The Noite Pálida during the day was a strange place, exposed by the harsh light streaming through the high windows, revealing every scuff on the floor, every stain on the velvet booths. At that moment, the light was not inviting; not for them, at least.
Two detectives in plain clothes occupied the center of the room. Navy stood before them, behind the counter, using the furniture as a physical barrier. Given Amay's infamous personality, police visits weren't uncommon.
— So, to reiterate, Mr. Navy, you haven't seen Ms. Carolina since the night before last, when she closed up alone? — asked the older officer, a man with deep bags under his eyes and a notebook in his hands.
— That's correct, Officer. As I said, she's the first to arrive and the last to leave. Yesterday afternoon when we arrived, the door was locked, which is unusual. We got worried. We tried calling. — Navy's voice was smooth, controlled, accustomed to interrogations.
— And you, as her employers, don't find that strange? You didn't go to her residence? — insisted the second officer, younger, his eyes scanning the empty bar with disdain.
— Carol is an adult, a professional, and extremely responsible. We assumed she might be sick, that she would have let us know. It was only when the calls started going to voicemail that our concern grew. — Navy didn't lie. He merely dosed the truth. The fact they had gone to her house, found the younger siblings alone and the mother in a panic, was information he would keep under lock and key.
The officers exchanged a look. The older one closed his notebook with a dry snap.
— Well, Ms. Carolina is now officially listed as missing. Her mother, Mrs. Marta, suffered a severe sudden cardiac arrest this morning and is on a ventilator in the hospital. The young lady's minor siblings are under the temporary custody of the state; social workers will pick them up this afternoon.
— Yeva is going to take care of them, — Navy corrected, softly. — They're a very close friend of Carol's. They are the priority right now.
— Understood. If you hear anything, any detail that seems insignificant, let us know. Disappearances… in cities that host traveling attractions, tend to increase. — The insinuation was clear. The circus flyers seemed to burn against the walls, even in their absence.
— We will, officers. — Navy escorted them to the door with a cold courtesy. As soon as the door closed, his shoulders, which had been tense, dropped a centimeter.
He wasn't alone. Several of the "aberrations" who worked at the bar — ghosts, apparitions, even cursed humans — had stayed in plain clothes, blended into the shadows, listening. A silent network of denial and protection. No one there would say a word to the authorities. Their world solved its own problems.
─── °∘💮∘° ───
In Carol's small, stuffy apartment, the air smelled of sour milk and anxiety. Two boys, one seven, the other about ten, were huddled on the worn-out sofa, eyes red and wide. Yeva, moving with a silent and strangely calming efficiency, had made hot chocolate and tidied the scattered toys. They didn't try to make comforting speeches. They were simply present, a pale, tranquil figure in the chaos.
— Is mommy going to die? — the younger one asked, his voice trembling.
— The doctors are doing everything they can to make her better, — Yeva replied, their voice a musical, steady thread. — In the meantime, you'll stay with me. Okay?
The boy nodded, swallowing his tears. Yeva ran a light hand through his hair. Their back was turned to the kitchen door, where Amaymon leaned against the frame, watching the scene. In Amay's eyes, there was none of Yeva's gentleness, but a sharp and dark curiosity.
When the albino headed to the kitchen to wash the cups, Amaymon followed, closing the door softly behind her. The sound of water running from the faucet filled the small space.
— A heart attack, huh? — the dark-skinned woman began, her lips curved in a near-smile. — What a convenient coincidence. Right on the day the daughter is reported missing, the parasitic mother who only sucked her money dry has a potentially fatal crisis. Almost… poetic.
Yeva didn't stop scrubbing the cup. Their pale reflection wavered in the dirty sink water.
— Life is full of such coincidences, Amay. Tragedies cluster. Like raindrops on a window.
— Raindrops don't have a will of their own, — Amaymon retorted, moving closer, her voice a poisonous whisper. — But some… things… do. Now, with Carol out of the picture, the boys would go straight to social services, a life in the system. But now, with the mother alive, by a thread, but alive… custody gets complicated.
Yeva finally turned off the faucet. They turned around, drying their hands on a cloth. Their face was a pool of serenity. But then, slowly, their lips curved. It wasn't a warm or kind smile. It was a small, precise smile, cold as an ice blade. A smile that neither denied nor confirmed. It simply existed, loaded with a possibility so dark it was, in itself, an answer.
— Perhaps, — they said, the word coming out smooth as silk, — the universe is just… realigning the weights. Removing unnecessary stones from the path. For everyone's good. In the end.
They let the smile hang in the air between them, a ghost of a confession that would never be verbalized. Then, they walked past Amay back into the living room, resuming their post as the seemingly docile guardian, leaving Amay alone in the kitchen with the echo of that smile and the sudden chill of understanding that, among the three of them, Yeva might be the one who best understood how to make a bomb explode at the exact right moment, leaving only the necessary rubble behind.
The last customer, a drunk and melancholic poet, was gently escorted to the door by Yeva. The night had been long, charged with an electric energy that had little to do with the lighting. Now, the silence that took over the Noite Pálida was thick, palpable, broken only by the clinking of glasses and the scraping of chairs.
Amaymon,with a messy bun, was coiling the microphone cables on the tiny stage, her movements somewhat abrupt, the contained energy from the earlier argument and the unwanted customer still coursing through her. Yeva, meticulous, was lining up bottles behind the counter while Navy counted the money from the register, his brow furrowed with worry, and two other employees were tidying the tables in the back. Carol's phone remained silent.
—I think we should stop by her place early tomorrow, — suggested Navy, without looking up from the bills.
—Before that, — replied Yeva, drying a glass with a cloth, their dark eyes meeting Navy's honey-colored ones in the mirror. — Something isn't right.
That's when the lights went out.
It wasn't a total blackout on the street,just in the bar. The darkness was abrupt, swallowing the coppery aquarium in blackness.
—What the fuck is this? — Amaymon's voice echoed in the dark, irritated. — Who didn't pay the electric bill this time?
—I paid everything on time, Amay, — Navy responded. The sound of a drawer opening, the glare of a phone screen illuminating his tired face. — Must be the circuit breaker.
—Circuit breakers don't trip by themselves, Navy, — Amaymon retorted, already moving. Her steps were light, feline, even in the darkness; she had the bar's layout memorized.
—And Carol is the only one who touches it, — Yeva completed, their voice coming from near the back door. — Everything's normal here. I'll try to turn it back on.
They heard them move away.A heavy silence fell between Navy and Amaymon in the main room, only the light breathing of one and the other audible. The bar, now a blur of tables and shadows, seemed to hold its breath.
—Navy, — Amaymon whispered, suddenly very close. — Did you feel that?
—Feel what?
—A… sweet smell. Like chocolate and strawberry… a bakery smell!
Navy was about to reply,a sarcastic comment on the tip of his tongue, when a presence materialized beside him at the counter. There was no sound of a door, nor footsteps on the wooden floor. It was as if the darkness itself had condensed there.
He turned his head.
A few centimeters from his face,under the pale streetlight that filtered momentarily through the shop window, was the white, motionless face of Pierrot. The golden dots of his eyes shone fixedly, the painted smile a soft, eternal curve in the dark.
Navy jumped back,a muffled grunt escaping him, banging his thigh on the hard corner of the counter. The pain was sharp and real, anchoring him in the moment.
—HOLY SHIT! — he yelled, more from fright than anger, his heart beating like a runaway drum in his chest.
Before he could catch his breath or ask a question,a scream of pure joy tore through the tension.
—PIERROT!
Amaymon,who had identified the silhouette against the counter, didn't think twice. With the agility of a cat, she vaulted over the nearest table in one go, completely ignored the chair in her path, and launched herself in an enthusiastic hug toward the clown figure.
