by Gwenda Bond
Wow, that was so vague I was sure he was bound to call me on it, but instead he turned into philosophical Dad. “Nothing easy is real. You know how I hate sayings, but ‘Easy come, easy go’ is one I’ve always put stock in. How can you expect to hold on to something you never had to work for? Find that thing, the one that feels right to you even though it’s hard. Work that you love is a gift.”
It was good advice, and I was terrified I’d start crying. I missed him. And I already had the thing: magic was mine.
“Dad.” I put my best dose of daughter in it. “I go away for the summer and you turn all squishy. Please tell me you’re not writing a self-help book.”
“Very funny. You know I hate that stuff.”
“If you were more actualized, you might feel differently.”
“What does that even mean? We are already actual—actual people. It’s meaningless.”
I missed this. Cranky dad, conversations like this.
“Your advice was gold. I miss home sometimes. The theater, the girls backstage, you.”
“Thank God,” he said. “I keep waking up in the middle of the night from these terrible dreams where you become one of those independent kids who never visits me. Where I’m like this awful burden you realized you never wanted to go back to as soon as you got away.”
“You’ll show me this other warehouse when I come home, right?”
Of course he wouldn’t, if he thought it would awaken my magic power.
“I can’t wait,” he said.
Smooth. But then he had plenty of time to get yet another warehouse, or move whatever objects he had in there. I hated being suspicious of him. Of myself. Of everyone.
The real question was: How long could I put off telling him, should Raleigh decide to keep his mouth shut?
Not much longer, not unless I wanted him to find out with no warning in a month when we hit Vegas for our final dates.
The less than desirable circumstances of my promotion didn’t keep me from feeling a thrill as I donned my mask at what was now my dressing table a few days later and prepared to take the stage for rehearsal. My stage. It was a guilty thrill, but a thrill all the same.
When I navigated around the curtain, Dez already stood on the far side of the stage.
He leveled a gun at me. “You’re sure this is safer?” he called over.
“You’re sure you loaded it with the dummy round?” I countered.
“Let’s do this, then.”
A clear pane of safety glass sat in a frame between us to serve as proof to the audience that the actual bullet I’d catch in my teeth had been fired. It wouldn’t have been, of course.
All the new equipment I needed and posters about my debut had arrived in time for our dates in El Paso. My first performance was tomorrow, and I was grateful we were back to two shows a day here instead of three. I had a feeling this one—combined with the coffin escape for the late show—would wear me out.
The only reason I could even contemplate putting it into my repertoire after a week’s work was my knowledge of Dad’s version of it. The bullet catch should always be an illusion. Twelve magicians were reported to have died doing it. Most of the ones who lived were smart enough to fake it—not that it was entirely safe, but it was safer. And this would definitely be safer than the hanging-upside-down escape had been. I’d be using the smallest bit of magic in a very focused way.
My mom might still protest, but I didn’t see any way around it. I could call magic consistently now, but I was convinced it would show up regardless during big illusions or escapes. So embracing and guiding it was the safest option.
If she came to see me again, I could explain the favor I’d done catching Raleigh and ask how I could help with her problem.
For this illusion, I’d rush-ordered enough sheets of safety glass to take me through the end of the season, along with wax bullets that looked like real ones to the eye and would break through the glass, but which would dissolve before they reached me. Getting the firearm, real bullets for me to produce at the end and some safety goggles had been beyond easy. We were in Texas, after all. My credit card worked, and we’d walked out of the store with the handgun now in Dez’s capable grip.
Dez, it turned out, was a crack shot—another talent his unsavory childhood had left him with. “Other kids had coloring books. We had contests to see who could shoot the most Pabst cans off a fence. I killed at target practice.” Which meant, at least, I didn’t have to go around the grounds looking for an expert marksman or markswoman to help me out. Even a wax bullet could do damage if, say, fired wildly into the crowd.
The real crux of the trick, the thing that would flummox anyone trying to figure it out, was how I planned to produce the marked bullet. There would be no contact whatsoever between Dez and me once an audience member scribbled an identifiable marking on the wax one. We didn’t need any contact. I was going to transform the real bullet that would be stored in my cheek so that it matched the wax one the audience member had drawn on. I’d been practicing every night—drawing a design on a bullet—and then holding a fresh bullet in my palm and transforming it to match the first. Then I’d confirmed I could reliably do the same thing with the bullet in my cheek.
I could.
It was the penny shaped like a heart that gave me the idea. My magic seemed to like when I directed it to do something small and intricate. Even if it still mostly felt like being possessed by some force with a mind of its own, it was a force that was willing to listen.
So I ran through my prepared spiel, leading up to my final lines before the firing. “Can we please have absolute silence in the tent? And everyone, no matter what happens, please stay in your seats, for your own safety.”
I donned my safety goggles, slipping the plain bullet in my mouth as I put in a mouth guard for show. Dez put his goggles on too. All these layers of glass between us were like some metaphor I didn’t care for in that moment. He might as well have been aiming for my heart. He’d hit it.
