The Real Thing

by Marina Simcoe

  “Why would he think so?” I propped myself on the elbow to better see his face.

  “Well,” he looked straight at the ceiling. “We don’t talk about how I do my magic tricks. But Simon wasn’t born yesterday, he sees what he sees and he knows what he knows. The person who sent the email didn’t seem as crazy as the rest, so he thought I should see it.”

  “Who sent it?”

  “A woman with some old name that’s hard to pronounce. I don’t remember it,” he looked at me. “I’ll give you the password to my account, feel free to look.”

  “Are you sure?” I couldn’t hide the excitement in my voice in anticipation of finally having a path to follow.

  “Absolutely,” he smiled at my eagerness. “There is nothing special there. Trust me. I actually feel sorry for you, having to go through all that junk.”

  24. Ingeborg and The Avenger.

  Ingeborg. The woman who sent the email to Marcus was called Ingeborg. She claimed to be from Switzerland.

  I logged on Marcus’s account at work the following afternoon, right after I sorted out all shipping issues for the day and updated the reports to the upper management.

  Marcus wasn’t kidding; it took me a while to find the email. He was getting hundreds of them a day. I felt sorry for Simon’s assistant who had to sort through all of these on a daily basis.

  In addition to the inevitable ads for Viagra, there were emails from people and organizations offering everything imaginable. They solicited for an array of charities or implored Marcus to join a cause. Many offered literature on every religion, including the ones I’d never even heard of — some offered eternal salvation, others threatened eternal damnation, with most negotiating some combination of the two.

  Many emails came from deeply disturbed individuals. A few were completely out of this world! They called to join secret alien societies on Earth, warned about abductions by demons and invited to magic spell exchange events.

  The email from Ingeborg I found in the folder labeled Seen By Marcus.

  The tone of her message set her email apart from the rest. Simple and to the point, she was not asking for anything from Marcus; instead, she offered to connect him with people like himself if he ever felt the need to find others like him. She also said that she might be able to answer at least some questions about his origins, should he have any. Overall, she sounded like a person worth having a conversation with, and I felt hopeful.

  I copied down her email address to a piece of paper and was about to log off from Marcus’s account when the folder marked Current Investigation caught my eye. I clicked on it to find a number of emails from the account name that started with theavenger. I was about to dismiss them as messages from some fan of the movie The Avengers, or someone who was putting together a group of “avengers” on their own and was possibly offering Marcus a part of Iron Man or something, when I opened and read one.

  The email contained a death threat. Plain and simple. Some deranged lunatic was describing in gory details how Marcus deserved to die.

  I opened another email from the same sender, and then another, and another. A cold feeling of dread rose in my chest, squeezing my heart in an iron grip. Somebody out there hated my man, with a passion that could only equal my love for him!

  Yes, the horrible fear for Marcus made me finally acknowledge — at least to myself — that I loved him, that I have loved him for a long time. I knew it just as I knew that Earth was round, that snow was white, and that CN Rail strikes were unavoidable.

  In some way or another, I’d loved him ever since he awkwardly asked me to date him, or maybe since the day he stretched his arms towards me as I floated in the air across the old theater, or maybe even long before that. He’d been my miracle, my enigma, the one true magic in this world. He’d become my best friend, my lover, the love of my life.

  Now, some sick maniac was threatening the man I loved.

  Feeling sick to my stomach, I closed the browser quickly to erase the offensive words off my monitor, but they were already burned into my brain.

  With shaking hands, I dialed Marcus’s cell phone number. It was one in the afternoon in Las Vegas. He should be up already, with a couple of hours before his first show of the day started.

  “Marcus. Do you know there are emails with death threats in your account?” I blurted out as soon as he picked it up.

  “I’m sure there are,” he replied casually.

  “No, listen! There are lots of them. And they all came from the same email address, the same person, or group of people.” The thought that there may be a whole group of people wanting Marcus dead made the bile come up my throat again. “Who could hate you so much? Why?”

  “Did you read them all?”

  “No. But I did read enough to make me worry and sick to my stomach”

  “Then you know that whoever wrote them is not well,” Marcus said evenly. “It’s a crazy person, Angela. We’re looking for him because he needs help. Don’t think about it too much.”

  “The things he said… He wants to burn you at the stake, alive, like a witch. He wants to cut up your dead body and feed it to the dogs, piece by piece…” I whimpered.

  “Sweetheart, you shouldn’t have read all that nonsense,” his voice turned warm and comforting, like a cozy blanket. “Do you really think anyone can do anything to me? Do you think anyone can even come close to me if I don’t want them to?”

  He was right, in a way. He — of all people — was the most capable of defending himself from anyone, from a whole army if needed. If he knew about the attack, if he saw the people attacking him, if he was mindful of weapons aimed at him — he was invincible. However, a cowardly shot in the back was just as damaging to him as it was to anyone else.

