House of Clowns (HUNT Trilogy #1)

7. SEVEN

SEVEN

JOKER

A moment before, as I saw her within the maze, something stirred deep inside of me. It was not a very curious thing, but it was just a prime, aching hunger. I had to know her, possess her, find out what lay behind her bruised smile and the way she moved as if something was not quite there. There was a purpose in her walk, the slight swaying of her hips drawing attention but being careful not to let too much linger. It was that hint of secrecy in her eyes, the way her lips curled despite all the bruises on her face, that invited someone to notice her but dared them to come closer.

OK, I'll bite.

Who are you? I wanted to ask. Who are you beneath the sleek, polished surface? The idea of taking her on moonlit walks, secret, quiet, where nobody else would know, went into my head. I'd let her lead, let her walk just ahead of me, watching the graceful sway of her hips, the way her body moved in rhythm with the night.

I shook the thought away, leaned back against the rough wall of the house, and lit the last cigarette from the crumpled pack in my pocket. Night hung heavy, cloaked in a thick silence where only the far-off hum of circus music weaved a haunting melody through the air. And I slept to the sound, even most of those eerie, hypnotic tunes that followed us all, a shadow we couldn't shake.

Chico was back out from the woods, the footsteps slow across the hard-stomached ground. Victor trailed behind him, like a ghost. As they drew closer, I caught Victor's face scratched up, raw, like he'd been in a fight with something wild. Chico's face was tight, fear written across his face as he guided Victor inside the house. Nobody knew the story that lay behind Victor, but the conjecture was already enough.

Whispers told that he belonged to some secret society or even a cult, with several versions of the story up in the air. Some said he'd escaped, but there was always a price paid, the kind of price where someone had to be sacrificed every year to keep those things from coming for him.

The door creaked shut behind them, and Chico stepped back out, lighting a cigarette as he came to stand beside me. He took a long drag before speaking; his voice was low.

"They tried takin' that girl," he muttered, shaking his head. "She fought 'em off. Scratched him up good."

I looked over at him, raising an eyebrow. "Why'd they go after her?"

He shrugged, and the cigarette dangled from his lips. "Game. Fun . Who knows?

"A game, huh?" I repeated, my gaze drifting into the distance. And then I saw Rocco approaching us, the silhouette of a boy following close behind him. The kid clutched a notebook, whispering something to Rocco, who barely acknowledged him as they approached.

When Rocco reached us, he gave me a quick nod. "You free?" he asked in a gruff voice.

"Yeah," I said, eyeing the kid.

"Good." Rocco gave the boy a nudge in my direction. "I need you to take him home. I owe his brother a favor."

He staggered a little, his eyes wide, looking up at me, clutching his notebook as if it were the only anchor to reality.

I exhaled hard and turned back toward the woods. "Alright," I said, pushing off the wall. "Let's go."

I approached the kid and, with an open hand, delicately took hold of his jacket collar, drawing him toward me and pushing him forward with a nudge. "Hasta la vista," I tittered over my shoulder to the others, a grin spreading across my face.

The child trotted to keep up as we crossed the field and headed toward the trees. His legs were short and striving, unable to keep pace with me. In a little while, I turned back, seeing the gap between us was growing.

"You keeping up?" I asked, slowing just enough to let him catch up.

"Y-yeah," he muttered, head down, eyes fixed on the ground. "It's just… you kind of scare me."

I burst out laughing, striding to a stop. "Kid, I'm the least intimidating person in this place." To prove it, I squatted, brushing my hair back to reveal a sliver of my face, free from the smears of paint and grime. "See? Just a regular guy under all this."

"I know," he whispered, a little smile tugging at his lips. "It's still… kinda scary."

I straightened and laid a hand on the back of his head, pushing him farther down. "Good. Scary's not always bad."

He looked up at me, his eyes brimming with innocent curiosity. "What is your name?"

"Rio," I said, glancing at his oversized jacket. It hung on him like a borrowed coat, two sizes too big. "What's yours?"

"Carlo." He stirred, his pinkies tracing the edges of the worn notebook in his hands. Gaze down but cutting through the silence between us, his words cut into my thoughts.

"Do you have... a favorite person?"

I stopped and shook my head, a smile playing on my lips. "You?"

His voice gentled, a tenderness seeping in. "My sister," he said almost reverentially. "She is my favorite person."

I nodded, waiting as he seemed to search for more words.

"She takes care of me," he said—only his tone was even, laced with something more. "When everything's bad , she always manages to make it feel good for me."

"Is it always bad?" I asked, the question slipping out before I'd fully considered it.

