Page 13 of Illusionist
She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, those green eyes darting between me and the chains. “I've never done a double act. Always worked solo.”
“First time for everything.” I wrap the chains around my arm, letting them clink softly in the space between us. “Unless you're having second thoughts about joining our merry band of misfits?”
Behind us, Jules lets out another cry that could wake the dead. Nova's jaw tightens, and I watch her hands curl into fists at her sides.
“Do you want the job or not?” I ask, cutting through whatever internal debate she's having.
Her mouth opens, closes, then opens again. The frustration rolling off her is tangible—she needs this, needs somewhere to hide, but every instinct is probably screaming at her to run. I recognize the look. We’ve all worn it at some point.
“Fine.” The word comes out sharp, bitten off. She squares her shoulders and fixes me with a killer glare. “But if we're doing this, you better be professional. No grabby hands, no innuendos, no trying to cop a feel during the act.”
A smirk tugs at my lips before I can stop it. Professional. Right. She stands there with her auburn hair catching the carnival lights, freckles scattered across her nose like stars, that choker around her throat begging to be replaced with something more interesting—and she wantsprofessional.
The fact she's actively resisting makes my blood run hotter. Most people who end up at the carnival are either running from something or running to it. But Nova? She's got walls built higher than our main tent, and I find myself wanting to scale every single one.
“Professional as a heart attack,” I lie smoothly, already imagining how those tattooed hands would look gripping my headboard. How that defiant mouth would part when I?—
“I mean it.” She steps closer, and I catch her scent—leather and something floral, probably from whatever shampoo she used at her last stop. “I need this job, but I don't need complications.”
Too late for that, I think, watching the way her chest rises and falls with each agitated breath. She's already a complication, and she doesn't even know it yet.
5
NOVA
The morning sun beats down mercilessly as Silas leads me toward a cluster of trailers arranged in a rough semicircle. My stomach churns—not from nerves, but from the gas station coffee that's been my only breakfast for the past three days. The carnival looks different in daylight, less magical and more like what it really is: a collection of worn-down rides and faded paint held together by determination and duct tape.
“Ready to meet the family?” Silas asks, his voice carrying that same sardonic edge from last night.
“As ready as anyone can be to meet a whole set of new coworkers.”
The first trailer we approach has its door propped open, and I can hear voices drifting out—deep, masculine laughter punctuated by the occasional curse word. Silas climbs the metal steps and gestures for me to follow.
“Morning, ladies,” he calls as we step inside.
The trailer's cramped interior houses what looks like a mobile office mixed with a weapons cache. Maps cover one wall, and I spot enough knives displayed on another to stock a small army. Six men look up from various positions around the space—some seated at a fold-out table, others leaning against the counter.
“Everyone, meet Nova. She's our new escape artist.”
The man from last night, Elias, sits behind what must pass for a desk, wearing a black button-down that's definitely more expensive than anything else in this trailer. His pale gray eyes assess me with the same intensity as before, but without Jules draped across his lap, he seems more... businesslike.
“Welcome to the madhouse,” he says, inclining his head slightly.
Jules emerges from a back room, her short blue hair slightly mussed. She's wearing leather pants and a tank top, and she moves with the confidence of someone who's never doubted her place in this world.
“Nova!” She grins, genuine warmth in her dark eyes. “Sleep well? Or at all?”
“Sleep's overrated,” I reply breezily.
A massive man unfolds himself from a chair that looks comically small beneath him. He has to be six-foot-seven, with shoulders wide enough to bench-press a car. Despite his intimidating size, his green eyes hold surprising gentleness.
“Jonah,” he says, extending a hand that could probably crush my skull. His grip is firm but careful. “Strongman act. Welcome aboard.”
“Nova. Try not to break me.”
He chuckles, a rumbling sound that seems to come from somewhere deep in his chest. “I'll do my best.”
A man with light blue-gray eyes and an ethereal quality steps forward next. He's quieter than the others, moving with an almost ghostly grace that makes me think of smoke and shadows.
