Page 73 of Devil's Delirium

I stared at the jumbled collection, trying to make sense of it all. Why did Ivan have this stuff? My mind raced with questions, each item more baffling than the last.

In one corner, a faded, striped canvas tent was rolled up and propped against the wall, its colors muted with age. The familiar red and white stripes were interspersed with patches and tears, telling a story of countless performances and travels. Next to it, an old, weathered wooden trunk sat with its lid slightly ajar, revealing a tangled mess of colorful costumes and sequined leotards. The vibrant fabrics caught the light, shimmering with a ghostly brilliance.

Scattered across the floor were various pieces of equipment: a set of juggling clubs, their paint chipped and worn; a unicycle with a cracked leather seat and slightly bent wheel; a pair of oversized clown shoes, the leather scuffed and the laces frayed. The shoes lay abandoned, as if the performer had stepped out of them and never returned.

A large, wooden trapeze bar, worn smooth from use, lay on the middle shelf of a metal unit against the wall, its ropes coiled neatly beside it. Nearby, a pair of acrobat rings dangled from a hook, their surfaces polished to a sheen from years of gripping hands and daring feats.

In the back, a vintage popcorn machine stood proudly, its glass case fogged with age. The remnants of unpopped kernels lay at the bottom, and I didn’t want to think about how old they were. The machine’s bright red paint was chipped, and the once-golden lettering had faded, but it still exuded a sense of nostalgic charm.

A battered trunk labeled “props” sat against the far wall. I lifted the lid cautiously, the hinges creaking in protest. Inside was a collection of strange and eclectic items: a rubber chicken, a magician’s top hat,a deck of oversized playing cards, and a collection of colorful scarves tied together in an endless chain.

The air in the unit was dusty, and aged fabric mingled with the faint odors of grease paint and popcorn. Each item seemed to have a past filled with laughter, thrills and gasps of amazement.

I turned to Maverick, my mind reeling. “Why did he have this stuff?”

He shook his head, stoic and thoughtful. “No idea. Maybe he had plans.”

We stepped further into the unit, the floor creaking underfoot. The surreal collection of circus memorabilia surrounded us, each piece a puzzle in the larger mystery of Ivan’s life.

“Was this stuff from his past or for his future?” I whispered as I thumbed through another box of props.

Maverick allowed me all the time I needed to search everything, and when I was satisfied there were no clues as to why Ivan stored this stuff, he helped me pull the door back down, lock it up and get back to the car.

We drove back to his parking lot in silence. I was lost in my head, wondering if Ivan grew up in the circus. Why wouldn’t he have told me? Was he planning to use the equipment? Had he stolen it?

Maverick placed his hand over mine on my lap. “We’re here. You hungry?”

I blinked up at him, taking a moment to return to the present. I’d forgotten how hungry I was, but now that he mentioned it, my stomach roared back to life like a fierce creature threatening to chomp its way out. “Starving.”

Chapter Forty-Two: Threads of Healing

Tess

We strolled down themurky streets, the sounds of our footsteps a rhythmic melody that tried but couldn’t quite soothe my nerves. Since I’d barely eaten all day, the mixture of scents, Maverick beside me, sidewalk garbage, and sizzling street food all created a sweeping sensory blend that had me even more on edge. I hoped there’d at least be wine.

We arrived at the edges of Crimson City’s annual autumn food market, tucked away in a quiet corner of the city every October. Maverick whisked me past the eager customers waiting their turns in the first few rows of carts.

“What would you like?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not picky.”

“Okay, blood bank?”

I laughed, rolling my eyes at him. “No! I don’t know. Nothing too saucy right now, I guess.”

“You’re saucy enough, don’t want to get sloppy. Or do you?” When I ignored him, he looked around. “Alright, pizza or tacos?”

I thought for a moment. “Tacos?”

He nodded and tugged me past a few more trucks. We got into a line for a bright orange food truck with Fright Night Fiesta scrawled on the sign above. The worker hurriedly took orders, made tacos and cracked jokes, seemingly used to the busyness of the evening.

We ordered a mixed basket of tacos to share and a bottle of wine. At the center of the collection of trucks was an array of picnic tables where we could sit and enjoy our food. We nabbed a table as another couple departed, sitting across from each other. Maverick placed the basket between us and poured our wine.

The deep crimson liquid swirled in the glass, promising a turn in the night ahead. The heady aroma enveloped my senses, spinning a false narrative of intimacy around us.

Now, with our food and drink before us, Maverick’s attention shifted entirely to me, his piercing gaze locking onto mine with that intensity of his that always left me breathless.

It was as if the rest of the world ceased to exist when he looked at me.

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