I SHOOT my cuffs, step into the dining car, and play my favorite game: Who should I kill? Not that I’m going to kill anyone. I’m not allowed to—and it would be bad manners. So, I just smile my sharp smile and nod my polite nods and cut through the crowd of placid humans like an elegant shark through a school of fish. They unconsciously shift and part as they wait in line for their lunch, turning away as I pass and tugging up their collars, fidgeting with their gloves. Silly creatures. Before I’ve reached his window, the cook has already deposited a blood vial on the counter for me and disappeared. My fingers tighten around the still-warm glass tube, and I know who I would choose, who I would kill and drain until he was utterly empty: the vile gobbet of flesh holding court in his corner of the caravan’s dining car. Barnum himself. Kill the ringmaster, take the circus. Easy as that. Barnum sees me watching him, and his fat finger draws a line across his well-covered throat in warning.
