Hang Wire by Adam Christopher Read Free Book Online Page B

and feet kicking up a cloud of gray and black ash, enough for the crowd of people gathered around to turn away for a moment.
    Just like before. Just like all the times before.
    “What the fuck is this shit?” Jack took the cigar from his mouth and threw it, not onto the ground but straight at his two sparring employees. It bounced off the back of the big man and fell to the ground. That got his attention. The big man straightened up, flexing the muscles of his back before turning around to face the ringmaster.
    “Not your business, Jack,” said the man. He was a pillar of muscle, built like a heavyweight boxer, the skin of his chest shaved smooth and glistening with sweat over the top of an intricate tattoo in a deep green ink. The design was of concentric circles, bisected apparently at random by crosses and curved tangent lines, and continued under his waistcoat and down his arms. The pattern was Celtic, matching the swirls of the silver studs on leather bands that circled the man’s wrists and waist. Bearded, bald, he was surrounded by companions similarly attired, similarly tattooed. Men and women alike, leather-bound and sweating in the Californian sun. Most were smiling, some even cruelly, as the man in the black suit sat himself up on the burnt ground.
    “Not my problem, Malcolm?” Jack’s mouth hung open as though the cigar rolling away on the ground would be magically sucked back into place, like a film in reverse. “Jack shit it isn’t my problem!”
    Jack took a step forward, peering up at Malcolm from a foot and a half closer to the ground. Malcolm folded his arms and the two stared at each other. Jack held his ground, wondering if today was the day he was going to get thumped. Then Malcolm bared his teeth and hissed, spit onto the ashy ground, and walked away. As he did so, he caught the ash on the ground with one toe and kicked a cloud over his opponent. The man sitting on the ground flinched and coughed, and as the circle of Malcolm’s companions broke up, some laughed.
    “Hey!” Nadine walked toward the retreating group, waved an arm. “Hey! Dipshit, I’m talking to you!”
    Kara and Sara moved to help the man on the ground.
    Malcolm stopped and turned around. “This doesn’t concern any of you.”
    “The fuck it doesn’t,” said Nadine. “This concerns all of us. Keep this up and there’s not going to be a circus anymore. You got that?”
    “Leave them,” said Jack.
    Nadine spun around, and Jack saw her face was red and angry. “What? Jesus, Jack, really?”
    Jack had one eye on the man in the black suit. He was covered in ash, and a thick tentacle of blood and spit trailed from his mouth. Jack grimaced.
    “Earth to the Magical Zanaar, come in please?”
    He turned to Nadine. “Leave it to me.”
    Nadine sighed. “I don’t know who’s the biggest idiot,” she said. “You, or me for staying here.” She swore and marched away.
    Jack rolled his shoulders. She was right, of course. He took off his top hat and rubbed his forehead.
    Malcolm’s Celtic dance group, Stonefire, were a relatively new addition to the troupe, having joined only this year for the circus’s West Coast tour. Jack hadn’t been sure at first; dancing didn’t seem quite the traditional circus act, and he wasn’t sure how authentic Stonefire was, their choreographed dancing and acrobatics more a modern pastiche, a romantic ideal of the noble Iron Age tribes of Europe. But they’d been a wow with the crowds, something foreign, exotic , dancing to drums and pipes, the main ring alive with braziers and torches. Crowds loved fire, and there was fire-juggling and fire-eating. Some of the dancing was pretty acrobatic, and some of the dancers were just pretty. Barefoot Celtic lasses in skimpy leather was good for business. Tickets sales were up; the ringside was packed on every night of the tour.
    Jack sighed and picked his cigar from the ground. He only had two left, and didn’t want to waste them. He turned to