Pierrot,surprised, barely had time to open his arms. The impact was soft but decisive. Amaymon, in her momentum, wrapped him in a tight embrace, and in her downward motion, Pierrot's head was gently, but firmly, buried in the generous valley of her breasts, enveloped by the neckline of her black lace corset. Pierrot's hands instinctively grabbed her slender waist to balance her, his gloved fingers sinking slightly into the satin of the corselet.
For a long second,they stayed like that: Navy rubbing his aching thigh and panting, Yeva frozen in the back doorway with their hand still on the light switch (which, now indeed, brought the lights back with a click), illuminating the surreal scene. And in the center, the motionless embrace of Amaymon, and Pierrot, perfectly still and silent, with his red nose and half his face hidden in a smothering embrace of lace and affection.
Amaymon then released him,holding his shoulders, her amber eyes shining with genuine happiness.
—You came! I knew you'd come! Are you okay? Does your face still hurt?
Pierrot slowly raised his head.His golden gaze seemed a bit dazed, unfocused. He adjusted his hat, which had gone askew. His smile, beneath the paint, seemed a bit more open, more real. He made a gentle gesture with his hand as if saying 'I'm fine.'
Navy,regaining his composure and trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his leg, took a deep breath, but an involuntary smile touched his lips at seeing the clown's embarrassment.
—A warning next time, maybe? — he said, addressing Pierrot, but his tone was more relief than irritation. — Almost gave me a heart attack.
Yeva,with a small, rare smile touching their lips, approached. Their gaze went from Navy, still catching his breath, to Amaymon, euphoric, and to Pierrot, static. The dynamic between the three bar owners was a unique gravitational field, and for the first time, they felt the pull of a possible fourth body in that orbit.
—The lights are back, — they announced. — And it seems we have a visitor for closing time.
The warm light of the bar now illuminated every detail,including Amaymon's cabaret outfit. She hadn't taken off her last performance clothes: a black satin corset that accentuated her curves, a short pleated skirt, and fishnet stockings. She looked like a figure from a fever dream. Pierrot was motionless, his golden eyes wide, his hands still hovering near her waist, as if hesitating to let go.
And then,something magical happened. Beneath the immaculate white paint, a wave of crimson rose from Pierrot's neck, staining his skin all the way to his cheekbones, a deep, human blush that contrasted absurdly with the pallor of his character.
A guttural,surprised laugh exploded from Navy, who was still rubbing his thigh.
—Let him go, Amay, you're gonna kill the poor guy with embarrassment, — he guffawed, pointing at the clown's vivid mortification.
Yeva,leaning against the counter, couldn't hold back a true, wide smile, one that was rarely seen. A low, crystalline laugh escaped them, shaking their slender shoulders. Their eyes met Navy's, and for a moment, Carol's disappearance and the night's tension seemed to recede, replaced by this new, strange spark.
Amaymon released Pierrot,holding his now-scarlet face between her hands.
—Oh, dear, you're so cute! All red!
Pierrot,avoiding eye contact, seemed to want to merge with the wall. With quick, slightly clumsy gestures, he pulled three small cards from inside his patched jacket. They were blood-red tickets, textured, with a golden stamp of a clown's hat and a small portrait of him on the back. He offered them, one to Navy and one to Amaymon, with a nod of his head towards the door, in an invitation.
—For the circus? — Navy asked, examining the ticket. Pierrot's blush was confirmation enough.
—Oh, yes! Let's all go! — Amaymon cheered, holding her ticket like a treasure.
Yeva observed the exchange,and then, calmly, took from their apron pocket the pink ticket they had received earlier. They placed it on the counter, next to the red tickets.
—I don't need one, I guess, — they said softly. — I already have an invitation.
Pierrot's golden eyes landed on the pink ticket.A subtle change occurred in his posture. The embarrassment diminished, replaced by acute attention. He stretched out his hand, not to take Yeva's ticket, but to point at it, then at himself, making a swapping gesture.
—You want to exchange? — Yeva understood.
Pierrot nodded,serious. With an almost magical movement, he made the pink ticket disappear between his long fingers, and from inside his sleeve, produced a third red ticket, identical to the others. He placed it before Yeva.
They furrowed their brow,confused. They picked up the red ticket, feeling the thicker paper, the quality print.
—Why the swap? What's wrong with the pink one?
Pierrot looked at the three of them,one by one. The lightness of the previous moment had dissipated. He brought a finger to his own painted lips in a gesture of silence. Then, he pointed to his own mouth and shook his head negatively, symbolizing that he couldn't speak.
Finally,he pointed to Yeva's red ticket and made an "OK" sign with his hand. For the pink ticket, which was no longer visible, he made a cutting motion through the air.
Amay,a theater graduate, knew that Pierrot, the clown before her, did not speak.
—You really have to stay in character even outside the circus? — she asked, her voice softer now. Pierrot nodded solemnly. She took a step forward, invading his space again, but this time with a different intimacy. — If you speak, we won't tell. We promise. — Her gaze went to Navy and Yeva, who immediately agreed with a nod.
Pierrot looked at the two employees who were already getting ready to leave,at a distance. When the street door closed behind them, he seemed to weigh the risk. Then, he leaned forward over the counter, and his voice came out low, velvety, a surprise coming from that painted figure:
—The pink ticket… is fake. The red one is… — he hesitated, searching for the words, his golden eyes seeking theirs, one by one, with a vulnerable intensity. — It's my invitation. For friends. For people who…
The confession hung in the air.Navy stood still, analyzing the deep voice—deeper than expected—and what it revealed. Yeva studied Pierrot's face, seeing beyond the white and red, to the tiredness and hope within. Amaymon simply smiled, a smile of victory and affection.
—So it's a special invitation, — said Navy, his tone warmer. — We accept.
The clown seemed to relax a bit,a slight tilt of his head being his thanks. There was a moment of charged silence, where the four of them just looked at each other, a current of newly discovered curiosity and attraction connecting them.
Shortly after, with the bar closed, locked, and the lights of the "Noite Pálida" turned off, the four of them stepped out into the cold street. Before disappearing into the first deep shadow of the alley with a discreet nod, Pierrot hesitated. His gaze passed over the three of them, together, a trio he now saw with a painful and beautiful clarity. They were a unit. And something in his chest, tight and lonely for so long, yearned to get closer to that warmth.
Walking back to the loft,Navy, Yeva, and Amaymon didn't talk about work, the bar's madness, or the customer with the broken arm. Navy had his arm around Yeva's shoulders, pulling them against his side to warm them. Amaymon walked glued to Navy's other side, her hand intertwined with Yeva's who was in the middle.
—He's different, — murmured Yeva, finally, their head resting on Navy's shoulder.
—Yeah, — agreed Navy, his voice a rumble in their chest.
—We like him, — Amaymon declared, simply, as if stating an obvious fact. And it was. The attraction wasn't just physical; it was a resonance of souls who carried their own quirks, their own shadows.
—We can like him, — Yeva whispered, squeezing Amay's hand. The unspoken question hung in the icy air: Would he like us? The three of us, together?
And Carol,still absent, was the darkest question mark of all, looming over them like the pale moon now waning between the buildings.
The loft was immersed in the heavy silence of the dead hours, broken only by the white noise of static from the old tube TV. It had been left on, its bluish, ghostly light flickering over the tangle of bodies on the super king bed. Navy on his back, an arm thrown over his eyes; Amay on her side, nestled like a shell against his back; Yeva face down, their face buried in the pillow, their white and purple hair spread out like a disheveled halo. The city outside was quiet. Even the sound of cars seemed to have dwindled.
The door lock made no sound.The door itself didn't creak as it opened. He was simply there, inside the cramped cubicle, a slender, silent figure against the half-light. Pierrot. His white paint seemed to absorb the faint light from the TV, his golden eyes reflecting the dancing photons of the static.
