by IGMS
"You're crazy. That's what you are."
"She's not what she seems. And I can't help but wonder --"
Barrett's hands flashed out as of their own accord, fastening themselves around Felix Heller's throat. Heller's eyes bulged.
No. Not of their own accord. Of someone else's. They were no longer under his control.
Barrett lunged, wedging Heller into the angle between the seat and the passenger side rear door. The man's surly expression was gone, replaced by comical surprise. Heller's limbs flailed, beating at Barrett's back and shoulders, or at the limo's interior -- muted thuds. Heller twisted and kicked, but to no avail. Barrett's hands had locked into place, as if they belonged right where they were.
They squeezed.
Heller's mouth opened, straining. His face turned bright red. His eyes went from surprised to panicked, darting in all directions, as if seeking escape from their sockets.
Barrett squeezed harder, his grip iron. He felt Heller's trachea collapse. The throat became slicked with sweat. And still he squeezed. Strange sounds came out of him.
Heller's eyes rolled back in their sockets, showing only the whites. His face went from scarlet to purple.
In his peripheral vision, Barrett spied a flickering in the air, a shape. A winged and horned figure, standing just outside the car, the glow of its eyes muted by the tinted window, facing him in a three-quarter profile. Its baleful gaze seemed focused elsewhere. It stood stock-still.
The murder took forever. It rolled on and on, and Barrett was powerless to stop it. Some part of his mind screamed, as helpless as Felix Heller.
At last, the man's thrashing weakened. His hands tugged at Barrett's arms. His legs twitched. The acrid odor of urine filled the limo's interior; Heller's bladder had let go.
His struggles became feeble, dwindled to nonexistent. His hands dropped away, and he was still.
Barrett kept the man's throat in that iron grip for several extra minutes, convinced that the moment he released, Heller would spring back to life. His hands were unable to disengage themselves. A pregnant silence fell. Even the screaming in his mind stopped.
Whatever force that had laid siege to his body broke. Barrett snatched his hands away, as if burned. A whine escaped him. He gaped at the corpse. The body slumped and slid down the leather upholstery.
The demon-shape outside the car vanished.
The passenger door behind Barrett opened, letting in light and sound. He screamed and spun, shielding his face with his hands.
Violet leaned in, her expression neutral. Unmindful of the corpse, she looked only at Barrett.
Barrett's mouth bobbed open and shut. "I --"
"Shut up." Her voice was calm. "I talked Tony and the security guard into going inside for a few minutes. Neither one will have any memory of seeing" -- she nodded toward the body -- "him."
Barrett looked back to the corpse, but it was gone. Only the faint smell of urine in the air gave any hint that the body had ever been there. Barrett stared, shock settling over him. His emotional machinery went dead. He spoke in a monotone: "It . . . it wasn't me. It was you. You made me --"
"That's right, Barrett. The devil made you do it. Your conscience is clear -- for now."
But his hands still remembered Heller's sweat-slicked throat, the feel of his crushed trachea. "Why?"
"You might better ask yourself that question. Why did you talk to him? Why did you give him so much as the time of day? Seems to me you've been a bit tentative since the night we discussed the vanish. You weren't thinking of reneging on our arrangement, were you?"
Even in the heat of a Vegas afternoon, Barrett went cold. He looked over his shoulder at her. Her dark eyes focused on him, unwavering, unnerving in their intensity. "I . . . I . . ."
"So I guess in a way, you are just the tiniest bit responsible for what happened. But whatever you were thinking, you'll stay on task now, won't you?" She put a hand on his shoulder. He flinched away from it.
"You didn't have to --"
"I'm not taking any chances, Barrett. Nothing is getting in my way, not even you. Understand?"
He kept silent, staring past her.
She grabbed his face with one hand, forced him to look her in the eye. "I said, understand?"
Her touch was fiery against his chilled skin. "I understand."
"Good." She released him and straightened. "Go back to the hotel. Get a good nap. You look like you could use it."
She turned to go. "Wait," Barrett said.
She paused. "What now?"
"He had a family. He said he was visiting his sister. She's going to wonder what happened to him."
"Yes. The police might even track him this far, if he drove himself. You might be questioned." She shrugged. "So what? Keep your composure, and the trail will end here. His body will never be found."
"But I thought you couldn't do a vanish on your own. I thought that's what you needed me for." Even as he said it, he marveled at his own words. A measure of the magnitude of his shock, perhaps, that he would fixate on such an inane detail at this time.
"You're not going to vanish me, Barrett. You're going to send me somewhere I can't get to on my own. As for him -- I simply moved the body."
"To where?"
"Bottom of Lake Mead, if you must know. Go back to the hotel, Barrett. See you tonight."
She walked away. Tony and the security guard emerged from the stage door.
Barrett's nap that afternoon brought him a reenactment of Felix Heller's murder, as did his night's sleep for the next three days. The repeat appearance of the demonic figure hovered over those nightmares, but the expression of surprise on Heller's face haunted him the worst. His subconscious even added some new details, treating him to visions of a vast body of water at night -- Lake Mead, no doubt -- and of a corpse floating to the surface, pale, bloated, hideous.
