Chapter 9

Leandra had a paper in front of her—one that never should have been filed.

It doesn’t have a crew number, just a name.

No one touches it. Most don’t look at it twice.

But today, one crew does. Rail Crew 68, with a couple of friends, of course.

She eyed the gaggle of bodies in front of her—some young, full of wonder. Others… less so.

One practically vibrated, a black-and-red tail lashing behind her like a dog trying to thrash a snake.

But one stood still.

Reuben Redgrave stared down the contract.

His blonde hair—so quick to fall in his face at the Arms—didn’t dare move this time.

It knew better.

That paper meant something to him.

Something final.

Leandra set her coffee down.

Slowly. Carefully.

Burnt out or not, she was not about to send a pack of miners to die on a whim.

“Rail Crew 68,” she said, voice flat.

“You sure you want this one?”

She tapped the page like it might bite.

“The pay’s slag. Fifty gold, maybe. There are easier ways to kill yourselves.”

Her eyes flicked to Reuben.

“You want to march into Redgrave & Daughters and put down a Lord?”

Redgrave & Daughters, a prolific traveling circus—once whispered to be half art, half miracle.

They never stayed long. Just long enough to leave rumors behind: that the trapeze artists never came down, that the fortune teller knew the day you'd die, that the final act always left someone missing.

It was joy, horror, and awe—all twisted into one.

A spell in tent form.

Yet, for years it has not left Faltenia.

Survey crews have tried to track the circus, but just getting close costs a fortune.

Some don’t even return to collect it.

It’s a vampire nest now.

Shadows swing from the trapeze at night, and the fortune teller can echo your death across kilometers.

It’s not a show anymore.

It’s a kingdom—and Deadfall has no answer for it.

“Ms. Leandra?” Mabel asked, tilting her head. “How bad could it be? We ran through Gildland.”

Leandra didn’t answer right away.

She just looked at her.

Looked past her.

“Gildland was broken when you found it,” she said. “The circus is still open.”

No one spoke.

All eyes turned to Reuben.

He didn’t flinch.

Just gave a single nod.

Nine uneasy hands followed.

Nine slow, deliberate stamps hit the contract—one after the other.

Like a funeral drum.

Albrecht led the pack as they marched through the streets of Deadfall.

The rumors were quiet today.

Words didn’t seem to reach the crew.

He glanced sideways at Reuben as they crossed the city’s edge.

“Reuben,” he said, low. “Why now? Why us?

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Sure, there’s salvage in that nest—maybe enough to cover the burn.

But that place... it’s a lot.”

“It’s already not worth the cost,” Reuben said quietly.

“But it’s open. It’s growing.

We don’t get to ignore that.”

He didn’t look at Albrecht.

Just kept walking.

“It needs to be shut down.”

Albrecht didn’t press further.

He just watched the road ahead, boots thudding against the cobblestone.

“I guess now’s as good a time as any to stop your sister, huh?”

They kept marching.

The sun kept dipping.

Shadows stretched longer with every step, clawing through the trees like fingers reaching for their boots.

The light was still good—still warm enough to see by.

But it was fading.

They made camp just off the trail, where the trees thinned enough for a fire.

A few logs ringed the flames, and most of the crew found a seat—quiet, watchful, pretending the heat meant safety.

The sky above was darkening, stars just beginning to pierce through the canopy.

Eleanor stood near the edge, stakehammer ready eyes sharp.

Albrecht paced a slow perimeter behind her, every step methodical.

The campfire hissed softly as someone refilled the pot.

Hot sarsaparilla bubbled inside a battered Fossan teapot, the metal dark with use but still holding heat like it was made for it.

Each mug—stamped and mismatched—got passed hand to hand, steam curling into the cold air.

Liza took a long sip from her mug, then tapped it twice against her knee.

“Alright,” she said, breaking the silence. “What’s the big deal with this R’n’D place?”

A few heads turned. The fire popped.

“I hear things at the forge—bits from passing crews, stuff between hunts. But I don’t have the full picture.”

She looked around the fire, eyes steady.

“I’d like to know what we’re walking into.”

The goblin miner looked up from his mug.

The fire painted his eyes gold, catching on the folds of his canvas coat as the wind passed through the camp.

“We’re not exactly ahead, ourselves,” Edmund said quietly.

“It’s a circus that won’t shove off. Survey Crews see spooky slag when they watch it—shadows moving too fast, red eyes trailing.

Some tents breathe fire like there’s a dragon sleeping inside.”

He let the words hang.

Zina didn’t.

She leaned forward just enough for the light to catch one fang.

“Exactly what it sounds like,” she said. “A circus that goes on forever.”

Her ears twitched. Her voice stayed flat.

“And we all know what kind of creature thinks it’s forever out here.”

Harriet shifted on her log and let out a breath through her teeth.

“Y’know,” she said, glancing around the fire, “as a kid I always thought that was the dream.”

She looked down into her mug, swirling what little sarsaparilla was left—like it might have answers.

“Think about it. Free travel. Colorful tents. Guaranteed dental plan—assuming they don’t bite first.”

She gave a crooked smile.

“I’m starting to think maybe I don’t want to run away and join the circus.”

Albrecht glanced at the others, a rare smirk tugging at the edge of his beard.

“Heh. Yeah. Maybe rocks are better when it’s rock candy—”

The dark beyond the fire reached in and snatched him.

His stakehammer was still spinning in the air when Liza ashed a stake—

her golden glow fighting back the darkness.

Everyone was on their feet now.

Some had weapons.

Others only had their mugs.

One by one, carbide lanterns flared to life.

Palms hit flints.

In seconds, the camp was ringed with beams—

Eleanor’s lantern swept across the tree line—

and caught a face.

White paint. Black lips stretched too wide.

Red eyes gleaming under a curtain of matted curls.

The thing was smiling.

“Wh—!?”

Her breath hitched. The light jerked—

Next came the biting. The vampire had sunken into her shoulder. Not nearly as fast of change as a neck bite but time was ticking.

Mabel shouldered Heartpiercer and took a shot at its face. Both figures were pulled into the night.

Another clown lunged from the dark, grinning wide—

he thought Liza was next.

He was wrong.

Her pilebunker caught him across the face mid-charge—

a deafening crack as steel met skull.

The force flipped him backwards, limp as a rag,

and he landed square in the fire—

arms twitching, makeup melting,

still smiling as he burned.

The thing writhed in the fire, limbs twitching—

flesh crackling, paint blistering—

and still it laughed.

High. Piercing. Joyous.

Like it was performing.

The others just stared.

Beatrice didn’t move. Eleanor’s name still hung in her throat.

Harriet’s mug slipped from her hand and rolled to her feet.

It was a vampire.

In full clown makeup.

Clad in silk and greasepaint with bells.

And it was laughing itself to death.

Reuben and Zina scanned the darkness for more.

The rest just watched the fire, eyes hard.