Dace's first thought was something rather trivial: she'd always wondered, as a child, what it would have looked like if the stuntman hit his assistant by mistake. She'd never envisioned streaks of deep crimson running down the girl's shirt and pooling in the dips of the floorboards, or looking down at her own shoes to see that blood was lapping at her feet like waves.

As Dace heard the creak of footsteps behind her she stifled another yell and rushed to crawl underneath a prop that was hard to make out in the darkness, the spear on her back knocking against it with a stomach-twistingly loud ring. Hands shaking, she raised the cloth that covered it so that she could see out and watched as a pair of brogues swept past.

"We've been at this for hours now," Eliot didn't take his eyes off of the prisoner. The modern torch he carried lit the area with sterile blue light, and Dace understood why there was enough blood running across the floor to paint the walls. There were so many knives shoved through Matt's arms, her legs, her hands, her chest... that when the torch moved past her, hitting two dozen reflective blade-handles, it looked like her body was set aflame. And yet—and this was, oddly, the thing that got stuck in Dace's throat, urging her to gasp for air as if she was drowning—Matt was alive. Her dainty lips quivered with each sharp breath and, as Eliot approached, her wide eyes just grew wider.

"Wisely, you know what I'm asking for, and I can assure you that you're going to give in any moment now. Why let me waste another clean knife?"

When Matt didn't answer there was a flash of light and the squelch of metal piercing flesh. Dace bit down on her lips to stop herself from screaming, and her eyes flitted to the doorway. Eliot's back was to her; maybe he wouldn't notice her crawl away for help--

"Okay. I'll ask one more question." Eliot said, voice higher than usual but oh-so-calm.

There was a pause, during which a hiss of a laugh drifted to her ears, and then he continued: "Are you ready to answer, Dace?"

Around her the world shuddered violently, and all she could do was stare, face drained of warmth, at the clown as he headed in her direction with measured steps. How could he have known she was in here? She'd been absolutely silent!

As she tried to shuffle back, to put some distance between her and the boy, Dace heard something slip across the floor and before she knew it her wrist was constricted by something tight—rope? A snake?—and she was yanked back into the open with ruthless urgency. More rope gripped her other wrist and dragged her towards Eliot.

The floor was swarmed with coils of rope that slithered around her feet like a pit of vipers as Eliot turned to face her. His pale green eyes slid towards the length that hovered above the ground like a charmed cobra, Dace bound in its grasp, and she was pulled forwards once more.

"Who do you think," He began innocently, a splatter of Matt's blood dripping from his jaw as the corner of his mouth quirked into a smile. "Is the most powerful person in this circus?"

"What the hell are you doing?"

"No, go on. Try to answer. We're not going to get the opportunity to talk for a while after this. Tell you what, I'll let go of your wrists if you take a guess."

"I don't know," Dace said in a terrified whisper, "the Ringleader?"

Her knees cracked against the floor as the enchanted rope slackened. Eliot laughed hollowly, shaking his head. "The most powerful person is, of course, the one who drives the train."

Dace tried to back away—the man was beyond mad; so unlike the smiling boy she'd befriended. Everything about him seemed different—but of course.

"Eliot," Dace went against her better judgement and edged towards him, "when did you see the Wolf? How did it possess you?"

"It possessed me long before you arrived here, Songstress."

The final word seemed to make her lungs burn, and Dace once again had a reckless idea. She stood to her full height— she had a few inches, maybe, on the clown—and took in a breath that stank of blood and must. The first note of her song came out high and sweet, and as she focused on her dad's old lullaby she really believed she saw a flicker of warmth in Eliot's clouded eyes and felt a rush of relief...that was quickly smothered by his thin smile.

"Apologies," Eliot said, stepping backwards, "But your voice isn't quite to my taste."

His rusted fingers closed around the hilt of one of the knives embedded in Matt's ribcage and pulled it free with some effort before striding towards Dace.

"Don't—don't take a step closer." Dace warned unconvincingly, head rushing.

"Sweetheart, in what universe has that phrase ever made for more than an off-key death song?"

In a flash of fear Dace pulled the spear from her back and raised it in front of her. Of course she should have seen this betrayal coming—who, in this entire goddam circus, wasn't out of their mind? Raw and unrefined, her thoughts flew to the Ringleader and she made the connection between his wooden staff and her spear—if she could only remember how he'd wielded it perhaps retreating wasn't entirely impossible.

Instinct pulling her strings, Dace swept the spear up in front of her with both hands and pointed it at Eliot. His hair was blown back from the speed of her swing, but he didn't flinch and Dace found herself wondering how she'd ever found those plastic green eyes endearing. Without a word Eliot flicked the knife in her direction and Dace held the spear across her like a bar to block his swing—but too late; the knife's edge broke into the skin of her cheek and all she could do was stumble back with tears in her eyes from the sting of the cut before Eliot could try to launch a second blow.

Hair snagging on the splintered wood of the wall, Dace's hand twitched for the door.

"Don't bother; I locked it when I came in."

"Was the door in carriage twelve ever actually locked?" She spluttered as she raised the spear to her chest once more.

"Nope."

"Then why did you..." Dace's glare swept from the grinning clown to the weapon that felt like it was growing hot in her hands. "Oh. You wanted me to use this. Is that why you stole it from Matt?"

"I didn't steal it." Eliot tossed the knife up and down, catching it by the handle every time. "I was returning it to its rightful owner."

"Well, that justifies all this..!" Dace spat madly, feeling hot blood roll down her cheek.

