Circus of Lost Souls is a paranormal mystery thriller brought to you by the joint efforts of bestselling authors Riley J.

Ford and Rebecca Hamilton. Below you will find a free sample of the book, however, the full edition can also be purchased at the following retailers: Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Circus-Lost-Souls-Riley-Fordebook/dp/B00HF7WG4Y/ Barnes and Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/circus-of-lostsouls-riley-ford/1117780952?ean=2940149008179 Kobo Books: http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/circus-of-lostsouls Cirque du Lune is killing off teenagers, but its all part of the act. Or is it? As the body count rises with each performance, one girl at this infamous theater-based summer camp contemplates whats real and whats not. What if its not just a horror show, but a live snuff performance perpetuated by real-life, infamous serial killers? What if the murders are . . . real?

Prologue

Screams echoed through the quiet cul-de-sac.

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A little girl rounded the corner on her bike to see a middle-aged blond woman screaming in the middle of her front lawn. How could you, Jack? How could you? The woman raced down the front lawn as two grim-faced police officers escorted a teenage boy toward a waiting squad car. Why did you do it? Why? the woman screamed, chasing after the teenager. I didnt raise you to become a monster. Who are you? On the front lawn was a blood-soaked sheet, covering what looked like a small human form. A hand poked from beneath the sheet. A tiny hand. A childs hand. The little girl dropped her bike. The wheels kept spinning and whirring. Panic and horror built in the girls throat. She wanted to turn and run, but she couldnt. She was frozen to the sidewalk, watching the terrifying scene against her will. Her heart raced in her chest, and her legs felt weak. Something was very wrong at this house. Things were not right. This wasnt the safe world she knew. Danger crackled in the air. The teenager looked so scary, so menacing, with dark holes for eyes. The little girl knew she should run away fast, back to her neighborhood the next block over. Back to her parents and the safety of her own home. But she couldnt get her legs to move. Without a word or so much as a glance to his weeping mother, the teenager with the scary eyes plodded past the neighbors who had gathered on the sidewalk. Cell phones in hand, the neighbors spoke over the murmurs of other conversations, subtly motioning toward the blood-soaked sheet covering the small body. Youre sick! a man shouted. How could you kill an innocent child? And suddenly, the resolve of the gathered audience collapsed. Evil! a woman shrieked as the coroners loaded the body onto a gurney. Pure evil!

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The teenagers mother ran beside him, her face contorted. Why did you do it, Jack? Tell me why! Simple, Mother. He smirked. It was fun. The crowd gasped. Freaking lunatic! a man yelled. I cant believe I thought he was a nice boy! The mother cried, clinging to her son. Where did you go wrong? Youre not the son I raised. Step back, maam, said a police officer, pushing her out of the way. He shoved the teen into the back of the black and white cruiser. Weeping, the mother fell to her knees. Her face was ashen. She reached toward the police cruiser, her lips moving wordlessly. She looked as if she was about to faint. But no one moved to help her. Through her daze, the little girl wondered if she should go to the woman, to comfort her somehow. But she knew she couldnt. She was just a child and powerless to do anything. All she could do was watch this horrible scene, her heart thumping in her constricted throat, her small knees shaking. The neighbors pit bulls, barking, jumped against the fence, rattling the little girls nerves. The womans head jerked up. Suddenly, she leapt to her feet. She turned and rushed toward the coroners carrying the stretcher. With a quick motion, she ripped the sheet off the body, exposing a young, dead child. Blood ran in rivulets off his naked body, over the gurney, and onto the ground. He was no more than six, covered in blood, the eyes in his small face glazed in terror. His mouth was O-shaped with the point of a huge, bloody, metal stake protruding from it. The other end of the stake jutted from between his legs. He had been impaled through the anus. The crowd shrieked. The little girls heart stopped. She stood frozen in horror, unable to move, her chest squeezed tight at what she saw.

