House of Clowns (HUNT Trilogy #1)

17. SEVENTEEN

SEVENTEEN

ACE

T he night wrapped around us, an ink-black canvas save for the thin slivers of moonlight that slipped through the tangled boughs above. My head rested upon his chest, and my finger traced lazy patterns on his skin, letters maybe, words that drifted beyond language but somehow felt like they belonged to us.

And suddenly the forest could hold its breath, steady, insistent beats of our hearts came louder with each one a muted drum in the quiet. I closed my eyes and let a hazy picture of us drift through my head, wondering what we'd be like ten years from now. The answer felt as elusive, impossible to grasp, as the faint light filtering through the trees. But he was the only one I had been able to see with me in that nebulous image of the future, and my voice came out low, barely audible above the night.

"Do you ever think of leaving the circus?"

He exhaled, and the sound seemed to settle between us, an unspoken confession. "I did," he whispered, "a couple of times. But…." His voice died away, words hanging unspoken, like dust in the moonlight. "I just never knew where else I'd go."

He shifted, lifting himself so that my head slid from his chest into his lap. His fingers swept a few strands of hair from my face, tracing gentle lines along my cheek as if I were something fragile, precious. "The world," he whispered, a crooked smile tugging at his lips, "isn't ready for another clown."

"What if you left with me?" I asked, my eyes searching his; the question landed somewhere deeper than words.

He smiled—the tragic sadness swirled in his eyes behind the expression. "If you ever wanted to go, I'd let you leave… but you'd go alone."

My chest tightened the words like a cold breath against my skin. "Why?" I asked, the syllable nearly catching in my throat. "I wouldn't go without you."

"You would," he whispered, his voice heavy with a quiet acceptance that pained to hear. "The world would welcome beauty like yours with open arms. But me…" He looked away, the shadows catching on the edges of his face. "My ugliness belongs here. In the House of Clowns."

I sat up, cradling his face with my hand, my thumb stroking against his skin's roughness. "Your so-called ugliness," I whispered, "belongs with me. It's beautiful to me."

I leaned and pressed my lips to the side of his cheek, feeling the warmth seep from his skin. "The world's ugly," I whispered, "and most people are too."

He chuckled, a rumbling deep in his chest. "You're weird, you know that?"

"See?" I teased, nudging him. "We fit right in."

He was slow in his rise, and his hand dived into the damp earth before it extended to me. I slid my hand into his, and together we rose, our shadows melting together in the thin moonlight. Then it was that I saw the fresh, white bandage on his arm, rimmed with a slow trickle of blood.

"Does it hurt?" I asked, reaching a hand instinctively toward it, but he caught my wrist before I could touch the wound.

"Like hell," he laughed, though there was a wince to his eyes. "But Vitto gave me something he uses on the horses, so I barely felt a thing… until now."

"Sorry," I whispered, fighting a grin as I turned and began gathering up the clothes, sliding each item on against the cool night air on my skin.

"It's just another scar," he shrugged, a thread of amusement lacing through his words. "Nothing to get worked up over."

"Good to know," I replied and leaned in to press a quick, featherlight kiss against his cheek.

For a moment, he watched me, his eyes softer, pensive.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah," I said, taking his hand again, letting his warmth fill those spaces between us.

"Were you in the main tent tonight, in the audience?" His eyes probed mine, keen and almost hopeful.

"No," I said, feeling his eyes linger on me. "I was with Dhalia."

"Ha," a soft hum left his lips as he took my hand, pulling me behind him into the woods, fingers warm and familiar in mine.

As we approached the house, a folded slip of paper fell from his jacket and fluttered to the ground. He stopped, bending to retrieve it, pausing just a moment with it open in his hand. His face went remote, his eyes unfocused as he took in whatever was on the paper. Then, he looked up at me, his face closed and unreadable.

"What is it?" I asked, trying to decipher his expression, the lines that formed around his mouth.

For someone who read people so easily, I could never fully read him. It was part of what made him so intriguingly irresistible.

"Nothing," he said, folding the paper and drawing closer, his voice dismissing whatever question there had been, his eyes holding something unsaid.

I just smiled, not wanting to push this any further. Inside, all I wanted was to throw my arms around him, feel the warmth against me, and let the night stretch on and on before us.

We stopped before the house, and I started up the stairs. At the third step, I felt an urgent desire to wheel abruptly and look back at him. He was standing down there with the paper crushed again in his hand, looking at it in such a way as if whatever was on it mattered much more than this or us.

"You coming?" I asked, hovering on the step.

"You go in," he said in a hushed tone, never taking his eyes off the paper. "I'll be a while."

I stepped down until I was close enough to look up into his eyes and catch his attention. He lifted his gaze, his lips softening into a smile.

"What are you doing?" he laughed, mirth dancing in his eyes.

"Remembering," I breathed, my hand rising to his cheek. "I want to remember your eyes…for a lifetime."

He returned my gaze, his eyes surging into mine with that depth of emotion that was always lying just below the surface.

"Don't you ever forget me," he whispered, his voice low, almost a beg.

"Promise," I replied, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "Goodnight."

I turned and ran up the stairs, his eyes on me until I reached the door.

"Goodnight, my Ace of Hearts," he called, lighting a bow with a sparkle in his eye.

