In this lush and terrifying debut—perfect for readers of The Hunger Games and Children of Blood and Bone—Camila Victoire creates a future where cruelty and spectacle hold the keys to subjugating humans on a ravaged earth.

At the end of the twenty-first century, climate change and famine almost ended humanity—until the discovery of the Klujns, a barbaric, humanoid species with strangely colored eyes and even stranger abilities. Their crystal claws and bones fertilize barren soil, and their tender meat is a super-protein. Klujns are both humans’ saviors and natural-born enemies, meant to be hunted and used.

When sixteen-year-old Ava finds herself on the wrong side of a military fence erected to protect the North American Territory, she’s captured by Klujns and made to participate in the Blood Race, a macabre tradition where young human hostages compete to the death for Klujn amusement. At first, she is terrified, but as Ava observes Klujn behavior that contradicts what she’s learned, she begins to wonder: Are Klujns as different as she was led to believe? And, as she fights for her life, does it matter?

Inspired by four years on the road with a traveling circus, where the word itself embodies an entire culture built on dark spectacle, Camila Victoire delivers a twisted coming-of-age tale that combines elements of fantasy, magical realism, and suspense. Blood Circus will capture fans of Suzanne Collins’s The Hunger Games and Tomi Adeyemi’s Children of Blood and Bone. Its masterful worldbuilding, plot twists, and boundary-pushing Blood Race are wholly immersive—and compel readers to call their own long-held assumptions, values, and belief systems into question.

Excerpt

I hear a woman’s heartbeat, racing fast, like an ominous drum. Boom, boom, boom. I’m tucked inside a blanket, nuzzled against her chest. My eyes are open, gazing up at a dark moonless sky. It hangs above my head like a lake in the night. Deep, still, devoid of life.

As she runs, I hear her breathing—rapid, sharp. A prey animal being chased by a predator. But where are we? And what are we running from?

The forest is almost pitch-black. Thick, pungent smoke fills my lungs and stings my eyes. I cry. The shrill, terrified cry of a baby who doesn’t understand.

“Shhh,” the woman says quietly. Nevertheless, her voice is frantic, desperate.

We reach a small clearing by the edge of a cliff and the woman comes to a stop. Down below, a river rages—a deafening soundtrack of white whirling water. She speaks again, this time to someone else, then leans down toward me, her face coming closer but never in focus. I take in the hood of her coat, her long brown hair, her dark blue eyes and curved eyebrows. The woman’s lips press against my forehead in an abbreviated kiss. Then, she throws me over the edge, deep into the jowls of the waiting current.

I’m falling.

* * *

I awake to find I’m in my room. It’s dark. A moon lamp glows on the wall, the only source of light. My pajama shirt is drenched in sweat, my bare legs tangled in bedsheets. A nightmare. Haven’t had one of those in a while.

I get out of bed, walk over to the window, and draw open the blackout curtains. Bright light floods in, blinding me, sharp and unexpected. After a moment, my eyes adjust to the new day outside. It can’t be morning already; I still feel so tired.

The sun is strong but hidden behind gray clouds. In the summer the clouds are always darker, pregnant with ash, as the burning season devastates the south. Winds carry the evidence north to where we are. It’s why the trees in the woods look the way they do, wearing coats of cinder like the mourning wear black.

Our house faces north. Down in the front yard, Diana, my adoptive mother, is already hard at work in her glass-walled greenhouse, her natural hair pulled back into a ponytail. The greenhouse is shaped like a hexagon, filled with ponds of algae, small trees, and wilted plants of different kinds. A little white robot rolls around the dry earth, pollinating flowers. Diana had designed it when she got tired of the tedious labor. There used to be insects whose job it was to do that—bees, they were called—but they went extinct long before I was born. Luckily, science has an answer to almost any problem.

