Tipping the Scales: A Circus of Unusual Creatures Mystery: The Circus of Unusual Creatures, #2

PROLOGUE

LYING flat out on my belly, I stretched my legs, then my wings. Something mooed in the distance. Okay, well, not ‘something.’ At first guess, I’d say it was a cow.

Or it could have been the human snoring next to me.

Which she had been doing all night, mind you.

CORDELIA: I don’t snore.

DUNCAN: No, of course not. It’s just the gentle murmurings of your slumber.

CORDELIA: Exactly.

DUNCAN: Murmurings that I believe were responsible for a few reports of earthquakes in the vicinity.

Still, despite the noise, it felt amazing to sprawl out as I slept, to have the stars winking at me when I opened my eyes in the middle of an early summer night, and to perform a full-body stretch first thing in the morning.

That’s not to say my caravan isn’t adequate, but in a traveling circus there’s only so much space you can provide a dragon — even a dragon who can reduce himself to the manageable size of a Clydesdale stallion.

From the direction of the mooing, a man began cursing.

And no, I don’t know why all my lovely stories have to start with a human cursing.

Get off my bleeding strawberries, you great lump of a lizard!

Mr Furious Farmer didn’t actually say bleeding, but I’ll leave it to you to fill in the angry swear word of your choice.

Cordelia shook herself awake.

Wuz goin’ on? she mumbled as bits of hay poked out from her short auburn hair.

You best not have ruined the snarking tomatoes! shouted Mrs Furious Farmer — again, using something a little saucier than snarking.

Cordelia got to her feet, squinting in the direction of the farmhouse. She might not have fully knocked the sleep out of her eyes, but that didn’t stop her from yelling back at the couple.

You know, there was a time people might have been thrilled to find a dragon in their strawberry field.

Which to me sounded like the perfect song lyric for a wandering minstrel to put to a tune. But it had been at least five hundred years since minstrels wandered around singing tales of dragons in strawberry fields. A shame, really.

I thought it might be time to show Mr and Mrs Furious Farmer exactly which dragon was gracing their strawberry patch. I stretched again, then stood, increasing myself to my full show size and doing my best not to crush any strawberries as I did so.

Holy corn cobs, muttered Mr Farmer, not loud enough for Cordelia to pick up, but one of the benefits of being a dragon is having a keen sense of hearing. Is that—?

At the sight of full-size me — imagine a winged reptile as tall as a giraffe with the bulk of a gorilla — Mrs Farmer’s jaw had fallen open. It worked itself a few times, as if not quite sure closing was appropriate in the circumstances.

Finally, she got her gob shut, swallowed hard, then said, Brutus Fangwrath, in a tone of such awe it brought a delighted smile to my lips and sent tingles along the spines that run the length of my back.

Mrs Farmer might have been in awe, but Mr Farmer was reaching for something stashed behind a rocking chair on the porch.

Knowing how much humans love things that go Boom!, I had a sneaking suspicion of what he was reaching for. Unfortunately, as a dragon, I’m not supposed to speak to humans, and shouting Run! would have broken the No Speaking Rule of 1274.

Doubly unfortunate? Before her first gallon of coffee, Cordelia’s brain isn’t exactly lightning quick at grasping the severity of certain situations.

Um, Cordelia, I said, doing my best not to move my lips, maybe now’s a good time to tell them we aren’t here to eat them.

Oh, right. To Mr Farmer, who had been trying to tell his star-struck wife to get inside, Cordelia shouted, It’s okay. I’m his handler. He’s under my control. Out of the side of her mouth she whispered, Maybe not being the size of an African elephant would help.

Good point, I replied while maintaining my grin.

And stop smiling. The sight of your fangs is doing nothing to keep his trigger finger from blasting us into last week.

As I pulled myself back down to my smaller size, Cordelia flourished her hands at me to make it look like she was in charge of the transformation.

See? Perfectly tame under my power. I groaned at her showman’s boast. Did you want to pet him?

Seriously? I grumbled under my breath. I’m not part of the petting zoo.

Shush.

Mrs Farmer started forward, but Mr Farmer snatched her hand and pulled her back. Warily, he said, We’re good. Thanks for showing him to us, but you best move along. With the barrel of his shotgun he indicated the road in the distance.

