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Chapter One
A midnight black dahlia was a rarity, yet not rare enough for a murderous bastard to leave five behind on Cricket’s bloodied corpse. As her body lay dying, the last thing she remembered seeing were two obsidian dahlias coming down across her eyes. The gentle weight of two more pressed into each of her palms. And finally, as if offering the dead a bite of food, a flower was placed into her mouth, its flavor sharp and bitter against her tongue, the last thing she was sure she would ever taste.
Flexing her fingers, Cricket sighed. She tried not to think about that horrific day if she could help it. But ever since she’d been brought back to life by a necromancer, Cricket had been waiting for her inherited gift to manifest itself, a peculiarity unique to her—a curiosity to entertain the masses flocking to Mistress Eliza’s Carnival. She’d been told that her skin was supposed to become translucent at will, her skeleton to be seen beneath her layers of flesh, then bright crimson roses were meant to bloom across her skin. The necromancer had foreseen this before she’d restarted Cricket’s heart once more, and she’d never been wrong in the past. Only, each time Cricket practiced, struggling to discover her gift, nothing happened. No roses, no translucent skin, no skeleton. Her mortal body remained stubbornly normal.
Cricket’s curiosity needed to surface soon, as the necromancer, her mistress—Eliza—had demanded. But she tried. Every blasted day since she’d awoken. She wouldn’t ever take the stage in Mistress Eliza’s Carnival if she couldn’t call on her gift at will. Tonight was meant to be her second week to perform her hidden curiosity in front of an audience. To dance. But it wasn’t quite in the cards for her yet. Instead, she was helping the other performers or cleaning up rubbish left behind on the carnival grounds by visitors.
The fiddler’s music filled the air, his pace picking up to a delightful and quirky tune that was pleasant to her ears. Pulling back the thick black velvet curtain, Cricket peeked out toward the audience, who watched with mesmerized wide eyes as Wilder—the Wooden Man—removed his left foot, then his right hand by using his teeth. He waggled his eyebrows while his fingers and toes fluttered, bidding a hello to the crowd. Above him, two female acrobats, wearing tight, sparkling black costumes and silver masks covering their entire faces, spun within ivory silk fabric, forming a cocoon around themselves before dark leathery wings burst from their backs.
The audience oohed and aahed, clapping harder when Wilder balanced on the stump of one arm. His skin appeared wood-like, with lines etched into his brown flesh.
“So,” a deep voice purred from behind Cricket. “Have you been practicing?”
Her heart skipped a beat and she whirled around to find Zephyr leaning on a rail, his arms folded against his broad bare chest. “In my caravan,” she said with a frown, yet her gaze unintentionally swept up his lithe and muscular physique. The dark collar he always wore rested around his throat and black trousers slung low on his hips. Zephyr’s onyx hair was drawn back in a knot at his nape while his bright hazel eyes, lined in kohl, danced with playfulness as they studied her beneath long lashes.
“You should come out more often and stop hiding inside your caravan,” he said with a grin.
She pretended to observe her nails. “I’m out right now.”
Since joining the carnival, she’d remained in her caravan when practicing and only crept out to bathe or when Mistress Eliza required it. Before her murder, seeing Zephyr this close would’ve made her heart gallop, and even though she hadn’t truly known him at that time, in a way, she blamed him for her death, for everything she’d lost.
“For luck.” Zephyr reached for her hand, and she didn’t pull away as he pried open her fingers, then tucked something cool against her palm.
Cricket peered down at a silver coin, her frown deepening.
“Perhaps you can come to my caravan after I perform, and we can practice for the rest of the night,” he drawled, the edges of his lips curling up in amusement.
Frustration stormed inside her veins, and she clenched her jaw. “If you think I’ll spread my legs for you in return for one bloody coin, then you’d be wrong. It would take much more than that.”
“So it’s not a no, then?” He arched a brow, a low chuckle escaping his pouty mouth.
“You’re such a—”
With a grin, he pressed his finger over her lips, silencing her before she could curse him. “Now, now, children are out there.” He let his callused finger fall from her mouth. “Besides, it was only an invitation to talk. Get to know one another since you’ve been avoiding everyone as if they have a plague. I think it’ll help Mistress Eliza get off your back for a bit.”
Cricket thought about it for a moment—that might be true. “You think it would?” she asked, biting her lip.