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Look, Jack! the mother screamed. See what you did! A shriek burbled out of the girls throat. It sounded like her voice, high and shrill, but also like someone elses . . . a scream from a scary movie. A horror movie, similar to the kind she saw in TV commercials but had never seen in real life . . . until now. The little girl stumbled backward and fell over her bike, onto the sidewalk. Someone else let out a long scream, scratchy and nuanced, as if it had come from deep within the persons gut. A deliveryman in a brown truck slowed, his tires crunching over the gravel of the pot-holed street. They had all seen what the evil teenager had done. The mother screamed, Look at what you did, Jack! Dont turn your eyes away. You murdered an innocent boy! You impaled him! I will not let you look away. Look at what you have done! She fell to the ground, convulsing in sobs. Two officers rushed over and grabbed her. The coroner attendants swiftly re-covered the body. Jack, seated inside the back of the police car, looked straight ahead, a smirk twisting his face. The woman struggled against the officers, broke free, and ran to the police car. She banged on the window. What happened to you, my son? When did you lose your soul? Jack leaned toward her, grinning, and said through the glass, One persons loss is anothers gain, Mother. The little girl finally found her legs. She turned and ran. She ran and ran until she could run no more. She collapsed on the front steps of her white-shingled house, gasping and shaking and crying. Her mother burst out and took her in her arms. The girl tried to talk but no words came out. All she could think about was that shed made it home. She was finally safe. Safe from monsters and

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blood and bad things that she never knew existed until now. Safe from a terrible world. Shed made it. She was finally home. . . . But then the nightmares began.

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one

Myra Anderson huddled in the crisp early-morning air with nine other classmates outside her high school, Samuel Ulysses Cartwright School Boarding and Day, or SUCS-BAD, as the students called it. When will the van be here? she asked, blowing on her fingers. Its a freaking freezer out here. It wasnt just the cold morning air that was giving Myra shivers. It was the idea of spending three weeks at a performing arts circus horror camp, something she never would have considered doing if her boyfriend hadnt talked her into it. If you think sixty degrees is cold, wait until we get to camp, said her best friend, Leslie Blake. Itll probably be at least ten degrees colder there. Yeah, its at the base of a mountain, Bo Peters said. He wrapped his arms around Myra and nuzzled her cheek. But well find a way to keep warm. Shh! She swatted him. Youre not going to deflower me at summer camp, so dont even try. Deflower. He laughed. I can think of sexier ways to talk about losing ones virginity, like Bo! she hissed. She looked around, but luckily no one but Leslie had heard. Leslie knew Myra was a virgin, because they both were. Theyd made a pact to wait until marriage. The other kids were milling about together, trading jokes about summer vacation. Their voices wafted over to Myra, standing a few feet away. I wish this camp was at the beach, said one of the guys. I need to work on my tan. Priorities, dude. Nah, someone else said. Id rather go to the mountains than be fed to sharks. Dont be a wuss. The only thing youd be feeding the sharks is your puke after drinking Patrn all night. Chortling ensued, and the guys playfully pushed each other. Id rather go to Club Med, a blond girl named Hannah piped up. But my parents said Cirque du Lune is better on the rsum than paddleball. What the hell do they know?

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More laughter. Ill take a freak camp any day, said one of the guys. I cant wait to experience a hot contortionist. He moved his pelvis back and forth lasciviously. Your dick is contorted, said another. And your brain. Youll fit right in. More shoving and guffawing. You guys are so lame, Hannah said, tossing her long, blond hair. Is there an off switch? She heaved an irritated sigh. The guys ignored her. I cant wait to see all the circus freaks, someone else said. I bet they know how to par -tay. Yeah, bearded ladies gone wild. More laughter rang out. Myra watched her classmates talking and laughing, her stomach uneasy. They were so carefree, so unconcerned about anything but being teens. They didnt know the other side of life. They didnt know that bad things could happen. How she envied them. Bo nuzzled Myras hair with his chin. She gazed up at him, her heart pinging in her chest the way it always did when he was close. His chocolate-brown eyes and tall, athletic build always made her feel safe, and every time she touched his soft brown hair it made her melt. He was the guy at school every girl crushed on, and Myra pinched herself every day that he had chosen her. I still cant believe you talked me into this stupid camp, she said. Im trusting you on this. You know how I hate scary stuff. Itll be great, Bo said. Why go to a performing arts school if you cant showcase your abilities? This camp will be perfect. Its world-renowned for a reason. He leaned in. Plus well get to spend all this time together. No parents or teachers. . . sneaking into each others trailers . . . finding ways to be alone . . . Bo, shh. Myra looked around again. I dont want people to think Im a slut. Why not? It might do your image a little good. He grinned and gave her a kiss. You gotta stretch outside your zone, Myra. Live a little. She supposed he was right. It was probably a good idea to expand her experiences, get outside her comfort zone. Camp might be good for her, especially this one that was sure to push her buttons. Her therapist had told her that she wouldnt overcome her fears unless she exposed herself to them. Maybe camp would toughen her skin to the extent that she could finally watch a scary movie without hyperventilating. Maybe then her nightmares would stop . . . At least she had dance to keep her calm. If things got too stressful, she could lose herself in it. Dance had helped her all these years, ever since she took her first ballet class. In many ways, it had rescued Myra from her childhood trauma.

