Busy, busy, busy. Oh, and some tears.
Eva ran back to the trailer she shared with Becky and slammed the door shut. She threw the deadbolt, too, and gasped in the hot, dark space inside. Sunbeams filtered through the gingham curtains Becky had hung, dust motes adrift in the light looking beautiful and normal, as though the world hadn't just been turned on its ear. She wheezed, breathing in the comforting smell of fresh laundry, the perfumes on her nightstand and the lingering aroma of clove cigarettes from the trailer's previous tenants.

She'd been working with Ania for... Wait. How long had it been?

There was a smattering of hand-me-down furniture in the trailer, a few pieces from her apartment in Concord. Nothing of Becky's, of course. The girl had only brought a pair of suitcases with her back when she'd moved in... And when was that, exactly?

Eva realized that she couldn't remember how long she'd been in the Carnival. It seemed like a long time - she knew the people, and had seen a handful of cities come and go... but she couldn't remember packing up the carnival and moving. Not once. She glanced at her nightstand, the ornate wrought-iron and copper piece she'd bought for a tenth of its value at the auction in New Orleans, and couldn't remember packing it or moving it here. But there it was, her makeup and scents and such arrayed neatly in front of the age-speckled mirror, which was sporting just a touch of dust around the frame, as though it had stood there for weeks, or more.

She thought hard, and knew she knew how to run a dozen of the Games. She'd even trained some of the temp help in how to operate the Ring Toss. When had that been? Hell, when had she learned? Was it just yesterday she and Becky had been hired? Was it last year? Yes, she thought. Yes to both. She glanced at the poster over Becky's bed, the elaborate and corny picture of the Doctor, large cartoon letters extolling the Carnival of Souls, and shuddered. What had Mr. James said? Something about the Carnival of Souls being a place outside the world... peopled by monsters and gods...

Dear lord, she thought he'd been kidding. But she'd seen Ania. She'd seen what she really was. How could she have been so blind?

And what the hell was she going to do now?

There was a knock at the door, and she screamed. "Miss Snow? Are you all right?" came a man's voice, muffled through the aluminum door.

"No, I'm not fucking all right, god damn it!"

The doorknob rattled. "I saw you running over here, and you looked like you'd seen a ghost. You're the new girl, right? I'm Hank."

She peered out the cracked, foggy glass porthole built into the trailer's door, but could only make out a high forehead, smudged with grease. "How long have I worked here?" she called, voice tense with panic.

She saw a blurry hand comb through Hank's hair. "Aw, miss, that's hard to say. Days in the Carnival kind of... run together after a while. But it's been a while, I'd say."

"I got here yesterday, you asshole!"

He nodded, and stepped back, looking up at the window. He was older, maybe fortysomething, but looked handsome enough. It was hard to tell through the glass. "That's as may be, miss. Like I said, it's hard to tell, sometimes." He held up his hands, showing them to be empty. "Would you mind opening the door? Only I feel a little silly, talking to an Airstream."

Eva thought about it. "I suppose." She undid the bolt, and opened the door, earning a big smile from Hank, showing teeth stained from coffee and tobacco. She saw now he had a scar on his cheek, and his plaid shirt had an old-fashioned pair of glasses dangling from the breast pocket. "I'm Eva." She stepped down, and sat down on the steps. "I just... came from Ania's trailer."

He looked up at the sun, meaningfully. "I'm guessing she didn't invite you in."

"No... she... God, I think she ate somebody."

Hank nodded, and leaned against the electric hookup. "Happens, sometimes. I hear there was a rough night last night."

"She's a..."

"Vampire? Yeah."

She gaped up at him. "And that doesn't freak you out?"

Hank shrugged, removing some tobacco from an old leather pouch. He fished out some papers, and absently began assembling a smoke. "Johnson's a nigger. Don't bother me none. Violent Clay? I think he's some kind of zombie. Still does his job, though, so who am I to judge? I'm pretty sure old Stevens is a jew, too. If he ain't, he's got hisself a jew soul. Takes all kinds, though."

"I mean a vampire, man. Not some goth kid who dresses up!"

"I know. I work for Mr. James, same as you. Longer'n you have. What do you think about him?"

Eva laughed a little, and hung her head down between her knees for a moment. "I think he's a little stingy on the need-to-know info, that's what he is." Hank laughed so hard he dropped his paper, and had to retrieve it. He stayed down on one knee as he started his assembly ritual again, staying closer to Eva's height.

