House of Clowns (HUNT Trilogy #1)

15. FIFTEEN

FIFTEEN

ACE

T he clock struck midnight, the ticks loud in the quiet; I could still hear the faraway cheers of the circus, faint but alive. The maze had me in its clutch, the mirrors reflecting back at me a hall of myself, broken and strange, while shadows from my mind contorted through their gaps. Every terror I had ever known seemed to lie in wait here, speaking in the silence.

My mind reeled, jumping between memories of my brothers, the lingering ache of being an outsider, always trying to belong, and then, always, back to him. That one clown who somehow slipped under my skin, who had laid a fire on my lips I couldn't ignore.

My fingers still brushed my mouth, as if tracing where he'd left his mark. It was crazy, but I wanted to be his, wholly and without question, unlike with anyone before. Sure, I'd had others, one-night distractions—but this was different. I wanted someone to see all of me and still choose to stay. And maybe, somehow, he was that person.

I saw Dhalia standing at the maze's exit, her figure lit far away, in her usual black gown with roses on her chest. I hastened my pace toward her with a greeting, but just as I reached the crowd, I tumbled into someone, and she fell uncomfortably to the floor. The girl whirled around; blonde hair spilled over her shoulders, and when our eyes met, I gasped.

"My god, Thalia! I'm so sorry!" I exclaimed, reaching out a hand to her.

She looked at me, her face a mask of confusion, something cold in her eyes. "Who are you?" she said, her voice flat and uninterested. Two other girls joined her, both wearing matching jackets.

"Chiara, remember?" I said, faking a smile, resting my hands under my chin, hoping for a spark of recognition. "It's me."

But she merely laughed, her eyebrows arched. "Listen, freak," she said, avoiding any politeness, "I don't know you, okay?"

Words cut deeper than any slap ever could. The sting of it—this familiar face turned into that of a stranger. Once, our mothers were friends, and so were we. But now? I was just another circus freak, too small for even a memory.

My voice caught in my throat as I turned away.

"Sorry, I… I must have mistaken you for someone else," I stuttered, taking a step back. She said nothing, just looped her arm through the other girls, and they walked away without a backward glance.

A tear traced down my cheek, the sharp ache of being forgotten tearing through me. It's amazing, and so wrong, to stand there and watch someone act like you don't even exist, someone who once knew every single piece of you. Once a friend is transformed into a stranger, there is no going back. Some wounds never heal; all they do is fade, lingering in the quiet moments.

"There you are." Dhalia's voice jolted me back, her presence a soft balm to my hurt as she came closer. "Come, I want to show you something."

I followed her, hit by the irony that sometimes strangers feel more like family than the people you once shared secrets with. Perhaps strangers are best friends, and maybe best friends eventually become strangers.

She led me to a small tent with a round table draped in deep purple cloth and a crystal ball that gleamed under the dim light at its center. Inside was Ruby, waiting.

"These are yours now." Dhalia gestured to the deck of tarot cards laid out on the table. "And Ruby is your first client."

"My first client?" I laughed, looking between them uncertainly.

"No joke, darling. Read her cards." Dhalia pulled out a chair for me, and I settled in, staring at the cards in front of me.

The cards seemed to breathe beneath my fingertips, almost urging me closer, as if something lay just beyond the surface, waiting to be unlocked. I laid my hand on the deck, closed my eyes, and amidst the silence of the tent, it was as though I was the only one there. My fingers shuffled through the cards, and then two slipped free, landing face-up on the table: Death and The Lovers . My breath caught as I opened my eyes.

"Take four cards," I said to Ruby, sliding the deck toward her.

She drew slowly, almost nervously, laying them down one at a time: The World . The Devil . The Magician . The Fool . I studied her face, catching the flicker of something in her eyes, a flash of recognition that even she seemed surprised by. She chewed her nails, staring hard at the Magician card. She was keeping secrets—more than one—but what I knew was enough to make me guess that someone close was pulling her into a world she might not have wanted to enter.

"Any questions?" I asked, watching her, trying to read the story that lay between her clenched jaw and tense shoulders.

"No," Ruby replied hastily, without looking up, her gaze fixed on the cards.

"What do they tell you, Chiara?" Dhalia asked, settling beside me.

I looked at the spread as the meanings took shape, one after another. "You're in a relationship that's on the edge of breaking," I said, and Ruby stiffened as I looked up at her. "You feel bound to this man who's draining you, but you're too afraid to stand up to him. To you, he's 'The Devil,' and though you talk about breaking things off, it's as if you don't quite believe you can. Deep down, you know you're clinging to comfort rather than facing the truth, and you're forcing yourself into playing the Fool ."

