Chapter 11

A calliope warbled its tune along, each note hitting the air like the many bloody moons that had gone by. Back in its day, it watched as families came to the Redgrave & Daughters traveling circus. They wore faces of glee and delight as they watched the strongman lift massive flaming hounds over his head. It shared in the awe as the fortuneteller seemed to get another family’s future exactly right on their return trip to the carnival.

Life was great. Times were good.

Then, as the moons went by, the families thinned out—the joy less present in the air. Over time, they were replaced with carnies who had a little too much blood on their faces, eyes full of glee but glowing red. And the massive hound… it seemed bigger than the calliope remembered.

Oh, how the calliope wished it could join the moon and escape the twisted mess the carnival had become.

Several carnies, clowns, and a couple of barkers were flattened as Liza threw the calliope at them. Many clowns saw the ruse and zipped out of the way. Rail Crew 68 and all had been sprinting through the midway. They’d ashed plenty of the circus residents, but even more were spry—lively. They found creative ways to dodge hateful hammers, sometimes even comical. Liza was tangled in an animal balloon of intestines at one point.

"Guys, are these the Commons!? What the forge is with them?" Liza shouted, ahead of the pack.

Beatrice scooped up the shorter hammer she’d thrown at a barker, ash falling from the head and trailing behind her.

"Beats me, Liza. This is new on us. Usually it’s just body-to-body. I’ve never seen ones that can bend backwards with that gross snap and—"

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She took a wide swing with the longer hammer. A clown toppled into a carnival game, bringing the whole assembly down on him.

"—and shafts below, I just don’t like them!"

Zina slammed her hammer down on a carnie’s bicep. Instead of screaming, it laughed.

“I’m not having fun either. The screaming makes me feel better—but these guys just laugh. Forgin’—they laugh!”

Tears were forming in her eyes now. Her ears hung low.

The midway ended in a blood-wet drag line—bootprints turning to claw marks, then to something worse. The gravel gave way to trampled sawdust, and the air grew heavy with iron and grease.

The crew broke through at full sprint, weapons drawn, breath tight. The tents here were taller—stitched from banners and old flags, nailed to bone-pole scaffolding. The wind barely moved them.

Clank.

A dumbbell the size of a mining barrel hit the dirt. A shape stepped into view: thick, taut, flesh like a skin suit stretched over anchor chain. The Strongman flexed once—and you could hear something snap underneath.

Just behind him, from the shadow of a curtained wagon, came a low growl and a sniff. Two heads peeked out. Conjoined at the spine.

One side clean-shaven, face unreadable.

The other frothing, biting the air, limbs jittering like a marionette on a wire.

Harriet flinched.

“That’s… that’s two. That’s not fair. That’s cheating!”

Then came the last one.

He walked bare-chested in formal pants, calm as if the funeral was for someone else.

He bent back at the neck—farther than human—and reached into his own throat.

When the sword came out, it steamed in the air. The tint beneath the slime said it all:

Fossan.

Beatrice slammed her hammers together.. A stake tumbled forward—

—the Swallower opened wide and ate it.

Across the alley, Mabel lined up her shot and fired into the Strongman.

He didn’t flinch. Just raised his arm and let the stake bury itself in the meat.

Then he charged.

Liza moved first. Mabel followed without a word.

They pulled off from the line together, the Strongman pounding after them.

Beatrice veered the other way, Reuben right behind her.

The Swallower turned and followed.

All that was left were two pairs of red eyes, leering down at Zina, Edmund, and Harriet.