Foreword
Welcome to The Circus of Brass and Bone. This story is free, but donations are what keeps it going. All proceeds go to help cover my mother's treatment for advanced ovarian cancer.

Now settle back and enjoy the circus. It's the end of civilization, but the show...must go on.

Episode 11

A Hive of Scum and Villainy

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Isaac the animal trainer

New York City

Isaac stared unhappily at the tall brick buildings. One look at those wrought-iron balconies and fire escapes, and Mr. Ben Doom would be up them and across the roofs. Or he might go to ground in one of the thousands of abandoned apartments. Or he might perch in a tree in one of the parks, maybe sharing limb-space with a dangling corpse. Or--

The city was so big, it could swallow him whole and lick its lips afterward.

"We won't never find him," Isaac lamented. "It's like finding a needle in a haystack--although," he added upon reflection, "monkeys are more active than your average needle."

"I thought you knew where the monkey would go?" asked Christopher.

Isaac set his jaw. "I had to say something. They weren't going to look for him. And it's kinda true, it's just--this is an awfully big city."

"Come on. We've only been looking for a few hours. There must be some sign of what happened to her--er, him."

Isaac stared at Christopher. "What do you mean, 'her'?"

"Nothing! I just couldn't remember if the monkey was a boy or a girl."

"Because 'Mr. Ben Doom' is such a girl name?" Isaac scoffed, happy to have something to take his mind off the impossibility of their search. "Pull the other one; it's got bells on. Go on. Who's the girl?"
"No girl, really!"*

"Come on. Who is she? You got a sweetheart in New York City?"

Isaac watched as an internal war waged across Christopher's face. Anything to distract him from his own worries.

"You'll find out soon enough, I guess," Christopher finally said. "The fortune teller's gone missing. Ginger thinks she might have come here, and maybe something bad happened to her."

Isaac blinked. "Oh. You're looking for her, not really helping me find Mr. Doom at all." He felt his face twist into a glower. He wasn't much good at not showing his first reaction to things. Just another reason he was better off working with animals than people.

Christopher sighed. "No--I mean--yes, I'm looking for her, but I'm also looking for the monkey. Hell, for all I know, she could be a monkey under all those shawls and veils!"

Isaac chuckled despite himself. He sobered up quickly and guiltily. "We've been asking these city folks for hours, but nobody's seen nothing! We must have talked to a hundred people!"

"That leaves--what? A thousand still to ask?" Christopher said.

Isaac looked around. By the nearest apartment building, a lean man with unkempt, white-streaked hair huddled on the steps leading down to the basement. A blanket tent was pitched at the bottom of the stairs, and a small fire smoldered beside it. A skinned animal roasted over the fire on a makeshift spit, its naked pink muscles half-charred and glistening with grease. Isaac didn't look too close at the hobo's dinner. Squirrel was one thing, but if it was cat or rat, he didn't want to know. It was too small to be a monkey. That was all that really mattered.

"Maybe before that hell-storm. Not so many, now." Isaac headed in the hobo's direction.

Christopher trailed after Isaac. "Who camps outside in a city that's filled with empty apartments? In the winter?"

Isaac looked over his shoulder at him in surprise. He himself preferred being outside over pretty much any other accommodation. When the weather was fine, he slept on the roof of the monkey wagon. When it was nasty, he bunked with the roustabouts.

"Maybe he likes to see the stars," he said finally.

"With the coal smoke from all the chimneys?"

Isaac shrugged. "Ask him yourself." He walked up to the hobo and squatted near the man, rocking back on his heels. Christopher hovered nearby.

The hobo squinted at them. "Ask him what?" he asked.

Isaac waited, but Christopher didn't pipe up. "Why you don't squat in an apartment," Isaac said. "Ain't it cold outside?"

"I lived in Antarctica, once," the hobo boasted. "Picked up some tricks from the natives. Snow, that's the key." He pointed at his tent. Snow was packed around it on all sides. "It's warmer now. The eskwimoes, they know about snow."

Without much hope, Isaac asked, "Did you see a monkey last night?"

"I saw three!"

Isaac blinked. "Er, what did they look like?"

"One was green, one was all black except for white fur around his face, and one had a skull for a head." The hobo shuddered. "I ain't never forgetting that skull-monkey."

Isaac leaned forward. "Do you know where the black monkey went?"

The hobo screwed up his face. "Now that's an interesting philosophical question. What do monkeys like?"