The police never came. Whether that was Violet's doing, or whether Heller had taken the bus to the theater that day, Barrett couldn't say.
The night after the murder, the demon figure showed up again during the act, as Barrett sawed Violet in half. She lay quiescent and smiling as he drove sheets of metal through her midsection and into slots in the sectioned, wheeled table. Then he separated it, with half of her on each section. No cabinets, of course. Right before their very eyes. Violet had once suggested making the trick über-realistic, complete with geysering blood and spilling viscera, but Barrett had balked, knowing his audience would have run screaming for the exits -- or lynched him on the spot. She had claimed to be only joking at the time, but he wasn't so sure of that anymore.
The effect without cabinets was quite disconcerting enough, what with a sawn-in-half Violet beaming her radiant smile into the crowd while the other half of her, ten feet away, wriggled her feet and bent her legs, revealing those shapely thighs. On occasion, Barrett discerned moans of discomfort under the tepid applause that always greeted this part of the trick. Only during the prestige, when he put Violet back together and she stood before them, whole once more, did the applause swell from polite to thunderous.
And the winged thing with the jack o'lantern eyes shimmered into view stage right, in full view of the audience. But no one seemed to notice. Not even Violet -- though Barrett thought she may have been at pains to avoid glancing in that direction.
The demon lingered, unmoving. A sort of haze obscured it, as if it weren't fully there. It faded away moments later. But during the rest of the show, he thought he saw those glowing eyes appearing momentarily in random places -- in the darkness beyond the front edge of the stage, or in the shadows of the wings.
Barrett did not give his best performance that night. He flubbed numerous lines, missed two cues, and performed only perfunctory levitations. He left the theater without taking any curtain calls, sprinting for the exit.
The next night, he saw two demons during the levitation -- one in the balcony, the other near a fire door. Hazy, standing stock-still.
Tony the limo d
river began asking Barrett if he was feeling well. So did the security guard. Violet and he spoke only when necessary -- until the night of the last show in the run.
The manager of the theater had already started clamoring for a return engagement. Barrett had deferred to his agent. And had stopped returning his agent's calls.
He sat in his dressing room, staring into his mirror. Publicity stills and press clippings had been taped to it, allowing a small window for practical use. No matter. He could only see Heller writhe and squirm. He held a makeup sponge in one hand, with half his face still undone. Tissues stuck out of his tuxedo collar at comical angles.
Violet knocked and entered. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it.
She wore a white gown with a demure cut. Her hair flowed, her makeup so well applied as to be invisible. Her dark eyes shone as if lit from within.
Barrett jerked from his reverie, cold all over. His mouth went dry. With a shaking hand, he began applying his makeup again.
"Lonely at the top, isn't it?" she said.
He dropped the sponge, fumbled to pick it up. His fingers wouldn't coordinate with each other.
"Relax, Barrett. It's almost over. After tonight, I'll be gone, and you'll be the most famous magician in the world. Isn't that what you want? Everybody wins."
He paused, looked at her in the mirror. Only part of him registered her words.
Violet went on: "Never mind. I came to wish you a good show. You've been pretty rough the last few nights. Understandable, I guess. But tonight, you need to be spot on -- especially for the finale. No lapses in concentration. We'll only get one chance at this. If you really want to be rid of me, you'll pull it together one last time. Think you can manage it?"
He stared at her in reply.
Some of the gleeful light faded from her eyes. "Yes, you can. And you will. See you on stage."
She left him alone.
Barrett finished with his makeup. His hands stilled their trembling; his fingers remembered how to work together. "One last time," he whispered. He liked the sound of that.
He doffed the tissues stuck in his collar, put on his tuxedo jacket, and headed toward the stage. On his way down the hall, he puzzled over her words: We'll only get one chance at this.
He wondered why that should be.
Waiting in the wings as the house lights dimmed and the opening music faded up, Barrett slipped into a strange calm. Whatever was about to happen would happen. He could take some meager comfort in knowing it would all be over soon.
He took the stage on cue, to roaring applause.
It was a good show.
The crowd, knowing it was the last night of the run, cheered longer and louder than they ever had. It may have been the best audience in Barrett's career. He allowed their energy to recharge him. As always, Violet touched him with small doses of her power at strategic moments. The mentalist portion of the act went over big, drawing huge laughs as Barrett teased out all manner of embarrassing but accurate truths from audience volunteers.
As he worked, he kept watch for those jack o'lantern eyes. And he found them.
By the time he'd moved into the second portion of the act, featuring the animal tricks, the pyrotechnics, and the telekinesis, he'd spotted at least four demon-shapes, around the stage and throughout the house.
The use of Violet's power drew them; that much had become obvious. Maybe they had always been there, ever since the act had begun. Maybe he had only started noticing them as the tricks had become more and more outlandish, requiring ever greater discharges of the magic. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became.
And Violet saw them, too.
He knew it now. He made a point of observing her whenever he spotted one of the demons. She never missed a cue, her smile beamed as radiant as ever, but his cold reading skills discerned a tension, a stiffening in her body language whenever the creatures manifested.
We'll only get one chance at this.
