House of Clowns (HUNT Trilogy #1)

8. EIGHT

EIGHT

ACE

W ith a loud whoop, Carlo launched himself into my arms—hard enough to send me backward until my shoulders were pressed against the wall. For one instant, a burst of pain shot through my back, but I wrapped my arms tightly about him, holding him as steady as possible. I swallowed the pain. He'd be okay, and that's all that counted.

My dad lingered in the doorway, his drunken gaze fixed on the stranger who had brought Carlo home, his words slurred but sharp. "Freak," he spat, disregarding the help lent to us. My stomach twisted at the insult, the way he'd wield it so easily, so carelessly. I knew very well how words like that could cut deeper than anything else.

I steadied myself, stepping forward as Carlo clutched my hand, as though he sensed what I was about to do. I shot a glance back to him, beseeching him to stay there, then looked up at our visitor.

"Thank you," I said, managing best a faint smile as I met his eyes. For a moment, we simply looked at each other. Beneath the painted face, the smeared colors, I saw something—an understanding, a kind of sadness he tried to hide. And in that second, I wanted nothing more than to reach out, to be able to let someone hold me.

He nodded silently, his gaze lingering for a beat longer before he turned and stepped off the porch. The quiet was cut by Dad's scowl following him.

"That's right. Leave, freak ."

"Stop it!" I shouted, feeling anger rise in me. "Why do you hate them so much?"

He slammed the door shut, turning to me with a face twisted in bitter hatred. "Because I married one."

I stared at him, the words coming much harder than I could have prepared for. My mind was reeling as I glanced over to Carlo, who sat patiently, looking up to me or his father with an innocent expression, and my urge to shield him from all of this was almost overwhelming. "Go to your room," I whispered, my grip tightening on his shoulder.

"But—" he pulled at my shirt, his wide eyes darting between us.

But then it clicked, and with a strong voice not taking objection: "Go!" He suddenly turned and ran to his room. I was left with Dad in the dimly lit hallway.

Anger churned into something stronger inside me, something sharper. I moved one step closer. "You can throw me around all you want, but you can't call Mom a freak." My voice was low, but it didn't shake. "She left the circus because of you, and she left home because you never appreciated her. You don't get to tear her down."

He let a bitter laugh loose as his fingers ran over his face as if he could rub away the anger. "She left because she wanted to be normal, and I'm the one who had to pay for it."

I couldn't help it anymore. "I'm glad she's gone! You didn't deserve her." The words were stronger, fierce, and more vicious than what I had intended. "You're the monster here."

Something darker washed in and took over his eyes, his face changing with it. He lunged forward, reaching for a bottle on the table, his grasp on it tightening. "What did you just say?" Slurred words, deadly tone. Then he lifted the bottle and smashed it against the wall. Shards flew everywhere around us. "You will respect me, you little brat," he yelled at me, taking another step closer—the jagged edge of glass clutched in his hand.

A lump rose to my throat and the urge to scream pounded in my chest, but I couldn't show fear. I took a step back, but the searing pain from earlier on kept me from going any faster. His shadow loomed closer, his face twisted in pure rage while he dove forward. I went backward, desperate to get away, but his hand was already reaching for me. And then I felt it. The broken edge of the bottle sliced into my shoulder, a burning, blinding pain spreading like wildfire through my body. A scream was torn from my throat as the glass bit deep into my skin, the warmth of the blood pooling down my back, soaking my shirt thick and slick against my skin. The bottle stuck there as if heavy, unbearable, and with every pulse, every heartbeat, I could feel it, as the dimness of the world surrounded my soul.

My reaching hand had grasped the handle of the bedroom door and, shaking, flung it open. My knees buckled just as I started through the doorway, and I crumpled to the floor, half aware of Carlo's scream as he sprang into the room behind me. He leaped for the door and spread his body against it, straining to keep it shut against the pounding force from the other side. Dad's fists landed on the door, each slam rumbling and booming in the room like thunder.

His hand fumbled, flipping the light switch on and off in a frantic signal to the outside. It flickered three times before he dropped down beside me, his face buried against my chest, his small body shuddering over his sobs.

"It's my fault," he whimpered, his voice muffled in my shirt.

"No," I whispered, brushing my hand over his hair. "It's not, Carlo. It's not."

Plopping my head onto the carpet, the world began to blur around the edges. Some way, I found myself counting, something to cling to; as I reached three, in wafted a memory, sharp and warm.

The tent inside of Grandma's, in the middle of the circus; her little world, all lace and old wigs, glitter scarves, and those thick, dog-eared tarot cards she kept tucked away under her bed. I remembered pulling those cards out once with some girls and holding the deck in my hands, playing pretend fortune-teller.

I drew the death card, and it's as if a chill ran through me. But as clear as day, I heard Grandma's words: "Death isn't always an end. Sometimes it's a new beginning. An old path closing, a better one waiting."

The memory made me smile, a quiet comfort anchoring me to something soft, and safe. If this was the end with me, then perhaps I could hold onto those memories: a past where magic still lived, a dream before it all had twisted wrong. Maybe my future wasn't something I had any reach for, but just this—just a small hand holding onto mine, a memory wrapped around me.