"Fresh fruit, and being groomed, and climbing on shoulders--" Isaac began, when the hobo interrupted him with a snap of his fingers.

"That's it! Tropical islands! Monkeys and parrots and fruit and pretty native girls without any sense of proper decency at all." The hobo sighed. "That's where I'd go if I were a monkey, you bet. Luscious mangoes and massive cantaloupes and. . . ." He smacked his lips.

"There aren't any isl--" Isaac hesitated. "There aren't any tropical islands here."

"Sure, sure, but they know how to get there, don't they?"

Behind Isaac, Christopher snorted. "Come on, Isaac. This is useless," he said.

"Monkeys know how to get to tropical islands? What are you talking about?" Isaac asked the hobo.

The hobo touched his nose and winked slyly.

"I don't understand."

Christopher heaved an expressive sigh. We're wasting time. Let's go, it said.

Isaac jutted out his lip and prepared to wait. He could be plenty stubborn when it was called for. After all, hadn't he managed to teach the ostriches to steal the clown's top hat and cane? There may have been some fuss later when the ostriches practiced their new trick outside the ring, but that wasn't the point. The point was that if Isaac could out-stubborn an ostrich, he could certainly out-stubborn a hobo. Or an upstart ringmaster-in-training.

The hobo stared at Isaac. "Sailors," he explained. "Monkeys and parrots know that sailors will take them aboard. Then the sailors go to tropical islands because of the wanton island girls and their long, smooth legs and loose hair and unbound cantaloupes and--"

"Thank you!" Isaac said hurriedly. "I get the fruits--er, the picture. I get the picture."

Isaac backed away. When he turned around, he found Christopher grinning at him. Not a word needed to be said, but Christopher said it anyway.

"Cantaloupes."

Isaac set off at a brisk pace, heading toward a young girl with a basket on her arm.

"Unripe mangoes."

Isaac veered aside and addressed an older, pinch-faced woman, touching her arm to persuade her to stop. "Excuse me, ma'am. I am new to New York, and I've lost an animal."

She scowled. "Then you'll never see it again!"

Isaac persevered. "He's a monkey with black fur and a white face. His name is Mr. Ben Doom. Really, it's most important. Have you seen or heard anything about a monkey loose in the city?"

Her mouth pursed into a scowl. "With so many people dead, you're worrying about an ungodly animal? Shame on you, sir!" She jerked her arm away and stalked off.

"Pineapples," Christopher pronounced.

It was too much. Isaac wheeled on him. He seized Christopher's collar, hauled him into an alley, and pushed him against the wall. "Enough mockery! For all you know, that hobo had a good idea."

"Coco--"

Isaac held up a warning finger and fixed him with his best backing-down-a-lion glare. "Don't!"

He waited.

Blessed silence. The only sounds from the street were the clatter of cart wheels and the quick clack of pedestrians' boot heels.

Isaac smiled. "Thank you. Now. If you found a monkey, what would you do? Don't you dare say nothing about bananas!"

With a sober face, Christopher responded, "In this town? I'd make stew and try to eat it all before a special patrolman came and used the power of his blue armband to take it away from me."

Isaac swallowed. "But if you didn't eat him, what would you do with him?"

"Turn him over to a special patrolman?" Christopher shrugged. "I don't know. Rationing, a strict curfew, people staying off the streets--it feels like a wartime town under occupation."

Wind whistled a counterpoint down the alley. Tall brick buildings loomed on either side of them. Here and there, a lamp flickered inside, but most of the windows were dark as a dead man's eyes. For just a moment, Isaac felt as tiny and insignificant as an ant under an elephant's foot.

He tightened his jaw. "Exactly," he said. "And in wartime, people try to get around rationing."*

"A black market?"

Isaac shrugged. "Something like that."

Christopher shook his head. "That doesn't help. Your monkey's a nice slab of meat, and food is still the most valuable thing."

Isaac flinched at that description, but he stuck to his guns. "Except for things nobody can't get around these parts. There's a big port here, and sailors are real expert at trading contraband on the side."

"And everybody knows sailors like monkeys. That's what you meant when you said that maybe the hobo had a good idea."

Feeling like he'd used up all his words for a month, Isaac nodded.

Christopher clapped him on the shoulder. "Let's go find some sailors!" Half to himself, he added, "Not a bad idea to get an outsider's view on how the city's running, either."

#

Lacey Miller, The Fabulous Lady Equestrienne Who Defies The Fiery Rings of Death!

