I always stop for lost-pet flyers. I can’t stand the thought of animals out on the street when they have a home and a family waiting for them. This one’s a cat, and even though the paper’s yellowed from the sun and the ink’s smeared from the rain, I memorize the gray stripes and the name: Suzy.

Maybe Suzy’s already back home.

Still, I dig a pen out of my backpack and write the number on my wrist, where I’m less likely to wash it off. I’ve found a missing pet only once, but I remember the way the little dog squirmed in my arms when we reached his door and the way his owners almost cried and then hugged me like you would a long-lost relative—they gave me twenty bucks, too.

Sometimes I wish I could post a flyer and have a kind stranger show up at my door and give me back everything I’ve ever lost.

But most lost things never come back.

My hand drifts to the four quarters I always keep in my pocket. I pull them out and fan them between my fingers, blinking them away almost as quick. I give a bow to a watching squirrel. It turns and runs into the street, dodging a car just to escape my performance.

I smile. Magic reminds me of Mom and Dad. The good memories.

The bad one creeps in too. It never leaves, and this time of year, it’s all I can think about.

Shoving my quarters out of sight, I speed the hundred yards down the sidewalk. I take the stairs to my foster house two at a time and fumble with the lock on the red door while the Rolling Stones’ “Paint It Black” runs through my head.

The hardwood floor creaks as I enter. No matter where I go, this house speaks to me with every step. Even when I’m not moving, when I lie in bed staring at the notches in the wooden beam dividing the ceiling, it groans and whispers as it stretches its worn joints. It has too many stories to tell to stay silent. I love to listen to them, especially at night when everyone else is asleep.

I’ve been in new houses, all white and beige and clean. The silence of them eats me alive.

At least this house has one thing going for it.

“Dinner,” I yell up the stairs. I head straight for the kitchen and pull out a bowl of leftover spaghetti from the refrigerator and plop it in the microwave. I tap my fingers on the tiled countertop as I wait.

It beeps, and I set three plates out, spooning spaghetti onto them in heaps.

I’m still alone in the kitchen.

“Guys,” I yell again.

Parker and Jacob stomp down the stairs, drowning out any of the subtle creaks and groans with their chatter. They take the two seats next to each other. Figures. I end up alone on the other side, watching them.

Parker and Ava Perry. We share a last name. It should be me and him, with everyone else on the outside. Jacob’s the bio-kid of the house. He doesn’t need Parker the way I do. But I keep my feelings off my face these days. When we first got here, Parker and Jacob bonded instantly over video games and Star Wars and zombies. They acted like they’d been friends forever. Or brothers. But I noticed Parker cutting his laughs short when I was in the room and looking at me like I was a fragile thing his laughter might hurt. It did. It does. But I want this for him. I’m glad he loves it here.

I pull out two quarters. “Do you want to see a trick?” Mom did card tricks every night at the dinner table. I’d cheer, and Parker would too, but he doesn’t remember it. I wish I could give him those memories to hold on to, but this is the best I can do. Mom gave me these quarters when I was five to practice sleight of hand because my fingers were too small for playing cards, and I’ve never used anything else. I tuck one quarter between my thumb and palm, hidden from my audience. The other quarter, I press into the back of my hand. “I can pass this coin through my skin.”

Parker rolls his eyes. “I already know how you do that one, Ava.”

“I don’t,” Jacob says.

“She’s got two quarters.” Parker blows the whole thing.

I let my hidden quarter clank to the table. For a second, I keep the other one pressed into my hand. Sometimes I get the urge to push it straight through my skin, like it would just go—no trick, just real magic. I dig it in a little and nothing happens except for an angry red line when I give up.

I used to try stuff like that a lot as a kid, especially after Mom died, when I needed a little magic that wasn’t pretend. I don’t know why I still do it.

Shoving my quarters back in my pocket, I pick up my fork and press it into the table, gone soft with age, scratching in another gouge. Nobody will ever notice. This table looks like it’s been through a lot of families.

But it feels like a small rebellion and it distracts me from Parker and Jacob on the other side, laughing about some prank their friend pulled at school yesterday.

I deepen my gouge, then smooth my finger over the gash, suddenly wishing I could magic it away. But scars don’t work like that.