His feet,clad in worn, oversized shoes, made no sound on the wooden floor. He sidestepped the pile of clothes on the floor, the open book on the coffee table, as if he knew the way. His gaze swept over the cozy clutter of the place – the dishes in the sink, the empty bottles on the counter, the unpretentious intimacy of that shared life.
He felt a tightness in his chest that wasn't pain;it was a longing for something he'd never had.
He stopped in front of the TV.The static emitted a constant shhhhh, a sound of forgetting. With a deliberate gesture, he pressed the power button on the old remote. The click was sharp and loud in the silence. The blue light vanished, plunging the loft into near-complete darkness, filtered only by the orange haze of the streetlamps coming through the window.
Now,only the sound of the three's calm breathing remained. Pierrot approached the bed. Stopped beside it, observing. His painted face was expressionless, but his eyes traced every detail: the relaxed curve of Amay's mouth, the deep serenity on Navy's face, the vulnerability of Yeva's unprotected shoulders. He saw Yeva's hand resting on Navy's heart, Amay's fingers intertwined with Yeva's.
He watched for long minutes.And then, the stillness was broken not by a whisper, but by a low, raspy, and completely naked voice. It was a human voice, young, laden with an emotion so intense it seemed to hurt as it left. It wasn't the voice of a mute clown. It was the voice of the boy behind the paint.
Addressing not the sleepers,but the darkness, the ceiling, or someone very, very far away, he spoke:
—Jester… you're wrong.
The word echoed in the cubicle,a secret confessed to others' sleep.
—These humans… — his voice broke slightly. He swallowed hard. — They looked at me. And they didn't want to hurt me. They didn't laugh at my pain!
He stretched out his hand,the gloved one with claws, almost touching a strand of Amay's hair, but stopped millimeters away, as if afraid of contaminating that peace.
—They smiled at me. As if I weren't a monster. — the word 'monster' came out like a bitter spit, but his tone softened immediately after, becoming almost an awe. — They saw me… and offered me a bandage. A hug. A place. They looked at me with… love!
The last word was a breath,full of disbelief and a hope so fragile it hurt.
He closed his eyes for a second,the white eyelids resting on the painted skin. When he opened them again, there was a silent determination in the golden gleam.
—They may not be one of us… — he admitted, shaking his head slowly. — But their darkness… is different. It's warm. Is there room in this bed for me?
With one last look at the three sleepers— a look that was now one of protection, of a fiercely adopted loyalty — Pierrot retreated. He merged once more with the shadows by the door. The doorknob turned without a sound. The door opened and closed, leaving behind only silence.
In the bed,Yeva opened their eyes. They hadn't heard everything, just fragments, broken whispers that blended into their dreams. But they had felt the presence. They had felt the intensity of the gaze. And, before falling asleep again, nestled in the warmth of their loves, a clear thought crossed their mind: Perhaps there is room.
Note: To make it easier to find the fanfic chapters, I will put the fic title (Pale Night) and chapter between the tags.
Chapter 2
“I'm not fragile like a flower. I'm fragile like a bomb.”
— This is unnecessary, — Amay declared with her arms crossed over her chest, glaring at the other two.
—You are literally blind in the dark, how is this unnecessary? — asked Yeva, their eyes still half-closed with sleep as they sat down heavily on the counter.
—This stuff tastes awful! I'm not drinking it!
—For the love of Nyarlathotep, Amaymon! Just drink the damn thing! — Navy retorted, placing the vitamin vial in front of the girl.
—Never! — she said, swatting the vial, which flew across the kitchen.
—Amaymonn… — sighed the taller man with an air of defeat.
While the two continued their cat-and-dog fight, Yeva dragged themself through the kitchen, picking up the fallen vial while hunting for something in the fridge. Finding the desired container, they dropped two tablets into the bottle and shook it.
—I'm going to Carol's place, — they declared, placing the bottle of Amaymon's favorite juice on the counter. She quickly took a sip of the drink. — Meet you guys at Noite.
They said,giving a little kiss on Navy's cheek and on Amay's crown as the two resumed their arguing. The morning dragged on slowly.
—I give up, — sighed the curly-haired man, grabbing the keys. — I'm going to open the bar. I left a list of missing items. It's not urgent, but stop by the cellar if you can.
—You got it.
She nodded,stretching like a cat. The juice with vitamins was, indeed, horrible, but Amaymon swallowed it all in one gulp, making a face. Despite the fuss, she knew her night blindness would exact a heavy toll later.
She took the list Navy had left on the counter,rolled it up, and stuffed it into her coat pocket. With one last sigh directed at the empty loft, she went down the building stairs, her light footsteps echoing in the cold stairwell.
The morning street was a stark contrast to the night's. Instead of mist and neon lights, there was harsh sunlight and the smell of fresh bread mixed with gasoline. She walked toward the wholesale store, distracted, mentally reciting the list: ice, lemon, tonic, Angostura…
That's when a long,slender shadow fell over her, blocking the sun. The smell of coffee and a hint of something metallic, like old copper, invaded her nostrils.
—Goooood morning, lovely flower! — The voice was mellifluous, sing-song, but there was a resonance in it that made Amaymon's teeth grind. She raised her eyes.
It was a clown.But not Pierrot. This one was shorter, dressed in a suit of green and black diamonds that seemed to dance under the light. His face was painted with an exaggeratedly wide and pointed smile, and his eyes, a nearly phosphorescent green, watched her with voracious curiosity. At the tip of his long hat, small bells jingled softly in the wind. It was a Harlequin.
Amaymon felt a chill run down her spine but kept her face impassive.
—Good morning, — she replied dryly, trying to walk around him.
—In such a hurry! Life is a spectacle, darling, it must be savored! — Harlequin slid to the side, blocking her path again with supernatural grace. — Our caravan has arrived. The Grand Circus of Horrors. You must come. It would be… unforgivable to miss it.
—I already have a ticket, thank you, — said Amaymon, trying to keep her voice neutral. Her hand in her coat pocket clenched the red card Pierrot had given her.
Harlequin's green eyes narrowed,the painted smile seeming to stretch even further.
—A ticket? Oh, how wonderful! But, let me see… the color matters, you know? Colors have… meanings. What color is yours?
Amaymon's instinct screamed to lie,but something in those green eyes seemed to demand the truth, to extract it by force. The word came out before she could stop it.
—Red.
It was as if she had pulled the trigger of a gun.The air around them seemed to grow colder. Harlequin's smile didn't change, but his energy did: from persuasive to predatory.
—Red… — he whispered, the word a poisonous sweet. — So common. So… Dull. You deserve more. Accept mine. Green is the color that suits your eyes best — With a quick movement, he offered a vibrant green ticket with a silver heart symbol.
—No, thank you, — Amaymon took a step back.
—Oh, but you will accept it, — Harlequin insisted, advancing. His hand, in green gloves, stretched out to grab her arm. — It's a… special invitation.
Before the green fingers could touch her,a silent red form interposed itself between them. Pierrot. He made no sound. He simply stood there, his golden eyes fixed on Harlequin, his body a fragile but immovable barrier. The air between the two clowns seemed to vibrate with an ancient, silent hostility.
Harlequin laughed,a sharp, unpleasant sound.
—Careful, Pierrot, you know the rules.
Pierrot didn't move.He tilted his head to the side, a deceptively simple, challenging gesture. His hand, however, was clenched at his side, and Amaymon swore she saw a glint of metal between his fingers – the tip of a throwing knife? Or just a reflection?
It was at that moment,from the corner of her eye, that Amaymon saw. Across the street, blending into the morning crowd, was the same man who had assaulted Pierrot. The jerk. He was crossing the street with long strides, looking at his phone, completely oblivious to the tense drama around him.
The fury that Amaymon had contained since that morning,since worrying about Carol, since the vitamin argument, since Harlequin's grotesque insistence, bubbled to the surface. This was an opportunity. A distraction. A necessity. Seizing the distraction provided by the clowns, she melted into the flow of pedestrians, following the hateful silhouette of the man.