New York City, Central Police Department

"I'm barely keeping this city from devolving* as it is," Police Commissioner Andre Guirard growled at Lacey and Ginger. "I allowed for a certain number of immigrating outsiders, but not for a circus! This is neither the time nor the place for frivolity. We can only absorb a limited number of people before our rationing system becomes strained." His bushy eyebrows lowered and his face darkened. "For now, at least. I hope that we will unlock another source of food--soon."

As if I'd want to be 'absorbed' into this dreadful place, Lacey thought. Aloud, she said, "You misunderstand, sir. We are not planning on joining," she paused, "your city. We only want to enter New York and perform for a week or so. Hopefully, we could buy more supplies while we're here. All we need is your permission and a large space to set up our tents."

If she wasn't exerting herself to be charming and persuasive, it was because she was no longer certain the circus should enter new New York.

Commissioner Guirard shook his head sharply. "Absolutely not. We don't have the resources or the time to waste on fripperies. You're welcome to trade for non-contraband items, but all food sales are strictly rationed. The penalty for black-market sale of food is--severe."

Lacey suppressed a shudder. "So we have seen," she said, taking refuge in the cold tones of a lady in front of whom an unsuitable subject has been raised.

Ginger was no help. Upon entering the office, he'd sat in the chair the farthest from the Commissioner's desk, where he remained silent and motionless. A man less aware of his surroundings than the Commissioner might have forgotten Ginger was there at all. The Commissioner's eyes flicked to him occasionally, but he'd clearly decided that Lacey was in charge.

"If you people choose to stay in New York, you'll be my responsibility," Commissioner Guirard continued. "I cannot turn away any honest individuals who wish to escape the uncertainty of life in a lawless zone."

Had there been extra emphasis on that "honest?" Lacey unsheathed her most polite, high-society-drawing-room smile.

When she didn't say anything but simply sat there looking expectant, the Commissioner cleared his throat and added, "Ration books will be issued to you for the length of your stay, if you settle here. They're tracked by district."

He leaned back, his conscience apparently satisfied by this concession. "There are a number of vacant apartments available. Look for the ones with a zero chalked on the door."

"We have our own caravan wagons," Lacey informed him. "All we need is a large open space where we can set up our tents and perform."

He was shaking his head as soon as she spoke. "Impossible," he said briskly. "We're barely maintaining order as it is. Groups of more than five people are not allowed to congregate in public except for the purposes of their employment. Without that restriction, a mob could form, especially in the--" he glanced at Lacey, "--ah, casual atmosphere a circus would create."

Loose, she translated. It was hardly the first time she'd found the prejudices of the morally upright. To counter that same negative perception of the circus, the old ringmaster had created little Biblical playlets for the menagerie and the museum of educational novelties. The lion lying down with the lamb*, that sort of thing. Such subterfuge might keep preachers from running the circus out of town. It didn't prevent townsfolk from imagining that females in the circus indulged in all sorts of licentious behavior with strange men.

Her lips curved up slightly in a private smile. Little did they imagine exactly how far from the mark they were.

"Why, it would be as bad as those--" Commissioner Guirard stopped talking. "Hmm."

The speculative tone in his voice snapped her attention back to him.

"I can think of one place where your presence wouldn't cause extra problems," he rumbled.

"Yes?" Lacey asked.

"The docks of Rumsey Port* would have room for you to set up your circus tents. Lord knows, you won't cause any extra disturbance there. It may be rough--"

"That's no obstacle," Lacey said hastily. The rough-and-tumble of a seaport sounded positively endearing compared to the stifled order in new New York.

Commissioner Guirard cleared his throat and continued, "--but the sailors certainly aren't using the space to unload their ships. You're welcome to distract them as much as you wish. I wouldn't count on them being willing to trade for food, however."

"Thank you!" Lacey said. "We are most grateful for your indulgence."

"Er, well. . . ." He shifted in his chair. "The docks are not included in our rationing system. You may do better to take apartments in the city. Our reserves are limited," he said gruffly, "but not so limited that I would turn anyone out to starve, whether or not they could contribute. Although. . . ." He looked thoughtful. "We could use your circus animals. A lot of meat on an elephant!"

"Not on ours, sir." Lacey smiled. "It's an aether-powered elephant."

"Eh?" He looked disappointed. "Still, your menagerie must have other edible livestock. Ostriches, hippos. . . ."

