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Vesper

Margaret, my Chaco Golden Knee tarantula, hasn’t moved in three days. With a leg span of eight inches and as much personality as a rock, this is exactly why I like her. She sits in the back corner of her tank, facing the same direction, and doing absolutely nothing. I find it reassuring that she doesn’t need anything from me—she simply exists. We have that in common.

As I crouch down to her level and check her water dish, she shifts one front leg a fraction of an inch; it’s as close to an acknowledgment as I get.

“Don’t strain yourself,” I tell her, and she doesn’t.

I move along the wall, scanning the twelve tanks that run floor to ceiling on this side of the bedroom. It was my only spare bedroom, but having it empty allowed for guests, and I don’t have those, as most overstay their welcome.

At the far end of the room, tank eleven sits empty, and it shouldn’t be. The mesh lid is slightly off-center.

I do a quick circuit of the room and come up empty. Cinnamon is good at escaping, but she will be back in her tank by morning as if she never left. It’s my own fault for not securing the lid.

Tonight is one of those rare nights I actually feel like going to work. Thankfully, here on the island, I have the luxury of choosing whether I spend the night monitoring the cameras to make sure there is nothing Clay, our head of security, needs to address, or I can dress up and scare the fuck out of people. Tonight feels like one of the latter nights.

Once I walk back into my bedroom, it takes me twenty minutes to get ready. It used to take me longer in the beginning, before applying my face paint became as automatic as brushing my teeth. Now it’s just one of the things I do. Base coat, shadow, the detail work around my eyes, then the bullet hole—the one Brawley, my best friend, once asked if it was a bruise, and I didn’t speak to him for two days.

My corset laces at the back, which I do by feel before getting into my skirt and attaching the chains. The woman in the mirror now looks like someone who would follow you through a dark corridor and not make a sound doing it. The old version of me, the one my family wanted me to be, would have hated this, but this version of me is ready. I smile, kill the lights, and head out.

I’m not the only one checking in for the night, and as I cross toward the stunt arena, the air already smells like fried dough and brine, which is January for us here—no snow and barely a chill. By the time I reach the briefing area, half of the staff are already here.

I take my spot at the edge of the group, far enough away from Vero—Brawley’s boyfriend—that I don’t have to look at him, but close enough to Brawley that he knows I’m here. Nixie steps onto the stage, wearing her ringmaster’s coat. She looks down at the group, making sure everyone she needs has arrived.

“You all know the drill by now, but it covers my ass to say it every night. We are in post-holiday mode now, and having your families here made my bank balance look terrible.” Her eyes scan the crowd. “Which means we have a few extras tonight than we normally do. Make sure you show these guests a night they will never forget.”

Karo cracks his knuckles, and beside him Memphis adjusts his wolf mask.

“If you are on a specific chase tonight, you should have read the profiles, and if you stray from those clients, your ass is fired. If a guest does not have a wristband on, you stop and report them. Rue is opening the post-apocalyptic zone tonight. It’s his first shift, so he will not be in the kitchen.”

A crowd of boos rings out, since Rue’s food is to die for, and it’ll suck to be a guest tonight depending on who Ares has working in the kitchen at the bar.

“If you have to cut through his zone, be prepared for bruises, as he will open fire.”

“The Jester has the far maze corridor, and Banks is in his museum. Vero knows what he did last time and knows the consequence if he does it again.”

“I was improvising,” Vero protests.

“You were a liability,” she says. “Have fun, but don’t fucking embarrass me or cause me any lawsuits.”

The group breaks up, and I move away, following people outside. I peel off toward the haunted maze, and I am no further than forty feet when I hear the bells. I don’t stop as they get louder, then he’s beside me.

“Love of my life,” he says, way too pleasantly, and that makes me want to physically hurt him.

“Take your jangly ass out of my space,” I snap and keep going, a little faster in the hope that he gets the hint.

“I’m—” he starts, before I cut him off.

“I swear to god, why are you following me?”

“We’re just walking the same path.” He gestures to the one we are on, his stupid bells chiming with each step. “So it would be strange if I didn’t come and say hello.”

I scoff. “I would prefer strange.”

I walk faster, yet the bells keep pace beside me, which means he also sped up. The path splits ahead of us—left toward the maze corridor, and right to where I start my rounds. He should swerve left, and I slow, hoping he’ll keep walking, which is a terrible mistake because it gives him what he wants.

“I’ll walk you the rest of the way.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” I grit out between clenched teeth.