Chapter 54: Clown
The black mist and the grim memories of his sins, made real before his eyes. Scaramuccia closed his eyes and let the truth of his connection to the Devil's Cult come out — because he was nothing more than another one of those damned killers.
That revelation made Bonnie tighten her grip on the reins, shattering the awful calm she had forced herself to project. After glancing at Marcus — who seemed to have understood what was hidden in her eyes — she looked at Scaramuccia over her shoulder. Her heart burned with the flames of frustration and trauma, but through all of it, she could only say:
"Keep going."
The jester's voice trembled — but this time he didn't hesitate. Cornered, he said:
"I was an assassin who belonged to the Commedia dell'arte — a sub-faction of killers within the Cult responsible for eliminating its enemies."
The horse gradually slowed, but Scaramuccia, eyes closed, didn't notice. Marcus kept pace with them, lasso still in hand, waiting for his opening to complete the hunt.
To the rhythm of the ride, Scaramuccia opened his eyes.
"I had to kill a handful of nobles along the way while performing on the great stages of that country," he lifted his head and looked at Bonnie. "But that's all I did! I was never directly involved with the ones performing the rituals — I even fled to this country to stay as far away from all of it as possible!"
The horse stopped. Scaramuccia realized what was happening.
"What… what are you doing?"
Marcus watched them in silence. Bonnie said:
"Keep going."
The jester was confused. Hadn't Bonnie said she'd help him escape if he talked? His mistake was believing it would actually work out that way. Bonnie's expression showed a tangible darkness. There was so much desperation in those eyes — but also a great burning flame of anger that seemed to want to incinerate Scaramuccia on the spot.
"But this isn't—"
"Keep going," Bonnie repeated.
Scaramuccia looked up at the stars, his breathing unsteady. It took him a few seconds to process the "betrayal" before, surrendering at last, he said:
"The circus owner — a member of the Devil's Cult — found me and forced me to perform. While I distracted everyone with my act, others were taking the girls for the rituals of the Third Stigma of the Devil's Ballad."
Scaramuccia clenched his fists.
"You lied to me."
Bonnie looked away and answered flatly:
"And you let them die."
The sheriff looped his lasso around Scaramuccia and yanked hard, pulling him off and dropping him to the ground with a dull thud. The jester groaned — but with no strength left, he simply lay there, looking up at the sky in silence. His clothes dirty, torn, and soaked in blood. His makeup smeared by misfortune. His face hollowed out into an expression of pure exhaustion and pain.
Lying on the damp earth, a small laugh escaped him. Then it grew into something between a cackle and a cough. There where his body lay in ruin, he pulled out one of his knives, raised it above himself with both hands, and aimed it at his own throat.
"Laugh, clown — and the world will applaud."
Before the jester's hands could drop and bring his own misery to an end, Marcus delivered a sharp kick to his head, knocking him out instantly. The knife fell to one side, and Scaramuccia's half-open eyes found Bonnie's gaze one last time — a gaze full of guilt staring back at him.
She looked at him with guilt, yes — but in the end, this was what he deserved.
'Death would be too much consolation for the guilt you'll have to carry,' she thought — but her breathing was unsteady. 'This was the only way.'
She settled back into her saddle, but that man and his lasso pulled her attention back. Of course — it was time to face judgment for what she'd done. But Bonnie hoped her luck would hold. As the coyotes watched from the distance, Marcus finished tying Scaramuccia with the rope and said:
"So. You got in the way of my work." A deliberate pause, like he was trying to intimidate Bonnie with his rough-edged stare. "If you know who I am, you know the trouble you've walked into. And don't even think about running. My hand and my gun will be faster than your horse at this distance."
'Yeah. I know,' she thought, and stepped down from her horse.
"It was never my intention to interfere with a sheriff's work — but this person had information I needed no matter what. Once I'd interrogated him, I planned to drop him off my horse so you could capture him."
Marcus studied her for a few seconds without looking away.
"Hmm… I see… What's your name, girl? No lying."
'My name. Huh… I suppose this name doesn't mean much anymore at this point.'