Where’s Zin setting up the circus? Mrs Farmer asked eagerly.

Just a few miles down the main road. If you tell him you’re friends of Cordelia Quinn, he’ll let you in for free.

Oh, Zin’s just going to love that, I whispered. Cordelia elbowed me.

Golly, that would be a real treat. Did you hear that, John? Free tickets to Zinzendorf’s Circus—

Yeah, yeah, of Unusual Creatures. Lord knows I hear you going on enough about that damn show. Suppose I gotta buy you popcorn and you’ll want to play…

Even I didn’t catch the rest of Furious Farmer John’s griping as he steered his wife back into the house. Before he closed the door, she turned around and waved at us enthusiastically, then called out, And take as many strawberries as you like.

To which her husband barked that her dragon fancy was going to bankrupt them both.

The door slammed shut. It was time for me and Cordelia to join up with the rest of the troupe.

After a strawberry breakfast, of course.

1 - BUT THERE WERE OMELETS

I still don’t know how you convinced Zin to let me walk to our next show, I said after Cordelia had scrubbed strawberry stains from her face under a hand-pumped water spout at the edge of Farmer John’s strawberry field.

Due to a few fang-filled events in my past, I’ve never been allowed to wander the countryside as Zin’s circus traveled from one town to the next. And once we arrive to a show spot, my movements are hemmed in by the barrier Zin magically erects around the perimeter of the grounds.

My troublesome reputation has improved in the year or so since Zin acquired me for his circus from an auction bargain bin. Still, my dragon license the Pacific Animal Welfare folks issued to Zin came with a lengthy list of strict rules and restrictions. If I break any of these, especially the one about harming another being, I’ll be sent straight to the Pits — a work camp where dragon poo is ‘mined’ and processed for the region’s energy production, and where many humans and dragons die within three months of entering.

And if someone dies because of my actions, even if it’s an accident, well, let’s just say the Pits will seem a rose-tinted dream compared to what will happen to me.

But somehow, despite these regulations, my new handler, Cordelia Quinn, had convinced Zin it would be healthy for me to walk between shows. Walk. Freely. Like I was your average dragon without a criminal record. It made me like Cordelia all the more.

I must say, though, the three days of walking from Sherwood to Salem had resulted in some serious calluses on my feet. And don’t get me started on how tattered my claws had become.

CORDELIA: Oh, the price of freedom you had to endure.

DUNCAN: Hey, if you knew how hard it is to find someone willing to do a dragon manicure, you’d be a bit more sympathetic.

Well, Cordelia said with that wicked little grin she gets when she’s up to no good, your brief taste of freedom might have something to do with this… I started to object, but Cordelia whipped out the word before I could speak. Sit!

My backside, fully out of my own control, dropped to the ground. Which would be embarrassing and undignified on its own, but we’d been making our way to the main road along the farm’s slim furrows. And Cordelia’s command came just as I was carefully stepping around a row of leeks. The crunch of crushed stalks was followed by the vegetable’s pungent scent.

It was also followed by Mr Furious Farmer’s shouting complaints.

While Cordelia got a good laugh, I stood, gave her my best evil-dragon snarl, then brushed myself off. An action which only spread the oniony odor.

We really need to talk about how it is you can do that, I said.

I’m your handler.

I’ve had other handlers. Some of them didn’t survive the job. I tried to sound threatening, but I liked Cordelia too much to pull it off.

Plus, the moment I spoke the words, I felt a pang just under my firebox. My previous handler had died recently. There’d been such a whirlwind of activity after his death, I’d barely had time to accept he was gone. So, every now and then, the grief hit me like an unexpected centaur kick to the gut.

Cordelia, despite being a human, understood dragons and sensed my shift in mood. She remained silent as we strode the final few miles to meet up with the rest of the troupe.

———

Where have you been? Zin bellowed the moment Cordelia and I stepped through the entry gates. And I do mean the very moment we stepped through. You’d almost think he’d been watching for us.

I glanced around. The only human in the vicinity was Cordelia, but I kept my voice low when I replied, Walking.

Cordelia snorted a laugh. Zin shot her a look that made her bite her lip. Still, her restrained laughter looked about ready to burst out at any second.

