The Magpye: Circus by CW Lynch Page B

for
the door. King breathed a sigh of relief. The most dangerous man he
had ever met was still in his corner.
     
    ***
     
    In the basement, Able Quirk
groped around inside his memories for anything of worth. Grace was
prowling around him, eyeing him as if he were a new creature that
she had never seen before. Prey, she was certain of it, but just
how to tackle this particular meal? Accustomed to the thoughts of
others inside his head, he could feel her mind, drooling and
hungry, probing the fringes of his. He'd barely mastered the skill
of controlling the thoughts of the unruly dead, the thought of
another living mind inside his skull was more than he could cope
with. If she got in, would there even be space for him?
    "Tell me your name," she
purred.
    Able shook his head. "No. I
won't tell you who I am." The mask was supposed to stop him getting
blood on him, prevent any unwanted souls from taking residence in
his head. Right now it was also protecting the only two living
people he cared about, Marv and Magda. If he was going to die here,
he would at least protect them for as long as he could.
    "Not your real name, silly. The
name you call yourself. Marv said he didn't know what you were, but
I'm sure the old fool was lying to me."
    "Marv..." whispered Able,
inside the mask.
     

INTERVIEWING A SHARK
    Cane King liked television, and
television liked him back. After all, what was there not to like?
Tall, handsome, charming, rich, unattached, and with the
omnipresent whiff of danger and scandal … he was everything that
television wanted its millionaire playboys to be. Sitting on the
couch of a TV talkshow, sandwiched between a B-list actress and a
comedian that the network considered “edgy” enough to be
interesting but not so edgy that they couldn’t trust him, Cane King
was as dangerous here as he was in a boardroom or a knife fight. He
had to be. This was where he did the most important part of his job
- convincing the watching public that he wasn’t quietly screwing
them all.
    “ So, Cane, can I call you Cane?”
    “ Of course you can, Johnny… If I can call you Johnny, that
is?”
    Drum roll. Cymbal. Cue card.
Laughter. A pat on his arm from the host, a fake tear of laughter
wiped away, familiarity and bonhomie packaged and delivered, coated
in sugar just how they all liked it.
    “ Seriously though… Cane. Let’s talk about the charity work
you’re doing right now.”
    Another cue card. A ripple of
approving applause from the audience. Hands held up in mock
embarrassment.
    “ Come on now, Cane. Don’t be shy. A little birdie told me
that you raised twenty million dollars for
your charity last year…”
    Whoops and hollers from the
crowd. The host was worth every penny Cane was paying, he barely
had to do any work at all.
    “… and that you matched every single dollar of that yourself?”
    Standing ovation. Cheers,
whistles. Embarrassed grins, nods of acknowledgement.
    “ Really, Johnny, it’s about the people on the ground doing
the hard work every day. I just bring a little money to the party,
that’s all. The real work, the stuff that makes a difference,
that’s being done out there on the streets.”
    The applause dies down, people
return to their seats. Don’t over do it, that’s the key.
    “ That’s great, that’s great… but, here’s the thing
Cane.”
    “ What’s that, Johnny?”
    “ When are you going to squeeze in time to find yourself
a Mrs King?”
    Oohs and aahs. A few wolf
whistles. Somewhere in the back a women shouts “pick me!”.
Laughter. No cue cards this time, but all right on schedule.
    “ Well Johnny, that’s a tough one. My evenings are pretty
full as it is.”
    “ I’ll bet they are! A little birdie told me that you’d been
personally overseeing every single aspect of your new casino hotel,
from the wash-rooms all the way to the penthouse!”
    More cheers. More applause.
Cane King, a billionaire before he was even born, but working hard
on the American Dream. A