by Lee Kelly
“Sure that’s all you’re dreaming about, Kendrick?” Stock cuts in.
“Excuse me?”
“He’s been an ass since he got down here, think he’s got shine withdrawal,” Grace whispers beside me. “Do us all a favor and just ignore him.”
But Stock persists. “Swore I saw someone dreamy leaving your room this morning.” He gives me his ratlike smile and starts wiggling his eyebrows at me like a goon. I feel like throwing a shock of magic right into his gut, but I manage to stay focused on my cigarette. You need to forget about Gunn in your room this morning, forget about what you promised him—and just lose yourself in the magic.
Thankfully, Billy and Ral bring us back to their trick. After Grace and I humbly suggest a few ways they could work in some audience participation, they’re satisfied enough, and we all disperse to work on our own tricks on our respective stages.
Around noon, we break for lunch. I head out with Ral, Billy, and Grace for a quick bite at Moby’s Diner, where Billy orders two slices of pie and then only eats one bite of each just “’cause he can.” We’ve all reacted to our new lifestyles differently, but then again, we’re all here for different reasons. Grace wants a new start—and she’s naturally cautious, a saver—while Ral and I are taking care of people back home. But Billy’s a lone wolf, and now has more money than he knows what to do with. So he splurges on dumb stuff all the time, like flashy cuff links, or this big, gaudy ring he’s never even gotten to wear, since Gunn says it’s too distracting to sport during our show.
We quickly wrap up lunch, hustle back to the Den, and Gunn comes in a little after one.
“I’m billing tonight’s performance as the Night Sky. Dawson’s already printing the tickets,” Gunn says, as the seven of us trail him to the middle of the show space, where lounge chairs are clustered into little sitting areas. We call this area the “shine section,” since it’s where most patrons go once they take their nightcap of sorcerer’s shine, after the finale. Here, or in the VIP lounge that bigwig patrons can rent along the left-side hall, when Gunn’s not using it to entertain some Shaw higher-ups.
“Got the new idea last night—tonight’s finale will be a worthy addition to our rotation.” Gunn settles into a plush green armchair. “I’m picturing a huge moon, planets. Shooting comets through mist. I want it eerie but beautiful at the same time.”
For as cold and calculating as Gunn can be when he wants something, I have to hand it to him: he’s got an artist’s touch, a true grasp of magic. His ideas for our finales are always elaborate, big-picture, like this new one, but he knows what our troupe is capable of, and every night, we don’t fail him. “Ral, I thought you could handle the large-scale illusion, so focus on the backdrop—maybe add a slow spin to the floor to keep it unsettling. Billy, as always, you need to fill his vision in—night mist, a faint wind,” he says. “Grace, I know you appreciate the details. You’re on the stars.”
“Understood, sir,” Grace answers.
“Tommy and Rose.” Gunn glances at the dark-haired pair. “I want you manipulating a moon. Get creative. Use those visual magic gifts of yours and take it through its phases slowly, a full moon until it all but pinches out at the end.”
Tommy nods and turns to Rose, and the two immediately start whispering ideas.
Gunn looks up at the lofted ceiling. “And Stock, our motions expert, I need a slow orbit of planets. Have them rotating about a story high, so everyone can appreciate the full view.”
Stock shoots me a snarky look as he asks, “What about Joan, sir?”
Gunn doesn’t tear his gaze away from the ceiling. “Joan’s the comet.”
I feel a wave of embarrassment as Stock rolls his eyes and mouths to me, “Dreamy.” But he doesn’t say another word as Gunn settles back in his chair.
“After the finale, lead the audience toward your stage.” Gunn gestures to the raised stage in the back of the space. It’s where we brew the audience their collective nightcap of sorcerer’s shine, before the stagehands pass it around to the crowd to drink.
“All right.” Gunn stands to leave. “I’ll be back to see what you come up with.”
So we work, each of us taking our favorite place along the show space’s perimeter, improvising with magic until we get to a finale we’re all happy with. I wait for Ral to get the floor slowly spinning, wait for the others to set the stars and the planets and the textured, smoky night. And then, in this man-made sky of possibility, I shoot the brightest, electric-orange comet from the double doors straight across to the back stage.
