The fairgrounds had been abandoned for years, rusted ferris wheel silhouetted against the moon. Yet there it stood: a striped tent, impossibly bright, lights flickering like they were fed by something other than electricity.

The show started simple. Jugglers. Acrobats. Fire-eaters.

Then the ringmaster stepped into the light.

For one moment—a fraction of a second—the lights bent around him. He grew taller. Vaster. His eyes caught the flame like dying stars, and the performers behind him twisted into shapes that didn't belong to any human anatomy.

Then it was gone. Normal again.

The ringmaster's navy-blue eyes, flecked with gold, had fixed on you. Not the crowd. You.

And one corner of his mouth curved up.