All with dates and places that were smears in his memory.
The spiked iron hoops of the show routine spun in his mind; he dreamed constantly of leaping through them when he twitched in his cage at night.
The show this evening had been particularly cruel. The Wolf Queen, or Switchblade Sally, as the Ringmaster affectionately called her, had driven the hounds relentlessly through their paces with her whip, sending them through rings of fire, forcing them to dance on their hind legs until their hearts nearly burst. At the end, as was customary, the lights were dimmed and modesty screens brought to the center of the ring where he had collapsed in exhaustion.
The hound had seen her do this many times to his comrades, but this was a first for him. She advanced, her crystal-blue eyes gloating over his powerlessness. From the ruffles at her bosom, she withdrew a phial of glimmering green dust. He knew the name of it, though he did not know how he knew.
Myth.
“Behold!” the Ringmaster called from the darkness. “The true form of the Wolf Queen’s servant!”
She flicked the dust with gloved fingers and the sparkling net settled over him, digging into his fur like tiny shards of glass. His howl of agony ripped and stretched into a gasp as he rose, naked and shivering, on human legs. None could see his nakedness save her; only his silhouette was visible to the audience through the modesty screens.
She smirked at how he tried to hide himself, and memory knifed him—of sitting above this woman, as on a throne, watching her perform an acrobatic routine for him. How her final bow had been accompanied by this selfsame smirk and how, even then, though he had struggled not to show it, he’d been vastly discomfited by her.
In that moment he realized several things:
• He was not entirely a hound.
• He was also not entirely human.
• He and his comrades were being held against their will.
• He was from another world.
• He had known the Ringmaster and Switchblade Sally in that other world, and they were dangerous.
Then he’d crashed to the dirt again amid shouts and fainting in the stands.
The show was over now, and he was a hound again, bound by the rough magic the Ringmaster and Switchblade Sally used to keep all their mythical acts under control. The other hounds were busy licking savaged flanks or seared paws, some whining at the pain.
The scarred hound alone was silent. He did not know who he was or how he’d come here, but he knew two things: he had to escape. And he needed to help the others escape as well.
His opportunity came sooner than he expected. When the train rolled to a stop and the doors were thrown open, Switchblade Sally entered. Her spiked collar fanned about her like the predatory frill of some ancient lizard, and her black hair was piled in an elaborate tower from which people and animals leaped on tiny golden chains.
“The parade commences in five minutes,” she said. “You will surround me and walk with me as loyal subjects should. Anyone who defies me will live to regret it.”
She carried jeweled collars in her hands which probably looked unremarkable to the circus crowds, but the green jewels inset in the collars glowed in the dim train car, promising pain if any of the hounds attempted to break ranks in the parade.
The scarred hound growled softly as she approached him, but when her icy gaze fell on him, he went silent. His muzzle bore the lash of her whip, and he knew she would not hesitate to use it again. She hurried through getting the collar on him, barely fastening the buckle. He smelled fear and apprehension on her. Something was wrong.
When the last hound was collared, she turned toward the platform, waiting for the signal from the goons for them all to disembark.
As he walked stiffly down the gangplank, the scarred hound looked beyond his mistress’s shoulder to the plaque on the wall.
London: Paddington Station, the sign said.
London. London. The name echoed in his skull and brought with it images of himself and an auburn-haired girl and… a tiny sprite running through gloomy streets like these. Only they were not quite these streets, were they?
He followed the grand parade as it circled off the platform, through the station, and out onto the street. Bobbies used their billy clubs with aplomb, cursing as they were forced to stop carriages and carts and hold back the crowd that formed quickly along either side of the thoroughfare.
The hound was used to the shouts and pointing, the wild waving of children in awe of the elephants lumbering through the damp chill of their city streets. None of this frightened or agitated him now as it once had. But the feel of the loose collar, knowing it would easily come apart if he could just dig it off with a paw, was maddening. He wondered what Switchblade Sally feared so much that she had been this careless—surely not him.
Clowns and acrobats leaped and pirouetted up and down the parade line, handing out cards and posters and sometimes sweets to the little hands that reached eagerly for them.
He wondered what the children would think if they knew what those performers actually were, and what many of the veiled circus carts truly contained. He wondered what the parents would think if they knew the sweets were laced with myth, compelling those who ate them to follow the circus wherever it went.
In most circuses, the fantastic was portrayed only through sleights of hand; it was all illusion work. But in this circus, there were no illusions. The mermaids who stared lifelessly out of the lumbering aquatic carts were real. A team of bedraggled unicorns pulled a yawning manticore through the streets. A sullen harpy glared from her perch. The only limit to the show was the beholder’s ability to believe their own eyes.
One of the great aquatic carts got stuck as it passed from the cobbled street to the bridge over the great, stinking river that wound through the city’s heart.
The entire procession shuddered to a halt. To keep the crowd from becoming focused on the stuck cart, the clowns performed an impromptu acrobatics display, and sticky-faced children screamed with delight.
The hound sat and pulled at the collar first with one paw, then with the other. When he realized everyone was watching the acrobats, he lay on the ground and inserted both paws while the others watched him listlessly.
The buckle loosened and then fell away. He went to his nearest companion and began worrying at his collar. Then another and another, until at last, exposure to the magic in the collars stung him with the force of a hundred bees. He yelped, and the final hound looked at him mournfully.
Go.
The scarred hound bowed his head, lowering his ears in sorrow. I will return for you. I swear it.
His companion bowed to him and turned away.
The other hounds had already disappeared into the crowd. The scarred hound ran next to the unicorns, gnawing through their traces until they could pull free. The harpy begged him for help from her wheeled cage, but he had no key.
I will return for you, he repeated.
For that, he knew, was his mission. To free his companions from slavery, and perhaps return magic to a world that had once known it.
He nipped at the jesses of a molting phoenix who huddled on a goon’s fist, and though he could scarcely feel his mouth, he chewed through the muzzle of the golden sphinx.
He did not stop to watch as they took flight. He ran through the ensuing chaos, making straight for the bridge.
As he came alongside the stuck cart, one of the mermaids saw her chance. The glorious arc of her tail curved over him as she leaped from the caravan. She did not quite make the railing, though, and crashed to the cobblestones in front of him.