Page 40 of The Knucklebone Brothers

The door swung open and I was ready to tear someone's throat out, but the sight that greeted me stopped me cold. Standing there wasn't a stranger, but a mountain of ink and muscle that used to be the center of the goddamn show.

Knox.

And at his side, tail thumping a slow, heavy rhythm against his leg, was Grit. He was a big, ugly bastard, a Bloodhound with a coat the color of rust and mud, his ears torn and scarred from old fights. I reached down and scratched the dog behind its ears. "Hey there, Grit," I said.

He's old, but he can still fuck shit up.

Knox looked like he’d been dragged through a woodchipper and stitched back together, every inch of his skin covered in faded, swirling tattoos that looked like they were trying to crawl off his body. He wore a sleeveless flannel shirt that was ripped to shreds at the sleeves, revealing arms thick enough to crush coconuts, and a pair of ragged jeans that hung low on his hips. He walked with a heavy, rolling gait, a beat-up double-barrel shotgun resting over one massive shoulder. He smelled like gun oil, stale tobacco.

"Morning, boy," he rumbled, his voice like gravel grinding together. He didn't look old, not really, but there was a deep, heavy weariness in his eyes that made him look twice his age. He used to be the freak show's tattooed man, the sword swallower, the announcer who could make a crowd scream just by talking. But when his partner died, Knox had checked out of the world. He lived at the very front of the holler now, guarding the entrance like a damn wolf, but he was still the closest thing to a father I ever had. We ran the show, but Knox was the soul of it.

He leaned in close, invading my personal space, his eyes scanning the room like he was looking for threats. "You got a look on you like you just pissed your pants," he grunted, a crooked, ugly smile stretching across his face. "Something wrong?"

"Rough night," I grunted, stepping aside to let him in.

Knox didn't look convinced. He pushed past me, his boots crunching on the floorboards like they were made of bones. He dropped his shotgun onto the table, right next to empty bottles, and let out a low, gravelly chuckle that rattled in his chest. He looked around the room, taking in the skulls and the posters, shaking his head like he was disappointed in my decor.

"Still livin' like a damn hoarder," he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "But at least you ain't depressed. That's a start."

He grabbed the bottle on the ground and took a long swig, the liquid splashing down his chin. He looked at me, his eyes intense, the ink on his face and neck seeming to shift in the dim light. "Listen, I was comin' by to tell you about the big top," he said, his voice dropping a few octaves, the announcer mode kicking in. "We gotta get the canvas stretched and some of the holes patched up before opening night. The wind's been tearin' at it. Can't have the folks seein' the sky through the roof now, can we?"

He looked at me, his eyes intense. "You comin'?"

I shook my head, a wide grin stretching across my face. "Nah, can't do it, old man. I gotta head into town for a bit."

Knox raised a thick, tattooed eyebrow. "Town? What for? We ain't got nothin' we need?"

"Oh, I don't know," I drawled, my voice full of mischief. "Just a few things. For our little guest."

A slow, knowing smile spread across Knox's face. "Ah," he said, his voice rumbled low. "The girl. How's she doin'? She been givin' you boys a hard time?"

"Harder than a woodpecker's pecker," I laughed. "But she's a firecracker, that one. Got a spirit on her. Gonna need some things to... soften her up a bit."

Knox just chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, you go on then," he said, his voice turning serious again. "But you get Blythe or Amos to help me with the tent. I ain't doin' it all by myself."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll tell 'em," I said, waving him off.

Knox just grunted, his eyes twinkling with amusement. He turned and walked out.

After Knox left, I headed to the bathroom. The water in the faucet came out in a rusty brown burst before clearing, just like always. I splashed it on my face, scrubbing away the sleep and the lingering memory of Rory's spit mixed with my blood. Good girl, I thought, a grin spreading across my face. Fight me all you want. It just makes it sweeter. I brushed my teeth with a frayed toothbrush and some baking soda, the gritty paste making my gums tingle.

Back in my room, I ditched the boxers and pulled on my clothes. A pair of worn-out, faded blue jeans, soft in all the right places, and a plain black t-shirt that was tight enough to show off the muscles in my chest and arms. I laced up my boots, the leather scuffed and worn from years of stomping through the woods.

I went to the back door. It opened up into what used to be the main storage building for the circus, a massive, barn-like structure that was now my personal workshop and playground. The air inside was thick with the smell of old wood. The place was a maze of antique carnival equipment, a few rusted-out equipment, a collection of cracked funhouse mirrors, and shelves piled high with old posters, props, and costumes.

In the corner, coiled up in her massive glass tank, was Lilly. She was a beautiful Burmese python, with scales that shimmered like oil in the dim light. I named her after my momma, Lilith. She was the snake woman in the show, the one who could charm any serpent, even the ones with the worst tempers. She died when I was a kid, but Lilly... she was a piece of her that I could keep. A reminder that even the most beautiful things can be deadly.

I walked over to her tank, tapping on the glass. "Hey, girl," I murmured, my voice soft. "Gotta go into town for a bit. You be good."

She flicked her tongue at me, tasting the air, her yellow eyes unblinking. She was my girl, my confidante. I grabbed my keys and my wallet from a workbench cluttered with tools and half-finished projects and headed for the side door that led out to the path into town. Time to go get some things for my little firecracker.

I fired up the old truck, the engine coughing to life with a rattling groan that sounded like a dying man's last breath. The tires crunched over the gravel as I pulled out of the holler. The drive into Mercy Ridge was always a trip. The road wound through the mountains like a snake, the trees on either side forming a dense, green canopy that blocked out the sun. It was like driving through a tunnel, a dark, winding path that led from our world into theirs.

I passed the old church. Or what was left of it. It stood on the edge of town like a blackened relic, its skeletal frame reaching for a sky that didn't want it anymore. The roof had collapsed in on itself, and the stained-glass windows were just gaping, empty holes now. I remembered the night she did it. I'd watched her from the treeline, a can of gasoline in her hand, a wild, beautiful smile on her face. When the flames caught, she didn't run. She danced. An angel in a halo of smoke and fire, her silhouette twisting against the inferno. It was the holiest thing I'd ever seen.

As I got closer to town, the trees thinned out, and the houses started to appear. They were mostly old with peeling paint and sagging porches, but they were kept up as best as they could be. The town's idea of Halloween decor was on full display, pumpkins with crooked, toothy grins sat on porches, some already starting to rot and attract flies. Strings of orange and purple lights, the big, bulky kind with the colored plastic bulbs, were tangled up in the branches of a few trees, half of them burned out and blinking randomly. Some houses had those blow-mold plastic figures, a ghost and a witch leaning against a porch railing. Then a grinning pumpkin man with a crack in its side, looking more like a forgotten toy than a decoration. One house had a plastic skeleton hanging from a tree, its bones a dull, lifeless white, one of its arms taped back on with duct tape.

They'd normally wave but when I drove their faces would change. The smiles would fade, their eyes would widen, and they'd quickly turn away. It was always the same. We were the Knucklebones, the freaks from the holler, the family that everyone loved to hate. They'd come to our shows, they'd pay good money to see us, but they'd never let us forget that we were different. They'd never let us forget that we were the monsters.