Eliot strode towards her again, and Dace had nowhere to retreat. She jabbed the spear in his direction—clumsily, because once she let go of the front half the blade's weight skewed her aim so that she missed Eliot by half a foot.

"Perhaps your talent is raw at the moment," he shrugged, "but you can feel it, can't you? The moment your fingertips brushed its edge you sensed your own potential. Well, so did I."

Dace swung at him again with a yell, trying to factor in the blade's weight this time. Eliot grabbed the spear and pushed it back in her direction so that the butt of the stick pummelled into her stomach.

"See, I deal in potential, Dace Livigin. And my investments are hardly ever misplaced, thanks to my flawless intuition." Those green eyes seemed to sharpen until they were practically luminescent.

He was barely a metre away from her, but the moment she raised the spear to crack it down on his skull the clown swung to the left. He flicked a wrist to the far wall and a coil of rope sprung into life, slipping across the wooden floorboard and constricting Dace's ankle and so she turned her head to it but Eliot caught her by the chin, forcing her to look his way.

"Like right now, for instance." He spoke over the sound of her panicked gasps, "I know exactly how this fight will end. Exactly what will happen."

Her hold on the spear was so tight she could feel her joints ache. She could try to hit him again, but her skills were horrendously outmatched. Oh, but he wanted her to try. That off-balanced smile mere centimetres from her nose matched the one he'd worn when parading around the circus ring.

Well, if it was a show he wanted...

Dace allowed the spear to slip through her fingers and fall to the floor.

...She wasn't going to give him the privilege of her cooperation.

Eliot's eyes flicked back to her. "What was that?"

"You want me to fight. I'm not going to fight."

For a brief second his sharp features were tainted by the darkest of scowls, and then he shrugged. "You will use that spear."

"No."

"You'll have to, at some point." He paused. "Sink or Slaughter, Dace."

Ice water seemed to gush through her veins but before she could question him the locked door burst open from the force of a staff's blow.

The brightness of the outer carriage lit up Eliot's mortified expression, and his attention turned to the Red Ringleader as the man strode in jauntily.

"What on earth," the Ringleader began, his tone lively and excited, "do you think you're doing, Eliot Moone?"

The knife clattered to the floor as Eliot raised his hands in surrender. "I was giving our new recruit some private tuition."

A high guttural laugh like a bird's shrill caw burst from the Ringleader before he sprung forwards with unnatural speed and pinned Eliot to the wall. The two men eyed each other.

"I suppose I have lost." Eliot smiled amiably. He seemed unfazed by his position. There was an uncanny trace of admiration in the look with which he matched the Ringleader's murderous grimace.

The Ringleader responded by raising his staff and as if by magic its blunt end splintered and twisted into a sharpened point, like a shoot growing at high speed. He positioned his makeshift wooden stake in the centre of Eliot's chest and the clown's eyes widened. All traces of sadism were gone as he looked down at the means of his death.

Dace found herself pulled back to last night. She'd watched helpless as Athena the elephant cantered around the circus ring, howling in agony, before she collapsed, gone forever.

"Wait," Her hand tugged urgently at the Ringleader's velvet sleeve, "don't kill him. Please."

The Ringleader looked at her with a curious smile. "I wouldn't dream of it. Death is too good for this bastard, Miss Livigin."

He struck the clown through the heart and the force was so great that the stick pierced through the wooden wall behind him. Eliot drew in a sharp breath, a thin trail of blood running from his mouth like a teardrop, and then his eyes flickered shut and the knife fell through his fingers.

For one awful moment the only sound was the clatter of the blade on the floor.

"Ringleader," Dace could barely hold back the monster of a scream building in her throat, "I though you said—"

Eliot's hand twitched suddenly, and he laughed as he spat blood onto the floor. "Well, I've had worse."

Dace's hands flew to her mouth in shock as she stumbled back from the reanimated corpse; his voice was little more than a feeble croak but it was the voice of a man who had survived a stabbing to the heart. An odd, clammy feeling washed over her as she watched him fail to pull the staff from the sodden red circle surrounding it, shaky fingers reaching for the wood only for them to slip on the bloody surface and fall back limp to his side.

"What are you?" She asked the barely conscious Eliot.

The wound in his chest didn't allow for much movement but Dace was sure the twitch of his shoulder was supposed to be a shrug. "Same as you, Songstress. I'm just another wayward soul bound to this circus."

It took her a moment to understand what he meant, but then it clicked and she had to swallow back the bile that shot up her throat.

When she looked down at her hands they were the cold, lifeless brown of slate and in her delirium the flesh around her fingernails was red, raw and rotting.

"I'm not like you!" Dace couldn't control the quivers in her voice, "I'm not—"

"Undead? We all are." The Ringleader's euphoria had dried up, replaced by his usual black mood and curt way of speaking. He swept Matt's barely stirring body into his arms with the delicacy of a man carrying a cracking china doll before continuing, "It is why we're here. There is no heaven, nor hell. There is only this circus."

"Might as well rip that bandage off now, sweetheart, before you find yourself staring at your own dismembered body and wonder why life's sole guarantee has evaded you." Eliot added, before a punch to the jaw from the Ringleader knocked him out again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ok so I'm updating this from my phone so lemme know if there's any spelling errors
Also--I don't usually write fight scenes, so thoughts?
(I may have a thing for bonkers-ass characters, and I apologise for that)
((There is yet ANOTHER part to this-- my plan is to split SoS into separate stories bc the focus is gonna shift to different characters so the plot's not necessarily linear))

~Featherpunk