Page 52 of Carnival’s Playground

"Both. This town, this run, it's the first place in years I didn't want to leave the second the gates closed."

"Yeah. Me too," he admits.

The lights dim across the grounds, the crowd noise settling into that particular hush before a show starts, and the ringmaster's voice booms out over the speakers, announcing the final performance of the season, the culmination of everything Grimlight Reveals has built toward all month. Fire dancers spin out onto the stage first, flame trailing behind them in long orange ribbons, and the crowd gasps in unison.

I watch the flames arc through the dark. "I helped rig those torches. Double-checked every fuel line myself after everything that happened."

Carnival presses a kiss to my temple. "I know. I watched you do it."

I singsong, "Creepy."

"Attentive," he contends.

The aerialists come out next, and my stomach still tightens watching them climb, an old habit from weeks of checking every clamp and cable myself, but tonight the rig holds steady, exactly like it's supposed to, exactly like we made sure it would. "They look good up there."

"We made sure of that." There's real pride in his voice, low and steady.

By the time the finale hits, fireworks cracking open over the big top in bursts of orange and violet, I've stopped thinking about wiring and clamps and load ratings entirely. I'm just watching, Carnival's arm tight around me, his mouth pressed against my hair, both of us covered in powdered sugar and cold grass stains, and it feels like the first time all season I've actually seen the show instead of just surviving it.

I tilt my face to look at him. "Happy Halloween, Carnival."

"Happy Halloween, Avery." He kisses me slowly under the falling sparks, no urgency to it, no danger hiding at the edges, just this, just us, finally still.

CHAPTER THIRTY

CARNIVAL

The last mortar shell detonates over the tree line, showering the dark Texas sky in sparks of blood red and sulfur before fading into thick, choking gray smoke. Just like that, the season is dead. I stand near the exit turnstiles with my heavy leather cut hanging open, my arm locked around Avery's waist, feeling the violent drop in adrenaline settle like lead in my gut. For four weeks straight, this lot has been a goddamn war zone of screaming carnies, roaring generators, sliced cables, and a psycho hunting from the shadows.

Now, within twenty minutes, the crowd bleeds out through the gates into the gravel lot, clutching stuffed bats and bags of kettle corn, kids dead asleep over their fathers' shoulders. The midway lights cut out section by section with heavy, echoing thuds, plunging the fairgrounds into blackness until the whole damn circus feels like it's exhaling its last breath.

Avery's shoulder tucks tight against my ribs as she watches the taillights disappear down the county road. "Feels fucking weird."

"What does, spitfire?"

"The quiet. This place doesn't know how to shut the fuck up. The silence feels unnatural, like a tripwire waiting for somebody to kick it."

She's dead right. Grimlight Reveals has been pure, unadulterated noise since the minute my rear tire hit this dirt. Engines revving, midway music blasting, grease popping, and Avery cursing me out over broken fogger switches.

The still air now feels like a held breath, like the dark is waiting to see if another ghost is going to step out of the pine brush with a bastard file.

I drop a rough kiss against the crown of her messy blonde head. "Come on. Let's strip the yard before Dutch blows a blood vessel over the canvas tarps."

She's already stepping into the dark toward the equipment sheds. "Dutch doesn't give a shit about the tarps. He loses his mind over the inventory clipboards."

"Same damn difference."

She throws her middle finger up over her shoulder without breaking stride, a wicked, defiant smirk flashing across her profile in the amber work lights. My chest pulls tight with that raw, possessive heat that has been chewing through my ribs since the first day she cursed me into the mud.

We start in the haunt maze, tearing down the black partition tarps, ripping out fake cobwebs, and yanking the heavy gauge cables that have been baking in the dirt. My knuckles are bruised, my palms caked in grease and red clay, but my hands move on pure instinct. Every knot, every clevis pin, every terminal block that could bite a finger if you get sloppy. Avery works three feet away, matching my pace with ruthless efficiency, anticipating every tool I need before I even open my mouth.

A month ago, I did not know this woman existed.

A month ago, I was just another drifting biker looking for cash and an excuse to burn high-octane fuel down the interstate.

Now, the thought of hauling gear into an empty truck bed without her barking orders at me makes my chest ache like a broken bone.

She points a gloved finger at a weathered styrofoam tombstone I'm about to heave into the scrap trailer. "Watch where you throw that one, asshole. That's Gerald."