It’s not funny, Quinn. I trusted you to stay close behind us. Then I wake up one morning and you two are nowhere to be seen. You do know if Duncan goes on a rampage, gets lost, or just wanders off, I’m liable for him. I’m not losing my circus because you two lollygaggers can’t keep up.

Lollygaggers? Cordelia snickered. I poked her in the back of the thigh with my tail. Now was not the time to rile up Zin any further by making fun of his word choices. Silly as they may be.

It’s not her fault, I told him. Although, technically, I suppose it was. After all, my handler could have told me to sit, jog, or put down that fork at any time. We… I trailed off and nibbled at my lower lip as my raggedly clawed toes fidgeted.

In hindsight, I guess it was a bad move not to tell Zin about the roadside distraction we’d found.

Yes? the satyr asked impatiently, one of his hoofed feet drumming against the grassy ground.

Well, I began, you told us to stick to side roads, right? So, I don’t know, maybe somewhere around Dayton, we were passing the cutest little bungalow and we came across this gnome, Pierre, who was guarding a patch of geraniums. Prize ones, apparently. Zin was now giving me that hurry-the-story-along-or-I’ll-kick-you-in-the-shins look. Anyway, he told us about this omelet restaurant not too far down the road.

Omelets, Zin said flatly, and I wasn’t quite sure if he was asking a question or making a statement.

Yes. Omelets. Folded egg things with stuff inside them.

I know what an omelet is, Zin exploded, drawing the attention of everyone nearby. Thankfully, this only included a couple centaurs lingering over their oat milk in the Cantina, a few brownies returning from a night of cleaning, and Pepper, who’d been wiping down her order counter. Eyebrows were raised, but everyone was used to Zin’s gruff demeanor and occasional tirades, and soon went back to what they were doing. Through a very tight jaw, he asked, Why exactly did an omelet put you an entire day behind us? I’ve had to bribe the centaurs to do the heavy lifting you normally do for the set up.

Oh, you know they enjoyed showing off their muscles, said Cordelia.

Well, yes, they did. But they also insisted I give them five bonus credits in their dukie books for the extra work. Zin jutted his finger toward the centaurs in the Cantina to emphasize his point. So, again, how did one omelet take you an entire day to eat?

It wasn’t just one, Cordelia said quietly, then looked up to me to explain.

"Seriously, Zin, you have got to go to this place. It’s called Egg-Centricity, and they make twenty-four different kinds of omelets. Twenty-four. I caught Pepper watching us. I’m not sure how good cyclops’s hearing is, but I didn’t want to risk her finding out I was enjoying another chef’s omelets — she could be a bit possessive in that regard. I dropped my voice even further. Twenty-four. And all amazing."

Even standing two feet away from him, I could feel the heat radiating from Zin’s dark cheeks. I stopped speaking, even though I really wanted to tell him about Egg-Centricity’s feta cheese, kalamata olive, and sun-dried tomato omelet. I was pretty sure Zin’s ancestors were Greek, and figured the Zorba Zinger would have been right up his culinary alley. But maybe some other time. Also, there was an odd grinding sound coming from Zin’s jaw, and I had no doubt he’d blame me if he had to pay for a trip to the dentist.

When he spoke, the words came out very clipped and very terse.

"If you don’t get to work helping set up the Tent, I will turn you into the next omelet filling."

Being a very wise dragon despite my relatively young age, I knew better than to point out it had been well over eighteen hours since I’d enjoyed my last omelet, and other than a few pints of strawberries, I hadn’t had a lick of breakfast yet.

And Quinn, since Duncan is going to be busy doing that, you can help with Benny.

Even though by this point I’d known Cordelia for less than two weeks, I recognized in the way she was squaring her shoulders that she was about to protest. Again, I nudged her with my tail and shook my head.

I’d be glad to, she said with a sweetness that was phonier than Molly’s eyelashes.

Good. Flora’s feeding him right now, so he’ll be ready for a clean up soon. Duncan, to the Tent. Immediately. And if either of you even thinks about getting sidetracked, just remember someone has to be assigned to clean up the latrines at the end of the run.

Zin really ought to teach a class on motivational speeches, because without a moment’s hesitation, Cordelia and I double-timed it to our tasks.