Dez raised his hands again, sighting toward me, and I saw him click the safety off.
You trust him, right? Not to shoot you?
Of course I do.
He fired.
The shot cracked like lightning through the tent.
The glass fractured in the center, and I willed the bullet in my cheek to change to match the one with Dez’s scrawled initials on it, visualizing it in great detail. My whole body grew hot, like it always did when my magic came, and the metal of the bullet seemed to boil against the tender skin inside my mouth.
The moment of truth.
I removed the mouth guard, produced the bullet between my teeth and turned to the not-really-there audience. I spit it into my hand.
Dez had put down the gun and walked over. At this point in the show, I’d invite the audience member to inspect the bullet and confirm it was the same one they’d marked. Dez leaned over and examined it, then gave a low whistle. “That is some freaky mojo,” he said. “Also, I hate this trick.”
I laughed. “Why?”
“I don’t like shooting at you.”
“That’s a good thing. But I’m right here and just fine.”
“Yes, you are,” he said. “We good? You want to do it again?”
I considered. “No, I feel like I’ve got it.”
He hesitated. “Could you make a coin like the missing one? The way you make the bullet look the same?”
I blinked, then shook my head. “No, not without seeing it first. And it probably wouldn’t have the magic Mom needs anyway, the copy.”
“Right. Just a thought.” He kissed my nose. “So we’re done, then?”
“Why? You have plans for us?”
Dez took both my hands in his and swung them. “I wish. I have plans with Brandon.”
My grimace was inadvertent. Dez laughed at it. “He’s my friend. And he wants to go out into town. I promised.”
El Paso was right on the Mexican border, with Ciudad Juárez on the other
side. Who knew what the boys would get up to?
“Abandon me. See if I care.” When he looked briefly uncertain, I said, “No, it’s cool. Go on. I should rest up for tomorrow anyway.”
“Good luck,” he said, leaning in for a kiss. My lips lingering against his felt like the moment the bullet left the gun, loaded with possibility . . . and danger. I’d told him all my secrets, but I sensed he still had plenty left.
When he pulled back, he said, “I . . .”
Was he about to say it? I love you?
I wanted it, and I didn’t want it. But I wanted it more than I didn’t.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.
So that was me projecting. The letdown told me how much more I’d wanted it. “Don’t get too wild. I need you to come prepared to aim true.”
“Oh, I will.”
He gave me a deadly grin.
twenty-eight
Backstage the next evening I smoothed on classic red lipstick and went over everything mentally one final time.
The bullet catch was dramatic enough that it could—and would—stand alone tonight. I didn’t want to have to think about any other props or sleights, not until I’d done it successfully a few times in front of the crowd. These tents were on the small side but still held about fifty people at maximum capacity.
Thurston was thrilled about the act. He’d added an extra insurance rider—assuring me it was nothing after what they paid for Jules’s walks—and had a sign produced for the outside of my tent.
SEE THE MIRACULOUS MOIRA PERFORM THE DEADLY
BULLET CATCH
EXCLUSIVELY ON THIS STAGE TONIGHT!!!
I expected a packed house.
Dez came in, and I did a double take. He’d worn his suit. I was touched by the gesture. “You’re looking sharp,” I said.
“That’s where ‘sharpshooter’ comes from,” Dez said. “Well-dressed men like me.”
“It was so much better before you opened your mouth.”
He moved in close. “That’s what she said.”
I rolled my eyes, and he kissed my cheek, just below my mask.
“Don’t want to mess up your lipstick. Not this early in the evening.”
I willed myself not to blush. “Did you have fun last night?”
“No. I missed being with you.” He said it straightforward, not like it was part of the flattery game he was so good at playing.
“Oh.” I fidgeted. “We’d better get out there.”
“Your public awaits. Where’s the box?”
I picked up the small gun box with the handgun and the dummy shot locked inside. Dad had always been religious about this safety measure, so I was doing the same. I’d kept it hidden away in the closet of the Airstream, and I checked now to make sure that the gun and the dummy round were all set before relocking the box to hand off to Dez.
He accepted the case and the key to it, and held aside the curtain so I could go out first. One last deep breath, a straightening of my shoulders, and I put on a smile for the audience. Then I stepped out from the curtain to take the stage.
I paused. The gun case nudged my back, since Dez was coming out behind me.
There were more people than I’d ever seen in this tent. Standing room only, which was probably illegal. It seemed like a monster made up entirely of eyes, all on me.
Keep going, I told myself. The audience isn’t a monster. It wants to be your friend. Get it on your side.
I smiled. When I spoke, I projected. I’d never needed a mic before in here. “Good evening and welcome. I’m the Miraculous Moira. I can’t imagine what’s brought so many of you here tonight.”
There were a few nervous laughs.
I couldn’t help feeling like this audience was here in case they might see a tragic death on the stage, the morbid factor in full effect. Oh well. Magicians counted on it.