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Because SUCS-BAD was a performing arts school, everyone was exceptionally good at something. For Myra, of course, it was dancing. Bo was an actor, one of those leading men types who always stole the show. Leslie was a rhythmic gymnast and a contender for the next Olympics. No one got into Cartwright unless they were the best in the country at what they did. In fact, it was the caliber of the students at SUCS-BAD that recently got their school selected to participate in the coveted Cirque du Lune summer camp that only hit the United States once every five years. It was a camp every performing arts school vied to get accepted to, but few did. Once a school was chosen, students sent in detailed application packets, and from there the camp selected ten students from that school to participate. Every teenager at SUCS-BAD had competed to go to the camp. Cirque du Lune was a once-in-a-lifetime experience and an awesome achievement on a college rsum. Aside from the Ivy-League appeal, the factor that made Cirque du Lune especially enticing to many artistic-minded teenagers was that it wasnt your usual circus. It was touted as Cirque du Soleil with an edge, where students honed their specific talents to thrill and scare audience membersan artistic horror show of sorts. Although Cirque du Lune kept its methods secret, the Internet was packed with testimonials to the unique, amazing, and career-building experience that came out of participating in such a camp. For Myra, applying for this camp had been a more difficult decision than anyone knew, even Leslie. Myra wasnt one who enjoyed anything horror-related because of what had happened to her as a child, right before she and her parents had moved away. Shed been riding her bike and had seen something she would never forgeta dead boy on a front lawn. It had left her with irrational fears of monsters, boogey men, and all things morbid. She hated Halloween, scary movies, and anything that rattled the nerves. In fact, her trauma had so consumed her for all these years that she had recently completed a short stay at a mental health facility. Only Leslie knew. Myra had learned a variety of techniques to help her overcome her fears. The program hadnt seemed to work, though, because her anxieties still plagued her as much as they had before, and the nightmares continued. Bo didnt know what Myra had seen as a child. He hadnt understood her hesitation to apply for the Cirque du Lune horror camp. Hed worked on her for weeks until shed finally relented. According to Bo, they could be together all summer. Students hooked up at summer camps, and she didnt want to lose him to another girl. Especially one as pretty as Hannah Fairmont, who currently stood by the curb, popping her gum and toying with her long, blond hair as she slid her eyes to each of the guys to see if they noticed her. After much internal struggle, Myra had finally convinced herself that the camp would look good on her rsum and would help her grow artistically as a dancer. Plus, Bo said it would be fun. Hed better be right. More than anything, though, she wanted to feel normal. That was the main reason shed pushed past her fears and applied for camp. Theres the van, said Richard Smallville, a.k.a. Small-Dick to his friends. He was an over-the-top thespian who drove the others nuts with his constant rendition of The Candy Man from Willy Wonka,

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of which he recently had the starring role in their school play. He did a quick little tap dance. I call dibs on the front seat. A white van pulled into the parking lot. The door opened, and a large, tattooed man got out, followed by an official-looking middle-aged woman with red hair and black plastic-rimmed glasses. She was wearing a suit and holding a clipboard. The woman approached the teens. I assume Im at the right place. Is this the Samuel Cartwright School? Yep, SUCS-BAD, said Vincent Van Winkledorf, an overweight magician and clown who spent his time trying to make people laugh, much to the chagrin of the other students who had heard all his jokes and seen his magic tricks at least two dozen times before. Excuse me? the woman replied, brow furrowed. The students laughed. Dont listen to him, said Sam, a blond, cocky student. He stepped forward and held out his hand. Sam Cartwright, grandson of the school founder. Im sorry that my friends have forgot ten their manners. He cast a glare at the group. Myra exchanged an eye roll with Leslie. Sam was so full of himself. He thought he was Gods gift to the universe because he was rich, good-looking, and excelled at extreme sports. He may be the best aerialist in the country, but he was also the most stuck up. On top of it all, he was pressed off center, as Myra called him. He was fascinated with serial killers and all things morbid, and he enjoyed scaring the girls at Cartwright by jumping out of the bushes in a trench coat while holding a bloody knife (ketchupcovered, it was later learned) and wearing a mask from the movie Scream. No, he wasnt right in the head. Myra stayed her distance from him, as did most everyone else. Students only put up with him because he had the power to get anyone thrown out of the school with the snap of his fingers. The woman with the clipboard assessed the group. It looks like all ten of you are here. Im Ms. Dyer, your guide for Cirque du Lune. She adjusted her black plastic-rimmed glasses and passed the clipboard to Myra. Sign next to your name and pass it on. Myra scribbled her name and passed the clipboard to Leslie. Ms. Dyer motioned to the tall, muscular, tattooed man, who was standing off to the side and staring intently at Myra. Let me also introduce you to Ian, one of our stagehands and driver. The tattooed man stepped toward Myra. Hello, lovely. He extended a hand. I must say, you are even more stunning in person than in your headshot. Your hair is the perfect shade of platinum. He had a high-pitched, proper British accent that was startling, given his rough appearance. Every visible part of his skin was tattooed in rich, dark, swirling colors. His entire face and bald head were tattooed as well. Even his lips were inked black. When he blinked, she glimpsed tattooed eyeballs on his eyelids, which gave him an eerie, double-eyed appearance.

