The Carnival's Daughter: A Dark Dystopian Romance (Kingdom Duet Book 1) Read online

  The red paint covering his body and the black horns attached to his forehead give him away. A small man, in height at least. He is rather fat in every other sense. Maxim eats well.

  Do his women, though?

  Apparently sensing there will be no handshake from me, he moves on to my guests while I take a look around.

  I know people who have visited here. Understandably there is some crossover in our clientele. This place is just much more… theatrical. But still, even though it has been described to me before, I didn’t really know what to expect.

  We’re standing inside a cavern big enough to fit a full-sized circus tent, the stripes a mixture of silk and matte black. It’s lit dimly by turquoise blue bulbs that follow the stripes, with flame-torches pitched into the ground as a precaution. On the roof of the cave there are more of the turquoise bulbs, so small up there they look like stars. The ground is dirt, which is to be expected, but there is a path of black carpet between the tent and the stalls that surround it.

  I take a step away from the group to see what these stalls are selling. Around me, people glance and then avert their eyes, which I am more than used to. Although here I must say it stings a bit, considering there are quite a few people perhaps more freakish than me.

  Set out a few meters away from the tent at all sides are the usual stalls selling alcoholic drinks, and the smell of barbecue eventually permeates my masked nose. What the meat is, no one could say. I bet they wouldn’t tell you, either. It just smells like smoke with the faintest hint of seasoning, which is never a good sign.

  Andrei approaches behind me. “Will you be having a dog’s tail or a pussy with your beverage tonight?”

  That gets a laugh from me, more because his thoughts were travelling in the same direction as mine than the humour of what he said.

  He knows I can’t eat or drink, even if I did want to take that risk.

  Andrei takes a step around me, trying to see the smaller tents that are facing away from us. He reads the sign and tilts his head to the side, and since I am nothing if I’m not curious, I follow him over.

  Fortunes.

  My eyes drift up to the old woman who sits in-between the slits of the tent. Other than my own grandmother who is not long for this world, I can’t remember the last time I saw one as old as she is. I look her over, deciding that she was beautiful in her youth, and though her face is cut in deep lines, she has not lost it entirely.

  Inside her tent, and going against the precedent out here, the lights have a reddish hue. This woman does not avert her eyes when she looks at me.

  In fact, she holds my gaze completely.

  “You,” she says, putting down her deck of cards and pointing a frail looking finger at me.

  I don’t respond.

  “You will not speak with me?” She raises her eyebrow, and a smile grows on her lips.

  I’m momentarily baffled. No one smiles at me.

  “There is nothing you could tell me that I don’t already know.”

  “You sound so sure for one so young,” she says.

  I chuckle at that. “And what makes you think it is a young man who stands before you?”

  She smirks and lowers her eyes, picking up her deck of cards and shuffling them.

  The rest of the group are gathering around, but even without the audience I have no interest in this garbage.

  “Come,” I say, nodding my head towards the main tent. “We have waited quite long enough already, don’t you think?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  SAPPHIRE

  My time is almost up.

  I always follow Ruby. She’s one of the most popular girls here and always fetches a high price after the show because she’s so damn cheery. The carnival’s sweetheart.

  Every girl here is worth something, simply down to the fact that we were born.

  We survived.

  Our mothers, by virtue, must have survived too. But Ruby has a lot of fans out there, so she’s like a grand semi-finale.

  The higher the price, the higher the risk. Which makes me the highest risk of all.

  People literally come every night to see if one of us will die, or at least be seriously injured. Maybe a disfigurement. I still remember trying to wrap my head around that as a child. People pay, either with money or goods or services, to watch men put women’s lives at risk.

  Denim refused to explain it to me, saying I’d never understand.

  Ruby, who is a few years older than me — though no one really knows how many — had no trouble.

  “It’s like a fetish.”

  “What’s that?”

  She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Never mind. Imagine this really rare thing, okay?”

  “Chocolate?”

  “Right… chocolate. So there are hardly any chocolate bars left in the world, but there is a man who keeps a big stash of them.”

  I nod my head. “To eat them all himself. That’s what I’d do.”

  “Not quite. This man doesn’t eat the chocolate. He destroys it. Burns it. Stabs his fork into it and then throws it in the bin.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  Ruby shrugs. “Because people pay a lot of money to watch him do it. Because they don’t have any chocolate, so they pay to watch him destroy the chocolate he has. And then, if they’re lucky, sometimes he lets them lick the bar after the show.”

  I shake my head at her. “I don’t think I understand.”

  She smiles now and rubs the flat of her palm across my head. “You will one day, kid.”

  I think about that conversation as I peek out behind the curtain and watch her. She’s in the centre of the ring, a swirl of red fabric and gorgeous brown and gold skin, dancing over hot coals as if they’re no different from the sand that surrounds her. A loud drumbeat matches her steps, and the crowd cheers her on by clapping in sync with every beat. The ring is lit around the circumference by fire torches, so the crowd are just a huge swathe of black against the shadows.

