Page 14 of Runt's Haunted Ride
"You don't want to fight us," Swinger said, pulling the guy's arm behind his back, subduing him. I did the same.
That's when the temperature dropped.
I felt that familiar sensation of the air being sucked from my lungs. Ringmaster Mortis emerged from the parting crowd, who were giving him a wide berth. He wasn't alone. The five clowns surrounded him like a personal guard. The puzzle-faced one's once-happy pieces were now arranged in an angry scowl. The orange-haired one's perpetual grin had twisted into something murderous. But it was the red-haired clown who made my arm hair stand on end. His glare fixed on the two drunk men with such intensity that I half-expected them to burst into flames. But even with the clowns' malicious looks, it was blatantly clear who was in charge. Mortis.
He approached with that same floating gait, his ornate hat casting shadows that seemed to move independently of any light source. The small skulls hanging from the red silk cords clinked softly as he moved. His fingers steepled in front of his chest. His dark, haunting eyes surveyed the scene.
"Come, pet," he called to the carnival worker, his voice carrying easily despite its soft tone. His pointer fingers pointed at her.
She immediately walked over to him; her head lowered in submission or reverence—I couldn't tell which. Mortis placed a single finger under her chin and lifted her face to meet his gaze. His head tilted from side to side as he studied her.
"Were you hurt, pet?" he asked, his voice gentle but with an underlying edge that made the two drunk men finally stop struggling against our hold.
She shook her head no but unconsciously rubbed her wrist.
"Let me see." For the first time, I saw him undo his hands. He held his palms out and took her hands in his. Carefully, he turned them side to side, examining the visible red marks.
Mortis leaned down close to her, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow only she could hear. His enormous hands wrapped around her wrists, causing her to gasp. Closing his eyes, he spoke, his hands rubbing against her wrists. He then opened his eyes and spoke to her. She rubbed her left wrist, then her right. She nodded her head and spoke back to him in the same inaudible tone, her lips moving but no sound reaching the rest of us.
When she finished, Mortis straightened to his full height. His black eyes fixed on the two men, and his head cocked to the side like a hawk assessing its prey. There was something predatory in that movement that made every instinct my gorilla scream warnings.
He returned his gaze to her, placing his hand gently on her cheek. This time his voice was audible. "You did nothing wrong, my pet. You were right to fight them. Are you alright to keep working, or would you like to go rest?"
Again, she spoke in that silent whisper that only he could hear.
Mortis turned to the nearest clown—the orange-haired one. "With all these people around, make sure she makes it safely to her booth, then return."
He turned back to her. "Go with him, pet," Mortis said, his voice warm with approval. "I shall check on you later." He rubbed his hand down her cheek again.
Hand in hand, she followed behind the orange clown through the people.
Now Mortis' attention turned fully to the two men. As he looked at them, something began to change. He seemed to grow taller, his frame expanding with each silent breath. The expensive suit and top hat grew with him.
My gorilla instincts were screaming at me to get as far away from this situation as possible.
"You two attempted to hurt one of mine," Mortis said, his voice deepening as his body continued its transformation.
He leaned toward the skull hanging on the right side of his hat, his head tilting as if listening to whispered advice. Then he straightened, and in a deeper voice:
"Why?" he asked simply.
"What are you?" the younger man asked as he tried to release himself from Swinger's hold. "The carnival freak?"
"WHY?" Mortis demanded.
"I liked the look of her," the man said.
"AND YOU?" Mortis' voice barked.
"I wasn't gonna hurt her," the older man stammered, suddenly very sober. "I just—I just wanted to talk to her."
"Me too," the younger one echoed frantically. "Just talk. Talk, that's all."
"Liar," the older man shouted. "You wanted to see where her circles ended."
"Oh yeah, well you said you would make it worth her while," the younger one snapped back. "What's that mean? Young girl, old dick—that's what it means. O-L-D." He spelled out each letter.
Mortis leaned toward the skull on the left side of his hat, then straightened to a terrifying height—easily eight feet tall now, his presence dominating the space around us.
