Demon

Chapter 16

(TomCat's P.O.V)

"A knife thrower?" I repeated FatCat in a tone that made it seem as if I doubted what he said, even though I believed him.

"Yeah... and I don't know what his damn problem is; maybe a stick up his ass or maybe somebody twisted the family jewels too hard but... well... you just needa' see for yourself," he chuckled half-heartedly. Clearly, whatever was occurring definitely needed my attention if it were to give FatCat a cause to break his normally stoic, brooding composure.

I turned my head toTae and motioned outside with my hand to see if she wanted to accompany me. The girl only shook her head and hugged a pillow tightly, hiding her face behind it nervously and staring back at me in fear. I assumed her cause was because she didn't want to face the crew after what happened; understandable, considering the way my performers acted after I had brought her back here and returned to discuss this with them... They were understandably outraged by the both of us...

I followed FatCat down the dirt path and through the tents to the Big Top, where a small portion of the performers had gathered inside to watch the knife thrower audition. I pushed through the crowd to see a pale, blonde-haired man, holding four decorative daggers in his hand. He wore a neatly pressed suit and shiny dress shoes that appeared to be brand new. His entire demeanor seemed to reak of wealth and smug confidence; a manner that I didn't quite enjoy as I find myself more comfortable in the poor crowd.

He waited patiently in the ring, with a target standing not too far away from him and the other artists in a circle that was much further compared to the target. He examined the knives carefully, thumbing their etched hilts and feeling the smoothness of the blades as if testing them to see if they might be worth anything. When he finally saw me approach; me in my tattered trousers and disgusting old button down shirt, he flashed me a smug smirk and extended his hand in greeting

"Alo', sir! I hear you're a knife thrower," I greeted, taking his hand as confidently as I could pretend. The man lifted his chin up to me and his smile grew wider in amusement.

"Good afternoon, sir. I'm Ronald Truman, I would like to try out for your show," he answered, his gist holding an unanticipated level of suavity and, dare I say it? He was wholly a charming fellow. I didn't exactly see why FatCat described as having "a stick up his ass," because, aside from his smug grin and judgemental aura, he seemed to be just a normal, run-of-the-mill rich kid.

"I thank you for your interest! I never expected a man of your stature would be interested in my carnival," I expressed my gratitude as well as I could to seem polite and the man raised his brow and stared at me as a teacher would to a student who came in late to class.

"I'm going to assume by the lack of your own introduction that you have no name?" he inquired as more of a statement. I felt as if he had just scolded me for my lack of proper manners, and by God, any normal man would've simply asked, "your name?" rather than assuming I have none. Now I'm starting to see what FatCat means.

"Ah, I beg your pardon, Mr Truman, I'm not used to using such formalities. My name is Reginald MacSeren, although the rest of us here just refer to me as 'Tomcat'," I apologised. Okay, now I'm just kissing his ass by bowing down to his societal position.

"Hmm..." Truman hummed, obviously judging me by how well I was treating him, "It's a pleasure, Mr MacSeren,"-and that smug grin returned to his face. Or is he trying to kiss my ass so I'll hire him?

"Well then, show me your skills!" I urged as I motioned towards the target. Truman smiled boastfully as he sauntered a few feet away from the target; the artists who surrounded him moved away like two same-sided magnets trying to meet. For a moment, he stood there, eyeing the target carefully and displaying his proper gentleman's stature for all to see.