Charismatic. Devious. Secretive. Emerson Durand is the ringmaster for the illustrious Cirque des Miroirs. In each city he finds a new woman to command for the night. Until he finds the one woman who doesn’t bow to his demands.

Luna Rider soars through the air as an aerial acrobat. She’s determined to provide for herself and her sister, but she doesn’t count on being gambled away. Or the secrets that hover under the striped tent.

Every 1001 Dark Nights novella is a standalone story. For new readers, it’s an introduction to an author’s world. And for fans, it’s a bonus book in the author’s series. We hope you’ll enjoy each one as much as we do.

Excerpt: Blue Moon

Our circus moves around, so we need someone who’s both great and flexible in more ways than one. Luna Rider fits the bill.

There’s only one tiny little problem where she’s concerned.

Her father.

It’s an open secret in the circus world what happened to Luna Rider, how she was scouted for the U.S. Olympic Gymnastics Team before she was even old enough to join the team.

They groomed her for a spot there. Years and years of practice, dedication, skill. It could have led to an entire career. She could have been a household name. And then one day… she stopped. A fall, the rumors speculated. An injury that would preclude her from being at the top. Perhaps, but details never came out. All of those dreams dashed.

Her father owns this circus. He is not precisely known for his geniality, which is especially ridiculous when you consider that he’s also the ringmaster. Sometimes people do both jobs, but it means they’re not doing them both very well.

As the owner of Cirque des Miroirs, Logan plans.

He makes sure that our show is always sharp, that we’re bringing in good money, that we’re taking care of everything that needs to be taken care of.

Meanwhile, the inside of the ring, that’s my domain.

That’s where I rule.

Based on the shoddy condition of the tent and the lean look of the animals, they’re not making good profits at Blue Moon Circus.

Enthusiastic clapping rises when Luna Rider’s name is called. It’s like a flip was switched inside her. One minute she’s a melty, aroused, beautiful little body waiting for me to command, and the next minute she’s an athlete. No, more than that. An athlete is still a person, and she stopped being that.

She became something else instead, an animal, something that can fly, that can soar through the air, defying gravity. That’s the irony of these performances. People come expecting to be surprised, expecting to be impressed.

The bar is already fucking high, and she flew past it.

She has everyone exclaiming, clapping, crying out, cheering for her.

Every person in the stands holds their breath, roots for her.

I stand backstage and watch her soar through the air, my heart in my throat. She’s a goddamn professional. That’s why I’m here, to scout her, and yet there’s a knot in my throat when she does the triple somersault.

Most of her flips rely on her arm strength, something I recognize because I’ve seen enough acts like this. There’s one part where she catches herself by her feet, her toes pulled back, forming a little hook that she uses to swing on the wooden bar.

I wince, knowing how excruciating that would be for someone to hold their body weight that way as inertia pulls them away. It would hurt for anyone, but for someone nursing an old injury, brutal. If she were mine, I wouldn’t let her do that trick.

There are others just as impressive that she can do without having to hurt herself every night. She’s not mine, but that’s going to change.

I watch the rest of the show, my fist clenched around a board near me, my knuckles white. Her skill is undeniable, as is her passion, her talent. There’s almost an otherworldly ability of hers to fly through the air as if gravity doesn’t apply to her. But I also see all of the danger, all of the risk, the way her entire routine is based on doing the most dangerous stunts back-to-back, again and again. I notice the way the net underneath her doesn’t look new or very well secured. There are no spotters. I doubt there’s even a medic on staff, no one to help if she went tumbling twenty, thirty feet to the ground.

I’m going to own her.

I decide it right there and then, as the crowd practically swoons at what looks like a near miss but is actually perfect execution. I’m going to own her for more than just Cirque des Miroirs’s new act.

She’s going to be mine in every sense of the word—under me, around me.

I’m going to know every nuance of her skin, every bruise and scar, every muscle that twitches. I watch through the end of the show until her solo act is finished.