But I’m too distracted to enjoy it, unable to put everything else away and just relish the trick. Gunn’s earlier visit, his haunting words—you run until you win, or until you fall—that somehow manage to flatter as much as disturb me. Ben’s letter, my promise of sharing Mama’s blood-magic, Stock’s taunts: it’s all buzzing, closing in.
Joan’s the comet.
After a dry run of our new forty-five-minute finale for Gunn, we gather around him at the base of the stage to hear his final thoughts. The double doors to the show space clang open at the same time, and a team of young Shaw thugs bursts into the space.
The street urchins of the Shaws’ operation rarely attend our show, but they take full advantage of the extra shine we brew during the previous night’s performance. And in the slim window between our rehearsal and eight p.m., the Red Den gets handed over to the young runners and smugglers stopping in for a magic ride before their night’s work. Their ringleader, Win Matthews—the underboss who runs the Shaws’ smuggling operation, I’ve gathered—spots Gunn across the show space and waves him down.
“Be down here by seven thirty,” Gunn says, dismissing us. “Wear the usual, the dresses and tuxes,” he adds, referring to the wardrobe we all received as soon as the doors to our new Red Den opened. He nods to me. “And give me fifteen minutes, Joan. I’ll be in my office.”
I feel all eyes of the troupe fall on me, and that tug-of-war of emotions pulls underneath my skin again. I gulp and nod. “Of course, sir.”
Stock gives me an arched eyebrow as Gunn takes Win into his office along the right-side hall. The tension inside our troupe circle is now palpable, so thick and bitter I can almost taste it. “You’ve got something to say, just say it,” I finally snap at Stock.
But Ral’s the one who answers. “We’re all adults,” he says slowly. “We’re all here to do a job. I suggest we go upstairs and get ready, before we do or say anything we might regret.”
“Yeah, all right,” Stock says, but keeps his eyes on me. “See you all down here soon.” Then he adds as he walks away, “Comet.”
I will my anger to fade, avoid meeting Grace’s probing stare as we all filter toward the hall that leads back to our rooms. I’m sure she’s going to start grilling me over why Gunn wants to meet with me as soon as we get upstairs, and I’m not looking forward to it.
But as I’m about to turn down the hall, I spot Win Matthews’s new boy—the one I met a few nights back—hovering over the liquor bar in the corner. Alex Danfrey, his name was—the one who was chatting me up as his friend was lost to a shine-high. He’s sitting with Howie now, and about three other Shaw young guns. And like he can sense my stare, Alex looks up and we lock eyes.
I’ve seen a lot of faces here at the Den, but it’s hard for me to figure out if someone’s a looker on first glance—there’s just too much to take in at once to make any kind of decision. It’s really the second chance I get that makes or breaks it.
And on this second chance, I realize Alex’s face is pretty much perfect. Wide eyes that are blue from here, blond hair that’s soft, unlike so many of the gangsters with their polished helmets of pomade. Straight nose, right-angle jaw. I notice he’s got a nice build, too, not too big, not too slim, his long legs stretched out under the bar as his torso’s rounded over its edge.
Go, Joan. Move.
Put your head down. This is no time to get distracted.
I give him a smile and force myself to keep walking down the corridor.
But when I’m halfway down the hall, I hear a hesitant, “Joan, right?”
I turn around. And there he is, Alex, no more than ten feet away, like I conjured him there myself. I don’t say anything, but I get a flippy, almost sick feeling in my stomach, now that he’s closer.
“Just need to use the washroom.” Alex gives a big exhale when I don’t answer. “Actually, I don’t need to use the washroom. I just . . . wanted to say hello.”
But my mind stays blank, and I keep staring like a damn fool at his pretty face.
“Anyway, probably should get going,” he says, not that I blame him, seeing as he’s found a weird mute in the hall. He turns back to the main space.
And then I find my nerve, my magic, and quick throw up a double-sided protective wall in front of him at the mouth of the hallway: on the show space side, a replica of an empty hall. On ours, a thin sheet of glass, so we can see the show space without being seen ourselves.