“One way to find out.” He shrugged, dipping toward her, his woodsy scent caressing her senses.
Cricket’s cheeks heated and she turned back to the stage before he could see. Wilder finished his act, the wood of his skin vanishing, leaving only a deep brown as he raked a hand through his hair. She focused on the next performer—Inara—as she made the crowd laugh by pulling a multitude of lacy hats from her head, one hidden beneath another and another. Long purple tentacles sprouted from Inara’s legs and arms, and she slowly crawled in a circle on the stage. Cricket desperately wished her curiosity would unfurl from within her so she could finally experience it, but perhaps Zephyr was right. Maybe talking to someone would help her hone in on her ability more easily. But as she turned around to take Zephyr up on his offer, a dark-haired female, maybe ten years older than him, wrapped her arm around his waist and whispered in his ear. Autumn, with her beautiful, cat-like golden eyes, who was able to contort her body into any position she wished. And Cricket was certain Autumn had been in Zephyr’s bed on more than one occasion.
Cricket slipped to the far back of the tent, brushing past two performers: Sylvia, a pepper-haired female who held the ability to expel fire beneath water, and Virgil, a middle-aged man who could tap nails anywhere along his body, including his eyes. She tucked herself into a corner, hidden away from everyone, then pressed her back against a rail and inhaled deeply. A little over a year ago, Mistress Eliza had brought her back from the dead—only things hadn’t gone as they had with the other performers. Instead of waking with a gifted curiosity that would bud and grow, Cricket had been asleep until a month ago. During that time, she’d performed as the Sleeping Darling, a woman who remained asleep, no matter how loud her surroundings became.
Everyone who worked at Mistress Eliza’s Carnival had once been dead like Cricket, only they’d awoken as soon as the necromancy magic restarted their hearts, and they were able to practice their gifts. Before her death, Cricket had ventured to the carnival, watched Zephyr touch leaves, then sprout vines from his bare back. She’d thought it the most beautiful thing in the world, even more so than the other talented performers. Over the years, every time the carnival came, he’d been the one she’d wanted to see the most, had wished to dance on the very stage where he and the others performed. However, fate decided to answer her prayer while whispering, Be careful what you wish for.
“Where’s Cricket at?” The snapping voice of Mistress Eliza interrupted her thoughts as the wood creaked beneath the woman’s limp. Cricket sighed, knowing Mistress Eliza was in a foul mood—as she’d been unable to raise anyone from death. Not since Cricket’s murder. The bodies of the deceased, including animals, would no more than twitch before falling dead once more. Sometimes, or on most days, Cricket wished the necromancer hadn’t ever brought her back.
Perspiration coated Cricket’s palms, and she wiped them against the waistband of her short tulle skirt. Cricket’s heart thundered in her chest as she watched Mistress Eliza limp out the back entrance, her long wool dress swishing and her graying hair loosely plaited down her back. The necromancer refused to use a cane, no matter how rough of a day she was having with her limp.
The crowd cheered for Inara’s performance, their clapping akin to the roar of a thousand doors slamming.
Cricket snuck a glance around the corner, cursing herself as Zephyr caught her, and a grin spread his lips. He winked at her while Autumn giggled, her finger trailing across his collar. Zephyr casually moved Autumn’s hand away, and Cricket drew back, realizing she was still holding his coin. Even though she wanted to toss it back at him, she slipped the coin into her bodice.
As violins started to play deep and lovely, signaling a new act was beginning, Cricket released a breath and pretended she was the one taking a step onto the stage. Cricket Wakefield.
Ever since she was a young child, she’d always wished to become a dancer. Each night, she used to perform in front of her mirror back home, knowing she wouldn’t be able to live out her dream and travel, not when her parents wanted nothing for her but a suitable man to take care of her.
Music poured from the instruments, the pace of the bows across the strings increasing, brushing exquisitely against her eardrums. Cricket stepped forward and closed her eyes before lifting an arm above her head. She pointed her toes as she elevated her leg to the side. Once, twice, she spun in a clockwise circle. On her third pirouette, she thought about the blade digging in between her collarbones, slashing toward her stomach, the hot blood spilling down her flesh. The dahlias against her eyes. She stumbled as she inhaled sharply, her lungs begging to drink in more air.