I drag my plate over the mark and grimace as Parker shovels lukewarm spaghetti into his mouth. He hangs his jaw open so the noodles drip down his chin and lets out a low death gurgle.

Jacob snorts, spraying flecks of milk almost to my plate.

Disgusting.

I glare, but they’re too wrapped up in their zombie lovefest to notice.

Jacob turns serious, widening his dark brown eyes. “Dude, I would totally put you down if you got bit.”

Parker nods. “Same.” He swallows the spaghetti he’s talking around. “No hesitation.”

“I’m going to put you both down if you don’t shut up and eat,” I growl.

They laugh in the high-pitched, cracking sound of twelve-year-old boys and start debating who the best zombie-fighting badass is.

I twirl a bite of spaghetti on my fork and shove it into my mouth, chewing without tasting.

For the hundredth time, I glance at the hideous clock above the refrigerator. The hour hand settles on the faded drawing of the rooster by the number seven. Deb is late. She’s almost never late. I actually like that about her. She’s not the worst foster-whatever. I’m just supposed to get the boys dinner, and she makes sure it ends up in their mouths and not all over the floor like entrails.

“Ava, can we be done?” Parker and Jacob stare at me with wide, innocent eyes, their plates still half full. I’m sure they have a stash of cookies in their room.

“I don’t care.”

They bolt and leave me alone to clean up their mess.

Figures.

Pushing back my chair with a scrape, I start stacking the dishes, then dump them in the sink.

I look at the clock again. Seven p.m. on a Friday night. Friday. I let myself smile a little. Parker and I watch The NeverEnding Story together every Friday night no matter where we are. Even if we don’t have a DVD player, we tell the story to each other. I can recite that movie scene by scene—but that’s not something I usually brag about.

My steps lighten as I hurry from the kitchen and dart up the stairs, dusting the banister with my hand as I go.

I pause outside the bedroom with the yellow hazard sign nailed to the door. Inside, the pop, pop, pop of an automatic rifle mingles with the bloodthirsty cries of young boys.

I rap on the door and silence answers.

Parker opens with raised eyebrows. He doesn’t remember what night it is.

I almost back away. Forget it. But I can’t. It’s tradition.

“It’s movie night.”

Realization crosses his face… but not excitement.

I fidget, scraping at a hangnail with my thumb.

Parker turns to Jacob, who’s smiling as he sits on the lower level of their bunk, facing the TV across the room. I wish I could see whatever look Parker gives him. Or maybe I don’t. The nothingness is already growing inside my chest, and I’m a helpless princess in a floating kingdom, waiting for a little boy to save her and give her a name.

Call my name, Parker.

On second thought, maybe it’s better if I don’t watch The NeverEnding Story one more time.

Parker turns back to me. “I kinda forgot.”

We share a last name, and still he can’t make me feel any less alone.

I shrug. No big deal. I can sit alone in my room and swap stories with this house.

“Why don’t you play with us?”

Jacob’s smile widens, inviting me as well, but it’s too wide to be sincere. He brushes a lock of hair from his forehead and glances back at the screen of frozen men with assault rifles.

Parker’s smile matches Jacob’s. They could be twins.

My brother’s hair is bitter chocolate. Mine is too, but only because I dye it. It’s naturally an almost white blond, but I got tired of people thinking we weren’t related. My brother has my mom’s round face and soft features. You can see the resemblance in the photo he keeps of her—all three of us sitting outside our trailer, the forest tight around us, my brother squirming in her thin arms, and me with my too-big dark brown eyes that mirrored hers. Parker with his deep blue eyes that matched our dad’s. Our mom died two weeks later.

Parker loves that photo, but I can’t look at it without picturing the way I found her body. And it’s already so ingrained in my mind that I don’t need the extra help.

Besides, if I want to remember our parents, I just look at Parker.

People say he’s handsome.

Parker’s staring at me with something like pity in his eyes, and I lock down whatever emotion he’s reading on my face.

“I’m good.” I back away from the door as Parker shuts me out.

The nothingness in my chest grows cavernous and hungry. The floorboards creak.