2 - A DISTRACTED CENTAUR

THE Tent, what you might call the Big Top, had already been unfolded and laid out where it would be set up for the week’s run, but it hadn’t yet been erected. Zin was right, the centaurs could do plenty of heavy lifting, but it took my height and strength to get the Tent fully up and ready. Okay, height, strength, and a big old dragon tail for balance and leverage.

Once I’d reported for duty to Conrad, the lead centaur who oversees this aspect of preparing the show, he told me to get in place. We dragons have a long history of spending time in caves. We also have an innate sense of the deepest, and therefore most secure, part of any cave. Which is why it was up to me to take the main support pole to the very center of the Tent. A chore I’m glad to do, but one that’s always a little awkward as I have to crawl my way through what feels like a mile of dark, heavy, and very cumbersome material.

Once to the center, I called out to Conrad to get ready. I then gripped the center pole and used it to lift the giant piece of fabric, while using my tail to hold myself steady. As I increased myself to even larger than my full show size, the Tent rose.

Outside, around the circumference of the structure at perfectly spaced intervals, Conrad had stationed several members of his centaur troupe. Each of them held a post about a quarter the height of the center pole, over which they now draped the edge of the fabric to make up the Tent’s outer walls. A few other centaurs then ducked inside to raise two additional interior support poles on either side of me.

Then, with plenty of guttural commands and calls, the dwarves, who were unbelievably strong for their small stature, made the whole thing taut by pulling a spider web’s array of ropes and securing them with pegs hammered into the ground. This would hopefully keep the Tent from flying away in a stiff wind.

Which has happened. Conrad still boasts of how fast he galloped to catch up with the thing.

As a final flourish, one of the Flying Flynns — that would be the elf family who can shape shift into squirrel form, and who, even in their human form, have no trouble leaping, jumping, and performing all sorts of death-defying trapeze work — scurried up my back, scrambled through the mounting hole, and raised a tattered green and gold flag emblazoned with the Zinzendorf family Z. It was quite a competition amongst the Flynns to pick who would get the honor of raising the flag each time we set up, and the chattering debates often lasted the entire journey from town to town.

One of the dwarves, Gustaf Eisenberg from the sound of his surly voice, called out the tying off of the final rope and the hammering in of the final peg. This was the signal for me and the centaurs to release our poles. It was a tense moment where everything could go wrong. One poorly tied knot, one peg pounded into loose soil, one support post slightly off center, and the whole structure would collapse into a heap.

It’s happened more than once, and I’ve learned to remain as still as possible when it does. One small twitch, one unexpected sneeze, and my dorsal spines will tear into the fabric. This is also why, when I’m crawling to the center of the Tent, I’m careful never to back up or turn too quickly. Believe me, once you’ve endured the verbal berating and dirty looks of brownies who have had to stitch up dozens of small holes that were your fault, you never want to make that mistake again.

Conrad counted down.

Three. Two. Gustaf, are you sure?

Of course I’m sure, you pompous horse.

And one. Release.

I spread my clawed digits, keeping my hands in place just in case the pole threatened to teeter. I took three careful breaths. A superstition, I suppose. If I made it through the third one and nothing fell on top of me, things would stay up for the entire run.

Ropes creaked with the strain, the flag above me fluttered, but the pole didn’t budge and the Tent remained standing. The centaurs let out whinnies of delight, which I still find odd since their upper halves are human, not horse.

CORDELIA: You find that weird too?

DUNCAN: I know, right? You’d think they’d whoop or cheer, not whinny.

CORDELIA: Guess you can lead a centaur to water, but you can’t make him holler.

DUNCAN: Couldn’t have put it better myself.

I was just heading over to catch up with Conrad when into the Tent strode what I initially thought was a human. A gorgeous human. I mean, I’m a dragon. I like scaly, sturdy, and sulfurous, but I’ve been around enough humans and human-like species to understand what they find attractive.

She had long, silvery white-blonde hair and pale skin, but not pale in an unhealthy way, more like in an ethereally-glowing-from-within kind of way. Besides the naturally varying shades of people in the circus world, the townsfolk who make up our audiences spend a fair amount of time outdoors. Even if they wear broad-brimmed hats, the skin of the whiter flavor of humans and human-like creatures ends up tanned to some extent. So it was strange to see a person with such fair skin as this woman. I couldn’t help but stare.

And because I’ve helped with a murder investigation, because I’ve proven my superb capacity for detection, my staring led me to the conclusion that this person wasn’t human.