Harlequin made a move to follow her,but Pierrot blocked his path again, this time taking a step forward. The silence between them was now charged with the promise of violence.
Amaymon followed the man for two blocks until he veered into a narrow alley, a dirty shortcut between two commercial buildings. Perfect.
She entered the alley behind him.The sound of the city abruptly muffled.
—Hey, — her voice echoed, clear and firm.
The man turned,annoyed. Recognition flashed in his eyes, followed by arrogant disdain.
—You… the aberration who's friends with aberrations. What do you want?
Amaymon didn't smile.The mask of humanity she maintained with such effort began to dissolve. Her silver eyes, in the faint light of the alley, seemed to shimmer like the moon. The shadow at her feet stretched, detaching from the ground, taking on an indistinct but threatening form.
—You talked so much about monsters, — she said, and her voice now had a sibilant echo, like the rustling of dry insect wings. — How about seeing one up close?
Genuine fear replaced the arrogance on the man's face.He tried to scream, to recoil, but his feet seemed rooted. Amaymon closed the distance with the speed of a snake. Her hands, now with nails that looked more like long, sharp claws, grabbed his face.
She tilted her head,her lips approaching his in a near-kiss. He expected pain, a blow, a cut.
What he received was a vacuum.
Amaymon whispered against his lips,an icy breath: "Let me extinguish the useless fire burning within you. And keep the warm ashes."
And shesucked. Not blood, not flesh. But the raw life force, the heat, the years of energy burned on stupid hatred and prejudice. It was a silent and voracious theft. The man didn't scream. His eyes widened, then grew cloudy, losing their shine. His skin, in seconds, turned pale and gray, like old paper. When Amaymon pulled away, letting him slip to the ground (alive, but emptied, a weary shell), her own lips were temporarily tinged with a healthy flush, and her silver eyes gleamed with stolen energy.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand,the echo of consumed power vibrating in her veins. The rage was satiated, for now. The worry about Carol, however, and the encounter with Harlequin, were now even more urgent.
Without looking back at the man withering in the trash,she adjusted her coat and left the alley, directing her steps toward the wholesale store—a banal contrast to the darkness she carried within her, which was now a little calmer, a little more fed.
"The center of this man's attention was a very bad place to be."
The morning air, still fresh with the night's dew, carried the scent of coffee and bread from a nearby bakery. Navy walked with long strides, his mind wandering between the bar's inventory list and the persistent echo of the nightmare. That's when he crossed paths with Máire, the banshee who cleaned the windows of the Noite Pálida in the dead hours. Her pale face and deep eyes turned to him in a silent nod.
— Navy. Carol…
— Still nothing, Máire. But thank you for…
The sentence died on his lips. It wasn't a sound that struck him first, but pain. A sharp, deep pang that sprouted in his right temple and exploded into a tear inside his skull. It wasn't his. It was hers. It was hers.
Behind the pain came the sound. A roar that didn't vibrate in the air, but in the fabric of his skin, flesh, and soul. It was Amaymon's voice, but not the human voice, rough and sweet. It was the cry of the creature, the bone frame wrapped in a living veil, a howl of agony and absolute despair. And with the cry, the vision: white bone against pulsing red, shadow claws scraping, tearing from within, trying to force a way through the flesh that imprisoned it. He could feel the rough texture of the bone, the heat of the living-veil, the liquid panic that wasn't fear of death, but fear of killing to escape.
His own body reacted before his mind could process. A groan escaped his throat and he brought his hands to his head, as if he could contain the internal explosion. His knees buckled.
Máire, the banshee, whose own gift was to sense approaching death, felt the wave of cosmic agony emanating from Navy. Her eyes widened with the horror of witnessing a soul being torn apart from the inside.
— Navy? What…?
He threw the bar's keychain towards her, the keys jingling in the air.
— Open up! My wife… she's in danger. I need to… I need to go. — Navy's voice came out as a roar, hoarse and full of an animal urgency.
There was no time for explanations. There was no time for anything else. The connection, that golden and painful thread that bound them on a level below flesh, below thought, pulled him with the force of a tide. The pain was beginning to relent, replaced by a terrifying, icy void – the sign that Amaymon's internal struggle was reaching a critical point.
He turned and ran. His feet hit the asphalt with a force that would make a normal human feel pain. Buildings, cars, people blurred in his peripheral vision. Where? Where was she? The city was a maze of concrete and danger.
Then he felt it. Not pain, not vision. A taste. Metallic, warm, sweet, and ancient as shooting stars. A smell of smoke and burnt jasmine. A spell. The words echoed within him, not as sound, but as pure form of intention: Of war, I am the mistress. Of you, I am the end. Sate me.
It was Amaymon's hunting call. Her last resort. It came from a single direction, like a black fire beacon on the city's map.
The circus.
"Amay… what have you done?"
The sharp pain in Navy's skull hadn't ceased completely; it transformed into a buzzing alert, a beacon of anguish guiding him through the streets like a hound sniffing the trail of despair. When he finally spotted the colorful circus tents, the buzzing exploded into a shrill whistle. And then, he saw her.
Amaymon burst out from between two dark tents, a staggering silhouette against the daylight. Her movements were uncoordinated, blinded by panic or pain – he didn't know. Navy shot towards her, his lungs burning, the world reduced to that faltering figure.
He was just a few meters away when she collided with the pink fool. The impact was softer than it should have been, as if she'd hit a sandbag. The mask fell off. Carol's face emerged from behind, pale and glassy-eyed, fixed on a point beyond the horizon. Before Amaymon could fall backwards onto the ground, Navy reached her, his arms wrapping around her in a continuous motion that softened the fall, leaving them both kneeling on the beaten earth.
Amay was unconscious in his arms. A deep, ugly wound bled at the base of her back, claws that had emerged from the wound quickly retracted, and the vivid red blood flowed in thick streams, staining her dark dress and merging with it. She looked broken.
Carol remained standing, swaying slightly. Her lips moved, whispering the same phrase, monotonous and emotionless: "Don't miss the attractions. You'll love them, visitor. Don't miss the attractions. You'll love them…"
— Carol? Carol, wake up. It's Navy. — He tried, with a voice softer than he felt, holding Amaymon with one arm while extending his free hand to touch his friend's. Her gaze was completely empty, translucent. She didn't even blink.
— Oh, dear. How embarrassing.
The dry, muffled voice of the Ticket Taker came from the side. He approached with fluid steps, picked up the wooden mask from the ground, and, with an almost tender movement, placed it back on Carol's face, adjusting it like someone putting on a hat.
— Don't worry, visitor. It's part of her role. — His dark button eyes landed on Navy, then on Amaymon's inert body. — Here, no one abandons character. For any reason.
The coldness of the statement made Navy's blood freeze. The man then seemed to notice the blood on Amaymon, tilting his head curiously.
— Is your friend alright? Do you need help? Looks like she took a fall.
Navy forced his facial muscles into a smile, tense but polished, the same one he used to calm down drunk and aggressive customers.
— Don't worry. My wife will be fine. Just a scare. — He emphasized the word, marking territory, creating a bond he hoped would be respected.
The Ticket Taker seemed genuinely surprised, his dark eyes blinking rapidly.
— Wife? Oh, I didn't know… How careless of me. — His tone became even more solicitous, sinisterly friendly. — Let me accompany you to the exit. Or shall I call an ambulance? Our visitors' health is paramount.
He made a vague gesture with his hand, indicating not the direction of the street, but a path that led deeper into the tangle of tents, where the daylight seemed weaker.
Navy's alarm went off. Every fiber of his being screamed to get out of there.
— I appreciate it, but I can take care of my wife myself. We've caused enough trouble already.
— It's no trouble at all! — insisted the Ticket Taker, and his hand, gloved in dirty white, stretched out to touch Amaymon's arm, as if to help him lift her. — Here, let me…
— Don't touch her.
