by Gwenda Bond
“You.”
“I should have banned that as an answer.”
But when he held up his hand, I laced my fingers through his and rested my head on his shoulder. “What do you feel best at? Don’t be funny. Be honest.”
He was quiet for a long time, and I had almost given up on an answer. “This isn’t what you mean, I don’t think.”
“Try me,” I said, gazing up at him.
“So,” he said, “the thing about running a con is that people are so easy to manipulate into what you want them to do.”
“You’re right, this wasn’t what I expected. Go on, though.”
“A lot of con artists talk about how dumb people are. How greedy. But I always felt like I could be a mark. The marks and me have a lot in common.”
“How so?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“We want to believe the lies.” He nudged his shoulder into me. “I think that’s why I like watching you perform so much.”
“You want to believe lies? That’s not much of a goal.”
“No. That’s not it.” He stopped and searched for words. “I want my life to be the kind where the stuff I always thought was lies is actually true.”
“Where things are good,” I said. “I love that. Now we both have something we’re planning for—me to be a magician, and you to have a life where good things can be true. And no Praestigae for either of us.”
He gave a wry smile.
“Don’t start doubting it’s possible already,” I said. “Now we figure out how to con the con artists—including my mother, but mostly the Rex.”
“Sounds easy enough,” he joked. “Anything else?”
After last night I still couldn’t necessarily count on my mother to stand up to her man. It had made me think I could count on her not actively contributing against us, though. She had something she wanted out of all this: power.
“There is something else. I know this is petty, probably stupid . . .”
“What is it?” Dez asked.
“I want to scare the Rex as bad as I was scared last night.”
“I would like to see that,” Dez said, but there was an undercurrent of fear in his voice. “I can’t help with that part, but the other part, the conning part, I can. To get the Rex to a deal-making place, where he might let us go, he’ll need to feel like it’s possible for him to lose.”
“To not get the coin, you mean?”
“The coin or you.”
“Why?”
He grinned. “So he’ll settle for the coin.”
“Aha, okay,” I said. “But he doesn’t get you either in this scenario.”
“Agreed.”
We were both quiet, rolling over the problem. What had my mother said—that I could see more possibilities than she was able to? So I looked for solutions they wouldn’t expect.
After a little while, an idea began to come together in my mind. First, we would set our terms to create Dez’s possibility that the Rex would lose. Then, I would design an illusion that was so enormous I could barely begin to fathom how I’d do it. Dez had come here and fantasized about vanishing, so . . . why not make it happen? This could secure both our dreams: Dez’s of a real future and mine of being a great magician.
For a disappearance on a mass scale to facilitate a trade (of the coin) and to mask a small-scale getaway (mine and Dez’s), the Ferris wheel we were sitting on would be perfect. Making this massive metal monster seem to disappear and reappear would take a lot of preparation—and I’d need Dad’s help—but if David Copperfield could make the Statue of Liberty appear to vanish, why not this? If we could convince the Rex and Regina that I truly had made it disappear, I could also probably convince them that most of my magic was gone. That I was too used up to be of use to the Praestigae, my cup all but emptied of magic.
For this plan, the gauntlet would have to be thrown to the Rex and Regina much sooner. We’d need as much space as we could get to focus on the illusion, without worrying about them showing up to monkey-wrench things again before we were ready.
“Last night the Rex said something about sending a summons next time,” I said.
“That’s how they usually do things.”
“I think we should send one to them, and tell them we already found the coin and it’s hidden away. That we’ll let them know where they can retrieve it when we get to Vegas. It’ll give them time to sweat. And they’re so used to skulking around in the shadows, to secrecy . . . So we put together a public handoff of the coin during one of my performances in Vegas.”
I’d explain to Dez later the size of what I was considering for the performance in question.
He was nodding. “If they want it, they’ll have to be ready to make a deal. They can’t do much with a bunch of people around. They might just take what they can get. It could work.”
I smiled wide. “I know just the place we can invite them to, in LA, for the setup part. The kind of place even the Rex won’t risk making a scene in.”
Fingers crossed, at least.
“I want to know the part you’re not telling me. There is that part?” he said. “But . . . we have the beginnings of a plan, don’t we?”
“Right on both counts,” I said. “Now kiss me, you fool.”
Our grins at each other faded as our faces neared, and then our lips touched. This wasn’t the overpowering heat, the matchstick striking we sometimes had, flames that would burn us both to the ground. It was gentle. It was solace. Care. Hope.
Now I just had to pray we could pull this off.
forty
Another perfect San Diego day sent its bright sun down onto us. Dez and I were already in the car, about to leave for Los Angeles.
Brandon was supposed to swing by and pick up our summons. Dez had asked him to deliver the invite I’d prepared to the Rex and Regina at whatever place the Praestigae were holed up in LA. So far, he had yet to show, and soon enough, everyone would roll out.
“He said he’d be here,” Dez said, reading my mind.
“Then he will.” Not that I had that much confidence in Brandon—or even wanted to look at his face again after the other night. But Dez had told him this had to do with his leaders, so I didn’t think he’d chance flaking.
