Circus of Monsters

Lila Price Circus of Monsters by Lila Price Published 2023 Copyright © 2023 Lila Price www.LilaPriceAuthor.com Edited by Silvia's Reading Corner Printed in the United States of America All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, or stored in a retrieval system, without written permission from the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locations, businesses, events is entirely coincidental. Contents Author’s Note PROLOGUE CHAPTER 1 ANNE CHAPTER 2 ANNE CHAPTER 3 ANNE CHAPTER 4 ANNE CHAPTER 5 ANNE CHAPTER 6 ANNE CHAPTER 7 ANNE CHAPTER 8 ANNE CHAPTER 9 ANNE CHAPTER 10 LEGION CHAPTER 11 ORRIN CHAPTER 12 ANNE CHAPTER 13 JUDGE ALDRICH CHAPTER 14 ANNE CHAPTER 15 ANNE CHAPTER 16 ANNE CHAPTER 17 ANNE CHAPTER 18 ORRIN CHAPTER 19 ANNE CHAPTER 20 ANNE CHAPTER 21 ANNE CHAPTER 22 LEGION CHAPTER 23 ANNE CHAPTER 24 KIT CHAPTER 25 ANNE CHAPTER 26 ORRIN CHAPTER 27 ANNE CHAPTER 28 ANNE CHAPTER 29 ANNE CHAPTER 30 ANNE CHAPTER 31 ANNE CHAPTER 32 LEGION CHAPTER 33 ANNE CHAPTER 34 ANNE EPILOGUE ANNE A Note From the Author About the Author Dedicated to the love of my life and the friends that supported the creation of this book. This is for you, fellow monster lovers. Author’s Note Though this story takes place in an alternate 1900s England, it includes opinions and situations present during this time period pertaining to sexuality, gender, and class. Their inclusion in the story does not infer that these antiquated opinions are acceptable. Please check the author’s website for a more detailed list of triggers. PROLOGUE In a world not so different from our own… London, 1879 Monsieur Bonnet’s death was an accident, I promise. He had not been a kind man. Well known in the opera house for the ease in which his fuse was spent and the ease in which he could paint a bruise below the neck. All while the other ballerinas and I lined his pockets with our craft, sweat, and tears. I hadn’t even enough left over at the end of the month to send home to Mama and Papa. Still, Bonnet did not deserve… me. It had been fast, faster than my mind could comprehend. My refusal one moment, his hard chest beneath my palms the next, and then, the sound of his head hitting the edge of his desk with the finality of a dirge. The warm halo of blood that stretched across the floor, crawling toward me on spindled fingers that formed between the floorboards still haunts my nightmares. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault. As surely as the rooster heralds the coming of the sun, I knew I would be blamed and that my days at the opera house were numbered. We ballerinas, petits rats, were as expendable as the animals for which our name was woven. With the ghost of the hangman’s noose at my throat, I pilfered what coin remained in Monsieur Bonnet’s desk drawers and secured my passage from France to England. The sea now lays between me and my supposed crime, yet I am faced with the threat of what is to come. My salvation or demise? Please, whatever god is out there listening, let it be the former. CHAPTER 1 Anne There is a circus outside of London, cloistered in a den of thickly laid trees. When night falls, lanterns are lit, and like will-o’-the-wisps, the dancing flames guide patrons toward the myriad of tents. The locals have dubbed it, ‘The Circus of Monsters.’ By seeking a position in those tented towers, will I earn the moniker of ‘monster,’ too? My stomach knotted at the notion. Monsieur Bonnet’s spirit would likely call me such a thing. I pushed the thought from my mind. I know the breed of monster the locals speak of, not personally, but enough to know that they do not reference my fellow man. We do not know how many witches, fae, vampires, and their kin lurk in London, England, or even the quantity on the street my brittle hotel occupies. It is because of this, I suspect, that my fellow man has descended upon anything of supernatural peculiarities with vitriol. Regardless of magic’s illegal standing, the ton arrogantly conducts séances, peddles shifter pelts, and anything else to ignite envy in their peers. It is an old tale with a new façade. If one has enough coin to throw around, one doesn’t need to worry about consequences… or if what you’re paying for is the real deal or strictly a boastful conversational piece. Is the circus a genuine gem or just a dyed sheepskin parading as the fur from a werewolf’s back? Maybe the hefty coin is the physical price we pay to set our beliefs free and trust in the existence of forbidden trinkets—the pleasure of affording what others cannot. A gulp caught in my throat as the caravan of tents flashed between low-hanging tree boughs. I had been to a circus before, long ago with my parents when I was young. If I close my eyes I can still taste the salted taffies trapped in the valleys of my molars, the smell of mulled cider in my father’s mug, and my mother’s firm grip on my petite waist to keep me from getting too close to the fire breathers. The caravan before me was nothing like I remembered. The circus of my memories welcomed all ages, and all social classes could mingle in the holy light of day or in the most intimate darkness of night. This carnival, snared in a nest of eerie birch, was solely for those who came alive at night; a group who favored the cotton of the working class over the generous thread counts of the high born. A two-story painted cutout of a face greeted me, the mouth a wide and foreboding entrance. The