The voice didn't come from Navy. It was a rough whisper, laden with a quiet authority. Pierrot was there, as if he had materialized from the shadow of a tent. His face was pale, the makeup not fully removed. He didn't look at the Ticket Taker. His golden eyes were fixed on the hand approaching Amaymon.
In a quick, decisive move, he stepped between them. Before the Ticket Taker or Navy could react, Pierrot bent down and, with surprising care, took Amaymon from Navy's arms, carrying her in his arms as if she were light as a feather. Her inert body rested against the clown's chest.
Pierrot then looked at Navy, then at Amaymon in his arms, and finally pointed at himself, in a clear gesture: They're with me.
The Ticket Taker froze for a second, processing. His thin lips stretched into something trying to be a smile.
— Ah… they're with you. I… hadn't been informed. — His eyes scanned the trio, stopping on Amaymon's frightened, unconscious face. — They look very frightened, Pierrot. Could it be… they saw something they shouldn't have?
He said this with a troubling lightness, as if commenting on the weather. He seemed genuinely not to notice, or not to care, about the blood flowing down the woman's back.
Pierrot kept his gaze steady. When he spoke, his voice came out low, restrained, but clear enough for Navy to hear:
— This is a circus of horrors. Of course they're scared.
The Ticket Taker's reaction was instant and icy. His face lost all pretense of friendliness.
— Don't speak, — he cut in, the words as sharp as a stiletto. A rule had been broken. He took a deep breath, recovering his ceremonial composure. — Well. If that's all… I believe they'll be happy to return for the attractions tonight, won't they? — His gaze challenged Pierrot. — Pierrot, give them their tickets. Or… I'll give them mine.
The threat hung in the air. Tickets from the Ticket Taker weren't invitations. They were sentences.
Pierrot didn't argue. He simply nodded, a brief inclination of his head that was both submission and agreement. Without another word, he turned and began walking towards the real exit, carrying Amaymon, with Navy sticking close to his side, his body forming a protective barrier around them both.
The Ticket Taker didn't follow them. He stood still, watching them go, with Carol – or the thing wearing Carol's face – motionless beside him, whispering in a loop her poisoned invitation to the attractions, while Amaymon's blood dripped onto the earth, marking the path of their escape.
"Of all the ways to lose a person, death is the kindest."
The awakening didn't come with light, but with a muffled scream that was born in their own
guts. Yeva shot upright on Carol's uncomfortable sofa, drenched in a cold sweat that wasn't
their own. It wasn't a nightmare; it was a jolt, a sudden crack in the world, as if something
vital had snapped in two distant places at once. A foreign, razor-sharp despair lodged itself
under their ribs. It had never been theirs. But they knew that flavor: it was the taste of danger
coming for someone they loved.
They fought their way out of the tangled blankets, their feet finding the cold floor before
consciousness could catch up. The still-fresh wounds throbbed. Their heart hammered a
primitive, urgent beat of flight. Amay. Navy. Something's wrong. Something is very wrong.
Their body moved on its own, propelled by an instinct older than reason. They crossed the
messy living room in three long strides, a hand already reaching for the doorknob. They had
to go. They had to find them. They had to…
"Uncle Yeva?" The voice was small, sleepy, sticky with the sugar of the cereal that still clung
to its syllables.
Yeva froze. Their hand on the cold metal of the knob trembled.
Slowly, they turned their head.
The two brothers were sitting at the kitchen table, wrapped in the gray morning light coming
through the dirty window. The younger one, wide-eyed with messy bedhead, held a dripping
spoon. The older one chewed in silence, watching Yeva with a quiet, devastating curiosity.
They were already here. Safe. Reality crashed over Yeva like a bucket of ice water. The children. The promise.
Half of their being, the part made of pure instinct and fierce love, roared inside. "Go! They
need you! What if they're hurt? What if I could help?" It was a visceral clamor, a fire in the
bones.
But the other part… the other part was older. It was the part used to swallowing the scream.
The part that had learned, in countless lives, to sit at the edge of the abyss and just watch.
It was an old pain. A shackle that already knew its weight.
Their dark eyes settled on the two small faces, so fragile, so trusting. They depended on
them. Right now, Yeva was the safe harbor. The adult.
An almost imperceptible groan escaped their lips. With an effort that hurt in every fiber, their
fingers gripped the doorknob, knuckles turning white from the pressure, before letting go
with a sigh that seemed to tear out their ribs. The door, which promised the hallway, the
street, the chance to get there in time, was left behind.
"It's okay," they forced out, and their voice came out softer than expected, a miracle of self-
control. "Just… had a scare. Morning."
They stepped away from the door as if pulling away from a magnet. Their movements
became quick, practical, almost mechanical. A different kind of escape.
"Let's get ready quick today," they said, picking up the bowls from the table. "How about a
walk? Some fresh air."
The boys perked up. Yeva glanced around the apartment. The TV was off, the shards of glass
were gone. Not only that: their feet had been neatly bandaged, the few dishes in the sink were
washed, and the coffee table was cleared of things the children couldn't reach.
They went to the dresser, picked out clothes, dressed the boys, buttoned coats, tied shoelaces.
Their hands were steady while their inner world shook. The foreign despair still pulsed in
their veins, an agonizing echo. Every second was torture. Every smile they offered was a stab
wound. Where are they? What's happening?
But their feet weren't leading them to the door. They led them to the bathroom, to brush the
younger one's hair. Away.
When they finally stepped out, the morning sun was pale and cold. Yeva held each boy's
hand, their hurried steps echoing in the silent hallway. It wasn't a stroll; it was a retreat.
They reached the sidewalk. The morning air was loud, ordinary, indifferent. Yeva stopped,
their eyes scanning the street, the alleys, the shadows. Looking for a sign, a familiar
silhouette, a trace of a danger that might have already passed.
There was nothing.
The street was just its normal self. People going to work, cars passing by, life moving on. The
silence that followed was the worst, the empty silence of a crisis that had ended without
them. They had been too late. Again.
The pain that gripped them now was no longer the foreign despair. It was all theirs. Ancient,
deep, and terribly familiar. The pain of powerlessness. The pain of feeling the agony of those
they love echoing inside, unable to do anything but hold two children's hands and watch from
afar.
They gave the small hands they held a gentle squeeze.
"Let's go," they whispered, more to themself. "The day… the day's already started."
And, carrying the double weight of responsibility and absence, Yeva began to walk.
The path to The Pale Night was short, but in Yeva's mind it stretched back a decade. Each
step on the uneven pavement was an echo of another walk, under a different sun, with other trusting little hands in theirs.
The younger one, Miguel, tugged on their sleeve.
"Uncle Yeva, you okay? You seem spaced out."
Spaced out? No. I'm falling. The small, warm grip of that hand had unearthed a torrent of
memory. Other hands. Other voices. Another escape.
Carol's two brothers, one on each side, were gentle ghosts of their own children. The love
was the same. The fear, too. The responsibility, an identical burden, ached in the same bones.
They remembered the smell of alcohol and fear. They remembered hiding a black eye under
messy bangs, the right side of their face a painful constellation where punches—from the
men each of those children called 'dad' in a tone that was terror, not affection—had landed.
Everything hurt. Walking hurt. Breathing hurt. But holding their hands, Isabela and Lucas,
that didn't hurt. It was the rope that kept them anchored to the reason for running.
The terror they felt now for Amay and Navy was the same. Acute, visceral, like an animal
clawing at the walls of their insides. The same cold sweat. The same silent prayer to a god
they never believed in: Please, not them. Hurt me, but not them.
Suddenly, the smell of gasoline and alcohol replaced the cold morning air. It was no longer an
empty São Paulo street, it was Los Angeles, at night, with a Yeva full of terror.
