Note: To read the rest of the story, check out Carniepunk, an urban fantasy anthology, which will be released on July 23, 2013. 

 

“A carnival? Really?”

Detective Bria Coolidge looked at me. “You don’t like carnivals?”

“Not particularly,” I said. “There are already enough people around here looking to con you without you having to actually pay for the privilege.”

Bria rolled her eyes. “That’s just a stereotype. Not all carnivals are looking to cheat folks.”

“I know that,” I said. “But I also know that this is Ashland. So if there was any place for a carnival to be crooked, this would be it.”

Bria didn’t answer me. She knew as well as I did that corruption was a way of life in our sprawling southern city, along with violence, magic, avarice, and greed. Cheating, beating, and even murdering your enemies wouldn’t get you jail time in Ashland so much as applause, admiration, and respect—and someone immediately plotting to take you down the same way you had your enemies.

My baby sister and I stood at the entrance to the Ashland Fairgrounds, a wide, grassy clearing that was nestled in among the Appalachian Mountains that ran through and around the city. Tree-covered ridges towered over the clearing, giving the landscape a bowl-like shape. The fairgrounds hosted a variety of events throughout the year, everything from livestock shows to sporting events to camps for kids. On this warm June evening, it was the site of The Carnival of Wondrous Wonders! At least, that’s what the banner stretched above the entrance said.

Bria had parked her sedan in the gravel lot, and we’d eased into stream of people heading for the white picket fence that cordoned off the clearing. Most of the other carnival goers were families with small kids or sullen teenagers looking to escape from Mom and Dad’s watchful eyes for a few hours. Bria looked a little out of place with her jeans, her blue button-up shirt, and the gold detective’s badge glinting on her belt, right next to her holstered gun. So did I with my boots, jeans, and long-sleeve T-shirt.

“Well, look at it this way,” Bria said in a cheery voice. “The odds of anyone here knowing you are pretty slim. If nothing else, you can just relax and not have to worry about anyone trying to kill you tonight.”

Heh. I wouldn’t count on it.

By day, I was Gin Blanco, owner of the Pork Pit barbecue restaurant. By night, in the shadows, I was the Spider, Ashland’s most notorious assassin. Actually, I suppose these days I was more infamous than notorious, since most of the underworld thought—or at least suspected—that I was the Spider, the woman who’d killed powerful Fire elemental Mab Monroe back in the winter. As a result, many of the crime lords and ladies had sent men after me, trying to take me out these past few months. With Mab’s death, all of the underworld movers and shakers were grappling for power, and some of them thought that murdering the Spider would go a long way toward cementing their position as the city’s new head honcho.

“Gin?”

“Okay, okay,” I grumbled. “You’re right about that. I doubt any of the crime bosses and their goons will be here tonight.”

A country-fried clown wearing blue-and-white gingham coveralls, a blue shirt, and brown boots that were about five sizes too big waddled over to us. Bits of straw stuck out of the pockets of his coveralls, while a battered straw hat was perched on top of his curly red wig. White pancake makeup covered his face, although it had started to run in the heat. His painted-on, oversize red lips were curled up into a garish grin, although red and blue tears also covered his face, as though he didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh or cry. I’d definitely cry if I had to walk around in that getup. Or kill the person who’d made me wear it. That would definitely turn my frown upside down.

Bria smiled at him, which the clown took as an invitation to dance around us, mock-tripping over his enormous boots. Finally, he reached inside his coveralls. I tensed, ready to tackle him if he came up with a weapon, but he was only going for a red balloon stashed away among the straw. He spent the better part of two minutes not-so-comically huffing and puffing, trying to blow it up, before he finally succeeded. Then he danced around us again and started twisting the balloon into a man. When he was finished, the clown sidled up to me, probably hoping to get me to smile and laugh like Bria was.

“Go away,” I growled. “Or you’ll be crying real tears when I make you eat that balloon.”

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