Magician's Muse (20 page)

The night sky was alight with millions of twinkling stars, the air refreshed and washed from hours of rain. A crescent moon lit up the night almost as brightly as a full moon, casting shadows from trees that shifted in the breeze.

Grey held a torch, not a flashlight like normal people, and beamed it in front of us. When I slowed my steps, he nudged me to move faster. I was surprised when we passed the main house and continued down a path I hadn’t seen before. Wildflowers and fruit trees bordered the path, but I couldn’t appreciate their beauty. I had a surreal sense of not actually being in my own body, as if I was hovering above and watching the scared girl in the red wig.

Anger flared in me. I would not give in. When it came time to drink the poison, I’d fling it in Genevieve’s face and run off the stage. Everyone would be startled, and I could get away before Grey aimed his knife.

I glanced down and saw yellow wildflowers. I shivered, because they reminded me of the deadly brew Genevieve had waiting for me. Then I stumbled to the ground. Grey’s bony hands grabbed me right away and lifted me up—but not before I’d snatched a bunch of the yellow flowers and crumpled them into my pocket.

We came to a barn-like structure that was shaded dark green, like the forest, so that it blended in almost invisibly. Lanterns twinkled on each side of the door and moths fluttered near the light. Genevieve would be like a bright light tonight, surprising and delighting an audience who expected little of a woman. I’d sympathized with her, and wanted her to find success. But not like this.

Genevieve was waiting for us. I walked stiffly down a high-ceilinged hallway with her on one side and Grey on the other. We passed vintage posters of famous magicians who stared down at me. A mirror with an ornate frame reflected my fears, and I hardly recognized the red hair, startling red lips, shadowed eyes, and flowing gown that befitted this magician’s assistant.

We entered a large theater, and the pounding of my heart merged with an excited buzz of voices. Tiered seats swept down to a stage.

“Thank you, Grey,” Genevieve said, giving him a hug. “Wish me luck.”

“Of course,” he said with a slight bow.

“I’m only the opening act,” she said, with a nervous purse of her lips. “You and Josh are the stars tonight. Josh is a sweet boy but I’m rooting for you. You’ve been such a help to me.”

“It’s an honor to serve Master Arturo’s wife. Go out there and knock them dead.”

I flinched at his words.

Genevieve’s face glowed as she clasped Grey’s hand. “This is it!”

“I’ll be watching closely to make sure there are no problems.” He turned to me, his twisted lips menacing. “Josh saved me a seat beside him in the front row.”

Translation: If you screw up, Josh feels my knife.

The lights in the theater dimmed. With all eyes on us, Genevieve and I made our entrance.

Her jeweled cape flew out behind her as we descended the stairs. As we reached the bottom of the seats and climbed up the four steps to the stage, I got a close look at what awaited me—red candles glowing in a circle around a raised altar, and crystals glittering on a high canopy above. As I stepped onto an ornamental rug of stars and half-moon symbols, my stomach lurched with dread.

My vision was coming true.

Although I couldn’t see Zathora, I sensed her presence. She was hovering invisibly, waiting to make her own entrance. I looked around desperately for an exit, but there was only the main entrance and a side door off the stage—which led either to freedom or to a dressing room. Still, it gave me hope.

Genevieve gestured for me to sit down in a royal-blue velvet chair at the side of the raised altar. I hesitated, unsure whether to keep playing along or make a break for the side door. With an audience of at least fifty men watching my every move, one of them wielding a cache of knives, I didn’t argue.

“Welcome lad—I mean, gentlemen,” Genevieve announced, projecting her voice so big that she didn’t need a microphone. “You all know me as Master Arturo’s wife and assistant, but tonight I will startle and surprise you.”

A few men nodded, but most sat stoically with amused expressions. These cloaked men were humoring her like she was a cute pet doing tricks. I almost felt sorry for Genevieve, trying so hard to fit in among these chauvinists. But it was hard to sympathize with someone who planned to poison you.

She went on to speak about the history of magicians, citing instances where women proved themselves as competent as men. I shut her out and swept my gaze across the stage. When I saw the goblet and the small gold vial next to it, my breath caught. It wasn’t too far away from me, no more than four feet. I knew that the poison wouldn’t be added to the juice until the last moment. I reached into my pocket, fingering the crumbling wildflowers. If I could just create a diversion so I could swap the harmless wildflower dust with the golden poison.

Genevieve’s voice rose dramatically now as she offered compliments and jokes with the familiarity of long-established friendships. Arturo stood up to praise his wife for her hard work. But he didn’t sound very convincing, like he was only humoring her and expected her to bomb.

I spotted Josh and Grey a few seats down. Josh caught my gaze and gestured a thumbs-up. The way his gaze lingered on me was more personal, haunted with regret. But I couldn’t think about that now, not when Grey sat beside him, smiling.

Genevieve stepped back, bowing to a polite spatter of applause. I gave another wistful look to the vial on the table, clenching my hand in my pocket.

“Now I’d like to introduce my assistant, the lovely Jade,” Genevieve said with a flourish of her hand in my direction.

I knew this was my cue to stand, but my legs were rubber.

“Stage fright,” Genevieve said with a musical laugh. “Come on, dear, we mustn’t keep the audience waiting.”

When I hesitated, I saw Grey glare a warning at me. So I stood and walked toward Genevieve, as we’d practiced, although in rehearsal I only had to walk up to a table, not a sacrificial altar aglow in the flickering candlelight.