Yeva, in the fragile body of a skinny woman with a throbbing black eye, carried a worn-out
bag with everything they could grab: threadbare clothes, two toys, a crumpled wedding
photo. The bus station was nine blocks away. Nine blocks of hellish neon lights, the back of
their neck burning as if at every corner the silhouettes of the men whose breath reeked of
cachaça and hatred could appear.
"It's gonna be okay, my little birds," they had lied, voice trembling. "We're gonna take a bus
far away from here."
Yeva, then Yareli, pulled the children close, eyes scanning the side streets in panic, when they
bumped into someone. It was a solid, warm shock. They recoiled, prey instinct, head bowed,
apologies tumbling out in a pleading murmur.
"Sorry, I didn't see…"
"Easy," the voice said. It was low, but not harsh. It was simply solid, like a wall.
They looked up.
He stood out not by his height, but by his stillness. Amid the chaos, Navy seemed an island
of calm. His skin was dark under his red jacket, his eyes… his eyes didn't examine them.
They saw them. Saw the face, the bangs combed to the wrong side, the tension in the
shoulders. Saw the two children clinging to their legs.
And Yeva, in that instant, felt something they hadn't felt in so long: safety.
It wasn't something Navy said. It was something he was. A presence that didn't demand,
didn't threaten. It just existed.
Without asking questions, with a smooth movement, he took the bag from Yareli's trembling
hands.
"Let's sit over there for a bit," he said, pointing to a small, tucked-away diner.
And that was it. Navy, or Noah, as he'd introduced himself, guided them. He knew how to
position himself, how to speak softly, how to offer a glass of water without it seeming like
charity. He knew how to shelter.
Sitting on that worn bench, with the children drinking soda, Yareli felt something break
inside. It wasn't pain. It was a thaw. They sat in silence, breathing, fighting back tears as they
watched their kids eat.
And then, came the love.
It wasn't an explosion. It was a recognition. As if a part of their soul, lost for countless
lifetimes, surfaced like a beacon and knew, with an absolute, quiet certainty: "It's you. I found
you."
It was a love that hurt, so pure and sudden against the backdrop of their scratched-up
existence.
"Uncle Yeva?" Miguel's voice, in the present, cut through the veil of memory. "You crying?"
Yeva blinked rapidly. The modern street reassembled around them. The faded sign for The
Pale Night blinked ahead. The pain in their chest—the current one from the danger to Amay
and Navy, and the ancient one from the love discovered—was one and the same.
They knelt, leveling themself with the boys. Their dark, damp eyes moved from one to the
other.
"No," they lied gently. Their voice was hoarse from the memory. "Just… got something in
my eye."
They pulled them into a quick, tight hug, feeling their small, warm bodies against their own.
They were Carol's children. They were their safe harbor in this moment. And their
punishment.
They stood up, holding their hands with renewed firmness. The terror for the present and the
Love from the past fused into a single, silent determination, forged from fear and a stubborn
hope that refused to die.
I'll leave the link to the AO3 fanfic here in case anyone prefers:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapter 6
"Clown boys have smell of cotton candy and taste of blood"
Cold sweat glued Navy's t-shirt to their chest even before the scream could form in their throat. The nightmare didn't begin with terror, but with tenderness. The memory was tactile, vivid: their arms were wrapped around a slighter body, the familiar scent of cheap soap and wild jasmine filling their senses. It was Yeva. But not the Yeva of now, with penetrating black eyes and cold serenity. A younger Yeva, in simple, worn clothes, a cotton dress that was once blue. They were in Navy's arms, and for an infinite second, everything was calm.
Then, the red appeared. First, a wet, dark stain blooming on the fabric, over their chest. Then, the sound: a hoarse gurgle, a horrible bubbling coming from within. Their body, once placid, arched in a spasm of surprised pain. Navy looked down, and the world crumbled. A perfect, black entrance, surrounded by charred fabric, marked their sternum. A bullet. Pierced. Clean.
"No… no, no, no… Yeva…" Their voice came out as a rasp, their arms trembling violently, trying to hold them up as they slid to the dirt floor.
Their eyes, those black eyes Navy knew so well, were wide, not with fear, but with a deep confusion, as if their brilliant brain was trying and failing to process the violence of their own end. The blood now didn't just stain; it gushed from their lips, a scarlet river contradicting the ghostly pallor of their face.
"Don't go. Please, please, don't go. You can't." Desperation tore Navy's words, mixed with a raw, primal weeping. Their tears fell onto Yeva's face, cleaning pale trails in the dirt and blood. They pressed their hands over the wound, uselessly, feeling the warm life spill between their fingers. "We were going to build a place. We were going to be safe. You promised…"
A laugh cut through the air, coming from the dense shadows surrounding the clearing. It wasn't a laugh of joy. It was a macabre thing, shrill and full of a disdain so profound it was a violence in itself.
"Pathetic."
The voice was distorted, as if from a radio with a broken dial, but the word was as clear as shattered glass.
"This is why I hate you, 'prophet'. All this whimpering. All this… weakness."
Navy raised their tear-streaked face, their pain transmuting into a white-hot, blind fury. They saw no one, only the darkness laughing stridently.
"STOP LAUGHING!" their roar echoed, a cry of a wounded animal. "AMAYMON! YOU DAMNED THING, STOP LAUGHING! THEY'RE DYING! DIDN'T YOU LOVE THEM TOO? WHY ARE THEY DYING NOW AND WE CAN'T DO ANYTHING?!!"
The silence that followed was more terrifying than the laugh. Then, the shadows at the edge of the clearing moved. Not like a person walking, but like a whirlwind of darkness condensing. From it, emerged Amaymon.
A great skeleton, white and polished like ancient ivory, of an animal impossible to identify. Ribs like curved spears, a vertebral column twisting like a petrified serpent, long limbs ending in claws that were more like scythes. Coiling around this bone structure, fused to it in some points, was a veil. It wasn't fabric, but a membrane, a second skin of a vivid, sanguine red, pulsing with a faint inner light. It was part of them, organic and agonizing.
The creature had no eyes. Where the sockets should be, only deep, dark holes, from which a thin carmine mist seeped.
"Navy…" The voice that came from the creature was Amaymon's, but muffled, echoing from within the elongated skull. It was a voice filled with a pain as ancient as their bones. "You're hurting me…"
Navy, in their trance of despair and rage, had grabbed a corner of the red veil fluttering near them. Their fists were clenched on the living-fabric, pulling with brute force to drag the creature to Yeva.
"FIX THIS!" they ordered, their voice hoarse from screaming. "YOU CAN! YOU ALWAYS SAID YOU COULD DO THINGS! FIX THEM!"
The skeletal-creature groaned, a sound of genuine agony. Where Navy pulled, the red veil stretched, and small threads of a liquid darker than blood trickled, as if they were tearing their own muscles.
"I… I can't fix life, Navy," Amaymon's voice whispered, resigned. "But I can… defy it. Guide me. I'm blind, you know that. Guide me to them."
Navy's fury broke, replaced by a tremor of desperate hope. They let go of the veil, stained with dark liquid, and took one of the creature's bony claws, pulling it carefully, but urgently, to Yeva's dying body.
The skeletal-creature knelt, its bones creaking, beside Yeva. Its eyeless "face" tilted over theirs, as if seeing them through other senses.
"They carry a curse," Amaymon's voice echoed, soft now, almost a hum. "A curse that would bind them to a life of misery, of loss, of loneliness until their final day. A seed of darkness planted before their first breath."
One of the bony claws, sharp as a scribe's quill, touched Yeva's bloody chest with supernatural reverence.
"But I… I will subdue their curse… with mine."
The claw then moved, not towards Yeva, but to the skeletal-creature's own chest, to where, beneath the pulsing red veil, a more intense glow emanated.
"No… Amaymon, no!" Navy understood before seeing. Panic seized them again. "If you do that… it's your core! The essence of what you are! You'll… you'll damn yourself! Both of you! Trapped in a cycle, in a human body, reincarnating, suffering, for all eternity! It's madness!"