I looked back once more, my eyes caught him as he watched me, then turned and walked back toward the woods, disappearing. A pang in my chest—I knew tonight his arms wouldn't be wrapped around me. My fingers brushed my lips, holding onto the warmth of his kiss.

I tiptoed through the quiet house and up to the shared room, my heart still fluttering from the look he'd left me with.

As I opened the bedroom door, a hush greeted me, the room empty and quiet. I lingered for a moment, savoring the peace, but a twinge of reluctance held me back as I walked toward the shower. I could still trace the faint warmth from his touch, and I almost hated the thought of washing it away. I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the stream of cold water; its chill bit right into my skin, bringing both a feeling of relief and an ache to my bruises.

The cold numbed the bruises, a raw pain from the blows I'd taken and hadn't yet healed. I remained under the water, my mind drifting, slackening my body against the numbing stream.

I finally wrapped myself in a towel and walked back into the dark room, the chill still clinging to me. I sat on the edge of my bed and let out a soft sigh, my lips softening into a smile as memories of the night danced around me. I wanted to hold onto it, make it stay with me just a little longer. But I knew how ethereal good moments could get.

My eyes had finally fallen upon the small nightstand, and notebook that I left inside. It was one of those indecisive moments when curiosity was mingled with silent dread churning at the bottom of my stomach. I wanted to know more about Rocco, my real father.

I clung desperately to the hope that he was different from this man I knew as "Dad" now, that somewhere out there was a man who would have treated me like a daughter, and not a tool or a slave. I felt at that particular moment a pang of envy for Thalia, whose family was perfect in my eyes, full of love and understanding that always eluded me.

Finally, I reached out, lifting the notebook into my lap, the leather cool against my hands. There was a strange symbol etched onto the cover—a star entwined with horns—something I'd never really noticed before. Taking a deep breath, I opened it, letting the pages fall to a random entry. A dated page stared back at me.

Date: 23rd May, 1993

Yesterday they initiated me down in the basement of the House of Clowns. I was only twenty-four, looking for a place to belong, a family. But this family came with a debt to be paid, one I hadn't counted on—in blood.

They called themselves "the Crows," their heads springing from the highest order of the city, the sort of people one would expect to find at charity galas, not veiled rituals.

When they took off their masks, I got a cold shock. There was the city's mayor, the local priest, and heads of two of the wealthiest families. The Crows weren't just a group; it was a cult draped as a secret society. Membership was extended with a single black rose left at your door, marked only with the word: "Circle."

I thought that was some sort of sick joke. Then they came for me. They peppered me with questions until my head spun, and I had to make the choice: sacrifice myself or join them. So I did, hardly comprehending the gravity of what I was getting myself into. They hadn't selected me for ambition or skill; they chose me because my father was dying, and they needed someone to watch over the House of Clowns.

"Pray, obey, and, when called upon, provide." These were the rules, the commands etched upon the fabric of our existence.

My best friends, Alessandro and Lotta, were also a part of them. They were two of those few people who, unlike me, thought the rituals were something to be enjoyed. They'd feed on the innocent, suck them dry in some twisted ritual, and in return, they'd take baths of money and power. They claimed it was an offering to their God. I didn't believe any of this, but that makes me good for them—a scapegoat.

A legend has come to haunt their history: of a woman, Mary of the Crows, who married the high priest and, for the salvation of her people, gave herself as a sacrifice. They burned her alive. Her story was to become their guiding dark star, their devotion, and their bloodlust, search for their chosen one.

Oddly enough, I hated them in the beginning; with time, I was pulled deeper until I became one of them. I brought in new members with me and initiated the unsuspecting into our House of Clowns. Then the police began asking questions, and we needed fresh bodies to keep the Circle shrouded. Like a virus, we spread across La Maddalena, infecting it with secrets.

Then Ariane started to dream—terrible dreams of every soul brought to the House of Clowns, of every life stolen by our rituals. She wrote down each name, each sacrifice, as if an epitaph. And when she told Lotta Romanov, it was as if she had signed her fate. They were both targets, watched by the ever-reaching eyes of the Circle.

I did all in my power to protect her, even if it meant losing her forever.

I slammed the notebook shut, my hand clamping tight over my mouth, the sting of my fingernails digging into my cheeks as I muttered, "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

The words barely escaped, but they pulsed in my mind, a frantic rhythm echoing through me. I hadn't realized just how twisted this story could get, how it might contort all I thought I knew about my life.

The creaky footsteps echoed down the corridor and I made myself move, pushing the notebook under the mattress just as the door opened. I closed my eyes, willing my thumping heart to let go, but this whirlwind of questions and shadows would not let me alone. Flashes swam in the darkness: my mother falling, water closing over her head, the sensation of drowning seeping into my dreams. This is the end. Was her life, her end, a part of this secret, too? What part of all this was real?

"Psst, she's sleeping," Dhalia whispered to Ruby, soft in a way I hadn't heard before. "Come."

It creaked as they settled together, and in the silence, I caught the muffled sound of Ruby's sigh against her, a low hum that made the room feel smaller still.

The closeness—the quiet urgency in the way they touched each other—filled the space with something warm yet not mine to see. That kind of love doesn't need explaining. Some things about people can catch you off guard: surprises in who they are or what they're capable of. But then there were those rare, undeniable connections—two souls drawn together, a kind of love that didn't have to be spoken to be understood. It was the kind of love—a sane one, maybe someday I could even hope for.