"I think he's the devil. He plays for people. What he did to Aimee... Masque, that is. And to me. Did you know I used to be a doctor?" Eva shook her head. "I fucked that up all on my own, though. Eventually became a cop. After that... after that I came to the carnival to kill your boss and mine. He can't die. I shot him, in the heart. He bitched about my ruining his damn shirt!" Eva had no trouble believing him, which scared her. A lot.

"Anyway. We played, and I lost. Lost my freedom. He owns me, now. It's not a bad life, but... I miss it. Being my own man. Being free..." He looked over his shoulder, and Eva realized he was looking toward the House of Wax, halfway across the Carnival. Hank shook his head, and looked back at Eva. "Pride used to be a regular guy."

Eva knew Pride. He was one of B.B.'s flunkies, walked around painted up to look all metallic... wait. Oh, god, it wasn't paint at all, was it? "He used to be mayor of some town or other. He lost the whole town in a game with the boss. Wiped it clean off the map. Not destroyed, though, oh no. The boss still has it, somewheres."

"What town?" she whispered.

"Someplace, I think it was in the Carolinas. Rowke, I think."

"Roanoke." Not possible. Eva was approaching overload.

"Yeah, that was it. So, anyway, Spooner, that was his name back then, Spooner, tried to win the town back. Lost his own self, instead. Or something. Maybe he even won that second game, I don't know. But with Mr. James, even when you win, it tends to go his way. Look, Eva. It's an odd bunch, here, and I'm not gonna tell you that everything's rosy and nice and we're a big ol family, really. Sometimes people die. People get eaten." Eva fought the urge to retch. "But sometimes, people find their way. They get a new start, or a second chance. I saw a woman come in once, she'd lost her kids. She was a step away from suicide, and her husband was a wreck. He didn't know how to help her, how to take away her pain."

Again, she saw, he was unconciously gazing away toward the House of Wax, his cigarette forgotten, dangling off his lip. "He'd have done anything to relieve her of that burden, her grief and agony, but there was nothing he could do. They ended up at Mr. James's booth. She played, and lost." Tears were running down his cheeks now. "She lost."

"I'm sorry." Eva knew she was missing something, some part of the story, but she wasn't inclined to ask about it. Hank was hurting, though.

"Don't be. He played for her grief, and he won. She left, finally able to let go. Able to cope with her loss. She lost to him, and got a new lease on life. You see what I'm saying? Sometimes, the Carnival, awful as it is, can heal. Like cauterizing a wound. It hurts, but sometimes it's the only way."

He patted her shoulder, awkwardly. "Freak out a little. It helps, I know. But don't judge these people until you get to know them a lot better. I been here, oh, years. And I still ain't sure who the bad guys are."

**************************************************

Mr. James left the 4-H barn, with a cigar box full of paint flakes and dust tucked under one arm. It was heavy, and the material inside would shift from time to time. Why had Dante had to cover her whole body? God damn Dante, anyway. Always using a chainsaw for scalpel work. He stopped at a dustbin, and rummaged around in his vest pocket, finally bringing out the severed finger. Ania had probably sucked on it to get the blood out. She'd been hurt, and would have been hungry.

He held it up to the light. It was rotting already, and had a grey pallor that looked none too healthy. The blood must have tasted awful. He scratched it with a fingernail, just to be sure.

Nothing. There was no paint on the finger.

Ania had eaten it.

Dammit.

He tossed the finger in the trash, and turned at the sound of a gasp beside him. There was a boy there, eleven or so, with a handful of greasy napkins and a case of acne that boded poorly for his teenage years. They looked at each other, and as one, looked back to the severed finger laying next to a half-eaten corn dodger on top of the trash.

"Is that...?" the boy squeaked.

"Yep. Honestly, the litter folks leave on the ground. Damn shame." Mr. James turned and started off toward his trailer. He'd need some supplies. He called back over his shoulder at the boy, who was tentatively poking Tiffany's old finger. "I'd leave that be if I were you. You don't know where its been."

Hmmm. Ladyfingers, he thought absently as he strolled, occasionally wrestling the cigar box back into place under his arm. I should have made a ladyfingers joke. Ah, well. Next time. A truck slammed into his face about then, and he opted to fall down. Hard.

When the stars cleared, a moment later, he looked up at Violent Clay, who was lurking over him, the sun behind his shoulder. The hellclown was snarling, and shaking with barely restrained violence. "What is that?" he growled, pointing at the cigar box with a left arm that he must have taken off a gorilla and shaved. Damn, it nearly reached the ground when the clown crouched like that. The cigar box was moving slowly, with small lurching movements, toward the clown.