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Myra shuddered involuntarily and took a step back. This man was one of the spookiest people shed ever seen. Not wanting to appear rude, however, she tentatively extended her hand. Myra Anderson. The man looked her up and down and grinned. Then he took her hand and kissed it. My Myra. Myra yanked her hand back. Bo moved closer to her, narrowing his eyes. Ms. Dyer approached. All part of the act, children. Dont get alarmed. Ian tends to overdo things. She gave the tattooed man a warning look. We do a lot of method acting at Cirque du Lune. Its part of the interactive experience for the cast and audience. You will get used to it. This last sentence sounded as if it were more of a command than a statement. The tattooed man extended his hand to Bo. You must be Bo. Am I right, old chap? Bo gave a short nod. So I take it you studied the applications? Ian smirked. I was on the review committee, yes. Many of us were. At Cirque du Lune, we all work together. Dont get your knickers in a twist, old chap. Stop calling me old chap, said Bo. Its getting old. No pun intended. Myra and Leslie snickered. Ian shrugged, and then he and Ms. Dyer circled through the group, shaking students hands and introducing themselves. Bo continued to glare at the tattooed man. That freak rubs me the wrong way. Dont get on his bad side, Myra whispered. We all have to live together for three weeks. Leslie leaned in. He sure has eyes for you. She grinned. He must have a thing for blondes. Myra grimaced. Damn that hair color experiment. Shed over-bleached her hair, resulting in a Marilyn-Monroe look that she played up with dark red lipstick. Bo loved it and had convinced her not to dye her hair back to its regular brown color before applying to Cirque du Lune. Shed had her doubts about the submission photo, but Bo had disagreed. It shows your artistic side, hed said. The admissions committee will love it. Obviously they had. Thats all I need, Myra thought. A creepy, sideshow freak with a fixation on me, and my boyfriend ready to start war over it. This was going to be an interesting three weeks. # After a five-hour drive through the rural back-hills roads to the campsite, the van turned down a dirt road at an old Victorian-style hand-painted sign with an arrow, marked Cirque du Lune This Way. Were almost there, Myra said, nudging the sleeping Leslie beside her. Leslie opened her eyes and stretched, then pressed her nose to the smudged window. Wow. Its more isolated than I expected.