Alex turns back to me, a sparkle in his eye. “Wait . . . was that you?”
“Got to watch what you say in this place.” I recover with a smile. “I feel a bit more comfortable talking, now that we have some privacy.”
“So you’re a sorcerer?”
I make a little curtsy.
He smiles. “I thought you said you were a stagehand.”
“No, you assumed I was a stagehand.”
His smile grows wider as he turns to the new wall and reaches out to touch it. “What do they see on the other side?”
“An empty hall.”
He won’t meet my eyes, just keeps looking at the wall I’ve conjured. “A double-sided trick. Impressive.”
“Does that surprise you?”
“Not at all.” He turns around and looks at me. “If I’m honest, I really did think there was something magic about you.”
His compliment does something to my cheeks—warms them before I can stop it. “You know what a double-sided trick is,” I say. “That’s impressive too, for a guy working the streets.”
His smile turns the slightest shade serious. “Well, you know my last name. Pretty sure that says it all.”
Alex Danfrey. The name did sound vaguely familiar when that shiner Howie kept rambling on about him the other night, but I couldn’t place why. I still can’t. “Sorry, have to say I’ve got no idea if that’s supposed to mean something to me.”
He studies my face, like he’s looking for a lie. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He clears his throat. “You don’t read the news?”
I shrug. “Newspapers aren’t a necessity where I’m from.”
“Well, I guess that’s kind of refreshing.” He shifts a bit, crosses his arms in front of him, and leans against my manipulated wall, a strange game of trust. “Let’s just say my family had quite a public run-in with the law.”
“That’s why you’re here, working for this lot?” I nod behind him, out to the main show space where his running buddies are likely getting shot to Sunday. “Can’t help who you are, sort of thing?”
Alex nods. “I guess you could say that.”
“Got to be honest,” I say, as I study him, “you don’t look like the typical guy working on the smuggling end of things.”
“And why’s that?” He throws me a smirk as he ruffles his soft blond hair. “I’m not slick enough?”
I can’t help but match his smile.
“Because I’m not sporting a fedora?” he says, and I laugh. “Not to worry, I just picked one out from the Sears, Roebuck catalog. It’s on its way.”
Alex laughs with me, looks down at his hands. “Hate to be the first one to tell you, but you sort of stand out too. In a good way.”
My grin grows even bigger. “Besides this whole sorcering thing, I really consider myself very ordinary.” God, I’m flirting with him, and I can’t stop myself.
“Oh, you’re far from ordinary.” He takes a step closer to me, and the movement catches me off guard, sends more of that sickening, churning, wonderful feeling thrashing around inside. “But I think it’s good to be extraordinary.”
And then he stares at me, not into my eyes, but right above my left ear. I can’t hear what he whispers, but soon I feel the softest of pressures against my temple, and a new scent, heady and foreign, teases my nose.
I reach up and pull down the silky flower that’s now tucked over my ear. It’s a black, glistening orchid, red tongue, looks like some cross between a dragon and a flower you might find hidden in someone’s dark dream, or growing on the moon. I’m near positive it only existed in Alex’s imagination, until now.
“So you can sorcer too.”
Alex gives a little bow. “They’ve got me pulling tricks on the road, protection walls, coast guard diversions, police code scrambling, that sort of thing.” He holds his hands up, as if summoning the room. “Nothing as elaborate and big-time as your show here.” He looks over his shoulder. “Speaking of, we’re heading on another smuggling run soon. So unless you’ve found some way to stop time, I probably should go.”
But I want him to stay. Something about Alex draws me in, like a magnet, makes me want to joke with him, keep him talking.
I focus on the wall behind him and force myself to say, “Release.” I nod. “Go on, you can pass through it now.”
Alex pinches his fingers a few inches in front of his brow, and then a fully formed black fedora appears out of nothing, the brim inserting itself right in between his fingertips. Alex grins, takes off his new hat, tips it in my direction, and as his hand extends, the hat vanishes. “Till we meet again, Joan.”
Then he turns, to join his gangster buddies across the Red Den.
I whip around, unable to wipe the smile off my face. I practically prance back toward the stairs. It’s been a long time since something’s felt easy, light, free.