Mr. James put one hand on the box, restraining it. "It's mine."

"Destroy it."

"No," and for added emphasis, the gambler spat a tooth out.

"Destroy it, or I will," he grated, leaning down inches from the prone gamesmaster. His breath was, as always, fetid and rank. But, menacing as he was, Mr. James noted that he was being very, very careful not to touch the box. The box, for its part, was vibrating with joy under his hand, like a dancing puppy.

"I wonder what would happen if any of this got on you, VC." The clown actually flinched, his nostrils flaring. Mr. James could actually see his eyes become bloodshot, as veins throbbed at his temples and neck. "I actually had other plans for this, of course, but you know how curious I get. I honestly have no idea how that would go. Would you like to find out?" He began picking at the tape Weaver had used to seal the lid.

Clay backed off a bit. Only the skill of accumulated decades of poker face acumen prevented the gambler's jaw from dropping. Violent Clay was backing up. No way. For a moment, he wondered if his plan was such a good one, after all. His real plan, not the bluff he was running on the clown. He got to his feet, carefully watching the clown and dabbing at the blood on his face. Damn, that hurt.

"That... that has no place here. It doesn't belong."

"It will."

"You can't know that!"

Mr. James shrugged. "Calculated risk. You know me. I'm good at playing the odds. Besides, I read about this." He patted the box affectionately. "In a book," he clarified, unable to resist needling the clown a little more. In truth, the Gospel of Thunk had only alluded to a hellmaid, but who else could it mean?

"If you won't destroy it, Celestine will."

"He might, at that. Why don't you go ask him?" The clown was certain to have done just that, but by suggesting it like he had, Mr. James lay claim to the idea. Odds were the clown might forgo it entirely rather than do as told by the gambler. He hoped. He walked away, uncomfortably aware of the rumbling growl of the clown at his back for several paces. Finally, though, the clown let him go.

That went well, he thought.

At his trailer, he collected a few things from the supplies under his sink and in his pantry, loading them into a paper grocery sack. He opened up the Prize cabinet, and added an item or two to his pockets that might come in handy. In the near distance, he heard something explode. He paused, listening, but when no more explosions followed, he returned to his business. Let's see, what else? Ah, yes. Of course. He put on a large pair of sunglasses to cover the shiner he felt rising. There.

As an afterthought, he tied a length of clothesline around the cigar box, knotting it tightly, and wrapped the free end of the line around his palm. "Come along, then." He led the box out the door, half dragging it, half leading it. He strolled along towards Ania's trailer, sack in one arm, cigar box following like a small dog without any legs.

Vincente saw him, and approached, scowling. Mr. James stopped and sighed. Honestly, it was one thing after another today. How was he supposed to get anything done?

"Where's the Doctor?"

"No idea. Try the big top," he replied, waving that way. He stopped. And stared.

"Yeah. My point, exactly," grumbled the beastmaster. Atop the big tent, the Demon had moved. Instead of her customary seat atop the apex of the tent, she was perched at the very edge of the top. Her tail was lashing back and forth, and she was... making notes? In a small notebook? Even as he watched, she lifted a pair of binoculars, scrutinizing something in the dirction of the main gates. Well. You don't see that every day.

"What's going on at the gates?"

"They're closed. That's all I know."

"Keeping something out?"

Vincente shrugged. "Or in." He looked down, where the cigar box had managed to scooch itself twice around Mr. James's feet, tangling his legs in the makeshift leash. He sniffed, warily. "It's wild."

The gambler highstepped, clumsily freeing his legs one by one. "Good word for it. Yes, most definitely wild."

"Yeah, good luck with that," he replied, already stalking away toward the gates, loosening his bullwhip as he went.

Proceeding, he paused as he approached the trailer shared by Becky and Eva. Eva was sitting on the stoop, chatting with Hank. Their conversation had stopped, and both of them were watching him, serious expressions on their faces. Ah. Excellent.

"How long ago?" he asked Eva. Her pale face and trembling fingers spoke volumes, as did Hank's guilty stance and downcast eyes.

"What? Oh. Um, maybe an hour?"

"Perfect! Good work, Eva. Take the afternoon off. Shaggy'll mind the store." He gave the leash a yank. "Come along, now. Good girl." He rather enjoyed the silence in his wake, as the two of them watched him walk the box away to Ania's trailer. When he arrived, he tied the box to the trailer hitch, arranging it so it dangled, barely touching the ground. "Stay. Atta girl." He set the grocery bag down next to the door, and put one hand in his vest pocket. Taking a deep breath, he knocked, once.