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Myra agreed. Throughout the drive, increasingly more rural scenery had passed by, and shed noticed with unease that the van was taking them farther and farther from civilization. The last time shed seen a town or any sign of people had been nearly an hour ago. Leslie gasped and jerked her head back. What? Myra asked. Leslie shook her head and pointed out the window. On the side of the road, a dead deer lay on the ground, disemboweled with its loose entrails infested with flies. Myra squeezed her eyes shut. Damn it. Why did Leslie have to point out things like that? Of all people, she should be more considerate. This was hard enough for Myra without spotting road kill along the way. The van rattled down the dusty dirt road, jostling the students in their torn leather seats. They were surrounded on all sides by barren expanses of land dotted with tall sycamore and pine trees. In the distance rose majestic purple mountains. As the van rumbled past desolate landscape, Myra caught sight of what appeared to be the remnants of an old graveyard. A few weathered, crumbling headstones were barely visible beneath yellow weeds and long curling vines. Beyond the tiny graveyard, an abandoned truck sat decaying, its rusty red-brown exterior blending in with the landscape. It both looked out of place and as if it had been placed there deliberately in order to add to the lonely, desolate, set-like ambience. Next to the truck stood a windmill, so rusty that it looked as though it hadnt moved in centuries. A vulture perched on one of the windmill blades, watching the van as it passed. Myra shuddered. The scenery looked like something out of a Hitchcock movie. She craned her head, trying to catch a glimpse of any civilizationa house or barn, anythingbut all she saw was deserted land and those few decaying remnants of an abandoned life. People used to live out here? she asked half to herself, staring out the window. Ms. Dyer, sitting in a seat facing the students, nodded. Once upon a time, yes. But very few. Its hard living in these parts, way out in the middle of nowhere. It doesnt take long for people to move away, once they get a taste of how difficult life is out here. Thats what the locals tell me, anyway. People learn quickly that civilization is easier than fighting rattlesnakes and coyotes and having to drive hours to the nearest town for supplies. Of course, Cirque du Lune brings our own civilization with us. She smirked and turned back to her clipboard. Myra clasped her sweaty hands together and gazed out at the passing brown and green scenery. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. She hated the idea of being so far away from everything, but there was nothing she could do about it now. She needed to look on the bright side. When was the last time she had been able to spend time out in nature? She had to admit that the rural California desert landscaping was beautiful in its own way. Wild, but beautiful.

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Too remote, though. Way too remote. She took another deep breath, and her nose was accosted by the pungent smell of sweaty socks. Did some jackass take their shoes off in this small of an enclosed space? Probably Winkledorf, always inconsiderate when it came to body odor and flatulence. She frowned and pulled her sweatshirt up over her nose. Soon, she hoped, they would be getting off this van and stepping out into fresh air. Apparently, some of her classmates didnt believe in taking soap to their feet. Someone pressed a firm shoe into the back of Myras seat. Myra tried to ignore it, annoyance rising up. Again, the person pressed. Then the person tapped Myra on the shoulder. Myra turned around. Yes? It was Jaden Beck, sitting next to Vincent Van Winkledorf. Jaden was a dark-skinned, big-boned opera singer who was also vying to become the youngest female bodybuilder to break the national record in weight lifting. She also hoped to qualify for the IWF Youth World Championships. She had her head leaned back against the high seat now. Think theres any mountain lions out here? she asked. Myra shrugged and turned back around. She wasnt going to worry over mountain lions. She already had enough things on her mind. Its almost too rural, muttered Leslie. I didnt expect to be so far away from everything. I hope my cell phone works. Ms. Dyer shook her head. There is no cell phone service out here. That was explained in your information packet. Cirque du Lune prides itself on creating intense experiences. And learning only happens away from all the distractions of real life. We always choose an obscure, rural place to set up our camp. It helps maximize the rehearsal experience, plus the visitors love being out in the middle of nowhere. It adds to the fright factor of our performances. Ian, the tattooed man, guffawed from the drivers seat. Yep, we sure scare the shit out of people. Ms. Dyer frowned. Language, Ian. People travel this far out to see the show? Bo asked from his seat in front of Myra. Those must be some dedicated fans. Ms. Dyer smiled. Oh, our fans are like no others. People travel from all over: other cities, states, and even other countries, just to see us. Of course, there are also the local surrounding towns, as well. Its a world-class experience that theyll probably never have again in their lives. What local towns? Leslie asked. Looks like were in the boondocks to me. Ms. Dyer laughed. In rural areas, a local town can be hours away. Myra and Leslie exchanged a glance.

