Silence stretched between us. I finally broke it. “Mikhail never told me about that.”

“He wasn’t an actual apprentice.” The kitchen, with its mellow shining counters and wood-faced cabinets, wavered slightly and solidified around her. “He just kept following Sloane around until Sloane gave up and began training him.”

That’s how it usually starts. My own apprenticeship hadn’t begun that way, but… Mikhail had been an exception all over.

And so, I suppose, was I. And if I was lucky, Gilberto would have vanished off my front step by the time I got home.

Galina sighed. “He got into trouble. There were some problems.”

“What type of problems?”

Her brow furrowed. “I… didn’t hear much. Sloane never opened up about it. I do know the kid ended up dead, after something terrible.”

There’s certainly no shortage of terrible things on the nightside. “And no word on what ‘something terrible’ entailed? Did it have to do with the Cirque, or—”

“I just don’t know, Jill.” She picked up her own cup, took a small sip. Her shoulders were sharp points under the robes. Some of the shaking had eased out of her. The walls had stopped quivering with etheric distress. “The Ringmaster seemed to think you had a hand in this attack, and he was… excited when he showed up. Perry was right behind him.”

Goddammit. I’ll just bet he was, with his little fingers in the pie as usual. I couldn’t help myself—a sigh to match hers came out hard on the end of the sentence. The smell of incense, dust, and sleepy power in her shop mixed uneasily with the aroma of spaghetti sauce and the fading tang of ’breed—she’d probably been at dinner when they dropped by. “What can you tell me about this trouble?”

The line between her eyebrows got deeper. “Not much that I can recall. It had to do with the apprentice and a woman over near Greenlea, I think, back when that part of town wasn’t very nice. Had to be, oh, around 1926 or so. Before the barrio moved, before the big outbreak, and before all that new money moved in and turned it into a shopping district. The kid…” She frowned. “There was something about him. I can’t remember. I’ll dig through my diaries, see if I can suss it out.”

Hm. “It’s not like you to have a bad memory.”

She gave me an exquisitely sarcastic look. “When you’ve put in almost a century of tending a Sanctuary, Jill, then we’ll talk. Mikhail and Sloane both liked things close to the vest, too. Most of the time I didn’t have a clue what either of them were up to.”

And I was no different when a case was heating up. It was my turn to shrug as I finished stowing the ammo. “Mischa was a private person, all right. I didn’t hear much about the former hunter either. Except that Sloane wasn’t of our lineage, he was part of Ben Cross’s crowd.”

“Yes. Sloane died after the outbreak in 1929.” She stared into her tea mug like it held the secrets of the universe. “We were in freefall for years. That was a bad time for any hunter.”

“Yeah.” The second-biggest demonic outbreak of the past century, 1929 was a bad year for hunters all over the United States, and it got exponentially worse in Europe ten years later. So much of what was unleashed during the two decades after ’29 is still out running around—it’s like the Middle Ages all over again, only this time we have more firepower to put things down.

Still, the firepower’s no good without people trained to use it. And quality apprentices are few and far between.

I thought again of Gilberto and hoped he was gone by the time I got home. Which might not be soon. This had all the makings of a complex situation, which meant a lot of blood and screaming. Not to mention gunfire and ugliness.

“Oh.” A sudden, abrupt movement. Galina finished trolling through her memory and blinked. “Gregory. That was the kid’s name. Something Gregory. I’ll look through my diaries.”

“I’d appreciate it.” Great. And I really have to get over to Greenlea, now that you mention it. I’ve got business there too. “Hey, has anyone been in to buy voodoo stuff lately? Anyone making a big serious purchase?”

“No. I don’t do much voodoo or Santeria here. That’s more Mama Zamba on the edge of the barrio, or Melendez. I sometimes send people to either of them.” A curious look crossed her round, pretty face. “I wonder…”

I hate going to either of them. Jesus. “Well, give ol’ Zamba a call as soon as I leave. Let her know I’ve got a few questions. It’s about time I went and scared her again.” I fished out a fifty-dollar bill. “Here’s all I’ve got on me for this load of ammo; I’ll take care of the rest when I get my municipal check. Okay?”

“You can put it on account, you know.” But instead of saying it with a grin, Galina looked troubled. “Jill, are you sure you want to go out to the Cirque?”

“I’ll go where I have to.” You should know that. “It’s just a bunch of hellbreed playing games. Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“I really hope you don’t mean that,” she muttered, but she let it go.

It wasn’t like her not to get the last word in, so I left it at that. Saul finished his tea, I got a few more odds and ends, and we left her up in her kitchen, tracing the ring of spilled tea from the bottom of her cup, drawing it on the table like it might give her an answer.

Of course they would settle near the trainyards, far north of my warehouse and on the fringes of the industrial section. A cold night wind came off the river, laden with flat iron-chemical scent. It was usually a space of empty, weed-strewn lots, a few squares of concrete left over from trailers or something, and a festooning of hypodermics and debris from when it used to be a shackville. The homeless were rousted out during a huge urban renewal drive five years ago, but the drive petered out and the fencing around the lots turned that bleached color everything gets after a winter or two in the desert.

Now it was cleaned up, the fencing was taken down in some parts, replaced in others, and it was starred with lights.

Everyone who told me about the Cirque was right. It does look bigger than its sorry little caravan would ever lead you to dream of. It sprawled like a blowsy drunk on a tattered divan, cheap paste jewels glittering.

Cirque de Charnu, the painted boards on the fence barked. The bigtop was up, canvas daubed with leering clown faces and swirls of watery glitter. Faint music rode the flat, whispering wind. The smell of fried food mixed uneasily with the blood-tang of the river, and I caught the undertone of sweat and animal manure too. Shouts and laughter, and a Ferris wheel I would have sworn wasn’t part of the caravan spun like a confection of whipped cream and glass. Its winking lights were sterile eyes, and it shuddered as the wind changed. One pair of lights winked out, and I heard the faint ghost of a scream before it righted itself and went whirling merrily on.

We sat in the car overlooking the spectacle; there was a footpath down the embankment leading to the temporary parking lot, already full of vehicles. Little dust devils danced between the neat rows. The fringes of contamination and corruption were thin flabby fingers poking at each tire and dashboard.

Saul was smoking again, cherry tobacco smoke drifting out his window. The tiny bottle of holy water on a chain around his neck swirled with faint blue. “Smells like a trap,” he finally said.

“It is.” A trap for the weak or unwary. Or just for those who don’t care anymore. “You sure you want to come with me?”

A shadow crossed his face. He tapped the ash from the cigarette with a quick, angry motion.

I glanced quickly away, over the carnival. The Ferris wheel halted, its cars swinging and trembling slightly, like leaves in a soft breeze. Its gaunt gantry looked hungry, and a couple lights flickered on the verge of going out.