  Letting the curtain fall back into place before I’m noticed, I try to locate Romanov, my partner. Instead, I see Maxim deep in conversation with Denim and Conrim.

  Maxim never bothers to grace us with his presence backstage, so something is amiss. I make my way towards them, intending to keep to the shadows so I can eavesdrop without being seen.

  “He looks bored.” Maxim says.

  Denim furrows his brow. “He does? How can you tell?”

  “He’s resting his chin in his hand, you fucking idiot! This will not do. Can you imagine? He returns to the Hotel and tells his clientele we are uninteresting? Where the hell is Sapphire?”

  I pause for a moment while they look around, taken aback by his angry tone. It’s only when Denim’s eyes find my own that I take a step forward. “Here, Maxim.”

  “You will dance tonight.”

  Dance?

  I am nowhere near ready for that.

  The most we’ve done is practice with apples, and I’ve only just started being able to finish without huge bruises all over my body.

  “I’m not… We’re still practicing.”

  Maxim turns and looks between Denim and Conrim. Denim scratches his chin and takes a breath, as if he’s about to speak, before he finally finds his words. “Sir, if I may, what if she—”

  “You may not.” Maxim cuts him off with a raised hand. “Tell me. What do you think is more valuable, the price on this girl’s life, or the money every customer he sends this way spends?”

  Denim looks down at the ground, and it becomes clear he won’t respond to that.

  Maxim smiles and focuses his eyes back on me. “It’s time for you to earn your keep. Ensure they are not bored. And if you dance well, perhaps you’ll live long enough to earn it again.”

  With that, he turns his back and storms away, probably back to his box to watch me and see what will become of his most expensive investment.

  I stare blankly between Denim and Conrim, hoping one of them will tell me wh
at to do. A look of pity grows in their eyes, and the longer they look at me in silence, the faster my heart beats and the heavier the weight in my stomach becomes.

  “Conrim, go and find Romanov. Tell him the plan has changed.” Denim says the words without taking his eyes from me, but Conrim nods and goes to do his bidding.

  “I’m not ready,” I tell him.

  Denim nods his head. “I know.”

  “He would… he doesn’t care.” I’m talking about Maxim and I don’t know if I’m saying it for Denim’s benefit or my own.

  The words hurt more as the reality settles in.

  He doesn’t care if I live or die.

  He would sacrifice my life to prevent one man’s boredom.

  I guess it is my own stupidity that makes this hurt as much as it does. I thought I was special. My whole life I’ve been treated as if I was special.

  The exception.

  Maxim doted on me more than the rest. He made me the star of the show. And not only that, though he treated all his girls well when it came to material things, he gave me something even more valuable.

  He gave me time.

  Maxim taught me how to read and write himself. And when I got too curious even for him, he paid for a tutor. An old one who still had knowledge of the old world.

  What girl who is destined to die in the middle of a ring needs a tutor?

  He called me the carnival’s daughter and because he doted on me, so did everyone else. And I never questioned that. I always knew the day would come when someone rich enough to afford me would walk through the door, but I never thought he’d see me dead before that happened.

  Denim interrupts my thoughts by placing a hand on my shoulder.

  Denim, who is the closest thing to a father I’ve ever had.

  While Maxim taught me things and spent time with me, there was no tenderness or love there. Denim — though I couldn’t describe him as overly loving or tender — was always just present.

  “Just remember your steps. I have seen you practise. Listen to the music and let it guide you,” he says.

  I nod. I know what to do, I just don’t think I can do it.

  I was never one of those girls who were born to dance. Dancing, for me, brings back memories of only pain and suffering. Of being made to do it until I dropped from exhaustion, and my feet were bleeding sore.

  There was never a choice, and there was always something I would rather be doing instead.

  Tonight, I was supposed to be strapped to a revolving disk while Romanov threw daggers at the spaces between my limbs. A routine we’ve done hundreds of times.

  All I had to do was lie there and look terrified.

  Scream a little.

  Flinch every time one got too close.

  It was methodical and pre-determined. The wheel spins at a certain rate, and Romanov knows exactly what beat to throw, ensuring he’d never hit me.

  Now, it’s the same concept. It’s all done with beats of music. Except tonight I won’t lie there and look pretty.

  Tonight, I will dance for my life.

  The sand shifts under my feet as I walk out into the centre of the ring. I remove the long black skirt of gossamer silk that would only act as a target, and now, standing in just a corset and a small pair of black shorts I feel almost naked.

  The blue lighting that was switched off for Ruby comes back on for me. I try not to look at the crowd. Instead, I keep my eyes on the sand and wait for the music to start.

  Romanov stands at the edge of the ring with his back to me. Behind me sits the target I was supposed to be strapped to. I fight the urge to turn around as I hear the roar of flames when a fire breaks out. That wasn’t in any of our practices, and the heat being thrown off is intense.

  When the music starts, I’ll dance on the fourth beat.

  Romanov will throw the first knife on the eighth beat.

  After that, it stops really being memorised numbers and more just intuition. At least, that is what should happen. That’s what happens if you do it enough.