I open my bedroom door and close it behind me, leaning against the comfort of the solid wood. My room is brighter than the rest of the house. Deb painted the wood panels a soft dove gray. A purple bedspread and floral prints above the headboard give everything a light, girly feel. Silver-shaded lamps sit on white shabby-chic nightstands. It’s the kind of room meant to appeal to any foster girls passing through.

I hate it.

Deb can tell. I don’t know how. I’ve never said anything, but she offered to take me shopping for a new bedspread more my style. I said no. I don’t like gifts.

I cross the room and plop sideways on my bed.

Mom pushes into my mind again. I needed Parker tonight. I needed a distraction, but I don’t want to tell him why. I doubt he knows that this week is the anniversary of her death. She died when I was eight, just before Parker turned three. Dad died not long before I turned six, and I only have blurry memories of him that blend together. Parker doesn’t have any memories of them at all.

I focus on Dad anyway. It’s weird that the safer parent to think about is the one who died in a mugging gone bad, but I was so little that I don’t really remember that moment. I only remember the before and the after. Before, I would stand on the side of a small stage at a little club or community theater, holding the hand of a babysitter while I stared open-mouthed at Mom and Dad on the stage making rabbits and birds and cats appear from top hats or from behind sparkling curtains. Dad wore a red vest made of sequins over a billowy white shirt. Mom wore red silk over a rounded stomach that held Parker. She always wore fresh red roses in her hair. I don’t really remember anything else about Dad besides those nights on the side of a stage.

After, we had a trailer, and we moved around even more, and Mom was a little bit different, like a fancy dress missing the sequins it once had. She didn’t talk about Dad very much.

I learned more about my dad from his Wikipedia page than I ever learned from my mom. Joseph Perry wasn’t a magician with a household name, but he was well respected for his teleportation illusions. Some people speculate that he was on the verge of being one of the greats when he disappeared from center stage and became known for doing small pop-up shows with a mysterious woman—my mom. It perhaps made him more famous because he became elusive. And then he died. I’ve read all kinds of theories that he disappeared because he was running from someone he owed money to or another magician whose trick he stole, and that his death wasn’t random at all. I’ve been down every odd rabbit hole and theory, but all I know for sure is what Mom told me: he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Dad couldn’t actually make himself disappear.

Mom’s death was different. I know what happened to her. I found her. I saw the wounds.

I’m about to let myself dwell on it when the door opens downstairs. Deb’s home. If I’m lucky, Deb will go to bed without checking on me.

I’m never lucky.

She knocks on my bedroom door but doesn’t wait for me to answer. She knows I won’t.

“Ava?” My name in her mouth is always a question that she doesn’t know how to ask and I can’t answer.

She smiles as she slides through the door, still wearing her scrubs and practical white sneakers. Her brown hair is piled back with a clip that went out of style ten years ago. Her eyes dart around the room before settling on me, out of place, in the center.

“I bought you some things.”

I notice, with horror, the bags from department stores dangling from her forearm.

“You didn’t have to do that.” I mean this on two levels: (1) Foster-whatevers get money to feed and clothe us, but that doesn’t mean they actually have to buy us shit; (2) Deb wears a nauseating amount of pink. Her scrubs right now boast pink kittens. Pink kittens. I don’t want anything in that bag. It probably has sequins.

“I wanted to.” Deb’s smile stretches like a worn-out sweater. She smiles too much, and I don’t trust it.

She ignores the fact that I’m looking at her like a monster from a horror film and walks toward the bed. Her bags rustle together, creating the creepy soundtrack of impending doom. I scoot over as she drops them on the bed, and they all crinkle together in the big crescendo that lets you know the main character is not going to live much longer. I try not to flinch. I hope she’ll just leave the stuff and go, so I can slide the bags under the bed without looking, but she rifles through them.

She takes out a pair of dark-wash jeans, loose and baggy. I only wear them that way or tight and stretchy enough to feel like skin—both work for running in a pinch. She glances at my face and takes my silence as confirmation that they’re okay.

She pulls out a red T-shirt, plain and V-necked with a small pocket on the breast. I try not to let my face show any surprise at it not being pink. She sets it aside and takes out another pair of jeans, a green racer-back tank, a blue plaid button-up, a gray hoodie with thumb holes in the sleeves, and finally, a black tank top printed with tiny vines of red roses. It’s the only piece of black in the pile, and it’s marred with flowers. None of it is pink though, and I might actually wear some of it even if my wardrobe is usually composed of black at multiple stages of fading.