The skeletal-creature turned its head towards where Navy's voice was. The empty hole of the socket seemed to see them, understand them.
"It would be greater madness," Amaymon's voice resonated, clear and full of devastating love, "to be condemned to live in any world… in any eternity… where they do not exist."
And, without hesitation, the bony claw plunged into their own pulsing chest. There was a sound of a wet tear. When they withdrew it, they held something. It was a pulsating mass, glowing with an amber and carmine light, wrapped in fine, dark veins. A heart that was not a heart. The core of Amaymon's existence. It beat with a wild, primordial rhythm, and from its open wound gushed not blood, but something like liquid fire and shattered stars.
Navy screamed, a sound of pure horror.
The skeletal-creature, now trembling violently, brought the pulsating core to Yeva's open chest.
"With my life, I bind you," whispered Amaymon, their voice beginning to dissipate. "With my curse, I cover you. With my heart, I sustain you. Live. Please, just… live."
They tore their own heart in half.
An explosion of amber and red light flooded the clearing, swallowing Navy, Yeva's body, the disintegrating skeletal-creature. The last sound Navy heard before being torn from the nightmare wasn't a scream, but a dual, synchronized sigh of pain and relief, and the echo of that macabre laugh, now satisfied, whispering:
"Prophet…"
The scream remained choked in Navy's throat, turning into a muffled groan against the pillow. The morning light, real and ordinary, pierced the loft window, bathing the cozy chaos of the room and slowly dissolving the last remnants of the bloody clearing and the pulsating skeleton of their nightmare. Their heart still beat erratically, an echo of the horror.
But the loft wasn't silent. The sound filling it was of quick, light footsteps, the jingling of necklaces, the zipper of a bag being hastily closed. Amaymon was already in full motion, a golden and amber storm on the move. They wore a tight, short dress, and their dark hair flew as they went back and forth, grabbing stockings, earrings, the leather jacket.
When they rushed past the edge of the bed, Navy stretched out their arm almost instinctively. Their fingers found Amaymon's wrist, pulling them gently but firmly closer. Amaymon let themself fall sitting on the edge of the bed with a surprised "Whoa!", and Navy enveloped them in a hug, their face burying itself in the curve of their neck. They said nothing. Just breathed deeply, flooding their lungs with Amaymon's scent—cinnamon, sweat, and something always slightly electric—and began placing small, quick kisses on their face, the tip of their nose, their cheekbones, their chin, before descending to their neck.
Amaymon laughed, a light, genuine sound that chased away the last shadows of the nightmare.
"Good morning to you too, clingy," they said, returning the kisses, their lips finding Navy's temple, their cheek. "You okay? Look like you saw a ghost."
"Just a stupid nightmare," Navy murmured, their voice still hoarse from sleep and emotion. They pulled back enough to look them in the eyes. "Where are you off to so early?"
"I'm going to Carol's house. To apologize to Yeva for yesterday." Amaymon's expression turned serious for a moment, a flash of the guilt Navy also carried. "I was an idiot. They were scared of that place, and I treated it like drama."
Navy sighed, running a hand over their face.
"I wasn't very gentle either. Saying it was just a normal circus, that we weren't human enough to care about poison in the soda… I thought I was being practical, that it would calm them. I just pushed them further away."
Amaymon stroked Navy's face, their thumb tracing the line of their jaw.
"We'll fix it. Look," they said, perking up again. They stood and pulled Navy by the hand to the small kitchen.
On the counter, there was a thermos, two cups, a jar with an amber-colored liquid, and… a cake. The cake was a bit lopsided, with chocolate icing dripping more on one side than the other, but it was there, made with evident effort.
"I made an antidote for the nightmare poison. It's basically tea with some… stuff, don't ask." They picked up the amber jar. "And… a cake. Didn't turn out as good as theirs, I know, but I tried. And I brewed the coffee the way you like it, strong and no sugar."
Navy looked at the scene: the improvised antidote, the lopsided cake, the coffee made in the old coffee maker only they used because they liked the fuller taste. Amaymon was a wizard with (non-alcoholic) cocktails and complex potions, but in basic cooking, they were a fun disaster. The Sunday cooking lessons with Yeva were more an attempt to avoid fires than to train a chef.
They felt a tightness in their chest, but this time it wasn't from terror. It was from an affection so vast it hurt.
"It's perfect," they said, their deep voice laden with emotion. They took the coffee mug Amaymon filled and took a sip. It was perfect, indeed. "The cake looks delicious. And you're amazing."
They pulled Amaymon close again, their bodies aligning perfectly, as always happened. This time, the kiss wasn't a cluster of small affections. It was slow, deep, and passionate.
When they separated, they were both a little breathless. Navy rested their forehead against Amaymon's.
"Bring our little rabbit home," they requested quietly, using the rare, affectionate nickname they only used among themselves for Yeva. "Please. The house is empty without my two loves."
Amaymon smiled, their silver eyes shining.
"It's a deal. Now go drink that antidote before the circus poison decides to come back. And have a piece of that cake, even if it's horrible. Made it with love."
"It's the only seasoning that matters," Navy replied, giving them another quick kiss before Amaymon pulled away and, with a last wave, disappeared through the loft door, leaving behind the scent of coffee, chocolate, and the tender promise of amends.
Navy's stretch was slow, heavy, as if each muscle still carried the echo of the nightmare. Their fingers found, by chance, the smooth metal surface pinned to the collar of their shirt. The golden star brooch. The touch sent a tingling down their arm, a clear and distinct sensation of static, protective energy. A silent gift.
Their gaze traveled across the loft until it landed on Amaymon's small jewelry table, an organized chaos of earrings, chains, and pendants. There, tossed onto a porcelain saucer as if it were mere costume jewelry, gleamed another golden object. The second brooch. The one Pierrot had fastened to their collar.
The blood seemed to freeze in Navy's veins.
They took it off.
In a sudden movement, they were on their feet, their hand closing around their own brooch still pinned to their chest. The foreboding was an icy knife in their stomach. Amaymon was impulsive, proud, hated feeling controlled or marked. For them, Harlequin's green brooch was a provocation, a trophy from a battle of egos. But the golden one…
They looked at the door, where Amaymon had left, full of determination. The most direct route to Carol's house passed near the vacant lot where the colorful canvases of the circus flapped like the skin of a slumbering beast.
─── °∘💮∘° ───
The smell of the circus arrived before the sight: candy apples, cotton candy, and blood. Amaymon quickened their pace, focused on the destination, on the apology fermenting in their mind. The fools—clowns in pinkish robes and empty expressions—spun and juggled listlessly on the sidewalks, handing out flyers with mechanical movements. They ignored them.
It was when they felt, on the nape of their neck, a heat that wasn't from the sun. A regulated, purposeful breath that raised the fine hairs on their arms.
"Enjoying the city's spectacle, my beast?"
Harlequin's mellifluous, metallic voice arrived an instant before the full perception of his presence. He was so close that the fabric of his green and black costume brushed lightly against their jacket.
They tried to turn, a brusque movement of defense, but a gloved hand landed on their shoulder, not with force, but with an absolute immobility.
"No, no, dear. This is better. Fewer… prying eyes." His finger traced the line of their collarbone, searching for something. The pause that followed was laden with theatrical disappointment. "Ah. You're not wearing my gift. That… truly wounds my heart."
Amaymon laughed, a dry, forced sound.
"You are a vibrant green dot in the middle of the gray, darling."
He laughed too, a genuine guffaw that made the bells on his hat jingle.
"You people really never break character? Not even the fools?" they continued, the observation coming out more bitter than intended. "A shame. I wish I could talk to Pierrot in public, sometimes."
The silence behind them changed. The hand on their shoulder grew a little heavier.
"Pierrot… spoke to you?" The question came out softly, but the intent behind it was sharp as a blade.