  Which I haven’t.

  But I don’t get any more time to deliberate on that.

  The drum beats, the sound of it reverberating against my rib cage and drowning out my cantering heart. Romanov reaches down into the sand for the first dagger. In a few moments he will spin around, essentially firing blind.

  Three beats.

  Four beats.

  I drop to the ground into a split and then push myself forward, ducking down into the sand just before the eighth beat. I don’t need to look to know that the dagger is flying through the space my head just occupied.

  The first time we tried this, the apple hit me square in the nose and almost knocked me out.

  My legs close behind me and I jump to my feet.

  I have eight beats until the next one where I’ll bend back into a crab and then flip over the second after it passes.

  Maybe I can do this.

  I remember.

  The beats pass and I move exactly as I’m supposed to for every one of them.

  One. Two. Three. Four.

  Handstand.

  Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

  Pirouette.

  It’s a mix of gymnastics, ballet, and something ceremonial.

  I finish a cartwheel and drop down to my knees, pausing for a few beats before I’ll drop my head back in the sand.

  But something in the crowd catches my eye.

  A glint of metal at first, as if someone is drawing a sword. The moment I locate exactly what caused it, the world stops turning.

  The drums fade to nothing.

  The threat of the dagger that’s about to come flying into my face seems completely insignificant.

  It’s not a sword catching the light in the crowd.

  It’s a mask.

  A mask or a helmet, who knows. But this mask has a face, and it’s a face of pure evil.

  Like a cross between a skull and a monster. Black sockets for eyes.

  It’s haunting.

  The man is standing up where everyone else is seated, and even though I can’t see his eyes, I don’t need to.

  He’s staring straight at me and I can feel his gaze piercing my skin.

  Piercing.

  Piercing?

  Shit.

  I throw myself back into the sand just as Romanov is already turning back around.

  How the blade missed me, I have no idea, but I missed the beat.

  I missed the beat because I was trapped entirely in that man’s presence.

  I’m stumbling now, trying to remember where I should be.

  What comes next?

  My mind is blank and I’m moving, but I don’t know how or why. I know I’m off, I’m missing beats, but the more I panic about it, the more I can’t remember what I’m supposed to be doing.

  My stomach drops as I go into the next cartwheel and fall into the sand with a stinging sensation on the side of my thigh. The crowd gasps, and now I can hear muttering under the beat of the drum.

  I feel like I’m going crazy trying to remember what comes next, so I’m just moving.

  Keep moving.

  It must finish soon.

  Don’t look at the crowd.

  My thoughts run away with me as I gasp for air until finally, finally, the music stops.

  I collapse on the sand, a movement which I think was supposed to be a split, but I cannot be sure.

  My inner thigh is wet, I can tell because the sand sticks to it, although I don’t look at that.

  My eyes are locked on the man with the mask who is making his way down the steps towards the ring.

  Romanov rushes over to me and crouches in the sand, guiding my cheek with his hand to meet his eye. “Are you hurt?”

  I don’t know. I can’t really think straight.

  Romanov stands and pulls me to my feet before turning around to locate the thing I’m staring at. He quickly lets go of my hand and takes a step away.

  A moment later, Maxim is beside us
.

  “Your other girls, bring them all out here,” says the man in the mask as he approaches.

  His voice is surprisingly clear and authoritative for being completely covered in thick metal. But it’s not the voice that shocks me, it’s the way he speaks to Maxim.

  No one ever speaks to Maxim like that. He is practically a king here.

  Maxim looks like he’s about to stutter before he manages to find the words. “All of them?”

  I look back at the man. He is tall, towering above even Romanov. He’s dressed all in black, reinforced trousers with many pockets, a t-shirt with multiple layers over it — one of them a hood — and topped with a leather jacket which looks almost armour like. I can only just make out hair as dark as mine under the hood.

  “That was the words I used, was it not?” He sounds impatient, his tone cutting.

  Maxim nods his head and gives another weak bow before he turns in the sand and scurries away.

  “You need to put some clothes on,” he says to me.

  I blink at him a few times in confusion.

  He just nods behind me.

  I turn around and spot the thing he was nodding at — the black skirt I took off before the dance.

  It’s close to the fire that’s still burning, and the heat radiates against my skin as I make a grab for it.

  By the time I’ve put the skirt on and looked back at the masked man, he is no longer alone.

  There are five others with him.

  One of them is dressed like him, in the black layers. His hair is brown and he has a scar running from his forehead to his cheek, cutting right across his eye. The other four are wearing business suits in various drab colours.

  Only the one who spoke wears a mask.

  I wonder if the two dressed in black are some form of protection for the men in suits? Trying to look them over without them seeing what I’m doing, I note their thick watches and polished shoes. A working watch is a rare luxury.

  The four men have money, of that I’m quite certain.

  Feeling them all stare, I lower my eyes to the sand and hear movement behind me.

  Before long, the other girls have joined and we all stand in a long line.

  Maxim appears not to care that these guests have interrupted the show, which was supposed to finish with a final performance from all of us.