What gave it away, you wonder? What little ‘tell’ did she fail to hide that gave the game away?

She shape shifted into a swan.

CORDELIA: Your genius never fails to amaze us all.

DUNCAN: Observation is a learned skill. And I observed her shifting. Therefore, she’s not human. Point to Duncan.

CORDELIA: One, we’re not keeping score. Two, even if we were, you would not get a point for that.

DUNCAN: We’ll discuss the rules of this later.

With a great pump of her wings, the swan took flight, straight up to the trapeze rigging the Flynns and gremlins had already begun setting up. Several of the Flynns — mostly female ones — barked a stream of disgruntled complaints at the impressive bird.

Who’s that? I asked Conrad, who was watching the swan’s every flutter. I was back down to my usual size and gave him a good nudge in the ribs when he didn’t respond.

What? Oh, sorry. That’s Ella Penn.

Another shape-shifting elf?

The swan landed, then returned to human form wearing a body-hugging white dress that had a feathery texture to it.

Hardly. Conrad still hadn’t taken his eyes off her. I hoped Benny was especially hungry that morning because if Flora walked in and caught her husband gaping at this attractive newcomer, she’d take a few cleansing breaths, repeat her most soothing mantra, sprinkle some calming oils around, then wring his neck.

Conrad, I snapped. Stop acting like Fergus and tell me what’s going on.

Conrad shook his head as if to clear it, then said, Ella is a veela.

Veela, veela, I mused, flipping through my mental encyclopedia of unusual creatures. Sounds familiar, but what are they exactly?

They’re just… He trailed off as his eyes drifted back to the woman. Oh, no wait, she wasn’t a woman any longer, she was a horse. A slender and sprightly Arabian with a gleaming white coat. Beautiful.

That’s it? They’re beautiful? I mean, obviously they can change into swans and horses, but are there any other special skills she’s bringing to the circus? I’d lost Conrad again. I waved my claws in front of his face. Conrad. Hello?

The scent of cigarette smoke drifted into my nostrils. I scrunched my snout at the offending odor.

No good, man. He’s as good as gone.

The veela returned to human form, again in her feathery dress that did nothing to disguise her curvy hips, slim waistline, and shapely legs.

I suppose you’re going to go on about her lap? I asked.

Fergus, even with the cigarette in his mouth, swallowed hard and turned away so Ella wasn’t in his line of sight. Which isn’t easy when you’re a unicorn. Those well-spaced equine eyes mean an impressive peripheral vision.

No, no, I’m not, Fergus said with some difficulty. I’m trying to reform. Trying to be a one lap kind of guy. Still, his gaze wandered in Ella’s direction.

You? Since when?

Fergus shuffled awkwardly on his hooves.

Since, you know, the trial.

The Kailin? Oh, Fergus, you haven’t got a chance there. He made to protest, but I held up a paw to stop him. Sorry, no, that was rude. Has she given any indication that she, um, shares your feelings?

The Kailin was also a unicorn, but of a different breed than Fergus. She came from the east and worked alongside the region’s judges to determine whether a person on trial for a serious crime was being honest in their testimony. If they lied or weren’t remorseful about their crime, she delivered the standard punishment of her kind: her horn plunged through the defendant’s heart, gut, or other vital bits. She was as beautiful as this veela, but she was also a no-nonsense career woman. I couldn’t imagine her joining up with a brigand like Fergus who flitted from lap to lap like a hummingbird in a nectar-filled meadow.

Well, no, not exactly. But that’s why I’m trying to reform, man. I’ve been a bad steed in the past, but if I can prove myself worthy of her, she’s got to give me a chance. I mean, look at me. I’m a good-looking cat. Fergus pranced a tight circle, muscles rippling under his flanks as he moved. Maybe it was all the chain smoking, but Fergus showed no signs of going to fat. Plus, as a unicorn, he couldn’t help but be majestically beguiling.

Ella Penn had also caught sight of the rippling musculature. I shifted slightly to block her view and to block Fergus’s view of her noticing him. If Fergus wanted to reform, I would do my best to help keep any temptation at bay.

Yeah, you’re a good-looking cat, I told him. But what’s the deal with the veela? Where’d she come from?

"Don’t know where she came from,