“Wait, I can. You want to see a miraculous feat, a girl escaping death, and I’m too happy to oblige.” I nodded to the sheet of glass set into its frame to my left. “On this stage, you’ll see a hole in this glass, which will serve as proof that a bullet was fired—at me—on this stage. This handsome devil over here will be doing the firing.” I nodded to Dez, who nodded back and shot the audience a grin. “And one of you will mark the bullet. That audience member will then confirm it’s the same bullet that I catch . . . in my mouth.”
There were a few surprised “oohs.”
I raised my hand and crossed my fingers stagily. “Hopefully.”
That got a smattering of laughter and some light applause. The audience was coming along.
Dez held up the gun case, then set it on the ground and unlocked it. He removed the pistol and began to check it out. Even though I’d already done so earlier, it offered more evidence to the audience in support of the reality of what they were about to see. And it gave them something to watch in addition to me while I did my setup.
“But first, while my lovely assistant makes his safety check, I want to tell you a story. So many of the women whose work allows me to stand on this stage before you have been largely forgotten . . . by the men who write magic history. I’ll be dedicating tonight’s performance to two women from Georgia who made a sensation in the late 1800s with great feats of strength and controlling metal.”
They wanted to see that bullet fired, but they could listen to this first.
“The first was just a teenager when she performed, after supposedly gaining powers during a lightning storm. Powers to make those around her believe she was a ‘human magnet.’ She was Lulu Hurst, also known as the Georgia Wonder. She only performed for a short time, but she managed to inspire a successor who ended up surpassing her feats—Annie Abbott, who performed as the Little Georgia Magnet. Both these women could move metal objects onstage while three strong men tried to prevent it, often with just a hand upon the item and moving the men as well. Annie regularly resisted the efforts of burly men to lift her hundred-pound frame.” I was in the center of the stage, and I swept my hands out. “Who better to dedicate the bullet catch to than these women magicians who demonstrated control over metal? Lulu and Annie, if you have any aid you can offer me tonight, I’ll take it.”
I winked, and the crowd laughed. “And now, let’s get under way. I’ll need a volunteer from the audience to examine and mark the bullet that my lovely assistant will load into his gun.”
I searched across the hands being raised for whom to pick, and then a man shifted to one side about midway back in the tent. As he did, I caught a glimpse of the woman who stood behind him.
My mother.
I swallowed. Why was she here again? I wondered. I needed to find out.
“You”—I pointed—“the beautiful woman with the red hair right there. You seem like a perfect choice, and you’re already standing. Can you all help her get up here to us?”
I waited to see what she’d do. I wanted to talk to her, even briefly.
She could turn and run—or magically sweep the whole tent away, for all I knew—but it would make too much of a spectacle. Fighting her way out through the crowd wouldn’t be easy. She started in the stage’s direction.
Dez stood at my shoulder. He whispered, “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
Right. She’d be marking the bullet. She had blocked my magic last time, with nearly tragic results.
Too bad I didn’t think of that before I invited her onstage. “No. But it’s too late now.”
I didn’t think she wanted to hurt me.
She made her way slowly to the fore, waiting for people to move, rather than shifting to walk around them. And people did. There was a command to how she parted the crowd along the aisle to get to us.
She reached the side of the stage and climbed up the three steps we’d placed there earlier. She wore jeans and a tank top, as before.
My mother was beautiful. There was no hint of the pallor or weakness she’d shown outside the Airstream that night. Her green eyes weren’t so different than my ow
n, except I didn’t have a tattoo that matched them. I could only see the side of it, but the snake was curled around something.
She did not have a welcoming or worried look. Instead, I was presented with a mocking half-smile that told me exactly nothing about why she was here or what to expect. She seemed . . . different than she had either of the other times. Could it be that we had a serious audience? She’d been so paranoid that first night. Perhaps the mysterious he was nearby.
“Hello . . .” I paused, leaving space for her name.
Dez looked like he was in pain behind her.
“Regina,” she said.
“Well, Regina, thank you for being here and being a willing volunteer.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“Are you a fan of magic?” I asked.
“Devoted.”
The queen of the one-word answer.
The audience was starting to get restless. No matter how much I wanted to try to pry more out of her, to see if this was the worst idea I’d ever had, the show had to go on.
“Regina, we’d like you to confirm this is a real bullet.”
Dez, grave-faced, took the wax round from the box and handed it to her.
She squinted at it. “Looks real to me.” She stage-whispered to the audience, “I’d have to kill someone with it to be sure, but . . .”
Her voice had gone just teasing enough that the crowd would assume she was joking. I wasn’t convinced.
“Let’s hope not,” I said, and the audience rewarded us with laughter. I was surprised at how blind they were to what was happening in front of their very eyes, but I shouldn’t have been. That was how magic worked. The audience only ever saw a sliver of truth.
Dez met my eyes, a plea in his to stop this somehow.
Sorry, no way out now, I tried to tell him.
I pulled a marker from my pocket. “Regina, I’d like you to mark the bullet with something unique to you, a symbol that we can use to identify it. I know there’s not much space, but do your best.”
Our fingers brushed when she took the marker, and I felt like Lulu Hurst, like I’d been hit by lightning. My magic stirred awake, my palms heating.