Behind the greenhouse, a few hundred feet into the charcoal forest and across the river, stands the tall electric barbed-wire wall that separates us from the Deeper Woods. Klujn territory. A region of the Boreal—North America’s largest remaining forest—that stretches across the entire continent and up to Arctica. When my brother Mercy and I used to play hide-and-seek as kids, I would always hide down there. On our side of the fence, of course. Mercy was too scared to even venture past the yard. After a while, when he got really upset, I would emerge from the forest—sporting black palms, a black dress, and a triumphant grin on my face. Then Mercy would tell on me and I would get the usual lecture. My childhood was one big cautionary tale. Don’t go too far. Don’t touch the fence. If you so much as take one step on the other side . . .

Like a hungry Klujn was waiting with an open mouth.

I watch Diana as she rakes the soil, mixes in compost, and carefully plants seedlings. Then she whispers under her breath. I’ve heard her; it’s almost like a prayer, begging the earth to respond, to nurture plants where plants can no longer grow.

When soil dies, it becomes dirt, and dirt can’t foster life. It’s as barren as an ocean without fish or a sky without stars. By the time humans realized the importance of sustainable farming—that only healthy, living soil could yield crops and feed the planet—it was already too late. Food couldn’t grow anymore, and famine prevailed. Almost everything has to be grown indoors now, in big industrial Greenhouses with precious fertile soil, away from bugs and thieves and volatile weather. They grow meat there, as well.

There is only one thing that can bring it all back to life: pulverized Klujn claws and bones. Mixed with the dead earth, it rejuvenates the soil and makes it arable again. But only Grouse’s Military has access. Klujns are still too rare, and their precious land dangles out of reach; so close and yet so difficult to find.

None of this matters to Diana, who is vegetarian, and who insists that we eat only what we grow ourselves. My seitan sandwiches and misshapen apples and popped quinoa make me a laughingstock at school, where everyone eats the same foods from the Greenhouses: pigs in a blanket, cured meat sandwiches, and cream-filled donuts. The salty and sweet and delicious tastes.

Diana finishes her morning ritual, wipes her hands on her patchwork overalls, and picks up her wicker basket. She leaves the greenhouse and closes the door, locks all three locks on her way out, rights the crooked Thieves Will Be Shot sign, and heads toward the porch. Past the outdoor staircase to her left that descends into George’s basement study—a cabinet of curiosities with its old yellowed maps and dusty books and strange artifacts. The front door creaks open and she’s inside.

“Ava!” Diana calls. “Time to get up!”

I walk into the bathroom I share with Mercy and turn on the shower. The same reflection as always greets me in the mirror. Short brown curly hair. Olive skin. Brown eyes, speckled like a connect-the-dots puzzle. The sleeves of the nightshirt cover my arms; everything I own has long sleeves. I look at the familiar scar on my right hand, the outline of a wolf bite that’s been there for as long as I can remember.

The shower, as always, is lukewarm. The water-level indicator next to the shampoo rack reads low. I set the timer to three minutes, the longest we’re allowed. It’s never enough. I zone out, my mind goes dans la lune, as Diana calls it, which in her native French means “in the moon.”

I dream of travel. But where would I go? You need permits to get through Military checkpoints. Even then, I don’t know anyone outside Red River.

All logic aside, I like to fantasize about the ocean. About burying my toes in warm sand and letting the sun bronze my skin. Breathing in that salty air. Then the timer sounds, my water allowance runs out, and the cold hits me like a tidal wave.

My room is even colder.

First period is Combat class, so I slip into my gym uniform. Dark blue sweatpants, T-shirt, and a matching sweater with a silver triangle emblazoned on the back. Last and most important, I reach into my jewelry box for the pendant George, my adoptive father, gave me on my last birthday.

“It’s the claw of a young female,” he had said, clipping the rose gold chain around my neck. “Taken from its finger before it had a chance to emerge. That’s why it’s so clear. We call it virgin crystal.”

The curved crystal is small but surprisingly heavy. Clear as a spring sky before the burning season starts. When you hold it up to the light, it’s as if the crystal contains a rainbow inside it—glowing red, green, purple, and gold. “Best not show it off,” George told me, and winked, an unusual mix of kindness and melancholy in his bright green eyes. “It’s extremely rare. People will be jealous.”

