“Yeah, voodoo. As in, the loa taking an interest in this, or someone who has enough credit with them to make a Trader uncomfortable. Nobody wants to tell me why anyone would have a grudge against the Cirque?” I don’t think I could have sounded any more sarcastic. “Or why there were roaches crawling all over your sorcerously-being-strangled hostage not five minutes ago? Or something about this murder I’m supposed to be looking into?”

The bitter, rancid grumbling of Helletöng rose. It cut short when I swept my gaze over them and tapped at a gun butt with one bitten-down fingernail. “English,” I said softly. “Good old-fashioned American English. None of this töng shit.”

I couldn’t even feel good about glaring a bunch of ’breed into silence.

Perry finally bestirred himself to speak. “One of the performers has been murdered.” He let go of the Ringmaster, who crumpled and caught himself on hands and knees, ichor splashing and his cane making a soft chiming sound that sliced the stillness. “We shall examine the evidence.”

Well, la-di-da. Of course we shall, Pericles. But I didn’t want to give him control of the situation just now. “Wait a second. First things first. Who died, who found the body, and who had the last contact with the victim?”

It was amazing to watch them move like quicksilver, exploding away from one tall male Trader who hunched, his eyes grown round and desperate. He wore a straw hat and suspenders, and looked vaguely familiar in the way all blond, dark-eyed men with ferret faces do. You know the type—the narrow-eyed, unreliably handsome, and just waiting to slip a thin knife between your ribs and twist.

Yeah. That kind. Especially in a frayed, worn linen button-down and a pair of gray pinstripe trousers that wouldn’t have looked out of place on an Edwardian dandy. The flat shine of Trader on his irises looked weird for a moment, like two silver pennies.

Perry beat me to the punch. He sounded kind and avuncular, and the only thing more terrifying was the way everyone in the crowd shivered and pulled back further. “And just who are you?”

The Trader snatched at his hat, his silken thatch of hair damp with sweat. I suspected he’d look vaguely pretty in daylight, but here in the dim shifting light the pointed jaw became strong and his wide cheekbones merely masculine instead of pugnacious.

Then he opened his mouth. “T-T-T-Tr—”

He stammered.

I frankly stared. What kind of joke was this? Hellbreed don’t usually Trade with someone so flawed, and Traders usually bargain for beauty as well as weird body mods. This guy must have something else to recommend him—smarts, or viciousness.

“Dear heavens.” Perry made a mocking little moue, his lips twisting. “Were you a joke?”

“N-n-nosir. J-j-just a k-k-carny. I’m T-T-Tr-Troy. I w-was H-Helene’s t-t-t-t—”

He kept going with the t’s, his face contorting. Perry tapped one elegant wingtip, his shark’s grin widening.

“Talker,” the unfortunate Trader finally spit out. “H-Helene’s t-talker.”

This is going to take a while. I glanced at the number on my pager again, suppressed a sigh. Stuffed it back in my pocket. “Helene? ’Breed or Trader?”

“’Breed,” Perry answered. “You would have enjoyed it, Kiss.”

Enjoyed what? I didn’t ask. “I do not have all night. You were the last person to see the victim?”

He simply nodded. Thank God.

“All right.” I dropped the hand resting on my gun butt with an effort. Saul was still and quiet behind me. “Show me.”

“What do you want done with him?” Perry gestured at the Ringmaster, who shivered again, more foul-smelling ichor splattering. “He will survive this night, if you let him. Unless the hostage is attacked again.”

What a lovely thought, Perry. Thanks. “Leave him alone.” I weighed the words, felt the need to add more. “I’ve just gotten used to his ugly face. I’d hate to have someone new to deal with.”

The ’breed named Helene had died in a gaudy tent painted with screaming-red broken-open pomegranates and big stalks of green vegetable. After a few moments I identified the green stuff as leeks, and weird creeping laughter crawled up my throat, was strangled, and died away. “So what was this Helene’s act?”

“Fruit seller?” Saul piped up, and a great scalding wave of relief went through me. He sounded okay.

Perry, a respectful distance away, actually sniggered. It was the sound of a popular kid in high school tittering in the back of the room. “Hermaphrodite.”

Suddenly the leeks and pomegranates made sense. “A hermaphrodite hellbreed?”

His bland blond face split in a wide grin. “Hell has its freaks too. Here is where they prove their worth.”

Which was another lovely thought.

Troy pushed aside the spangled curtain over the door-opening. “In h-here.”

“A stuttering barker?” I had to know. “How did you—”

He half-turned, his dusted eyes glittering sharply. “Step right up!” His face contorted, and a thin thread of cold slid down my back. Instead of a piping stammer, what came out was a rich, seductive baritone. “See the half-man, half-woman, all loveliness! Step right up, ladies and gentlemen!”

I folded my arms. “That’s what you Traded for?”

He shrugged. “H-Helene t-taught me. L-l-like s-s-s-singing. Sh-sh-she was n-n-n-n—”

Oh, my God, is he about to say “nice”? Now I’ve heard everything.

“Spare me your love song,” Perry cut in. “What happened?”

For once I agreed with him, but I might’ve liked to hear more.

“It was a s-slow n-night.” The Trader spoke very slowly, trying to enunciate each word clearly. “I w-was b-barking, b-but there were n-n-no t-t-takers. I w-was d-d-doing my b-best. F-first n-night’s always s-s-slow—”

“Get. To the. Point.” Perry tapped his foot again.

“Shut up and let him talk, Pericles.” This is going to take even longer if you keep making him nervous.

“But of course, my dear. Anything for you.” The indigo still hadn’t left his whites, veining through like cracks in glazed porcelain. His suit fluttered slightly at the edges, white linen mouthed by the warm damp breeze redolent with the smell of fried grease.

“She s-s-sc-screamed.” The Trader was pale as milk, his unreliable face twisting as he tried to get the words out. “I th-thought a r-r-r-rube was g-g-getting n-nasty. B-but they d-d-don’t usually. S-s-s-so I w-w-went in.” He shuddered, the movement rippling through his skinny frame. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. “Th-th-there were b-b-bugs.”

Bugs? “Flies? Or mosquitoes?”

Hey, you can’t ever trust them to tell the truth.

“R-r-roaches.” Another shudder. His red suspenders actually creaked. “All over. W-with r-red spots.” He ducked into the tent and I followed, Saul behind me as close as my shadow. I had a moment’s worth of worry—Perry was right behind my Were.

Jesus. This is getting ridiculous.

It certainly was.

The smell hit me between one step and the next. They rot fast when they go, just like Traders. There was a wide greasy stain on the small strip of planking serving as a stage. The rest of the place was scattered with pillows and rugs, a bargain-basement impression of a harem helped along by the rusted glass-and-iron hookahs scattered around. Each pipe was at least four feet high, scalloped and decorated to within an inch of its life. Frayed tassels hung everywhere, and behind the stage hung a tapestry of trees and rivers that shifted, its stitches running over each other with a faint sound of needles against fabric.

“It looks like a whorehouse,” Saul muttered, and I heartily agreed.

“Have you been in one lately, cat?” Perry inquired sweetly.

“Perry?” I checked the circuit of the tent, examined the stage’s raw lumber. Three red satin cushions were covered in thin black gunk dried to a crust.