“Can I see it?” Dez asked.
I passed him the golden envelope. I hadn’t bothered to seal it, in case Brandon was feeling snoopy. I’d just tucked the front flap of the envelope inside.
Dez pulled out a piece of the thick gold-edged stationery I’d grabbed in a fancy paper store. Production values mattered. Dad had taught me that. The Rex and Regina would like feeling feted, honored, by this golden missive.
At least until our revelation of its true nature.
I’d written on the page in thick black ink:
A dinner invitation for the Regina and the Rex. Fancy dress required. Come alone and discover how luck can be yours once again.
Below it was a date two days from now, August 25, 7 p.m., and an address, The Magic Castle, 7001 Franklin Avenue, Los Angeles.
“How fancy’s this place again?” Dez asked, refolding the sheet and stashing it back in the envelope. “Castle sounds fancy.”
“I bought you a tie yesterday. You’ll be good.” I’d picked up a dress too. Dad hadn’t cut off anything; my credit cards worked just fine.
I’d also used Dad’s member number to make the dinner reservation. We’d be safe from any crashing royal henchmen at the Magic Castle, a private club that wasn’t the easiest to gain an invite to.
Dez gave me one of those heart-stopping grins. “I hope you’re paying for dinner. Otherwise, your mom will probably just hand the server a napkin and make him think he’s seeing money.”
“She does that kind of thing?”
“All the time,” he said. “I doubt the Rex ever pays for anything.”
“What about those houses?”
“People on vacation. She handles it if neighbors complain, but mostly they don’t. She can make them see th
ings as perfectly normal.”
No wonder her magic was almost gone . . . if it was. Doing so many small illusions on top of whatever big ones had to take some kind of toll.
Brandon finally showed up, tapping on Dez’s window with his cast.
I rolled down the window, and Dez held out the invitation. “This goes to the Rex and Regina,” he said. “As soon as you can get it to them.”
“You’re welcome,” Brandon said.
He ambled away with the envelope. He’d never apologized to me for the other night, and I didn’t expect him to.
Minutes later, I navigated us out of the parking lot and into the long line of the caravan rolling out to our next-to-last city. The Vegas finale had been chosen because Jules was shooting a TV special at the Grand Canyon immediately after the season was over. There were always extra journalists around to stick a microphone in her face before the Cirque shows these days.
“I hope this plan works,” I said.
“How can it not?” Dez asked, but I knew he had as many doubts as I did.
“And maybe next time I’m onstage I’ll pull a real live rabbit out of my hat.”
“Why couldn’t you?”
There were all sorts of reasons I could have cited, not least the fact that when the trick was common, it was partly due to people not caring so much about the lives of the poor rabbits in question.
I settled for the following: “It’s a lot harder than it seems.”
“Oh,” Dez said, “so it’s just like everything else.”
Two nights later, I turned my convertible off a street in Los Angeles with a squealing of tires and ripped up the hill to the chateau-style yellow-and-purple house atop it. We screeched again, to a stop. We were almost running late.
The valets were used to dramatic entrances, so they didn’t even blink. “Welcome to the Magic Castle,” one of them managed to get out before I thrust my keys at him.
The Fairplex, which the Cirque was using for its shows here, was farther than I’d expected from Hollywood, where the Magic Castle was. And I’d forgotten to account for the dystopian hell zone that was LA traffic. Which meant we had gotten here barely in time to beat our guests—assuming we had. I wanted them off balance, not us.
Dez stepped out of the passenger side. “Relax. We made it.”
He was as nervous as I was. His new tie was dove-silver-and-white striped, and with it and his suit he could’ve talked almost anyone into almost anything. I was in the required fancy attire too, a dress with a red sweetheart neckline that segued into a black circle skirt. With pockets for coins and cards, just in case.
The other attendant opened the Magic Castle’s door for us. I presented one of Dad’s membership cards to the hostess behind the front stand. I always had a few in my wallet. It was filled out with my name.
“Are we the first in our party to arrive?” I asked.
Her perfectly highlighted blonde head bobbed. “You are.” She waved us toward a nearby wall covered by bookshelves, where a golden owl presided. The owl was the symbol of the organization that made its headquarters here.
“Whew,” I said to Dez.
He was busy squinting at the owl and the bookshelf. “Where do we go?” he asked, quietly.
I couldn’t help a smile at this. “Open sesame,” I said.
And the wall slid open to admit us into the dark, wood-paneled, lush interior of the house, designed in deep shades meant to conjure an aura of gravitas and mystery. Despite some shabbiness around the edges, the overall effect was like being admitted into a secret magicians’ fantasyland—which is exactly what it was.
The first-floor bar was packed with other dressed-up people. There was a smattering of older men who were likely entertainment attorneys, here on borrowed invites with their much-younger dates, something I’d always found an unsavory trend. The house that made up the Magic Castle was filled with secret rooms and passages, and galleries or stages where magicians of various kinds performed all evening long. The walls were emblazoned with portraits of magic legends and rare posters and playbills. Only members of the Academy of Magical Arts—and their guests—were allowed to visit, and no photography or recording was allowed.