I swore that I would keep it hidden, but the promise has been difficult to keep. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever owned in all my sixteen years.

“Ava!” Diana yells again, her patience thin as an ice cap. “It’s twenty to nine!”

I switch off my moon lamp and go downstairs, shrugging my backpack onto my shoulders.

When I reach the bottom landing, a delicious smell greets me. Diana stands in the kitchen, spatula in hand, as strips of a white-colored bacon sizzle in a pan. But that doesn’t make sense. She doesn’t eat meat, and the rest of us only eat it when we can afford it. Even then, it’s usually chicken.

“Happy Hunter’s Day to you, too,” I say, trying to steal a piece, but Diana swats my hand away. A small TV, muted for the commercial break, glows at the end of the breakfast bar next to the telephone. “Where’s Mercy?”

“He left already,” Diana says. “I don’t want him getting in trouble with Mr. Mogel because you can’t be ready on time.”

“I didn’t sleep well. I started having nightmares . . .” I trail off, feeling Diana’s eyes on the back of my neck. “It’s nothing,” I add, before she has the chance to worry. I fill up my water glass, take the purification wand and stir it around for ten seconds. Beep. Safe to drink, it reads in green, and I take a sip. I notice a large lump on the breakfast bar, wrapped in recycled paper. “What’s with the mystery package?”

“It’s for tonight. Your father’s friend sent it over.”

“General Santos?” I ask, but I don’t need an answer. The vein in Diana’s temple is a dead giveaway. It always pulses when his name is mentioned. George and Rodrigo Santos go way back—back to the three years of mandatory Military training they served before George became a Klujn expert and Santos became a Hunter. He now holds the highest rank, just under Grouse, and operates a Loudhouse on the other side of Tremble Hills—those black brick buildings where Klujns are bred and harvested. He generously sends us kanum now and then—that’s Klujn meat—because my dad had to retire from the Military before he could get his pension. He teaches now, and there aren’t a whole lot of luxuries you can afford on a teacher’s salary.

I look back at the bacon in the pan, realizing what it is.

“Rodrigo’s going to drop by later, before your father and Mercy leave for Hunter’s Camp,” Diana continues. “And you know what they say—it’s rude to send gifts back.”

The commercial break ends and she unmutes the TV. It’s Sabah Strongman’s morning show. A guest speaker dissects a diagram of the moon’s cycles like a weather forecaster describing an imminent storm.

“Everybody should be on high alert tonight,” says the expert, in his smart blue suit. “Klujn activity usually heightens around the waxing gibbous phase in the days leading up to the October Blood Moon. I know it’s easy to get caught up in Hunter’s Day celebrations, but tonight isn’t the night to drink too much homemade lumber liquor and go wandering in the woods. Not that there is ever a good time for that.”

“Surely they won’t cross over onto our side of the fence?” Sabah says dramatically, as her audience members shift uncomfortably in their seats. “I mean, it’s happened before.”

“These tend to be isolated cases,” says the expert. “In the last few decades, Klujns have mostly respected the fences. However, people should remain on the safer side of caution.”

“Waxing gibbous,” the words roll off my tongue. Last year, we learned about the moon’s phases in our Klujnology prep class. We learned about the Blood Race, too—a gruesome fight to the death between a human and a Klujn. Apparently, more girls get captured every year than boys; the ratio is almost ten to one. Nobody knows why Klujns prefer girls. Some say it’s because we’re easier to catch. That we put up less of a fight.

On TV, they move on to news about Atoll Grouse who, after thirty-three years of presidency, denies a fresh wave of rumors concerning his declining health. He was inaugurated at a young age, after his father died, and for the last three decades he has been hard at work. Grouse addresses the media and a crowd of his loyal supporters outside the Silver House in Mission Creek, a few hours southeast of Red River. He is a handsome man in his midfifties, with graying chestnut curls and sparkling auburn eyes that radiate warmth like a fireplace in a log cabin.

