The circus swallowed sound wrong.

That was the first thing Adrian noticed after they crossed the gate.

Not silence.

Silence would have been kinder.

This place took sound and bent it. Their footsteps sank into damp ground and came back a second too late. The torn tent fabric whispered without wind. The old carnival lights flickered in dying yellow pulses, and every time that thin, cheerful circus melody started up again, it sounded like it was coming from three different places at once.

Ahead of them, the dead midway stretched between rotting game booths, collapsed railings, and little trailers with painted stars peeling from their sides. A rusted popcorn cart sat tipped over in the mud. A stuffed bear with one button eye lay half-buried near a puddle gone black with old rainwater.

And somewhere deeper in the grounds, something laughed.

Dean immediately lifted his blade.

“Nope.”

“That is not a useful tactical statement,” Sam said, voice thinner than he wanted.

“It is emotionally accurate.”

Adrian kept Vlyluna close as they moved, one arm still around her waist because she had finally asked to be put down but not far down. Not independent and fearless down. More like walk beside me and do not let go down.

He was not complaining.

Not even a little.

On the other side, Sam Ross was still pressed near Dean John’s side, and Dean John had adjusted without comment into full protective mode—one hand low at his husband’s back, the other holding a blade ready. Dean had done the same with Sam, though with less elegance and more open possessiveness. Sam’s fingers were wrapped around Dean’s sleeve now, and Dean, to his credit, did not laugh once.

Not anymore.

The teasing had died at the gate.

Because the deeper they went, the worse it became.

The circus knew exactly what frightened them.

Not in a vague haunted way.