Ruby's eyes grew wide, her mouth opening in a mix of incredulity and exasperation. "Damn, Chiara. You know who the Devil is?"

I chuckled, shaking my head. "I only know you, Dhalia, and Rio. The rest of the circus is pretty much a mystery to me."

She visibly relaxed, a sigh escaping her lips. "Good. That's good."

Dhalia leaned in closer, her eyes twinkling. "Anything else you see?"

I looked at Ruby, still staring at the Magician card. "There's more, but I'm not sure it's mine to tell."

Ruby's laugh was weak as she turned toward the exit. "May I go cry now?" she half-joked, half-said in defeat.

Dhalia and I exchanged glances, nodding as she slipped through the tent flaps, leaving them open just enough for a breeze to flicker the candle flames, shadows dancing in the sudden draft.

Dhalia turned back to me, her hand resting on mine. "You have a gift, dear. I haven't seen intuition like that in ages."

I laughed, brushing it off. "What, noticing things? I wouldn't call that a gift."

But she shook her head, drawing my attention to the Death and Lovers cards still on the table. "These two fell out because your mind—or something deeper—pulled them out for you. You're connected to them."

I traced the edges of the cards thoughtfully. "Magic's only scary if you believe in it. I think it's just a coincidence."

"There's no magic here," she chuckled, "and you're no witch."

I laughed. "Right—witches don't exist."

"Oh, they do," she said, leaning in, eyes intense. "They're regular people with different beliefs, practicing their own faiths. Witches, Christians, Buddhists—they all pray. They all believe. But they don't always believe in the same things."

She crossed to a small cabinet and returned with a bottle of clear, amber-hued brandy. She poured two glasses, the potent aroma hanging in the air. "Rakija," she said, sliding one glass toward me. "Good for the throat, clears the mind—and the soul, if you're lucky."

I took a sip, the liquid burning its way down my throat, making me cough. "That's… stronger than tequila."

She laughed, downing hers in one gulp. "It burns, but it's good for you."

I looked at her, warmth spreading through me. "My grandmother was like you believed in… everything."

Dhalia nodded, her eyes softening. "And what happened to her?"

"She's dead." The words caught in my throat, barely above a whisper.

Dhalia poured another glass, raising it to the candlelight. "Life has to end," she whispered, "but love doesn't."

I nodded, my fingers brushing against the cards absently. "She used to say I had a gift too."

She watched me with that knowing smile, her voice almost a whisper. "Do you think she was right?"

I shrugged, running a finger over the card edges. "I don't know. I just feel things, notice things others might miss."

"Sometimes all it takes is that," Dhalia said, taking my hand. "Intuition, dear, is as near to magic as anything."

Dahlia's words lingered, charged with an intensity that held me captive. "You know what I think?" she pressed, her voice low. "I think someone in your family is a Shadow Walker."

I laughed—a nervous, uncertain sound. "There's no such thing."

Her gaze didn't falter. "They slip between light and dark, moving in and out, but they're anchored by someone here in the living world. You… you're that anchor." She lifted the Death card, holding it between her fingers. "Someone died," she murmured and then held up the Lovers card.

Her gaze softened. "Do you ever talk to your grandma?"

I shook my head. "Not really."

She nodded slowly, like she'd expected it. "And your mother?"

The question lodged in my throat, memories of Mom swelling inside me, raw and unfiltered. Her grave was empty, her body never found, though the world insisted she was gone. To me, she wasn't dead. I'd always felt she was somewhere, just out of reach. Dad had said she left us, but I never believed it, not in my heart.

"Sometimes," I managed to whisper.

"There you go." Dhalia's voice was warm, barely above a murmur. "Talk to her. Believe she's still with you, and she'll speak to you, too."

A chill traced down my spine, goosebumps prickling my skin. My hands shook as I tried to push the feeling away. "But she's not…" I mumbled, unable to finish.

Dhalia's eyes narrowed slightly. "You don't think she's dead, do you?"

I looked down, a tear escaping as I forced the words out. "She disappeared a long time ago. Dad said she left us, and no one has seen her since. But… I don't believe it."

"Oh." Her voice was soft, her hand warm as it rested on mine. "I'm sorry."

Memories cascaded over me, stirring up every fear and bitterness I'd buried. A sick feeling churned in my stomach, the room spinning just enough to remind me I needed air, space, and silence. I needed to be alone.

"I… I should go back," I said, barely above a whisper.