“In the last hundred years, we were abandoned by God,” he says, his warm voice full of a conviction that puts me at ease. “When God turned the weather on us, we were forced to abandon religious faith and pick up weapons. Ever since, we have fought a constant war against Mother Nature, and more recently, against Klujns. Today, we celebrate the last Hunt before the long winter. More importantly, we celebrate the strength and resilience of man, the most successful species who has ever walked the earth. Because we are our own gods now.” The crowd cheers. A reporter inquires about the lack of profitable raids in the last few months. “We are ready to launch new technology that has been in development for years,” Grouse announces with a grin that exposes straight white teeth. A crystal stud decorates each of his canines. “It will be crucial in infiltrating Klujn tribes and getting past their complex camouflage. Another raid means more soil, more crystals, and more meat. More meat means repopulation; it means no more one-child policy. Our economy will soar, soar, soar . . .”

At these words, the crowd goes wild. It’s pandemonium.

“They’re like babies excited by flashing lights,” Diana says flatly. “Without understanding the mechanics of electricity.” She turns off the TV.

“I was watching that,” I tell her. Instead of answering, she turns to the kitchen counter, unwraps the mass of recycled paper and a bald lump falls out. It looks like a headless turkey, but with softer skin. It’s young kanum, a delicacy.

Diana slices the kanum open and fills it with the white bacon she’d already cooked up, along with a buttery herb stuffing. She closes it back up with a needle and edible thread, glazes it with oil, and slides the pan into the oven.

“It looks disgusting raw,” I say.

“It’s your saving grace,” she answers, tight-lipped. “It’s worth a season’s wages, and your father’s fortunate enough to get it for free.” She has a sour look on her face, or maybe it’s sadness. I realize I don’t know which Diana I prefer: the one who’s on my case about being late for school, or the one who vanishes inside herself, forgetting I’m even there at all.

Diana takes off her rubber gloves, wipes down the breakfast bar, and reaches for the wicker basket. She looks inside, and her shoulders slump. The harvest is small and lacks vibrancy: a few carrots, potatoes, onions, radishes, mustard greens, and a small handful of berries.

“To think there was a day when our blueberries came from Peru and our mangoes from India,” she sighs.

“Where’s Peru?”

“It was a country in the South American Territory. Don’t you take geography?”

“The maps we study in class don’t go down that far.” I reach for the berries, but Diana swats my hand away.

“They’re for tonight.”

“Mercy and I are going to the fair,” I tell her.

“Mercy has to pack,” she says, with the usual edge. “The buses leave at nine.”

“He packed a week ago.”

“I don’t want you out after dark. It’s not safe.”

“Everyone in this township owns a gun,” I say.

“This time of the moon cycle, you shouldn’t be taking any chances.” Diana begins to peel an onion.

“Hunter’s Day only happens once a year,” I plead, not telling her the real reason I’m so keen to go: rumor has it there’s going to be a real live Klujn at the festival this year.

“I don’t care! ” Diana’s yell brings me back to earth, like a lasso around a Klujn’s neck. Her words pull me down to the ground and leave me there. Her eyes are fixed on the cutting board. They’re not looking at it, but beyond it. At what? Dans la lune.

“I want you back before sundown,” she says after a moment, her voice eerily low now, the warning in it more present than ever. “Have I made myself clear?”

“Crystal,” I mutter. I grab my electric longboard and head out. Stop at the door and turn around. Diana begins to chop her onion. There are tears in her eyes.

“What’s gotten into you?” I ask.

“Onions,” she mutters, but she refuses to look me in the eyes.

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About the Author

Camila Victoire is a French Canadian / Australian novelist and screenwriter currently based in Montreal. She toured for four years with a circus before going to study writing for film and TV at the Vancouver Film School, from which she graduated in 2015. The daughter of two performance artists, she is a born nomad. Her stories are nourished by her adventures, from exploring the haunted forests of Transylvania to venturing deep into the jungles of Peru. This is her first novel.