A giggle answered from inside. Shit. Sometimes it sucked being right all the time. He removed the Prize from his pocket, a T-shaped piece of gold. It was a figure of Christ, pried off a crucifix. "Ania?"

Again, the giggle. "Hi, Mista J! Come on in, why don'tcha?"

Let's see. She'd sucked the paint off the finger, what? Twelve hours ago? Maybe less? And it was just one finger's worth, so she should still mostly be Ania. That would help. He felt the hairs on his arms rise, the electric sense of possibilites all around him. This could go badly, quite easily. The Game came to him, both comforting in its familiarity and power and unsettlingly reminding him that the odds were all too close to even here. "Okay," he answered jauntily, and opened the door. There was a blur of movement, barely seen in the blackness inside. He pitched the Prize through the opening, and it flared to life, filling the trailer with a blinding white radiance.

Ania had changed.



She screamed, and fell back from the light of pure Faith. Mr. James retrieved the box and his bag of supplies. So far, so good. He entered, glad he'd remembered to bring his sunglasses. He made a point of locking the door, using all thirteen of the heavy deadbolts. Ania was cowered in the corner, mostly in the shadow cast by her coffin. He set his supplies down, keeping a tight grip on the leash, as the box was again all aquiver. This time it seemed angry, though. Being careful to avoid casting his shadow her way, he retrieved a silver snuffbox from another pocket and approached her. The light of Faith hadn't harmed her, of course. It wouldn't. But she didn't know that.

He opened the box, and removed a pinch of the Prize within. Sprinkling it so that it drifted down over her in a small cloud of golden dust, he whispered its name as a command: "Rest."

Ania slept.

He took a moment to light some candles, lest that Monk's Faith give out at an inopportune moment. What had his name been? Ducksworth? Duxton? Meh. Once that was done, Mr. James removed her ridiculous getup - where had she even gotten such a thing? Maybe it was Tiffany's. Using the soap and other supplies he'd brought, he commenced to bathe her. The layer of paint was thin, barely visible, except around her eyes and mouth, and at the tips of her fingers and toes. He carefully separated it away, wringing his cleaning cloths out into a separate container.

As he worked, he couldn't help but notice her wounds. Even recently fed, he was appalled at how badly she'd been injured. One of her arms had almost been severed. Her spine was covered in new skin, but whole sections of muscle were still missing. Her left eye was new and freshly regrown, her right bloodshot and bruised. Whole swaths of her had fresh pink skin stretched tight over mangled muscles and twisted bone. "Oh, Ania," he whispered. "Good girl." Ania's trailer had stout locks. She was sleeping deeply. Nobody saw, or would have believed, the tears cried by the gambler as he tended Ania, cleaning the taint from her flesh and tending her wounds as best he could. When he'd finished, he undid the knots in her hair and held her hand for a time.

"I don't deserve you, you know. Your fierce loyalty. Your admiration. Not even your friendship. I've only ever used you, as a pawn and a tool. A weapon. A servant. And you've been nothing but true." He was whispering, he realized. "Someday, Ania, my debt will be called due. I'll work hard, to make you ready for that day. For the day you're free of me. It's going to take a lot of work... but I wish... He stroked her forehead, looking at her peaceful sleeping face. "I wish I could have been your friend."

He made absolutey certain that he'd removed the last trace of Tiffany from her, and dressed her again, in her own clothes. He lay her down in her coffin, with a tenderness that would have astonished her, and kissed her very, very gently. "Thank you." He then retrieved a ridiculously large syringe from his bag. He twisted the garter he wore on his left arm, tying it tight, and watched his veins rise. So much of Ania's power revolved around blood. Once again, he was using her. Without even asking. He'd long since lost his own capacity for remorse, but even so, what he was doing left a sour taste in his mouth. He plunged the needle in, filling the container with blood. When it was full, he set it aside.

The corpse was just inside the door. Ania had shredded the woman's throat, and broken both her collarbones. Shouldn't matter. He fetched the plastic poncho from his bag, and laid it out flat. Stripping the woman down, he lay her body out on the plastic. He regarded the bucket of Tiffany-laced water, and set it next to the body.

With plastic gloves, he very, very carefully opened the cigar box, and added its contents to the bucket. The dry paint dissolved instantly, filling the bucket with swirls of white and black and pink. The Game hovered around him, waiting.

