The saw bit into taut caramel skin, grinding through flesh and bone as it cleaved the boy in two. Blood misted the air in fine droplets, catching the stage lights like rubies. The audience gasped in collective horror and delight—exactly as they did every night.
The crowd's roar swelled as the magician's assistant—a boy no older than fifteen—waved to the audience with theatrical flair. The magician swept into a deep bow, basking in the applause. Then the velvet curtains shuddered closed, and behind them, the boy's youthful smile twisted into something darker, drenched in malice.
His innards slithered outward like serpents seeking their other half. Blood veins and tissue branched in all directions, climbing through the air in their grotesque reunion. Within moments, his sundered body was whole once more.
The scent of iron lingered thick in the stifling tent.
Even with the performance over, the metallic tang refused to fade. The canvas walls did nothing to slow the sun's assault, and James choked back a string of curses as his nerve endings finished knitting themselves together. He grimaced, waiting for the familiar agony to retreat—as it did every day, only to return tomorrow.
He ran gaunt fingers across his caramel skin, searching for the wound that should have been there. Nothing. Not even a scar remained.
Three years under Pierre's blade, he thought bitterly. In two days, if everything goes to plan, only one of us will live to remember this hell.
Dragging his exhausted body across the cramped space, James reached the corner sink—its porcelain stained reddish-brown from prior days of torture. A tall boy stared back from the weathered mirror. His face would have drawn envy under different circumstances: sharp features, unblemished skin. But his grey eyes had long been robbed of innocence, filled now only with spite and desperation. Hair that had once been pure white was matted and crusted with dried blood.
He cupped his hands under the tap, letting frigid water pool in his palms. The cool liquid was a small mercy against the oppressive heat. He splashed it across his face, watching crimson rivulets drag grime and blood down his chin. The water swirled pink in the basin.
Before he could admire his almost-passable reflection, a grating voice shattered the moment.
"JAMES, you useless mongrel! Deviate from my script once more and I swear on the dead gods I will find a way to end your cursed existence!"
James turned slowly, water still dripping from his jaw. "Ah, but who would you wring the will to live out of should you actually kill me... master?"
The words had barely left his mouth when something snapped inside the twisted man. A deafening crack split the air—Pierre's whip met James's eye at full force, turning it into a fine red mist. A guttural groan escaped him, but James didn't falter. Didn't flinch. He'd learned long ago that showing weakness only fed Pierre's cruelty.
"I apologize for my indiscretions," James said through gritted teeth, even as his eye began to regenerate. "I'd love to get some rest, unless you have plans to take my other eye? Though I assure you, it's a fruitless endeavor. You know that as well as I."
By the time the words fully left his lips, the eye that had been turned to mist had reformed—a fierce grey orb glaring defiantly at his captor.
Pierre's sneer deepened. "You may be right. But I wonder if the other freeloaders you cherish so much are as capable as you." He stepped closer, his voice dripping with venom. "Well, you know what they say, right? You never know unless you try. Maybe they'll heal as well as the rebellious James."
Each step Pierre took seemed to foul the air further. His stench—sweat, whiskey, and something rotten—invaded James's lungs. The sadistic glee glinting in the man's eyes sent a shiver down James's spine despite the suffocating heat.
Pierre's face contorted into a snarl that not even a mother could love. Every breath felt toxic, putrid.
James steeled himself and stepped forward instead of back. The two men stood uncomfortably close, neither yielding ground. The tent felt smaller, the air thicker.
"I will be going on with my night," James said quietly, his voice colder than the water still dripping from his chin. "Do follow your brother's exemplary path and drown in the tub tonight, you bastard."
Pierre took a step back, shock flickering across his scarred features. For just a moment, he looked as though a devil was gazing upon him.
James didn't wait. He brushed past Pierre, deliberately clashing shoulders with the shaken man, and pushed through the tent flap into the night.
The world outside hit him like a wave.
The oppressive heat of the tent gave way to cooler evening air, but the relief was short-lived. A cacophony of sounds assaulted him from all sides—drunken patrons stumbling between attractions, stagehands shouting orders as they broke down equipment, the distant music of a calliope winding down for the night. The scent of iron faded, replaced by sawdust, fried food, and spilled ale.
James wove through the chaos, his body moving on instinct toward the performers' quarters at the far end of the grounds. His mind, however, was elsewhere.
Goddamnit. Pierre's no fool—I'm going to have to adjust my plans now.
A bitter smile tugged at his lips despite everything. But the look on his face was priceless.
He was still savoring that small victory when a weathered hand caught his sleeve, pulling him from his reverie. James turned to find an elderly man in a worn clown costume—greasepaint faded and costume frayed at the edges—watching him with knowing eyes.