“Most stage magic includes mysterious boxes, unbelievable escapes, or shocking disappearances,” Genevieve told the audience. “But what I offer you is a story, a journey back centuries ago to an initiation ceremony much like the one we’re gathered here for—with one stark difference. Tonight we will witness two worthy apprentices compete for a place in the brotherhood. To win this honor, they will attempt to dazzle us with creative illusions, and one of them will be awarded full membership in the brotherhood.”

All gazes swiveled to the front row, where Grey lifted his hand in a confident wave. Josh merely nodded modestly.

“The long-ago society of my story was cloaked in such secrecy that they had very different rules for membership. There was only one way to gain entrance into their society—an initiate had to offer the life of a loved one in trade.” She paused, leaning closer, her voice lowered dramatically. “A human sacrifice.”

Sharp intakes of breath, including mine, echoed in the theater. In rehearsal, she’d never shared this speech with me. After my vision of her pact with Zathora, I knew why.

“Imagine an ambitious magician, seeking entry into this legion of magic-keepers,” she went on, in such a compelling voice that not even a rustle could be heard from the audience. “But the price he must pay is the sacrifice of his daughter, his only child. Still, his ambition is stronger than his heart, and he lies to his daughter, telling her he’s taking her on a special trip. And he dresses her in a gown of fine silk and rows her on a boat to a private island. She’s excited, trusting, but when she sees the tears in her father’s eyes, she becomes scared and tries to run back to the boat. But her father holds her firmly and leads her into a cave where candles are lit and crystals shine with earth energy. And he forces her to an altar … just like this one.”

This was my cue to walk to the altar, to stand there as if in a trance and wait for Genevieve to hand me the goblet. I took one step forward … then froze.

Movement flickered above me—a wisp of something spectral with shining eyes.

Zathora has arrived, I thought bitterly.

“The young girl is frightened, staring around at masked figures and too terrified to move,” Genevieve improvised. “But she trusts her father and steps up to the altar.”

Still, I didn’t move.

“She steps up to the altar,” Genevieve repeated, giving me a look. But it wasn’t her look that made me move; it was Grey’s quick flash of a knife and his nod toward Josh.

“The father’s shoulders heaved and he cried out, ‘No! I’ve changed my mind. I’m taking her home where she’s safe.’ But the Master Magician snapped his fingers and four cloaked men pulled the father away. Then the Master Magician threw off her cloak, revealing a woman with pale hair and unimaginable skills. She spoke gently to the girl, assuring her she was safe and among friends. The Master Magician offered the girl a drink to calm her nerves.”

Genevieve reached for the goblet, lifting it with drama. I watched with horror as she subtly grasped the glass vial with her other hand and twisted the lid. Then she set the goblet down, lifting her empty hand with a dramatic gesture. While all eyes were on that hand, she slipped her other hand behind her back, positioning it directly over the goblet. No one other than me—and Zathora—saw her dump the poison into the drink.

Genevieve held out the cup to me.

“And the young girl trusted the Master Magician, and took the goblet and drank—unaware that it was deadly poison and she was the sacrifice.”

I took the cup … but I didn’t drink.

“Jade,” Genevieve said through clenched teeth, “drink!”

I shook my head. “Don’t do this.”

“We rehearsed this a hundred times.”

“But not with real poison.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s all an illusion. You’ll be fine.”

But would Josh? I stole a glance at Grey, catching a flash of the knife in his hand.

“Come on, Jade,” she wheedled in a softer tone. “Everyone is waiting.”

“No!” I shoved the goblet at her, and as it started to fall she made a grab for it so that only one blood-red drop fell to the floor. “I know about Zathora.”

She clutched the goblet to her chest. “How … How could you know?”

“I saw her and heard you talking.”

“Impossible! No one can see her but me!”

The audience was buzzed with whispers and chuckles as if they’d expected a farce from a woman magician. I hated them for mocking her, yet I hated her for using me.

“I can see Zathora. She’s over there.” I pointed toward the altar where a filmy shape merged into the smoky trails from candles. She was easier to see now, fury darkening her aura. I could feel her energy building like a storm. “She’s wearing the costume she died in and she’s stronger than most ghosts I’ve met.”

“You’ve met other ghosts?” Still clutching the goblet to her chest, Genevieve staggered back with shock. “But … but how?”

I glanced at the audience, full of magicians who had vowed to debunk psychics and believed that ghosts did not exist. My words hadn’t been spoken loudly, yet I knew they’d been heard. The chuckles faded to an angry silence.

“Jade couldn’t see ghosts, but I can.” I’d gone too far, but I was too angry and scared to stop now. I whipped off the red wig and tossed it on the ground like something dead. “I’m her sister Sabine—and I’m psychic.”

With a whoosh of cold air, Zathora soared toward me, the glittering Muse in her hand like an avenging sword. “Foolish girl!” the ghost shrieked, no longer a shadowy fog but as solid and as real as a living person. From the cries in the audience, I knew others saw her, too.

“Stay away from me!” I cried, backing up.

“Kill her now and be done with this nonsense!” Zathora hissed.

Genevieve looked in bewilderment from me to the ghost, so pale she could be a ghost herself. Her gaze swiveled to the men in the audience—some were pointing but most were sitting still in their seats, shocked. Zathora’s rage made her visible to everyone.

“You’re ruining everything!” Genevieve wailed. “This was supposed to be my night and now they’re all laughing at me.”

“You shouldn’t have lied to me!” I retorted. “You can’t make me drink poison!”

“The show must go on, and if you won’t do it, then I will.” Genevieve’s gaze was focused on the goblet and her next words were so low I almost didn’t hear them. “Zathora will tell you how to bring me back—after I’m dead.”