He retrieved the syringe, and placed the needle carefully in Ania's mouth. She swallowed evenly, as he depressed the plunger. "By blood and will, thou art bound," he whispered. He had, of course, fed Ania before. Now and again, when necessary. This time was different. When it was done, he once again rummaged around in the grocery bag and retrieved a juice box and a handful of stale circus peanuts. He ate, and had a cigarette while he waited. Waited for his blood to mingle in Ania's system, with her own, and with the ichor she'd absorbed from Tiffany's finger.

People talk about magic like it's hard to do. It's not. It's not doing magic that's the trick. Casual conversation includes a host of invocations, blessings and curses. People do magic so casually that it's become the standard response to a sneeze, they just don't realize it. The rules are fairly simple, though. And if someone is aware of what they're doing, and capable of directing their will while it's done, then some really impressive results are fairly straightforward.

He heard something scream in the sky above the Carnival, like some great bird issuing a cry to battle. He ignored it. Probably just the demon. This was more important.

He sprinkled Ania with more Rest, and, lifting her shirt, carefully inserted the syringe under her breastbone and into her heart. "By blood and will, this binding I lift." He filled it, about halfway. Best to leave Ania the remainder. She'd been hurt. After settling her clothes back in place, and closing the lid of her coffin, he unceremoniously squirted the contents of the syringe into the paint bucket. The pink swirls drank in the color, and seemed to swirl a little faster. "By blood and will, thou art bound."

And now, the paintbrush.

...

An hour later, the task was done. The paint was settling nicely, reshaping the canvas to best reflect the creation. Tiffany seemed a little younger, perhaps. Her pink hair a touch brighter. She was calmly going through Ania's closet, looking for something to wear while Mr. James cleaned up the supplies, refilling his bag. "She wears a lot of black. Wow."

"Just pick anything. It'll suit you soon enough."

"True dat, boss." She stopped. "Did I just call you boss?"

"Yep."

She turned, glowering at the gambler. Again, a clown was staring at him with murder in its eyes. This, he reflected, must not be his day with clowns. "I don't belong to you," she hissed.

He kicked his bag over to the door, pocketing the Faith once more. Still shining, after all this time. Huh. The candles he'd lit earlier were now the only illumination. "Thou art bound," he shrugged.

"Not to you!"

"That's right. Not to me." He pointed at the casket at the far wall. "Thou art bound. To her. And she, as it happens, works for me. Get used to it."

"Fuck you, you fucking fuck," she grumbled, returning to the closet and selecting a lavender men's dress shirt and a skintight pair of leather pants. "So what's the plan?"

"Go find Clay." She perked up, liking the sound of that. "And tell him it's over between you two. This crush of yours is done, as of now." She pouted, but didn't argue. "Then get to work. The Carnival has become kind of a violent place. More so than usual. It needs policing."

"That's VC's job."

"Yours, too, now. You'll defer to him in that area, of course. Above him, Celestine."

"And above him?"

"You know the answer to that. Now get out of here. Ania's resting. When she wakes up, she can meet her new toy." He opened the door, gesturing her out. He followed her out, and locked the door again with his keys. Tiffany stretched, taking in the scent of the Carnival.

She suddenly turned, and sprinted away. Toward the gates.

Not bad, he thought. She'd barely been sentient before, and now she seemed almost tamed. Almost, anyway. Seemed that way, anyway. As he strolled back toward his trailer, he saw Hank. Eva was nowhwhere in sight. The gambler stopped in front of him, idly swinging his coil of clothesline back and forth. "Well?"

"I did like you said, boss."

"So she's not about to run away, then?"

Hank kept his eyes down, looking none too proud of himself. "No, boss. She was probably gonna. She'd even woke up, realized how her entry point was slipping away into the past. But I talked her down, some. Now she's not sure."

Mr. James nodded. "Good work, Hank. I have plans for that one."

"'course you do," Hank muttered. Mr. James pretended he hadn't heard. "It's just... she's nothing special. What'd you want with her? Why couldn't we just have let her go?"

"She stole from me, Hank. Besides, do I ever let anyone go?"

"Aimee don't belong to you no more. Spooner, neither." At this, Hank looked up, glaring into the gambler's eyes with an expression of hot, patient anger.

"But they're not gone, either, are they?" he laughed. "They'll be here when I need them. You've done good work, Hank. Take tomorrow off. Maybe do something fun with Aimee. You've earned it."

"I hate you."

"That's okay, Hank. I love you. I love all my toys." As he walked away, Hank tried again, for the millionth time, to lunge at him, to strangle him, to smash his smug face into pulp. But as always, he could think it, but not do it. He was owned, and that was that.

"Someday..." he whispered. But not too loudly, or he'd lose his time to spend with Aimee. No, not ever loudly enough to risk that.