dance floor. Mostly due to the fact that I a) had no money and b) I had nothing to wear bar my hoody and sweat pants and c) most pathetic of all, no friends to go anywhere social with.

I had spent many a night, trying to fend off the drunk revellers as they made their way home, using my tent as a urinal, or worse, thinking I was easy prey for those who hadn't managed a hook up in the bars and clubs.

I did however understand the after effects of a gut full of alcohol. Despite our shortcomings, alcohol was in abundance in Tent City due to the vices of most of my neighbours. Using whatever cash they had managed to source from begging or more nefarious actions to purchase the liquid reality blockers. On occasion - more often than I would be proud to admit - I had drowned myself in shared bottles of cheap vodka and cider, drinking until I blacked out. This happened when I hit rock bottom and couldn't see a way out of my bleak future, followed by days of regret, self loathing and false promises never to touch a drop again.

I rubbed my temple, my ears pricking at the sound of movement. My eyes shot open, glancing around the infirmary tent. A shadow passed the closed curtains around my bed, and I heard the gruff male voice exclaim as they collided with what I assumed was a tray of medical instruments. My assumption was proved correct as a scalpel skittered across the floor under the curtain, as it disappeared under the bed.

"Hello?" I called, leaning over the side of the bed, frantically searching for the scalpel. I felt the cold mental on my fingertips, clasping it in my grip, as I sat bolt upright, brandishing it in front of me.

"Who's there. I have a knife! And I'm not afraid to stick it in your neck!" I said with much less conviction that my words suggested.

Heavy footsteps echoed loudly to the right of me, and I heard them recede as they ran from the tent. I shuddered as I attempted to get off the bed, suddenly overcome with a dizziness that had me grabbing the edge of the bed for support and dropping the scalpel.

Silence followed for a moment as I tried to to calm my frantic heart beat. This place was deadly. I had been here less than a day, and I had already been threatened by a deadly mermaid, and been set on fire by a human dragon, and now there was someone skulking around in the shadows while I slept. Before today I had felt the streets in which I called my home were the most dangerous, but this place, this place made me feel like I had been living in a cotton wool wrapped haven.

The dizziness became overwhelming as my knees buckled and I found myself drop in a shuddering heap on the tarpaulin covered floor. More footsteps approached as the curtain was ripped to the side. Standing before me was a very casually dressed Dawson, devoid now of his impressive Ringmaster costume, replaced with dark jeans and a ruby red shirt rolled up at the sleeves. He swooped to scoop me up in his arms, depositing me gently back on the bad. His face etched in concern.

"What the hell are you doing on the floor? You should be in bed, resting. That was a nasty burn you got, not to mention the side effects of the healing balm." He placed a palm on my forehead. "You're still running a fever. I'll see if Callista has any of those mortal medicines in her collection of lotions and potions."

"No more medicine." I croaked, my throat dry and hoarse. "Why were you sneaking around? I could have stabbed in you in the throat." I reached for a glass of water on the unit table beside my bed, but found it in my open hand, before I could reach it as Dawson anticipated my need.