Page 3 of Carnival’s Playground

Behind me, Avery's voice carries across the lot, sharp and clear, hollering at somebody about a fog machine that won't fog right, and I find myself grinning like an idiot for no reason I can rightly explain. Guess I've got four days to figure it out.

CHAPTER ONE

AVERY

The fog machine hisses at me like it's got a personal grudge, spitting out three feeble puffs before dying altogether. I smack the side of it with the flat of my hand, which accomplishes nothing except making my palm sting.

"You and me both, buddy." I crouch down, checking the fluid reservoir. Half full. Not the problem. "Somebody messed with your heating element, didn't they? Somebody who thinks duct tape fixes electrical issues."

Behind me, unhurried boots crunch through the gravel like whoever's walking doesn't have mere days until opening night breathing down their neck. I already know who it is before I turn around. There's a particular swagger to it, the kind that says I own this lot even though he rode in on it not two hours ago.

"Having trouble?" Carnival stops beside me, hands in his pockets, looking down at the smoking fog machine like it's the most interesting thing he's seen all day.

"Nope. Everything's perfect. I always crouch in the dirt talking to broken machinery for fun." I don't look up at him. "What do you want?"

"Dutch sent me to find you. Wants to know if props need an extra hand before tonight's rigging check." He crouches down next to me, uninvited, peering at the fog machine's guts like he's got any business being in there.

"Props needs a working fog machine, a dozen replacement lanterns I don't currently have, and about six more hours in a day than what I'm allotted." I glance sideways at him. There's a bruise blooming just above his eyebrow, dark purple against tan skin. Good. Serves him right. "You're not an electrician, are you?"

"Rigger. But I've fixed worse than a fog machine." He reaches in without asking, fingers finding the heating coil like he's done this a hundred times. "Somebody wired this backward. Whoever set it up last probably ran two towns on adrenaline and bad coffee."

"That'd be Petey. Bless him, but he's better with knots than wires." I watch Carnival work, annoyed that he seems to know what he's doing. "You gonna fix it, or just narrate the problem to me?"

"Give me a screwdriver and quit talking, and I'll fix it." He holds his hand out, palm up, without looking at me.

I dig one out of my tool bag and slap it into his palm harder than strictly necessary. He doesn't flinch. Just goes to work, quick and steady. Within a couple minutes the machine coughs, sputters, then belches out a satisfying wall of fog thick enough to hide a truck in.

"Well." I stand up, brushing dirt off my knees, refusing to let my voice sound impressed. "Guess you're not entirely useless."

"High praise, coming from you." He stands too, wiping his hands on his jeans. "You always this stingy with compliments, or am I special?"

"You're special, alright. Special kind of trouble, riding in here on that thing you call a motorcycle, running down innocent women carrying glasswork." I turn away from him, heading toward the prop trailer where the surviving pumpkins sit in their crate, mocking me with how few of them there are.

"In fairness, I already apologized for that." He follows, because apparently that's what he does now, follows me around like a stray dog that got fed once and decided I'm responsible for it forever.

"You apologized. Doesn't fix the fact that I need a dozen lanterns and now have four." I pull the crate open, staring at the surviving glass pumpkins like they might multiply if I glare hard enough. "Minimal days to opening night, and my centerpiece display looks like a crime scene."

"So what's the plan? Order more?" He leans against the trailer, arms crossed, watching me.

"Sure, let me just call up the artisan glassblower in Louisiana who took three months to make these and ask for a rush order. I'm positive she'll drop everything." I close the crate, harder than necessary. "No plan. I improvise. That's the whole job description around here."

"I could build replacements," he tells me, casual, like he's offering to grab me a coffee instead of solving my actual problem.

"You're a rigger, not a glassblower." I fold my arms, matching his stance.

"Didn't say glass. Said replacements. Got a welding rig and some scrap sheet metal in my trailer. Cut pumpkin shapes, weld a frame, drop a light inside. Won't look like your fancy glass ones, but they'll hold up better on the road anyway." He shrugs like this is nothing, like he pulls solutions out of thin air on a regular basis.

I hate that it's a good idea. I hate it more that he's the one who thought of it, standing there with that half smug look like he already knows I'm gonna say yes.

"They'd need to match the aesthetic. Distressed, gothic, not shiny new metal." I try to sound skeptical, even though my brain's already picturing it, already liking it.

"I can age metal. Torch it, add some rust texture, paint it up right. Won't take but a day if you help." He tilts his head, waiting.

"Help." I repeat the word like it's foreign. "You broke my display, and now you want me to help you create your fix for the thing you broke."

"Seems fair to me. Teamwork." He grins, and it's an irritating grin, the kind that probably works on every woman between here and Louisiana.

"Teamwork implies I trust your judgment, which we haven't established yet." I pick the crate up, balancing it against my hip. "You proved you can rewire a fog machine. Doesn't mean you can build something that scares twelve-year-olds instead of making them laugh."