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How do the people get here? Myra asked. She imagined carloads of visitors driving down this isolated road and then setting up makeshift camps all over the land as if at some Woodstock or Burning Man festival. We bus them in, replied Ms. Dyer. People do expect to travel to see our shows. They stay in the nearby towns, which brings in business for those communities. We provide the transportation to and from the circus, which is included in the ticket price. Its a win-win for everyone. Wow, the tickets must be expensive, Leslie said. But the experience is worth it, Ms. Dyer replied. Im extremely proud of our production and what it has become over the years. Ive been with the company since my twenties. I have helped it grow from a small circus originally founded as a pastime by a talented scientist in postwar Germany, to what it is today. She sat up straighter and gave a proud smile. Its an honor to be part of such an esteemed, worldrenowned organization. And I plan on being with it until the end, which hopefully will be never. Jeez, Winkledorf stage-whispered behind Myra. Shes really drinking the Kool-Aid. A few of the others stifled giggles. The bus came upon a large expanse of iron fence encircling the outer perimeter of a vast parcel of land dotted with shrubs, wild grass, and Sycamore trees. This is our rented Cirque du Lune property, Ms. Dyer continued. We set up the fence for every show we put on, no matter where we are. It keeps our traveling company contained and secure. It also keeps outsiders from infiltrating. You wouldnt believe the lengths people will go to for a free show. A 30-foot fence topped with razor wire? Winkledorf said. Looks like no one will be getting out, either. Right, Myra? He guffawed. Myra cringed, trying to ignore her increased heart rate. She wished her classmates would stop ribbing her about her fears. It was getting old. The bus pulled up in front of a tall gate guarded by a man in a security uniform. A middle-aged blond woman stood next to the gate, holding two large signs. Upon seeing the van, she ran toward them. She jumped in front of the van, shouting and waving her signs. One read, Stop Evil Cirque du Lune! The other sign was an enlarged photo of a young, blond man with a bright smile. Dont go in! the woman shouted at them through the front window, her mouth distorted. It ruined my sons life. Its evil! The guard rushed toward her and yanked her aside. Then he motioned the van forward. The gate opened, and they drove through. The woman could be heard screaming behind them, Your lives will be ruined forever! Dont go in, dont go in! Myra turned to look through the back window. The woman had dropped her signs and was now weeping and clinging to the closing gate, staring after them with a desperate, haunted gaze. The guard pulled her off the gate and gesticulated at her.

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Myra turned back around, shaken. Ms. Dyer cleared her throat. Sorry you had to witness that, kids. That woman is mentally imbalanced. Shes been following our camp everywhere we go. She even showed up at last years show in Paris. The corners of her mouth pulled up into a smirk. But she is good for adding to the ambience. Gets everyone in the right mindset. What was all that about her son? asked Bo. Did he attend this camp? Ms. Dyer nodded, a chagrined look on her face. According to her, he had a bad experience in our U.S. camp ten years ago. We saw no signs of it when he was here, though. Nope, Ian said from behind the wheel. No signs whatsoever. Seems shes blaming the camp for the way she raised her son. Its not our fault he ended up in jail. Jail? asked Vincent Van Winkledorf from the back seat. Whad he do? Ian shrugged. Killed someone or some such thing. Myra and Leslie exchanged a glance. Or some such thing? Was his cavalier attitude part of the method acting? Unfortunate, Ms. Dyer said. The boy apparently had some severe issues that none of us knew about. Did he kill them at camp? Myra asked, her heart rate picking up. Ms. Dyer laughed. Good Lord, no. We have a strict policy about murder. Winkledorf let out a guffaw. I should hope so. The others snickered. Hey, theres the tent, Leslie said, pointing. Spread out over the rugged expanses of land was an enormous red and black circus tent, which seemed to take up the full length of a football field. Atop the tent, pennants attached to gothic spires flowed in the wind like streams of blood. Next to the tent were rows of trailers, busses, semi-trucks, and construction equipment. A metal pen enclosed several large, well-groomed horses and a group of miniature ponies that grazed on hay. Tall mountains and trees rose on all sides, giving the camp an isolated, enclosed feeling. Its huge! Leslie said, awe in her voice. Oh, yes, Ms. Dyer said. This will be our biggest show yet . . . The way she said the last comment sent chills racing along Myras arms. Stop it, Myra. Youre being crazy and paranoid again. Children, gather your things, said Ms. Dyer. We have arrived at Cirque du Lune. Why does she keep calling us children? Leslie muttered. Its annoying. Myra shrugged, tying her sweater around her waist. That was the least of her concerns. Miss Myra? Ian said, appearing at her side. May I help you with your bags? Myra shook her head. No, thank you.

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The tattooed man gave her a long, dark-eyed stare before disappearing out the van door. She gathered her duffel bag and backpack then began the slow shuffle behind her classmates down the black rubber runner in the aisle. Cold air blasted in through the vans open door. Myra paused at the exit, unable to suppress the involuntary shudder that ran down her spine, but someone nudged her forward, down onto the first step. It wasnt just the cold air that caused goosebumps to crop up on her arms. It was something else. A bad feeling. She didnt know who bothered her more: the creepy tattooed guy or the woman with the signs. END SAMPLE Like what youve read here? Buy your copy today! Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Circus-Lost-Souls-Riley-Ford-ebook/dp/B00HF7WG4Y/ Barnes and Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/circus-of-lost-souls-rileyford/1117780952?ean=2940149008179 Kobo Books: http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/circus-of-lost-souls