• Chapter Two: The Bewitching Harlequin
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    As Urban fell into another uneasy sleep, the carnival around him buzzed with life. Few of the Ring Master’s tethered souls required such trivial human necessities. The Living Dolls and the haggard, rotting Carney’s that ran the games and rides never needed anything. No food or water. They didn’t even need to breath. Then, of course, there were the freaks and monsters. Beasts like the werewolf and grotesqueries like the House of the Damned. This attraction featured the most gruesome and terrifying disfigurations and abnormalities of living beings. Things that would make even those with the strongest of stomachs nauseous.
    Some still retained traces of their humanity. Urban, for one. Madam Desdemona, the fortune teller. A few of the circus performers. And Hennah, the Ring Master’s bewitching harlequin.
    Hennah was a marvelous attraction in and of herself. She was small and delicate-looking. All her features were tiny and perfect. She had wide, alluring dark eyes and a dainty mouth. She was slight, but curvy enough to attract all sorts of attention.
    At the moment, Hennah was dancing around the carnival, humming softly to herself. Her long, corkscrew hair, palest of all blondes, floated around her like a veil. The undead carnies she passed stared hungrily after her.
    The harlequin danced over to the tent labeled ‘Madam Desdemona’ and slipped silently inside. The fog swirled around her as she approached the tiny round table and the woman sitting behind it.
    Madam Desdemona was a surprisingly beautiful woman. Surprisingly young, too. Her pale lavender hair fell in tight little braids and gathered up in a messy bun. Her sharp, piercing blue eyes followed the harlequin as she took a seat on the opposite side of the table.
    “Good evening, Desdemona,” Hennah said politely as she smiled at the fortune teller.
    “Hennah.” Desdemona nodded toward the young woman in greeting. “What brings you to me this evening?”
    The little harlequin sighed, a delicate sound, and raised somber eyes to the fortune-teller.
    “Urban has been so distant lately,” she confided softly. Desdemona nodded, unsurprised. She didn’t need to be psychic to guess that the reason for the harlequin’s visit would be the jester. Every soul tied to the carnival knew of Hennah’s desperate desire for the mad jester.
    “Do you wish to know the reason for his distance? Or whether or not I can do something about it?” Desdemona’s voice was tired. This was not the first time Hennah had come to her with questions and concerns about Urban. In fact, the harlequin sought out her advice on the subject several times a week.
    “I just want him to be happy,” Hennah said wistfully. Desdemona stared incredulously at the young girl before letting loose a shrill cackle that was at odds with her beautiful appearance.
    “Do you jest, little harlequin?” she asked, staring at Hennah with wide eyes. “Surely these many years of imprisonment have dusted the naivety from your eyes. Urban will never be happy. Not so long as he belongs to the Ring Master. He is a slave, as are we all. He longs for freedom. An escape. Things he will never have. So long as he is denied his freedom, he will never accept happiness again.”
    Hennah was speechless for a long moment, staring at the fortune-teller with big, round eyes, much like a child’s. Her thin, delicate lips were parted slightly. She looked as if she were struggling very hard to understand the words the fortune-teller had just spoken to her.
    “But what does he need freedom for when he has me?” Her tone was petulant and childish. “All he does is dwell on the past. On his precious Eliza. But she’s dead. Nothing can change that. Why can’t he stop wallowing in self-pity and just be happy with what he has?”
    Desdemona shook her head wearily. There was a trace of exasperation in her tone when she said sharply, “Are you happy, little harlequin? Are you content, being owned by a demon like the Ring Master? Do you accept this pitiful excuse for an existence so completely? If you do then your soul is more corrupt than I thought.”
    Hennah glared reproachfully at the fortune-teller. Her wide eyes were narrowed and her tiny mouth twisted into an ugly frown.
    “Why shouldn’t I be happy?” she demanded, her chin lifting defiantly. “It’s not like I can change anything. None of us can. We’re all damned. But at least I can choose whether or not to be miserable about it. If we’re all trapped here, then at least we’re trapped together. At least we can take comfort in one another. At least we have that much.”
    Now it was Desdemona’s turn to glare. She stared down the little harlequin until she wilted beneath her gaze.
    “What pretty words from a lying mouth,” she whispered softly, her eyes glinting mercilessly in the dim light of the tent. “But that optimism is as false as your beauty. Trying to pretend like you still have a soul will not make it happen. And it will not win Urban’s affection. The only thoughts in that pretty little head of yours are of getting what you want. But you can’t have him. Your bought perfection will get you nowhere with him.”
    Hennah stood up with a huff and gave the fortune-teller one last scathing glance before stomping haughtily from the tent. Desdemona watched her go with a satisfied smirk on her face.
    Outside the night air cooled Hennah’s angry, flushed skin. She stalked through the forest of tents while waves of frustration rolled off her. Her head rang with the fortune-teller’s words. Your bought perfection will get you nowhere with him. She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs.
    “Who does that witch think she is? Telling me I can’t have what I want. I’ll show her! No one can resist me. Not even Urban Belmont.”
    A wicked smile curved her flawless lips. The smile was quickly replaced with open-mouthed alarm when a hand reached out from between two tents and grasped her arm.
    “Hands off, filth!” she hissed, spinning towards her offender. A tall man with long, scruffy dark blonde hair and eyes like a hungry wolf stepped out of the shadows. He wore a plain black shirt and black leather pants. Around his waist was a belt sporting a number of long, menacing knives.
    He grinned at the harlequin and tugged her toward him.
    “Fancy running into you tonight, Hennah,” he murmured in a deep, rumbling voice. Hennah’s alarm had vanished and now only disgust curled her lip in a sneer.
    “Let go of me, Thayn,” she commanded in a venomous tone. Her tiny hands were clenched into fists. The man grinned wider and dark humor danced in his eyes. His grip on her wrist didn’t loosen.
    “I’m warning you, knife boy,” she growled, unconsciously baring her teeth.
    “Now, now,” Thayn cooed, his eyes burning. “There’s no need for threats. I’m not here to cause you any harm. I just want to enjoy your… company.” He chuckled darkly.
    “I‘d rather get mauled by the werewolf.” She tried tugging her hand away. A wasted effort.
    “Hennah, sweetheart, don’t be like that. A pretty little thing like you shouldn’t spend the night alone. And your pathetic jester doesn’t seem to be interested.”
    Hennah flinched at that statement and turned her head away, staring at the ground. Her body sagged as if in defeat and Thayn took this to mean that he had won. He took a step closer and reached his other hand toward her, triumph gleaming in his eyes. Hennah struck like a cobra. Her tiny little fist made contact with Thayn’s cheekbone and before he had time to realize what was happening, he was flat on his back in the dirt. The harlequin stood over him for a brief instant, hatred written across her face.
    “Don’t you ever lay your hands on me again,” she snapped, her tone deadly. “Or next time you won’t be able to get up out of the dirt.”
    She turned on her heel and stalked off, her mood even fouler than it had been when she left Desdemona’s tent.