"Hippo meat is entirely unpalatable," Ginger assured the Commissioner. One eyebrow cocked. "Far too gamey for easy consumption."

That eyebrow twitch meant Ginger's peculiar sense of humor was stirring. Lacey hastened to add, "And we have just returned from traveling overseas to India, where they bathed in the rivers. One must be cautious about the risk of catching a foreign disease."

The Commissioner appeared disappointed but not defeated. Ginger's eyebrow remained elevated. Lacey's mind raced as she tried to come up with plausible reasons to classify the entire menagerie as inedible before Ginger said something disastrous.

The door of Commissioner Guirard's office slammed open.

"Andy-poo!" A curvy young lady with a pixie face and an upsweep of dark curls burst into the room. "It is simply intolerable! You must--oh!" She blinked doe eyes at Lacey and Ginger. "I'm sorry! I didn't know you had guests!"

For the first time, Lacey saw the Commissioner flustered. "My dear--" he began.

Ignoring him, she turned to Lacey. "I am Mrs. Andre Guirard."

Lacey inclined her head. "I am Miss Lacey Miller."

Mrs. Guirard smiled winsomely. "Delighted to meet you!"

"Likewise, I'm sure." Lacey gestured to her companion. "And this is Ginger."

"Just Ginger?"

"Just Ginger."

"How peculiar!" Mrs. Guirard looked at Ginger with interest.

Commissioner Guirard's choler had been rising throughout the polite exchange. Now, he burst out, "My dear, what are you--? You know I've asked you not to come to my office!"

"Well!" she huffed. "As I said, I didn't know you were entertaining!"

"We were just leaving," Lacey assured her. Entertaining though this scene certainly was, Lacey would rather exit the stage before the Commissioner's mind returned to the edibility of their circus menagerie.

"Nonsense! Why, Andy-poo hasn't offered you any refreshment!" Mrs. Guirard clapped her hands together and called over her shoulder, "Bring tea cake* and lemonade!"

There was nobody there. Did the lady think that fairies would bring her cakes and lemonade?

With an irritated moue*, the lady looked behind her. "Oh!" she said with a note of surprise. "Now where did--? He was just there a minute ago." She turned to Commissioner Guirard. "Really, you must tell your assistant the proper way to receive guests!"

"What have you done with my assistant?" Commissioner Guirard asked in a constricted voice.

"Oh, nothing! But he will insist on following me when he sees me in the Central Police Department! Quite unnecessary, as I've told him a hundred times!"

"If you would stay home where it's safe--" Commissioner Guirard shook his head. "I suppose the men I assigned are guarding an empty house?"

She gave a dainty shrug. "They weren't paying attention when I slipped away. You can't blame them. It is simply too boring."

Commissioner Guirard looked grim. There would be blame assigned, Lacey thought.

The thud of rapidly approaching footsteps drew Lacey's attention away. Curious, she leaned forward in her chair so that she could see through the doorway to the source of the commotion. A puffing, red-faced fellow in police blues trotted toward them. When he saw Mrs. Guirard already inside the Commissioner's study, he groaned and slowed to a walk.*

Mrs. Guirard clapped her hands. "There you are! The Commissioner has guests. As his assistant, your responsibility now is to bring refreshment. Tea cake and lemonade, I think."

"I'm sorry, sir," the Commissioner's assistant said to him earnestly. "I was coming back from the file room with that casualty list and I saw her out of the corner of my eye as she was going up the stairs. I tried to catch her, really I did!"

Commissioner Guirard massaged his temples. "I know you did. Thank you. Put the reports there--" he indicated a spot on his desk, "and--"

"--and bring tea cake and lemonade!" Mrs. Guirard finished triumphantly.

"Thank you so much for your hospitality, but there's no need for that," Lacey hurried to say.

The Commissioner's assistant breathed a sigh of relief, mopped his reddening face, and stepped back to wait outside the door.

"We were just leaving," Lacey continued, addressing what was clearly the greatest threat in the room: Mrs. Guirard. "Your husband has kindly offered us a place to stay and perform, but we really must go and prepare our colleagues to move tomorrow."

"Perform?" Mrs. Guirard asked.

A light of amusement dancing in his eyes, Ginger explained, "We are the Loyale Traveling Menagerie, Hippodrome, Circus, and Museum of Educational Novelties!"