  The person who sent Marcus these threats seemed to have spent enough time to learn lots of things about him. From his emails, he sounded most definitely enraged by Marcus’s strengths, so there was a chance that he was also aware of Marcus’s weaknesses.

  ***

  I had a hard time concentrating on my work for the rest of the day. My brain sensed a huge problem that needed to be solved, and it refused to let go of the emails. Closer to the end of my work day, I had calmed down enough to think more clearly, and even forced myself to log on to Marcus’s email account again and read more of them.

  I needed to know all there was to know about this man. I thought of him as a man after I’d read more of his emails. The tone of the messages was personal and loaded with testosterone, leading me to believe that the sender was a man and not a woman or a group of people.

  He was angry — extremely angry — with Marcus. He attacked his looks, his age, his skills, his job. Nothing was left untouched; however, the main focus of the attacks remained Marcus’s work. The guy took the most offence in the way Marcus performed, as well as in the speed with which his career had advanced.

  In one of the emails, he accused Marcus of stealing secrets of other illusionists and with that single-handedly ruining the industry, making me think that the sender might be a rival illusionist himself.

  Despite all the filth and poison of the emails, I had to admit that they were written by an intelligent, albeit a deeply disturbed, individual. This fact frightened me the most: an intelligent person was capable of devising a viable plan to make his threats a reality.

  Marcus insisted that he and Simon were handling it. They were going to find the author of the emails to make sure he got the help he so obviously needed, and that he stayed away from Marcus.

  His assurances didn’t erase all my worries, though, and I emailed Simon myself, asking for an update.

  After work, I ran across the street to the public library, opened an email account under a fake name — feeling like a covert agent from a movie — and sent Ingeborg an email.

  Without naming Marcus by name, I claimed to be a friend of a person whom she contacted in April of last year with a promise to answer questions about his family. I said that my friend al
lowed me to connect with her on his behalf to explore the possibilities for a further conversation.

  Vague and polite, I hoped my email would trigger her memory about writing to Marcus if she was a legitimate person who could help us find some answers. At the same time, if she was some crazy individual sending random emails to all celebrities, she had probably forgotten the email she sent months ago, in which case my own nondescript message wouldn’t bring any unwanted attention to Marcus and wouldn’t cause any harm.

  25. The Ranch House.

  I received a reply from Ingeborg the very next day. She knew right away that I was referring to Marcus in my email to her and was in her own words “delighted” that I contacted her.

  Despite my offer not to tell Marcus if I found anything promising about his origins, I felt he would at least like to know if I did. What he did with the information afterwards was entirely up to him. So I told him about my correspondence with Ingeborg, even though he didn’t show any reaction either way.

  For weeks, Marcus tried to talk me into taking a day off work. I promised I would one day, but there never was a good time for it. At my office job, there were constant last minute fires to be put out: problems with orders, deliveries, customers or any combination thereof.

  Taking time off at my retail job was even more difficult, if not outright impossible, especially during the busy holiday season. Even in January it was still hard. The store was constantly understaffed. The turnover was high; people came and went with or without the required two-week termination notice. I’d worked there for a few years and was by far the most senior sales person in the store now. I found myself constantly training new people and covering shifts of the ones who quit without notice.

  Also, I was working part-time there, if I wasn’t at work — I wasn’t paid. With all the uncertainty surrounding the situation with my parents, I felt I needed to keep earning the extra money, until the things got clearer.

  Instead of automatically sending money to my parents when I got mom’s email this month, I replied to her, letting her know that I would like to talk to them in person. I told her that I’m considering quitting my retail job.

  She ignored my request for conversation, which was unusual — normally, she would be the one asking me to come for a visit — but wholeheartedly supported my intention to quit. Knowing the way her mind worked, the connection between my quitting and my ability to send her money probably didn’t even register with her.

  Still, I held on to this month’s payment and told my mom that I would like to deliver it in person this time, because I needed to talk to them about how they planned to spend it. This was the most direct email I had ever sent to my parents, and I had to sit there for a while, reading and re-reading it, finger hovering over the “send” button, before I actually did it.

  It didn’t feel right to hold money over their heads, forcing them to do something they obviously didn’t want. I told myself I just wanted to talk. I convinced myself I had the right to know their financial affairs. My mom gave me that right by asking me for money in the first place.

  Still, the whole thing made me extremely uncomfortable, and the dark, gloomy cloud was constantly hanging around my brain.

  So when I was finally able to get a day of paid vacation on Friday, I was beyond happy to have a break. I handed all my reports to Barb a day early and promised to make any necessary adjustments first thing Monday morning. I also worked the night shift at the store on Thursday, so that I wouldn’t have to be there on Friday night.

  It was Marcus’s week off too, and now we had a full day and two nights to spend together before I had to be back to work at the store on Saturday morning.

  He wanted us to go to his house in the desert — where I hadn’t been yet.

  I was practically running home from the subway after my shift at the store that night. My feet were killing me in my high-heeled boots, but I hardly noticed the pain. I texted Marcus that I was on my way home as soon as I got off the subway and hoped that he was waiting for me at the apartment already.

