The Immortal Circus: Act Two by A. R. Kahler

hug.
    “I see a mysterious woman,” I say. I should probably close
the curtain of the booth before a punter looks in, but the risk is minimal. The
fire artists are walking up and down the dirt promenade, breathing and whirling
billows of flame that draw in the crowd like moths to, well, a flame. Any sort
of PDA in the fortune booth is far less appealing than the spectacle outside.
“She spells trouble.”
    He chuckles, the vibration rolling from his lips down my
neck. I shiver in spite of the layers of tulle and velvet.
    “They always are,” he says. Then he bites my neck.
    I slap the side of his face. Gently, of course. Can’t mar
the star magician right before the show.
    “Cool it, loverboy,” I say.
    He nips me once more before standing. He reaches over and pulls
the drawcord, and the velvet curtains separating us from the public close. The
booth goes dark as night.
    Before I can say anything, he pulls me up from the chair and
pins me to the table, making the whole thing creak with our weight. His fingers
are in my hair and one hand is tight on my hip. His lips are hot on mine and my
skin is on fire. I hate myself for the little moan that escapes my lips as he
presses himself tighter to me. But then his lips cover mine and the thought
vanishes.
    “Aren’t you going on soon?” I mutter against his lips.
    He bites my lower lip and doesn’t let go when he mumbles,
“I’ve got five minutes.”
    I laugh, but I don’t push him off. I place a hand to his jaw
while the other reaches down to the back of his leg, pressing him even closer.
Now, he’s the one who lets out a little moan. I grin. Point:
Vivienne. The fire he’s sending through my bones spreads, making my skin
shiver. It’s not just desire: I mean, it is that, but there’s more to it, more
than carnal need or whatever the hell I’m usually gripped with. It tingles. The ache in my head transforms, becomes a rush like a second heartbeat. I know
he’s not using magic, but that’s what it feels like. The tingling spreads from
my lips into my chest, wraps around my heart and then wings out into my arms,
through my fingertips, and all I want is him closer, closer.
    Kingston gasps against my neck as the tingle becomes a hum.
I grip him tighter, dig my fingers into his skin, no longer caring if I leave a
bruise. My brain is spinning, spinning, and the darkness behind my eyes is
filled with stars.
    “Vivienne, what …” he says, his hands suddenly clenching
tight. The pain is a spark inside me. One that feels insanely, ridiculously good. The heat is a fire, the stars a sun. I need him. Now. I need to tear him apart.
It’s only when he starts to push me away that my eyes flutter open and I
realize it isn’t just my desire making me see stars.
    My hands are glowing in the dark of the booth.
    I yelp. My grip releases and he steps back to the wall
behind him. The moment there’s space between us, the light goes out, leaving
only shadow and shaking breath.
    The seconds stretch. Outside the booth, I hear the jugglers
calling the audience into the tent. Kingston should be backstage now, circled
up with the rest of the troupe. I should be with him. But neither of us moves
or speaks. There’s just the ragged rush of blood pumping through my veins, the
weighted question I’m too terrified to ask.
    After a few moments pass, he asks for me.
    “Viv … what was that?” I’ve only heard him frightened once
before. Just once. He’s faced down the end of the world and kept his nonchalant
air. The quake in his voice confirms the worst.
    I can’t answer him. Of course I can’t answer him—I have no
fucking clue what just happened. But in the back of my mind, I know that’s a
lie. We both know what that was. But neither of us wants to admit it. So much
for my powers being kept under lock and contract.
    “I don’t …” I say. I can’t finish the sentence, and I don’t
have to. He knows just as much about it as I do.
    Maybe more.
    “We should tell Mab,”