Mrs. Guirard uttered a squeal of delight. "A circus? How splendid! New York is so dreadfully tedious these days, all rations and rules and no fun at all! Even normal, everyday things are so difficult. Half the shops are just gone, and those that remain have such peculiar hours and they're quite reluctant to work on credit the way they used to." She turned to Commissioner Guirard. "That's why I came to your office. The dressmaker is being frustratingly obstinate and I thought if you explained--"

Commissioner Guirard shook his head. "I can't, my dear. That would be an abuse of power."

"Oh, poo!" She pouted.

"Perhaps this will cheer you up." He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a gaily striped paper bag. Gold foil lettering on the bag read, "Hardy's Candy Confections."

Mrs. Guirard pounced. "Chocolates! You darling!"

"I was able to stop by the confectioner yesterday, but by the time I got home it was so late that I didn't want to wake you."

"You're working too late every day! All responsibility and no reward," she grumbled through a mouthful of chocolate nougat. She swallowed. "Though I suppose that conscientiousness is part of why I adore you so."

Spots of red appeared high on Commissioner Guirard's cheeks. "Don't eat those too fast," he warned her. "The confectioner warned me that New York is out of chocolate."

"I'm sure you'll fix it," his wife assured him with a sweet, chocolate-smeared smile

"I'm--working on it," he said grimly.

"You know he's a very important person now," Mrs. Guirard confided earnestly to Lacey. "Do tell me if there's anything else he can do to help you."

Lacey nodded. She felt her eyes widen helplessly as she tried not to laugh. Once she'd recovered herself, she said, "There is one thing. . . ."

Commissioner Guirard's bushy eyebrows lowered ominously.

"Nothing onerous," she hastened to add. "One of our circus members came to New York yesterday and hasn't returned. Have any females new to the city been detained or--or found injured?"

The Commissioner leaned back. "Any fresh bodies reported matching that?" he asked his assistant. "Strange females?"

Lacey was quite relieved that he didn't press for a more complete description.*

The assistant shook his head. "No, Commissioner. Only rotters."

"Fresh injured?"

The assistant shook his head again.

"There you go," the Commissioner told Lacey. "We don't have her. We're not much for detaining people these days. If she committed a crime, she'd be free to go by now." His eyes skittered to his wife, which Lacey interpreted as him choosing not to add, or dead and hanging from a lamp post.

"Thank you kindly. And thank you for the suggestion of where we might set up." She rose and nodded her head to Mrs. Guirard. "It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I do hope you are able to attend our performance. Come, Ginger."

"Miss--" Some internal struggle showed on Commissioner Guirard's face. Lacey awaited the outcome with interest. "Miss, Rumsey Port is not a good place for--for a lady."

Ah. That one. It was not the first time she'd confused gentlemen by acting as a lady, instead of as the coarse, wanton creature that they expected a female circus performer to be.

"The docks were rough even when our men patrolled them regularly," he continued. "Without us to keep order, it's only gotten worse. A certain criminal element has shifted to that area since the city is no longer friendly to their kind. Why, it's--it's a regular hive of scum and villainy!"

"Oh!" Lacey carefully did not smile. "Thank you for the warning, but I believe we will do well enough."

Later, as they walked down the wide stone steps of the Central Police Department, Lacey said to Ginger, "Didn't there used to be a group of commissioners who ran the police board?"

"You saw the Mayor. Don't ask about the other commissioners. It's pretty clear who's in charge here."

"Except the sailors and the forts aren't letting him boss them around. Did you catch when he said that the criminals had left the city for the docks? He doesn't consider that part of his territory. It will be interesting to see what the sailors have to say about the state of things."

#

Isaac the animal trainer

Port Rumsey, New York City

Stacks of packing crates blocked the street leading to the port. "That's not exactly welcoming," Isaac said doubtfully to Christopher.*

"As long as we act like we know what we're doing, we'll be fine."

Isaac hoped Christopher was right. He felt eyes on them as they wound their way through the maze.

When they emerged on the other side, he stopped short, blinking.

"What the--hell?" Christopher said, almost reverently.

It was as if they'd stepped back in time to before the hell-storm struck. Sailors, merchants, and more dubious characters bustled across the pier. Compared to the devastated population of new New York, Rumsey Port seemed overfull. Isaac's shoulders unknotted and his stride lengthened. It was like being on circus grounds again.

Colored globes gleamed in the sailing ships' rigging and along the rails of the steamships. And instead of dim lamplight, ships' cabins and the port authority offices were brilliantly illuminated.

