The Carnival of Lost Souls : A Handcuff Kid Novel (14 page)

Rumbling echoed all around him like a stampede of bulls. The walls shook, sending a shower of dirt down on top of their heads. Relief flooded through him when he saw the pale dawn light from the hatch pouring down into the dark labyrinth.

Jack grabbed the rung and climbed up as fast as he could. He burst through the hatch and back up into the light and air, T-Ray and Boxer at his heels. “Run! We’ve got to get out of here. Death Wranglers are right behind us. They’re coming.” Jack gasped.

“I told you!” Jabber grabbed Jack by the shirt and pulled him close to his cold face. “It’s too late to run now. Get ahold of yourself and do exactly as I say.”

T-Ray grabbed Jack’s sleeve. “Let’s go!”

But Jabber, barking orders, drowned him out. “Climb up the trees. You can’t outrun them! You have to hide! Go up!”

“No way! They’ll tear down the trees. Or they’ll wait till we have to climb down,” Jack said. “We’ll be easy pickings.”

Jabber got in his face again. “They won’t be able to see you. The Death Wrangler can only see straight ahead or side to side. He can’t move his head up. Our only chance is to go up and hide in the trees above them.”

Runt needed no convincing and scurried up one of the trees to perch in the crook of the branch. He was half hidden in the heavy mist that perpetually hung in the sky of the forest. “Come on! He’s telling the truth!”

“Fine.” Jack hooked his fingers together to give T-Ray a boost up the closest tree, and then Jabber did the same for him. Once Jack had made it up the tree, he turned and looked down. Jabber jumped up and grabbed on to the tree next to Jack.

Boxer grabbed a tree and tried pathetically to climb, but he was too big and cumbersome, and his arms and legs tore at the bark and snapped the thin tree limbs. His face was white as a sheet, his muscular arms cut from the rough bark. He shook his head at Jack. “I can’t make it!” Boxer yelled. He looked around frantically.

“Boxer!” Jack’s voice was thready with panic. “Hurry, they’re coming. Just try. You can do it.”

Sweat streaking down his face, his eyes wide with the panic of a wild animal trapped, he helplessly groped at the tree. Jack’s heart caught like a stone in his throat. The rumbling of the Death Wranglers grew louder. He had no idea how to help.

Jabber slid down the tree he had expertly scaled only
seconds before to help Boxer. “You’ll have to hide, and I’ll distract it. It’s your only chance.” Jabber shot Jack a vicious glance like it was all Jack’s fault, which it kind of was. Boxer curled up in between the deep grooves of the tree roots while Jabber frantically covered him with leaves. But by the time Boxer was covered, it was too late for Jabber. He was trapped out in the open.

The battered horns appeared first, rising up out of the trapdoor. And then the enormous creature with the body of a man and the head of a bull climbed out of the pit. The beast circled Jabber, snorted and growled, but he never looked up into the trees. The beast was huge compared to Jabber. There was no way Jabber could put up a fight. The Death Wrangler stared into Jabber’s face, his black eyes pitiless. Jabber stood his ground, not moving a muscle, never once flinching or recoiling from the beast. Finally, the Death Wrangler spoke with a deep, gruff voice.

“You invaded our territory, charge of Mussini.”

“Yes, I did. But it was for a good reason.”

“For your sake, it better be.”

Jabber walked over behind the tree and picked up the mask of the Death Wrangler that Boxer had worn to scare Jack. Jabber held up the likeness to the beast and bowed, going down on one knee, presenting the mask as an offering. “I offer you this gift in thanks.”

Jack didn’t think that a huge papier-mâché likeness
of the Death Wrangler’s head was that great a gift, but Jabber treated the crude craft project like a sculpture that had been dipped in bronze.

The beast snorted and walked around Jabber, wary of the prize. “Is this a trick?”

“No trick.” Jabber set the mask at the Death Wrangler’s feet. “An offering of thanks for letting us pass through the wall two nights ago.”

“It is good to bring us gifts.” The Death Wrangler picked up the mask and held it gently out in front of his huge body. “I will take this back to the others. But beware, charge of Mussini, you are not free to enter the labyrinth ever again. Gift or no gift, we will punish you severely.”