But then I spot Gunn standing outside his office door. How long was Gunn watching us? Watching me?
“Our meeting, sir,” I recall out loud, the feeling of freedom that Alex brought on like a summer wind all but snuffed out as I remember what I’m about to share: Mama’s secrets, my secrets, the dark magic that Mama never wanted me to whisper, much less sell . . .
“That’s right. I’m ready for you,” he says, as Win Matthews slips out from Gunn’s office. But Gunn doesn’t watch him go, or move from the doorway. He just keeps staring at the orchid tucked behind my ear.
So like a reflex, I reach into my hair, find the flower, and pinch it out like it’s made of air, before following Gunn into his office.
Alex’s flower was just a trick. An easy manipulation, one I could do over a thousand times without a blink. But still, it pains me a little that it’s gone.
BIG FISH
ALEX
“I’m hankering for the shine,” Howie says beside me. “Like bad. Look at my hands.”
I glance at Howie’s shaky, chapped fingers as he runs them around each other. “It’s just the withdrawal,” I say, and turn back to the water. The moon hangs over it low and bright, casts a long thread of spun silver across the dark ocean as we cut through it on our bare-hull boat, forty knots speed, engine as large as an airplane. It’s a beautiful night, an otherworldly night, the kind of night you want to be gazing at the vast, star-studded sky with a dame like Joan. Not with Howie. “If you power through it, you’ll be fine by tomorrow.”
“But maybe I don’t want to be fine. Maybe I want to be electric.”
“Take a break, okay, How? You’ve been hitting the shine hard all week. Relax.”
Howie pulls his thin coat tighter around him. “What are you, my mother?”
It’s dark, but I can still see the gray tint around Howie’s cheekbones, the dullness to his eyes. B
ack in training, the Unit taught us the long-term effects of a steady shine diet: how the stuff eventually steals the color out of life, dulls it until you can’t stand living without the polish of magic. But I don’t think I ever fully understood what that meant until I became attached to Howie’s side. Since we left Lorton, he’s only happy anymore when he’s high. Time in between he spends angry, restless—and clamoring for the next time he can steal a glimpse of a world that doesn’t last.
I’ve tried to tell him he survived shine withdrawal before, and that he’ll end up hollowing himself into a shell if he keeps going at this pace, but you can’t reason with him. And after so many times of trying, I started worrying that too much anti-shine talk might compromise my cover. So tonight I stay silent and watch the indigo water race by the rudders.
We’re several miles off the coast, on our way through the waters of the Atlantic. Win’s in the front as captain, and Howie and I are shivering on the bench in the back. Late November’s winds are brutal, breath-stealing, and while neither one of us is thrilled about snuggling, we’re huddled next to each other for warmth.
“Even a cigarette would help,” Howie mutters.
“Christ, How, why didn’t you buy another pack before we left?”
Howie shrugs. “’Cause you usually bring enough for both of us.”
And usually, I do take care of these little details, but I’ve been working overtime, exhausted. Howie’s clearly exhausted too. But that’s not the only reason we’ve been picking at each other, sparring like siblings vying for their parents’ affection. There’s a tension I haven’t been able to shake, a thick, persistent one lodged right between us.
“Seriously, can’t you do something about this?” Howie waves his hand above us to indicate the cold wind.
“It’s tougher when we’re moving, but I’ll try.” I focus, close my eyes. I picture a bubble of warm, soft air wrapping around us like a towel, command, “Envelop.”
After a minute, Howie stops shaking beside me.
Needless to say, we are definitely not, as Howie predicted when we first got out of Lorton, “partying until dawn.” If I’m figuring right, this is our twelfth straight night of running with Win—no nights off, no breaks. Since that first night, when things went south with Baltimore out at the warehouse, we’ve been on the road by the start of every evening for a trade, or a redistillery run, or some other clandestine errand for the Shaws. Sometimes I don’t come home until the sun’s up, and other than the few times Howie and I have lingered at the Red Den waiting for Win, we’re either on the road, or crashing. In fact, the couple of times I’ve managed to sneak out and call Agent Frain have been at noon, when I know the rest of my smuggling world will be sleeping.