"Not always," he whispered, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes shone bright, staring down at the notebook as though it held secrets he couldn't share. "But when it is... it can be scary."

"And where's she now?" I asked, nodding toward the notebook he clutched so tightly. "Is that hers?"

He swallowed, eyes dropping to the ground, voice trailing off. "Home. She's home… with Dad."

I clenched my jaw and turned out towards the dim lights of the town that twinkled down below us at the bottom of the hill as we walked.

"I like you, Rio," he said finally, the first to break the silence. "You're a smart clown."

I stopped and raised an eyebrow at him. "Well, glad to know I'm not a dumb one."

Carlo chuckled, easing his notebook under his arm. "My dad says all clowns are."

"Clowns aren't stupid," I said irritably and rolled my eyes. "Sounds like your dad might be, though."

He laughed, shaking his head. "I can't wait to see his face when you show up at our door."

I couldn't help but grin. "Me and you both, kid." I felt the paint crack around the corners of my mouth as I smiled, little flakes of color crumbling away.

We tramped through the tall grass until the earth gave way to a wooden path beneath our feet. Tree shadows lengthened and stretched in the pale moonlight.

"How much farther?" I asked, peering down the switchback-heavy trail ahead.

"Five minutes, maybe." He clutched his notebook tightly to his chest now, and in a softer voice, asked, "Have you ever been scared?"

I looked down at him, something familiar in the desperate clutch he had on that notebook, like a shield. "Yeah, a few times," I said, memories flickering to life-like old snapshots: me standing alone in that orphanage as a kid and feeling like a ghost among strangers with an ache in my heart that asked one question over and over again, whether anybody would ever care.

"Me too," whispered Carlo, his small voice cutting through the quiet of the night. "I'm scared my sister will leave me. Like my mom did."

"Favorite people don't leave favorite people," I said, looking down at him as we reached the fence that divided the field from the road.

I swung a leg over the fence and leaped, landing on the other side. Carlo tried, but his arms barely reached the top. I reached out and steadied him as he clambered over and hopped down beside me.

His feet landed on the ground, and he looked up at me. "Why do you think that? That she won't leave?"

I shrugged, digging my elbow into his ribs to keep him walking. "Because she makes you feel safe. Like she's holding things together, even when everything else is falling apart."

As we walked into town, the cobbles beneath our feet changed, each one slightly uneven and worn. Time was stuck here, the sort of place where everyone knows your name yet judges you for every small difference. And here I was, a clown, leading this quiet kid who, for reasons I couldn't fathom, trusted me.

We stopped in front of three narrow houses that leaned on one another, peeling paint and small entrances, but all sharing the same crumbling stone walls. "OK, which one is yours?" I asked.

He turned and lifted his finger toward the small house on the far left. That house was the most run-down, with a sagging roof in several areas, steps leading to a narrow porch, and a single light over the balcony casting a warm glow across the yard below. He pointed at it. "That one."

We crossed the road, heading towards the house. Just before we reached the yard, I placed my hands on his shoulders, turning him toward me. "Listen, kid," I said softly, waiting for his eyes to meet mine, "Which window is yours?"

He looked down, his voice barely above a whisper. "The second one," he said, his hand gesturing toward it.

"If you ever need my help," I told him, "just turn your light on and off three times. I'll come right up."

He nodded toward the window on the ground floor. "That's my sister's room," he whispered thickly. "She... may need your help more than I do."

I followed his gaze to her window, heart sinking as I thought of the bruises she'd tried to hide, all the pain she carried alone. "Does she need help often?" I asked, my voice low. He nodded, his face weighed down.

Without another word, he led me to the porch. The house was constructed from old, weathered stone, and the door was thick, splintered wood that seemed to seal out decades of storms.

A growling voice rumbled from inside, just as Carlo raised his hand to knock. The door creaked open, and there he stood—his father, his face twisted into a sneer, eyes bloodshot and unfocused, barely steadying himself in the doorway. He spotted me, and his upper lip curled. "What are you doing here, you freak?"

"Dad," Carlo said immediately, stepping between us.

My fists were clenched, a wave of burning anger coursing through me, every instinct screaming for me to knock him down. But then I saw her creeping from the hallway. Bruises had swollen her face; purple skin like painful secrets, had blossomed there. And without thinking, I dug my nails into my palms, biting down hard to keep my cool—not to hurt him the way he'd hurt her. But she looked up at me, her eyes steady through the pain. For one moment, it was like she was begging, though for what, I had no idea. Much as the churning anger urged me to move, to strike, I forced myself to remain still, to hold back.