Shit. Amaymon felt a knot form in their stomach. They had put him in danger.
"It'll be our little secret," he whispered, his hot breath in their ear. The tension seemed to dissipate, replaced by an intimate and invasive curiosity. "Did you come here because of him? Do you like the shivers we cause on your skin?"
He pressed his entire body against their back, a warm, unsettling line from hip to shoulders. Amaymon felt their fangs lengthen involuntarily, a low growl forming in their throat.
"Maybe the problem is you get too close."
"That's the best part," he argued, his chin now resting on their shoulder. "I apologize for the… indelicacy of our last encounter. Your eyes enchanted me. I just wanted to get closer… that I overstepped."
His voice was a sweet poison, dripping into their perception. He moved away a millimeter, just enough to turn his face and capture their sidelong glance.
"Did you think of me too? Or am I the only fool trapped in this spell?"
And then, it began. A warm, golden mist seemed to rise from the asphalt, enveloping their mind. The euphoria was a sudden blow. The fear, the irritation, the worry for Yeva… everything seemed to dissipate, leaving only that melodic sound, the promise in that voice, the fascination with that green smile. Their heart accelerated, beating to the rhythm of a distorted waltz.
"Unlike a lovestruck Pierrot, I'm not so subtle," he continued, his voice now the only beacon in the fog. "It's in my nature to make your heart race."
They tried to move, to turn, but their body didn't respond. He was a wall, a magnet.
"If I held your hand now, would you pull away? Or are you waiting for me to take the initiative?"
He moved away completely, suddenly, letting the cold morning air hit them like a slap. The world around them—the buildings, the fools, the path to Carol's house—seemed blurred, irrelevant.
"Amaymon… do you want to feel my heart beating for you? Do you want me to show you how I feel? Come with me… I'll make your heart beat to the same rhythm as mine." He took a step back, towards the alley leading to the back tents. His green eyes shone with a hypnotic intensity. "But perhaps… you'll be left breathless."
He disappeared between the canvases, but his final look was an iron hook in their soul.
What had they come here to do again? The question echoed in an empty, anesthetized mind. Yeva… the apology… It all seemed like someone else's dream. The only real thing was the echo of that voice and the deep, implanted desire to follow him. Their feet moved on their own, leading them away from the street, into the dense shadows between the tents.
Inside the labyrinth of canvas, light was a scarce commodity. The air smelled of mold, earth, and something sweetly nauseating. Amaymon walked, their steps uncertain on the dirt floor. Where had he gone? How could something with so many bells move in absolute silence?
"So… you accepted the invitation?"
The voice came from behind, not a meter away. Before they could react, the gloved hand was on their neck, not squeezing, but caressing the skin with a terrifying familiarity. His face rested on their shoulder, the cold paint against their warm skin.
"How brave. Were you curious about 'hearing my heart'… or 'being left breathless'?"
His hand slid to their waist, pulling them back forcefully, their body pressing perfectly against his. And it was then that the internal sensation changed. The golden fog turned into liquid panic. They felt themselves drowning. Not in water, but in their own flesh. The human body they inhabited—this vessel of skin, bones, and blood—seemed to turn against them, pores closing, lungs contracting, trying to expel the foreign entity that was their true consciousness. The creature inside them, the ancient skeleton wrapped in living veil, choked, suffocating in the blood and matter that imprisoned it.
"So how about we turn off the lights?" whispered Harlequin, his voice distant, as if coming from another room. "I love it when you get lost… when you can't see where my fingers will go."
He pulled them into a dark tent. In the last instant of light, they saw him remove his long cape, his silhouette becoming even more slender and sinister.
The darkness was absolute.
Despair took hold, primitive and overwhelming. Their heart pounded in their ears, a frantic drum that drowned out any coherent thought. They stumbled blindly, their arms groping the void. In the loft, at the bar, they knew every inch. Here, they were a moth in a box. The impact was sudden and painful: their shins collided with something hard—a table, a trunk—and they fell to their knees in the cold sawdust.
Hyperventilation began, their lungs burning.
Something wet and hot slid over their nape. A tongue.
"You're not afraid of monsters in the dark, are you?" Harlequin's voice was pure pleasure now.
The question echoed in their mind in fragments. Afraid? In the dark? They had always been blind. In their true form, their eyes were empty holes. They navigated the world through smell, sound, the vibration of the air. When had they become so dependent on sight? When had this human skin, these human eyes, become their prison and their weakness?
In all their human lives, in all their shared reincarnations, they had never felt so weak. Was this how humans felt? This icy dread, this helplessness before the unknown moving in the shadows?
The truth was a lightning bolt, illuminating the internal darkness: Amaymon was not human. But they had become one out of complacency. And at that moment, they were as fragile and defenseless as any of them.
The creature inside them despaired. Claws of bone and shadow, trying to dig their way out, tearing from within. The pain was excruciating, an agony that made the physical pain of the fall seem like a scratch. The problem was mortal: if the creature escaped, it would rupture the human body that contained it. It would kill the vessel. It would kill them.
Something coiled around their legs. They weren't ropes. It was a living thing, wet and muscular, emerging from the shadows around Harlequin. Tentacles, vines, they didn't know. They pulled them back, towards the center of the darkness where the green clown waited.
Instead of fighting the grip, Amaymon grabbed onto them. They needed stability, something solid to brace for the internal battle, to stop the creature from tearing its way to freedom and death. Their head fell back, a silent scream trapped in their human throat. One of the internal claws, in a spasm of despair, pierced the skull from the inside. Not breaking the bone, but scraping, causing pain so intense a hot line of blood ran from their nose, flooded their mouth, dripped into their hair.
The creature, in agony, roared.
Not an audible sound, but a wave of pure anguish, a signal of despair cast into the fabric of reality, a distorted prayer for their lovers, somewhere, to feel it.
Sharp teeth sank into their shoulder, breaking the skin. This time, it wasn't the internal creature. It was Harlequin. The pain was external, sharp, and somehow, more real. The shock made the creature inside them recoil, contract, losing momentum for a fraction of a second.
It was enough time.
Control returned, trembling, to the human mind. Amaymon's mouth opened, and the words that came out were in no human language, but in the ancient tongue of things that burn in shadows:
"Of war, I am the lover. Of you, I am the end. Sate me.
The spell wasn't a lightning bolt or a fire. It was an invocation. A call to the hunger they carried, directed at him. The air in the tent seemed to be sucked out, and then a wave of heat expanded from the point where his teeth were still sunk into them. Harlequin let out a grunt—of surprise, of pleasure, of pain? The things holding their legs writhed, no longer pulling, but crawling upward, under their clothes, tearing the fabric in search of skin, as if trying to fuse, or devour, or both.
It was then that the tent flap opened, tearing the darkness with a blade of external light. And he was there.
Pierrot. Silhouetted against the brightness, he moved with supernatural, silent speed. There was no drama: A short knife appeared in his hand and plunged into Harlequin's shoulder.
Harlequin released them with a muffled grunt, more of rage than pain. Pierrot placed himself between the two, his golden eyes shining like beacons in the gloom, fixed on his green-clad colleague.
Amaymon didn't think. They ran. They stumbled towards the light, their feet tripping in the sawdust, their body aching inside and out. The daylight outside was blinding, painful, liberating.
They didn't see where he came from. They collided with a body in front of them, softer than expected. A fool, with a masked face and painted smile, who swayed with the impact. The cheap, ill-fitting porcelain mask slid from the clown's face and fell to the ground, breaking in two.
The face left exposed, pale with eyes wide in pure terror, was familiar. Messy brown hair, freckles, a slightly trembling chin.
It was Carol.
The last thing Amaymon registered, before the world collapsed into confusion and darkness, was that look of recognition and mute despair on the face of the friend who had vanished, now dressed in the pink clothes of a circus puppet.