"They've got aether lights," Isaac exclaimed.

Christopher nodded. "Like us. Ships out to sea when the aether storm struck wouldn't have been as damaged."

It could have been a scene from months ago, except--the port buildings didn't serve functions quite so official anymore. Above the doors, newly painted planks advertised, "Nancy's," "Fair Trade Winds," and "The Soiled Dove."

Sailors carried small parcels or bags into Fair Trade Winds, but the ships rode low in the water and nobody unloaded them. Each laden cargo ship had a contingent of armed sailors pacing the decks. Unlike the portside crowd, they looked quite sober.

Three large steamships had cast anchor farther out in the harbor, instead of docking at the port. Odd, but Isaac didn't dwell on it. There was plenty to keep his attention on the ships that were docked. Yellow, green, and blue globes dangled from a sailing ship's rigging, waiting to be kindled to light. On the steamship beside it, a man leaned against the chimney stack and peered through a spyglass at new New York. As Isaac stared along the long line of docked ships, he saw sailors moving in the rigging, tightening ropes or checking sailcloth, and--

Isaac stared hard at a sailing ship with Beauty's Reward written along its side. It had a muscular male Triton for a figurehead instead of a buxom mermaid, but that wasn't what had caught his attention. Something skittered along the mizzen mast, something too small and too quick to be a human.

"Did you see that? There!" Isaac grabbed Christopher's sleeve and pointed to the Beauty's Reward.

"What?"

"I saw him. I think. Come on!"

Without waiting for a response, Isaac trotted across the dock to where he'd seen--something. When he reached the Beauty's Reward, he stopped in front of the lowered gangplank and shouted, "Ahoy, the ship!"

Then he waited.

And waited.

Something moved in the ship's rigging. The sails blocked it from view, but it cast a monstrous and distorted shadow--one in which four legs and a tail were discernable.

"Doom!" Isaac hollered as he bolted up the gangplank.

"Shit!" Christopher swore.

Isaac ignored that, as he ignored the sound of Christopher pursuing him as he galloped onto the ship, across its deck, past the center mast, and--

A lady stepped out from behind the mizzenmast and aimed a revolver at his heart.

Isaac froze. Behind him, the thump of Christopher's footsteps also halted abruptly.

She wore a tight pair of men's trousers, a red-and-gold embroidered waistcoat, a red sash at her waist, and a second gun tucked into it. Her sun-streaked brown hair was bound back in a tight, practical braid. Isaac hardly knew where to look, but he settled on her face.

Once she had Isaac's full attention, she smiled.

Isaac revised his first impression from "lady" to "female." He didn't know of any ladies who filed their teeth like that!

"If there's doom to be found here today," she said, her tongue slithering a little around the points of her teeth, "it's yours. Now, you have one chance to tell me why you boarded the ship crying my doom."

Isaac's world narrowed down to the dark, hungry mouth of the Colt Navy revolver, and the hand that held it.

"Last chance," she said pleasantly. She cocked the hammer on the gun.

Isaac's breath rasped loud in his ears. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He couldn't do anything but stare down the barrel of that revolver.

"Not your doom!" Christopher shouted from behind him. "Nothing to do with you! Really!"

The noise jerked Isaac out of his paralysis. Reflexively, he pivoted toward Christopher.

A thunderclap split the day, and something hit Isaac hard enough to knock him to the deck. Fluffy white clouds floated through the bright blue sky above him. Where did the thunderbolt come from? His head spun, but he tried to sit up. He put his arm out to brace himself. It folded under him.

Then he felt the pain burning through him. He collapsed. His cheek crashed to the polished wooden deck. A red slick oozed across the deck in front of him.

Oh, he thought. She shot me.

It seemed like the right time to pass out, so he did.

(To be continued in Episode 12: Monkey Business)

---

If you enjoyed this episode of The Circus of Brass and Bone, consider making a donation to keep it going (and get a character named after you, and a copy of the final book). All proceeds go to help cover the costs of my mother's treatment for advanced ovarian cancer.

If you can't afford a donation, tell a friend, or blog about it!

Acknowledgments

This episode is brought to you by the generous donation of Michael Hunter.

The Circus of Brass and Bone is written and recorded by Abra Staffin-Wiebe (that's me). My main website is at www.aswiebe.com, and I blog at cloudscudding.livejournal.com.

Music is courtesy of Vermillion Lies. Go to their website at vermillionlies.com to hear more.

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