Infini (Aerial Ethereal #2)(140)

Baylee goes completely still in my arms. Like an arrow struck her heart, and as I stand behind her, against her—it impales me too. I can practically feel her grief and pain fist her lungs.

And there’s nothing I can do but hold Bay.

“To garner more tickets, we need a completely new show narrative, a new name—and at that point, it’s no longer Infini. It’s something else.”

No one whispers. No one moves.

We just listen.

Perrot adjusts his clammy grip on the microphone. “To the cast of Infini, you gave your all. I speak on behalf of the company when I say, you made us proud.”

People are starting to cry.

Baylee wipes beneath her eyes with a trembling hand, and I fight emotion.

Perrot’s gaze glasses. “This is the end of the line for me.” There must not be a role for him in the company. Show director positions are scarce. “I wish that I could promise the entire cast a job. I’d hire you all.” He laughs weakly, but the humor doesn’t catch on with his audience.

I feel Bay’s heart pounding hard.

“But there are no job guarantees,” Perrot says. “Come January, you’ll learn if Aerial Ethereal has a place for you. Something else may be in the works, but my advice is to audition for open-slots in Somnio. It’s on a European tour, and you should take advantage of every opportunity while you still can.” He pauses. “So it’s with great sadness and honor that I announce New Year’s Eve as Infini’s last show.”

That soon.

We figured, but hearing the news gives it permanence. Validity. And pain.

“Bay?” I whisper in her ear.

She nods once as though to say I’m dealing. And she clutches my bicep around her collarbones like she doesn’t want me to let go anytime soon.

I’m not.

I’m holding on forever.

“Raise your glasses.”

Baylee and I don’t separate to reach for a cup. Champagne flutes and eggnog glasses are hoisted all around us, watery gazes set on Perrot.

And he says, “To Infini.”

“To Infini,” everyone repeats.

And so softly, Bay breathes, “To Infini.”





Act Fifty-Two

Baylee Wright




Our very last performance in Infini, the globe auditorium is packed to the brim. Every chance I can, I stand in the wings of the stage with other Infini artists, all of us watching our friends, our family lay their hearts bare for this show.

One final time.

There’s not a dry eye, and we dab the corners with tissues, careful not to rub off our makeup. For as much loss I thought I’d feel, my heart is so full right now. This show has meant the world to me, but to witness the soul-deep passion these artists have for Infini as their feet touch the stage—the grief inside this ending has given way to love.

I feel such strong love today.

Before I change into my sky-blue leo, I linger by the left wing, other artists congregated around me, watching.

I watch Luka perform Wheel of Death to hypnotic percussion and roaring horns. Sergei and Luk run on the outside of their opposite wheels, the danger escalating with the music’s pulse-stomping pace.

As the wheel rotates vertically, Sergei hangs on the lower wheel, and Luka, on the top, jumps.

He flips and twists, his feet seemingly about to land nowhere. But the wheel swishes ahead, catching Luka in perfect timing, and he reaches out devilishly to the little girl Milla on stage. She draws forward, her nightgown billowing.

Sergei lands a trick that causes the audience to gasp, and Luka whips his head to his brother, acting like he’s never noticed him before. He suddenly darts through the metal apparatus. Entering the middle space frame beam.

Then he jumps down on the same wheel as his brother.

Sergei slips into the wheel and he makes a face at Luka like you can’t catch me.

Their cat-and-mouse routine causes Milla to take a few steps backwards, but I’m entranced. I’m stuck here watching how beautiful Luka is, how much he loves the circus.

As the routine nears the end, Luka smiles at his brother, and Sergei smiles back, their hands clasp—and I have to turn away before tears cascade.

I rub my nose, and I quickly dress.

Intermission hits, and everyone tries to change fast. High-risk trampoline is next, and Luka enters, his chest and ribs jutting in and out as he catches his breath.

He wipes off his red nightmare makeup, grinning at me.

I don’t restrain my smile as I pass him brushes and a pallet of his sapphire and gold makeup. His dreamscape spandex still makes him look like a celestial god.

Time passes fast, and we hurry in our new costumes, new makeups, and it seems like before I even blink, we’re taking our cue stage left.

I rise and fall on my toes, my gold-stitched balls in my hand.

“Bay,” Luka says, dipping his head to mine. He pecks me four quick times on the lips. It’s routine after he kissed me playfully like that months ago, and that night’s performance was considered one of the best.

I may not always believe in random good fortune, but Luka keeps the superstition alive. I do it for the kisses, and for him.

“Ready, krasavitsa?” His gray twinkling eyes drink me in.

I inhale a humongous breath, and I realize that each act has been armoring me for the end, protecting me for a final goodbye. And I wholeheartedly believe this act with Luka will wrap me in indestructible metals and steels that no pain could infiltrate.