The act neared conclusion. He levitated volunteers to their amazement and delight. The demons formed a small but growing audience of their own.
And the time came for the vanish.
As he worked through the buildup, as he tried to make sense of all that had happened, the memory of his hands around Felix Heller's throat rose again. Barrett maintained his composure by sheer force of will.
He said, "Watch very closely, ladies and gentlemen. Concentrate. Don't allow yourselves to be distracted. Don't whisper to your neighbor. If your cell phone vibrates, ignore it. Try not to even blink. You might miss the moment. And believe me when I say you will never get this opportunity again."
He crossed the stage to his lovely assistant. "Violet, are you ready?"
Her voice rang out in the silent auditorium: "I am." Then, deadpan: "Oh, and if I don't come back, Barrett -- I think I left the iron on in the dressing room."
Bursts of laughter sounded. Barrett allowed himself the faintest of smiles, a quick upturning of the mouth, a slight raise of an eyebrow, and was serious again, even grave.
"Good luck, Violet." He took her hand and kissed it.
She sent the power into him.
The jolt was far stronger than any of the previous times. Not just warm, but hot. His stomach went queasy in an instant. He straightened, stumbled a little, but managed to cover it with a deft turn on his heel. He stepped a few paces away from Violet.
In his mind, he saw the manner of bringing her home plane into phase with this one, the way of using his hands to direct the energy. And heard her voice, a message she had sent along with the power: Kar-am-tharuum. Remember the name. You must have it firmly in your mind when you send me. It helps to say it aloud.
And he knew without being told that it was the name of the place he would send her to, the place from which she'd been exiled.
Kar-am-tharuum.
The magic thrummed through him as he faced the audience.
A host of demons stood among them -- over a hundred, glowing eyes, horns, scales, wings. Balcony, aisles, even standing among the rows, though no one complained. Hazy. There, but not there.
And he understood at last what Violet had meant about having only one chance at this.
Barrett took a deep breath, went off script: "I'm sure many of you wonder how I do it, how I perform these miracles night after night. Would you like me to let you in on the secret?"
The backwash of the stage lights allowed Barrett to see the first few rows of seats. A couple of audience members exchanged puzzled glances.
"The truth is, it's not me at all. It's her." He opened his hand toward Violet.
Her forehead creased.
Nervous laughter from the audience -- the human part of it, anyway.
"She's the brains of this outfit," Barrett said. "My job is just to hit my marks and say my lines. Isn't that right, Violet?"
"Barrett?" Her voice held a warning tone. "What are you doing?"
"Most of you folks aren't aware of it, but we have some special guests tonight. They could be standing right next to you, right now, and you wouldn't even know it."
People began looking around, craning their necks. Murmurs spread, ripples in a pond.
"Oh, you can't see them. They're watching from . . . somewhere else. They're not quite in phase with us -- not yet, anyway. But once I perform this last trick, I think that will change." Barrett swallowed. "They're here for me."
The murmurs became a buzz.
He glanced over his shoulder. "Aren't they, Violet?"
Her forehead smoothed; her dark eyes narrowed. "We have a deal, Barrett."
"They sense the energy. They're watching for you. They're here to make sure you don't return." The power coursed through him, filling his body. If he didn't let it out soon, he might burst into flame. "My fingerprints instead of yours. So they come for me, while you make your getaway. That was the plan all along, right?"
"Barrett, I swear I don't know what you're talking about."
The cold re
ad was far too easy. Even without the extra juice from her, he would have seen the lie. It coated her like a layer of dust. She had grown desperate.
"That's why there will only be one chance at this. Whether I succeed or fail in sending you back, they'll tear me apart for trying. And that bit about leaving me with enough power to last the rest of my life?" Barrett chuckled. "Very funny. I can see why you have so many enemies."
"You can't back out now. We have a deal."
It was more than desperation. He could hear the quaver of real fear in her voice. Violet Navarre, who had always been so smooth and polished, who had manipulated him so masterfully, who had literally made Barrett into her puppet, was suddenly afraid. Of him.
And in that moment, he understood why. The energy, of course. So much of her power, churning inside of him. She was as vulnerable as she would ever be. For the first time in their relationship, he held the strings. If only he knew what to do with them.
Then, with dawning surprise, he realized he did know.
He had to move quickly, before she figured it out. He extended his hands. To the audience, he said, "A little change of plans, folks. I'm going to show you a different trick -- one my lovely assistant taught me."
And he sent the power out at her.
It hit her hard enough to stagger her backward. Her face went from stony to wide-eyed. Her mouth dropped open; strange clicking sounds came from her throat.
Barrett bore down before she could think to resist, gritting his teeth, body shaking with the force he exerted on her. The last of the energy she had given to him drained away.
Violet hand's moved, jerky, like those of a marionette controlled by an amateur puppeteer. She had been much better at it, more smooth at the controls. She grunted, her mouth straining, contorting. The word emerged, each syllable dragged out of her: "Kar . . . am . . . thaaa . . . ruum."
And the air in the theater shimmered as one plane came into phase with another.
A whoosh of chill air blew through the auditorium. And the screaming began.