"I'm Bonnie Jones."
"Jones, huh. Where are you from?"
"Ironwood, in Warlock County. I was… Nicolás Jones's daughter."
The sheriff raised his eyebrows, visibly surprised. Then he hoisted Scaramuccia onto his horse and let out a brief laugh.
"Hilarious."
"What?"
"I find it curious how a girl with her whole future handed to her on a silver platter ended up as a follower of the Outlaw's Ballad."
"It's something that just happened," she answered, eyes on the ground. She couldn't shake the memories of how her story as an outlaw had started. Maybe she never would.
Marcus sighed, looking at Scaramuccia face-down across the horse.
"Things that happen, things that don't. I think you already figured this out — but your escape abilities amplified alongside the clown's. It surprised me that you were able to use someone else to your advantage even when you were cornered. What I mean is — you do know I could have killed you both from the very start?"
"I suppose."
"I was ordered to bring the clown in alive, which meant killing you was of no consequence to me. Don't take it personally — it's part of the job. I tend to try to be too efficient and this is the result."
"And now? What's supposed to happen?"
"Ah, right. You'll come back with me to Dustfall. You're under arrest," Marcus concluded, stepping in front of Bonnie and looking her directly in the eyes.
This time she didn't flinch. She held his gaze with composure.
'Of course. I knew this was going to happen. But…'
Her pockets were full.
"Is there a way I might be able to walk away from this? Maybe you'd be interested in money."
While he was still coiling the lasso, that suggestion caught his attention. Marcus adjusted his hat, his eyes glowing with his Ballad.
"…money, huh. Go on."
'Is he serious? That easy?'
She nearly choked on her own surprise at how quickly the man had responded — but she forced herself to keep her composure and not let her own stumbling ruin the moment.
'No, wait. This is my opening!'
She reached toward the money pouch on her horse. Marcus watched her every move, waiting for a betrayal or something like it — but when Bonnie pulled out the pouch, the sheriff let out a small laugh.
"So you're serious. Alright then — let's do business, girl. What are your terms? I'll put down mine."
"A dancing monkey that works for bananas is the one that doesn't go hungry, isn't it?"
"You know how this works."
Bonnie tightened her grip on the pouch. She had earned this money by selling what little remained of her life as Nicolás Jones's daughter. She had hoped to negotiate — but the Sheriff's eyes were already on everything she had.
'It's a small price to pay…'
She tossed the pouch.
"That's everything I have. I hope you find something nice to spend it on."
Marcus caught the money in one hand.
"Heavy thing. You've been sitting on quite a haul. I think that'll be enough to let you go for tonight — but if I see you again, don't doubt for a second that I can arrest or kill you without hesitation. Girl or old man, outlaws are the poison of humanity and they need to be exterminated."
Strong words that made Bonnie question whether she should spend another second standing in front of this man. To her good fortune, it was Marcus who climbed back onto his horse with a single effortless leap that made it look easy, and without even glancing back at her, disappeared into the darkness of the night — the sound of his horse's hooves fading after him.
She let out a tired sigh and pressed her forehead against Capella's side.
"Oh, my girl. Tonight was absolutely insane."
She let herself drop to her knees. Her breathing trembling. The full weight of everything she had done faded out gradually — but the bitter aftertaste stayed, like cold fingers pressing into her thoughts, stirring around inside her skull and grinding everything down.
With no strength left to stand, she let herself fall back on the ground and looked up at the stars.
Capella whinnied beside her. She even stepped a little away from Bonnie to avoid kicking her by accident — a remarkably thoughtful gesture that Bonnie had already come to expect from such an extraordinary mare.
And there, a new thought surfaced — one far from anything she could have imagined of herself.
"I betrayed someone…"
A clown, prisoner of his own cowardice, his sins, and the blood spread across his hands — betrayed by a killer. Wasn't that ironic? Even if he deserved it for participating in acts that horrifying, it was genuinely ironic — to Bonnie, it was. But despite all that, she felt like she wanted to cry. The tears never came, though.
It was that feeling trapped in the throat — fighting to get out, but caught behind everything else.