Carnival Souls

She Must Be Stopped

Owen swore under his breath as the carving knife slipped and sliced his thumb. He stuck his finger in his mouth, tasting copper, and felt the throb of his heartbeat against his tongue. This was his third cut in an hour.

"If you can' concentrate enough to keep all yer fingers, then try painting," grunted Genzel.

Owen threw down the knife and walked over to his painting table instead and began to mix colors. He picked up bottles without looking, grabbed paint brushes and stuck them in different clay bowls, and within a few minutes all his paints were as muddled as his thoughts, a swirl of grayish-brown.

"I know yer worried," Genzel said as Owen went to scrub out the bowls. His gruff voice was nearly gentle. "But she's tougher than yer giving her credit for."

Owen gave a jerky nod, but didn't reply. He had told Genzel what he knew and the old man had looked painfully sad when he found out what his daughter was doing. He mumbled something indistinct and then, without looking at Owen, said, "What can I do ter help?"

Owen had sequestered himself in the workshop for the last several hours as Jacks had suggested, but was distracted and jumpy. Genzel had been quiet for the most part which was unusual for the old carver who would normally have snapped at Owen for making so many mistakes. Owen wondered briefly what was going through Genzel's head, but it felt too invasive to ask.

Afterall, how did you pose the question, "What do you think about your daughter's murderous tendencies?" It wasn't exactly polite or pleasant conversation.

A knock came at the door and Owen's heart jumped into his throat. He moved back to his work table and picked up the knife. His cut fingers throbbed in time with his kick-started pulse. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Genzel's grip on his own tool tighten. "We're workin' here," the carver called out.

"It's me." Jacks' voice was muffled but it was him. Owen made to go to the door, but Genzel stood and threw out a broad, scarred hand. He made his hobbled way to the door and opened it a crack, as far as the chain would allow. Jacks' eye with its blue halo mark shown through. Genzel undid the chain and let him in.

As soon as the door was re-latched behind him, Jacks said, "I think I found one."

Owen straightened like an electric current had gone through his spine. "Where?" he demanded and stuttered a few steps forward. "Why are we wasting time?" Again, he moved toward the door but Genzel stopped him.

"Hold up there. Let the boy speak before you go rushin' off."

Jacks turned to Owen, pushing his dreadlocks out of his face. His gaze held carefully concealed excitement. "You said one of the spirits at Zabaria's Garden was a three-tailed fox, right? One of them just entered the carnival."

Owen shifted his weight from foot to foot. "We need to get to it before it leaves. It's probably looking for the bird."

"I'll go with you," said Jacks. "I'll keep an eye out for Atlas and Bebinn while you talk to it."

"Ye may want to take yer knife, just in case," said Genzel. Owen glanced at him reflexively and saw the carver's dark eyes were troubled beneath his unruly gray eyebrows. An acidic bubble of nausea popped in Owen's stomach at the thought of using the knife on someone or something, but he pocketed it all the same. Together, he and Jacks left the cabin.

Owen let Jacks lead the way, eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of the three-tailed fox. The carnival was thick with souls this time of Flow. From his vantage point on the outskirts, all Owen saw was an undulating mass of different body parts; a spiked tail here, a scaled and webbed hand there, like pieces of a thousand nightmares stitched together in a living quilt. The thought of entering the crowd, with as thick and heavy as the air in the Spirit World was, turned Owen's stomach even more.