  Since the last episode of his fever, we both made sure to see each other daily. I wanted to confirm that he was okay on a daily basis, even if our meetings didn’t always end in sexy times.

  Most mornings, Marcus also teleported me to work. I made sure to “misplace” the supply room key before I left the office every night, just to make sure that if somebody needed an ink cartridge or a box of paper first thing in the morning, they wouldn’t run into Marcus and me appearing out of nowhere. The three quarters of an hour that I used to spend commuting to work were now effectively spent in bed, making out and doing other — not the least pleasurable — activities with Marcus.

  I never before had a guy go down on me so hard and so often. His hands, his tongue, his lips were truly magical, making it easier for me to ignore the fact that out of the few condoms I had left in my nightstand, most still remained untouched. No matter how many orgasms Marcus gave me during these weeks, he himself had none.

  A few times that I tried to carefully bring it up with Marcus, he would simply change the subject or distract me with yet another orgasm.

  And, alas, I was so damn easily distracted! Half the time, I wouldn’t even realize what had happened until I was back at my office desk, flashed with the memories of my sexy morning with Marcus and nowhere near to getting any answers from him.

  Then again, he obviously didn’t want to talk about it. Sex was generally a delicate, sensitive topic; I just didn’t know how far I should push for answers against his will, even as I wasn’t sure how long I could ignore the fact that there may be something wrong between us sexually. Especially mortifying was the thought that it might have something to do with me.

  Impatient to get home for our getaway together, I took a shortcut through the alley between two factory buildings recently converted into lofts. I wondered if with all the improvements to the neighbourhood there was an unscheduled rent increase in my future as I jumped over the ice-covered paddles, careful not to slip in my heels. On days like today, I was afraid that my mom was right when she warned me that my weakness for impractical footwear would cost me a broken ankle sooner or later.

  Concentrating on working out a path between the ice patches, I barely noticed a male figure at the opposite end of the alley. I looked up, ready to panic, but then I recognized Marcus in the dim light. He must have come out to meet me instead of sitting in the apartment waiting for me.

  I smiled and tried to run faster then I felt my feet disconnect from the pavement, and I realized that I was being lifted into the air as my legs were still going through the running motions. I laughed and threw my arms out to the sides like imaginary wings, flying through the air straight into the outstretched arms of Marcus.

  “Got you,” he said quietly and gently set me down on the ground, but didn’t release me from his arms.

  I looked around, just in case, to make sure nobody saw us.

  “You should be more careful, you know. Someone could have seen me fly like that!”

  He shook his head stubbornly.

  “You were too slow on those monster heels, and I was too impatient. Besides, trust me, people are more likely to believe that you are an Olympic long-jump champion than to consider that I had anything to do with it.”

  He placed a kiss on my cheek and nuzzled behind my ear.

  “I’ve missed you,” he whispered as his hands ran down my back, along my winter coat. “I hate Canadian weather,” he groaned. “There are too many clothes on you all the time. Ready to go?”

  “I need to leave some extra food for Lannister —” I started.

  “Done.”

  “And grab my overnight bag —”

  “Already there. Anything else?”

  “Nope,” I smiled, stretching my arms up and crossing them behind his neck. “Whisk me away, Marcus!”

  ***

  The house that Marcus owned but hardly ever lived in was a sprawling one-story building. Although I
had never been inside a ranch house before, if I had to imagine one, this would have been how I would have pictured it.

  We appeared right in the middle of the kitchen when Marcus teleported us from Toronto. Well — to be exact — the kitchen of his house appeared around us, at least this was how it felt to me. One minute, I was snuggling against Marcus’s chest, hiding my face from the howling wind in a cold, dark alley in Toronto — the next moment I was in his bright and spacious kitchen with warm, terracotta-coloured tile floors and clean white walls.

  “Ah, it’s warm!” I exhaled, taking a step away from Marcus and unbuttoning my winter coat.

  “Finally!” He laughed, taking my coat and sweater from me. “I’ll hang them in the hall closet,” he said and tossed them both over his shoulder where they immediately dissolved into the air.

  “Do you want a tour of the house?” he asked, his leather jacket disappearing, as well.

  I took a look around the kitchen.

  “It’s nice!”

  The pale-wood cabinets and tiled countertops gave it a feel of a true farmhouse kitchen, along with the dark wooden beams on the ceiling that appeared to cross the whole house.

  “Are you hungry? We can eat first.”

  “No,” I shook my head. “I’m good for now. Show me your place!”

  Just like the kitchen, the rest of the house also felt light and cozy, like a real home. Not something I would have expected from the bachelor pad of a Las Vegas magician.

  “Did you decorate it yourself? Did you choose all the furnishing?”

  “No, I inherited most of the furniture — if not all of it — from the previous owners. I changed very little inside. Most of my own improvements to the place aren’t really visible. I just had a few structural reinforcements done. The house is highly resistant to earthquakes now.”