“Yes, sir. I will remember.” Jabber bowed his head until the Death Wrangler climbed back down into the pit and closed the hatch behind him. No one moved until the rumbling beneath the earth stilled.

Runt slid down his tree. “You’re a hero, Jabber.”

Boxer crawled out of the pile of leaves. “You saved me. He never knew I was here.”

“No problem.” Jabber brushed his palms together cheerfully, as if the entire incident was nothing.

“Weren’t you scared? One swipe and the Death Wrangler could have wiped you out.” Runt made wild swinging motions with his arms.

Jack listened to them chat from up in the tree, and
then finally climbed down, ashamed that he had been weak and cowardly—frozen in the treetops while Boxer struggled on the ground. Jabber was the strong one, facing the Death Wrangler, saving them all.

He offered Jabber his hand. “That was really smart. I owe you. I should have listened when you said not to go into the labyrinth,” Jack said, struggling to admit his mistake out loud.

“You don’t owe me. It wasn’t
you
I was saving.” Jabber brushed the dirt off of his top hat and secured it back on his head without shaking Jack’s hand. “Now let’s go home.”

When they got back to camp, it was fully light and Violet was stirring a big bubbling pot of oatmeal over the campfire. She looked up as Jack passed by.

“I suppose you want your breakfast now that you’re back.”

“Sure. Did you kill that oatmeal all by yourself?” he tried to joke, but he was too tired; his arms and legs felt like limp rubber bands.

Violet’s eyes went wide. She reached out and touched a scratch on Jack’s cheek that he didn’t even know he had. “What happened? Boxer didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“No, it was my fault. I screwed up and put us in danger. And what’s worse, I knew I was doing it and did it anyway.”

“This place is dangerous. It’s not like back there. Your old home.”

Runt ran up and squeezed between Jack and Violet. “Violet, I’m going back to bed. Wake me for lunch, please.” Runt went into the tent, and Jack tried to follow before Jabber stopped him.

“I’ll take this.” Jabber took Jack’s duffel bag. “Mussini wants to have a word with you, and I wouldn’t keep him waiting.”

Jabber walked Jack to the Amazing Mussini’s tent. Through the flap Jack could see the inside of the tent was much more luxurious than their humble hammocks. Persian carpets covered the ground, and jewel-toned lanterns cast a colorful glow. Silky pillows littered a round futon on the floor. It looked like the
Arabian Nights
had exploded all over the place.

Jabber pushed Jack inside the tent and nodded to a stool for Jack to sit on. Mussini didn’t face him, but whirled a thick bristle brush in a bowl, working up a lather of shaving foam.

“I summoned you here to discuss your act in the show.”

“You’re not angry at me for trying to escape?”

“Your escape was anticipated, Jack. I don’t waste my time on unnecessary emotions. When I’m angry with you, you will know it, and I won’t send a bunch of kids in masks to get you back. I’ll send the real Death Wranglers, and they’re twice the size of Boxer.”

“Yes, sir.” Jack reddened. Mussini had seen right through him. “Listen—can I just go home? I miss Mildred.” It was a futile attempt, but Jack had to ask. He sighed and sunk down into a cushion, too sweaty and exhausted to think of a clever argument.

“Never mind about the other side. We are your family now. This is your home.” With his face half-covered in shaving cream, Mussini stared at himself in a mirror.

“I don’t think he’s convinced, Mussini,” Jabber said. “Seems recklessness is in his blood.”

Mussini dragged a razor down each of his rough cheeks and wiped what was left of the foam from his face. Then he lifted a thin oilcloth blanket from his dresser, exposing a collection of long, sharp throwing knives. “Lovely, aren’t they? My first act onstage was throwing knives at a pretty girl who shook like a scared lamb. I was very good back then, never even nicked her delicate skin. Knives relax me.” His hands wavered over the deadly instruments like a surgeon selecting a scalpel. Snatching one up, without a second’s hesitation, Mussini spun the blade in the air, and it pierced the wooden support beam of the tent above Jack’s head as if spearing an invisible apple. Jack flinched and eyed the wobbling blade handle, mere millimeters from his scalp.

