“Ryah!” I shout into the night. No answer. I turn back to Elke. “Wake everyone up. Search the camp. Search the whole village.”
I don’t care if this is overkill and we find her in two minutes time and she’s only been to use the toilet. I just want her found. I set off at a jog around the camp, peering into the darkness. She’s not with the horses. Dandelion whickers softly as I run my hand distractedly down her back.
My eyes snag on the big top. She’ll be in there for sure, and she’ll have a lopsided smile on her face when she sees me and asks where I’ve been. I run to the entrance.
“Ryah!”
I stare around at the empty seats. She’s not in here. Despair is threatening to engulf me. She can’t have just disappeared into thin air. I run outside and make frantic laps of the camp, my circles growing wider and wider as I search behind every tree and peer along deserted streets. My throat is burning with fear as I remember two cold, terrified days nineteen years ago, doing just this. Searching frantically. Calling the name of someone who would never respond.
“Ryah!” My voice cracks as I call her name at the top of my lungs. I can hear the others calling her name now, spreading out from the camp in all directions.
There’s a hill beyond the green, rising up toward the woods in a great, black sweep. The trees are outlined against the heavy sky. Thick. Impenetrable. Silent.
I half-growl, half-gasp as I set off at a run for the trees. The grass underfoot gives way to dirt and dead leaves. I spin around, searching the near-blackness for any sign of movement. The air feels like it’s closing in around me. I keep running, becoming lost among the trees.
“Ryah.” I bend double, gasping for breath. She’s here among the trees. I can feel her, but I just can’t get to her.
I see something up ahead. A pale figure, twisting in the darkness like a cat caught in a bag. I know the lines of her body. The gleam of her hair in the moonlight. She’s trying desperately to get away from someone. She’s pleading with him and sobbing and even with his back to me I know who that is.
That fucking asshole.
I’ll fucking gut him.
Ryah spots me over her father’s shoulder and she stops struggling. I pace toward them, eerily calm now that I’ve found her, my shuddering breath returning to normal. She’s alive. I’ll spend every ounce of strength, every splinter of bone and every drop of blood in my body to get her back. All of it, to get her away from him, for good.
“Vern. Did you think I was playing when I said I would kill you if you ever came near her again?”
He whips around, and I drink in the surprise in his expression. Then it flattens into rage. He’s got his arms around Ryah, a selfish child clutching a prized toy against his chest. Anger burns through me. He doesn’t get to possess her.
I shift my attention to Ryah. “Are you all right?”
She nods, trembling from head to foot. There’s no blood on her face or her clothes. She’s not hurt. I take a deeper breath and look back at her father. “Let her go.”
“Go fuck yourself. She’s my daughter.” Vern’s holding Ryah in front of him, using his own flesh and blood to shield his body.
Ryah looks at me hard. I know, sparkle. I know.
I pull a knife from my holster, my eyes running over his frame. He’s a foot and a half taller than his daughter, and broader. “If you’d ever come to circus, you’d know what I do with my knives. You’re quite the target, even using your own daughter as a shield.”
Ryah takes a breath and lets it out slowly, looking me in the eyes. Preparing herself like she has dozens of times before. Hundreds of times, for me. For us.
“And do you know who taught me to be even better at this? Your. Daughter.” With each word, I throw. One gouges his left elbow. The other slices his right shoulder. Both knives tumble into the leaves, and he cries out in shock and pain.
His arms loosen. I wasn’t throwing to cut deeply. I’d rather not kill him while he’s holding onto her.
“Ryah, quickly.” I hold out my hand to her. She takes her chance, throwing off her father and running toward me. I think she’s going to make it, but then he grabs a fistful of her clothes and yanks her back.
I quickly draw another knife. With his free hand he pats down his injuries, and it comes away wet with blood. “I’m not scared of you, vagrant,” he snarls. “A few fancy knife tricks doesn’t make you a real man.”
“No? What does? Getting drunk and beating up your wife and daughter?”
“Filthy fucking pikey.”
“Don’t call him that!” Ryah screams.
Vern lifts his hand to hit her, and Ryah crosses both her arms protectively over her belly. His eyes narrow. “You’ve been doing that since I grabbed you.”
His fist changes direction, aiming for her stomach. Ryah lets out a high, thin wail of terror. I throw without thinking, wanting only to stop him. My knife sinks into his forearm, and he staggers.