Normally I’d have circulated, watching close-up magic in nooks and corners, finding out who was on the main stages, and spending some time with the rare books in the library downstairs. While I’d been practicing in secret all those years, I’d fantasized about being allowed to join and then blowing the minds of the members of the junior club. I still longed to come here and be one of the performers in the Close-Up Gallery, and to someday do an engagement on one of the bigger stages in the Parlour of Prestidigitation or the Palace of Mystery.
But it turned out my first visit as a magician myself had little to do with any of that. Tonight I steered Dez through the crowded bar and straight up the steps to the dining room. We were shown to a table for four in the corner, the one I’d requested. We sat against the wall, where we’d be able to see our companions arrive.
Dez was gazing around wide-eyed at everything, the way I imagined I had my first time here. “This is the kind of place you go to all the time?” he asked.
This was a fine-dining restaurant, with white tablecloths, overpriced food, and everyone up to the dress code. Still more paintings and posters that showcased the mystical arts hung on the walls up here.
“No,” I said, though I knew what he meant. “This is the only place like this I’ve ever been. Well, except a private club in London once. But that one may be nicer.”
“Nicer than this?”
“You should order one of the overpriced steaks.”
He glanced down at the menu, eyes widening even more at the prices.
“It’s all right. Dad hasn’t cut off my credit card yet.” And then I saw our companions coming up the stairs. “Showtime.”
My mother entered first, ahead of the bearded devil. They turned heads, even here. She wore a slinky green evening gown, her red hair piled into a glamorous mass not unlike the snakes on her arm, and he was in what looked to be a very expensive navy suit, an ascot knotted at his throat, as if he’d been born to the aristocracy instead of seizing it in some sort of coup.
“Show no fear, remember,” I murmured to Dez, touching his hand and pasting on an easy smile. “Like we’re in control.”
Dez took my hand under the table and gave it a squeeze. I wasn’t sure if mine was the one trembling or his.
Please let us pull this off.
I wanted the Rex to pay for a whole lot of things, especially my almost-kidnapping.
The waiter pulled the chair out for my mother, and she oozed a smile at him. The Rex handled his own chair, waving away the waiter with a curt “Red wine, for the table.”
The waiter frowned down at Dez and me, likely wondering if we were of age, but my mother added, “Please.”
He hopped to, her order his pleasure.
Had she made him see us as the right age, another one of those small illusions taking a toll, like the way she’d disguised her busted lip from me? Or had she made that up? I still wasn’t convinced the sick or injured versions of herself I’d been shown were real.
“We decided to forgive your presumption in summoning us,” said the Rex. “Though Dez should know it’s the height of impropriety.” His eyes landed on Dez and stayed there for a long moment. “But I was concerned you might have the wrong idea about how much I welcome you to our family, Moira dear.”
I didn’t realize my grip had tightened around my silverware knife until Dez laid a calming hand over mine.
“Uh, yeah, I could see why you would be,” I said, releasing the knife. “But don’t worry about it. I found it a great help.”
“Really,” the Rex drew out the word. “How so?”
Here we go. “It made the nature of the relationship I want for us to have with you—both of you—very clear.”
“What’s that?” my mother asked, and the Rex gave her a sharp look. Like he’d to
ld her to stay quiet.
“None,” I said. Then, before they could respond to that, “I was able to locate the coin.”
There was a brief silence.
The Rex broke it. “You can hand it over, then. No need to wait.”
“And here I thought you’d want me to buy you dinner first,” I said dryly.
Dez made a choking sound. It didn’t escape me that he hadn’t said a word yet.
“Well?” the Rex said, holding out his hand.
“We didn’t bring it,” I said. “But we have recovered it. And, just as you suspected, it is very powerful. I was using it when I turned glass fragments to bullets and then commanded them to fall to the stage harmlessly. Brandon was right.”
The waiter returned with a bottle and presented it to us. “You can just pour,” my mother said. She was watching me, and if I’d had to fill in the thought bubble over her head, it would have said: be careful.
Don’t worry, I thought back. I’m being careful with you both.
The waiter poured us all glasses, then swiftly departed.
The Rex picked up his glass and swirled the red wine like he was a connoisseur, took a sip, and nodded.
I picked mine up, mostly to have something to do with my hands.
“My Regina, would you mind making their wine a little more demonstrative? Show them what kind of punishment disrespect often results in.”
My mother nodded to him.
I gasped and set the glass back down. She’d made the wine in my glass and Dez’s look like blood, thicker and brighter red than the wine.
The Rex laughed.
My mother picked up her glass, and I willed her to throw it in his face. She didn’t.
“Nice,” I said, hating they’d seen me react to the blood in the wineglass. “We’re here to talk about a deal.”
The Rex swirled his wine some more and took a drink. He set the glass down with an audible thump, the wine swishing up the sides. A few drops landed on the white tablecloth.
“I already described a deal to you,” the Rex said. “Desmond returns the coin by the end of the season or no more Desmond.”