“Illusion is half skill, half lie. These beauties demand real talent.” Mussini picked up another knife and inspected the blade, pointing it at Jack. Then he
suddenly rushed toward him, his face so close Jack got a good whiff of shaving cream and a good look at Mussini’s eyes. “You have no idea what it’s like to be dead. I can never go back to the real world as the man I was and breathe fresh air into my lungs.” Mussini pulled away, circling the tent. “Circumstances change. Magic was my life back then, but here, in the Land of the Dead, I have made it my destiny.”

Mussini removed his outer shirt and stood in front of Jack in a white undershirt. He leaned one of his biceps toward Jack so that he could get a good look at the huge tattoos that covered both arms. Each tattoo was of a woman. One was a wicked redhead with a stunning face and devilish grin, and the other was a pale, angelic woman with a cascade of blond hair around her shoulders. Jack swallowed, mesmerized by Mussini and the beautiful women inked into his skin forever.

“I am in the middle of two beautiful women. One is my heaven; one is my hell. I can never leave the forest, Jack. All I have is the show. Nothing will stop it. Do I have your word you won’t try and escape again?”

“I’m not making any promises. Especially ones I can’t keep.” Jack stood his ground, wanting to see just how much chain Mussini was going to give him before yanking him back. Foolish, perhaps, especially standing face-to-face with a man whose relaxing hobby was throwing knives at people, but Jack knew that to show a sign of
weakness was worse than a sign of insolence. And he was sick of being afraid.

Mussini grabbed the knife out of the splintered wood above Jack’s head and set it back on the dresser. Turning around, he pulled the neck of his shirt down. Jack expected to see another tattoo on Mussini’s chest, but what he saw caused his stomach to drop to his shoes. He reeled away from the man, stumbled backward over the stool, and fell onto the carpet. It was grotesque and wondrous at the same time. Beneath his shirt, a huge patch of skin over Mussini’s chest was clear, almost translucent, like a sheet of plastic wrap. Under the thin surface of clear skin, his bloody heart was still beating, thumping in his body; pumping blood through a dead man. It couldn’t be real.

“What are you?” Jack gasped.

“A magician!” Mussini glowered at Jack. He adjusted his shirt and grinned.

“But you’re dead,” Jack said.

“Technically, yes, I am dead, but my heart refuses to die. A man is nothing without heart, Jack. Illusion is everything, even if it isn’t real.”

Jack stumbled to his feet. Now he knew why Mussini wasn’t afraid of anything. He had already conquered death. Jabber pulled the handcuffs out of Jack’s bag and set them on the table in front of the Amazing Mussini.

“What do we have here?” Mussini swung one of the handcuffs around on his finger.

Jack tried to grab the cuffs from Mussini. “Hey, those are mine.”

“He’s good with them, quick, too,” Jabber said. “You should have seen him trap Boxer. I thought maybe he could use them in his act.”

“Our escapist. Our handcuff magician.” Mussini grinned at Jack. “It’s brilliant!”

Mussini turned to Jabber. “Help him. We’ll put him on early to test him out. See how he does. Oh, this is interesting. I might have actually gotten my trouble’s worth for this scrap.”

Jack followed Jabber out of the tent. “What was that all about?”

“We get into the next town tomorrow, and if I were you, I would start worrying about my act.”

Jack stuffed his handcuffs back into his duffel bag. “I don’t have an act.”

“You’re either a magician or you’re deadweight,” Jabber said.

“I guess if those are my choices, I’d rather be a magician than dead.”

“We’ll help you and get you anything you need. Trust me—it’s only utterly terrifying the first dozen or so times. Then it gets
slightly
terrifying.”

“What does?” Jack asked.

Jabber smiled. “Performing for the dead.”

After leaving Mussini’s tent, Jack wandered over to the campfire, which was now just a mound of smoldering coals. A good stoke and some kindling would set the fire ablaze again, or the coals, if left alone, would cool off and die down to ash. That’s how Jack felt, like he could go either way. Being threatened only made Jack more determined to get out, but after seeing Mussini for the monster he truly was, Jack knew he couldn’t do it alone. He needed allies. He rested his back up against a tree and stared down into the glowing coals. His shoulders relaxed against the bark. Exhaustion overwhelmed him. His head bobbed. His eyes fluttered closed.