Page 4 of Runt's Haunted Ride
The President had said he was an odd fuck, and the description definitely fit. This guy could freak out an undertaker.
"You brawny lads must be our security detail." Mortis, his fingers steepled together in front of his chest, continued, his gaze again sweeping over our group. "I trust you'll find our little carnival... educational."
Something about the way he said "educational" made my skin crawl. This wasn't just some eccentric carnival owner—there was real power here. The kind that put my gorilla instincts on high alert.
"We're here to do a job," Fang replied, his usual swagger firmly in place. "Keep your people safe, keep the civilians in line, make sure everyone has a good time."
"Of course." Mortis' head tilted slightly, giving the impression he was listening to the skull dangling off the right side of his hat. He came away with a look of amusement. "Yes, yes, a few ground rules I'd like to reiterate, if you please. The main tent is off-limits to guests except during performances. Make sure no one enters. I want security for the performers' personal quarters. Our last place failed to keep our personal places safe." He made an effort to sigh. "Please do not make the same mistake. And do try not to interfere with our guests' enjoyment of the... attractions. You'll find our carnival is..." He looked to the left as if that skull was giving him the right word. "Different. Yes, quite right. Our guests are known to become fully immersed." He took a step closer to us. His eyes grew wider, and for a split second, it looked like he increased his size. His voice boomed. "Let them."
This wasn't an order—this was a command. I could feel the weight of it in my stomach. He surveyed the group again. His gaze lingered on me for a moment longer than the others, and I felt something cold slide down my spine. It was like being examined by a predator deciding whether you were worth the effort to kill.
"Your assignments have been distributed, I believe?" Mortis asked.
"Yes, sir, we're all set," Fang confirmed.
"Excellent. The carnival is open to the public in thirty minutes. I suggest you familiarize yourselves with the layout before then. And..." He paused. "Men." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Do try to remember not to cross me."
With that cryptic warning, he turned and glided back toward the entrance, his coattails billowing behind him like wings.
"What the hell was he?" Diesel muttered as several guys shook their heads.
"Just stay alert," Fang ordered, then lowered his voice so only we could hear him. "Remember what the President said—keep your eyes open for anything valuable. Now spread out and get to your positions."
The group dispersed, with each team heading to its assigned areas. I watched them go with a familiar pang of isolation. Tank and Diesel were already joking around as they headed to the main gate. Heavy, Torch, and Wrench disappeared toward the backstage area, talking strategy.
Swinger, Bulldog, and I spent the next twenty minutes walking the grounds, getting a feel for the layout. The midway stretched out in front of the main tent, lined with game booths, food stalls, and smaller attractions. All decorated in the same unsettling style—beautiful but somehow wrong, like a painting that was just slightly off-center.
"What'd you two think of that Ringmaster guy?" Bulldog asked when we'd reached the end of the midway.
"I felt like I couldn't breathe," Swinger said, looking over his shoulder.
"Me too," I added. "He looked like a walking skeleton."
"Freaked my damn gorilla out, that's for sure," Swinger said in a low tone. "I bet he's got magic. Dark magic."
"Yeah, I say we do our jobs and stay as far away from that fucker as we can," Bulldog suggested.
Swinger and I nodded our agreement. None of us wanted to piss off the creepy man.
The game booths were staffed by people who looked normal enough at first glance, but my enhanced vision caught details that made me wonder. The woman running the ring toss had scales that glittered along her hairline. The man at the strength test had hands that looked more like claws than fingers. Thecouple operating the funnel cake stand whispered to each other in a language that sounded like wind through dead leaves. Each of them had eyes that burrowed into me when we locked gazes.
There wasn't anything wrong with a paranormal carnival. When magic became real and outed to the world, a lot of our kind found homes in this world. But this one, this carnival—this felt off. It had an alluring darkness that drew you in while making you feel thrilled to do so.
As I made my way toward the opposite side of the midway, I passed a walkway that led to a row of smaller tents and campers. This area looked different from the rest. More private. More... protected. These had to be the performers' personal quarters that Mortis spoke of.
My suspicion was confirmed when I caught sight of Diesel rounding the corner of one tent. He looked at me. I gave him a single nod of my head and continued on my way.
I'd taken three or four steps when I spotted a tent a little way from the others. It appeared as if someone had deliberately set it to the side. Taller than the other tents, but no wider than could accommodate two or three people. It appeared to be made from deep, rich red-looking fabric. Something about this tent made my gorilla instincts go haywire.
Every nerve in my body was on high alert. My enhanced senses were picking up something—a scent, maybe, or just the feeling of power in the air. Whatever it was, it was coming from the direction of that red tent, and it was calling to something deep in my DNA.
I took a step toward it before catching myself. I was assigned to the midway. Fang would love to have an excuse to write me up for not following orders.
"Probably that sicko's tent," I said to myself as I turned away. But as I did, I could have sworn I heard something. A sound sosoft I might have imagined it. Like a whisper, but it was so faint I couldn't make it out.
"Hey, you!"
I spun around to find a carny approaching me—a burly guy with a handlebar mustache. The tattoos covering his arms seemed to move.
