Iterations and other stories (collection)

Angela had never seen the pyramid from above before. The Great Wallendas had invented the seven-man pyramid in 1947; when their pyramid collapsed during a show in Detroit in 1962, two members of their troupe were killed and a third—like poor Carlo—had been paralyzed. But if the Wallendas had invented it, and the Guerreros had refined it, the Renaldos had perfected it. Even without its apex, it was still a sight to behold—a thin wire supporting four people, with two more on their shoulders, three stories above the crowd—

A crowd that was screaming, the sounds low and drawn out. And pointing, hands moving in slow motion.

She beat her wings once more, gaining even more height. Although she’d never done it before, flying to her was now like walking the wire—knowledge ingrained, no thought required, her body responding perfectly.

Up.

And up again.

She’d have preferred to become a bird—a lark, perhaps, or a jay. But he was a creature of the night; the gifts he bestowed were crepuscular, nocturnal.

A bat, then.

A bat who would fly to safety; a bat who would never fall.

Who could fly to safety…

She had sold her soul to the devil, and yet—

And yet she was a minor. Delmonico’s Circus traveled to many jurisdictions. In some, the age of majority was eighteen; in others, nineteen; in others still, it was twenty-one.

But nowhere was it seventeen, the age she was now.

Or fifteen, the age she had been then.

Surely, this deal she’d made—this bargain with Satan—surely it could not be legally binding. Surely she could get out of it. And when would she have a better chance to make her case? If she flew high enough, surely she would catch God’s eye, just as Poppa had always said.

God was forgiving—whether mass was in English, Italian, or Latin, they all said that. God would forgive her, take her back, protect her. She had but to confess her sins within his hearing.

Another stroke of her wings.

And another.

Of course, she was still under the big top. She couldn’t just go up to escape. Rather, she had to go down.

Just not too far down…

She folded her wings against her body, letting herself fall, confident that she could gain height again with another beat of the leathery membranes. It was an exhilarating fall, a thrilling fall, excitement rushing through her, a frisson passing over her. Her time sense contracted again, to let her enjoy the rush, experience the headlong, overwhelming pull of gravity, what she’d feared for so long now what she craved the most.

She had no doubt that she could stop her fall before she hit— he had promised, after all, and she wasn’t the first to have made a bargain with him. Thousands—millions—before her must have made similar deals; even if she herself didn’t intend to keep it, he would have to hold up his end as long as he thought he would eventually get her soul.

The screams from the crowd had risen in pitch as her time sense had returned to normal, but now they were growing deeper again as she neared the ground—close enough now to see the spiral galaxies of sawdust here and there, the circular pits of elephant footprints, the cloud-freckles caused by a spilled bag of popcorn.

She swooped now, heading out the great tent’s entrance, out into the circus grounds proper, out into the stinging light of day.

And then, at once, she began to rise higher and higher and higher and higher, beating her wings furiously, gaining as much altitude as she could. Soon she was far above the big top. She longed to look down, to see the fairgrounds from this new perspective, see the trailers, the animal cages, the horizontal circle of the merry-go-round, the vertical circle of the Ferris wheel. But she couldn’t. She had to concentrate, just like when she was on the high wire, allowing no distractions, no stray thoughts.

Another beat of the wings, flying higher and higher and—

Pain.

Incredible pain—as though she’d hit a sheet of glass, hit the ceiling of the world.

No farther, said a voice in her head, a voice with a strange accent, a voice like liquid metal.

But she had to go higher—she had to catch the eye of God. She beat her wings again, and felt her face flatten—but not back into its original, human form. No, it was pressing against a transparency; there was no way to fly higher.

It’s too dose to Him, said the same voice, answering her unasked question.

She wanted to beat her fists against the transparency, but she had no fists—only elongated fingers supporting membranous wings. If she could just get God’s attention—

You’re not trying to cheat me, are you? said the splashing metallic voice in her head.

Her breathing was ragged from fighting so hard to break through the transparency. “No,” she gasped. “No, I’m not.”