Deb fusses with the pile, clearly stalling, waiting for me to speak.

I almost say thank you and accept the clothes. It’s perhaps a small enough gift I can accept without any strings.

She clears her throat first. “Maybe we can get rid of some of your old stuff.”

I stiffen. Any words of thanks freeze in my mouth. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

Her eyes drift to my frayed T-shirt. The stitching along the hem is gone and the material curls on the edges. The picture of palm trees in the sun on the chest is cracked and splintered. You can just make out EAGLES above it and HOTEL CALIFORNIA below. A few more washes and it’ll be unrecognizable. My jeans have a hole in the knee. I say it adds character.

“I just thought—”

“They weren’t good enough.”

“No.” She looks at the door, probably wishing she hadn’t come in here at all. “No. I just thought that starting college in the fall would be easier on you with some new clothes.”

“I don’t care what anyone thinks of me.” Including you.

And I don’t really want to think about the fall. I’m signed up for basic classes at the community college, but even that feels like something you do when you have an end goal. I don’t really have a plan. I’ve spent so much time looking back, I forgot to look forward. At what point in my life was I supposed to let go of the past and do that? I feel like I missed it, and nobody was there to help me find it.

Anger boils over into the nothingness that filled me only moments before. It feels good to be full of something, no matter what it is.

Deb stands up from the bed. I half expect her to take the clothes back as she leaves. She doesn’t. She just pauses at the door with one hand resting on her waist, covering a kitten chasing a ball of yarn. “You can wear what you want. I just wanted to do something nice for you.”

I’m sure the words are supposed to make me cringe with guilt. They don’t. When you’re a foster kid, people expect you to be grateful for the smallest things, like getting to go out to McDonald’s for some nuggets that taste like they were made from cardboard chickens—the kind of things that other kids don’t think about, much less say thank you for, when it’s their real parents who are paying for it. I stopped being grateful for shit a long time ago.

Deb stands by the door for a minute, but I’m not looking at her anymore. I stare in the full-length mirror of my closet without seeing my reflection. I wait until my door clicks shut and then brush the clothes and bags off my bed and fall backward.

Deb’s footsteps move down the hall. She opens the door to the boys’ room, and their laughter weaves together like magic—like family.

And I want to be a part of that. I do. Deb’s house is the best place we’ve been by far, but it’s not fair to Mom. I can’t let myself be part of this until I can really put her to rest—until someone pays for what happened to her.

I consider curling up in my annoyingly lavender bed and distracting myself by watching Criss Angel pull a quarter from his bleeding arm for the millionth time: a personal favorite. But I crave the familiarity of the night air on my skin—one of the only constant things in my life. It always calms me down.

I grab my beanie and my backpack, checking to make sure my crude wooden stake is still tucked away at the bottom. I always check. When your mom was killed by a vampire, how can you not?

I wander, letting the repetitive sound of tires on asphalt push stray thoughts from my head. I will not think about Parker and Jacob laughing together. I will not think of Deb’s condescending gifts. My body wants to run, find a rhythm and focus on nothing but breathing, but I never run at night. Running’s an invitation for something to chase you. I want to be the predator, not the prey. Besides, I already ran five miles this morning.

Out of habit, I head to J Street, where more people gather at night—a vampire might find warm, drunk bodies and easily accessible necks there. After fruitlessly hunting all these years, I don’t really believe I’ll find one, but I still peek down the occasional dark alley, looking for anything odd. And I’m ready if I do find one. I’m fast. I’m more comfortable with a stake in my hand than a pencil. I spent years watching vampire movies and mimicking the moves of vampire hunters until my muscles remembered every action. I’ve seen every vampire movie twenty times. Not because I like them. I hate them—the scenes that make them seem good or sexy make my stomach turn—but they’re all I have. Because nobody knows shit about vampires except that they’re out there.

Vampires revealed themselves when I was eight—just two weeks before I found Mom with dripping wounds on her neck that looked like bite marks. The adults wrote it off as some type of animal attack. When she died, I didn’t know vampires existed yet because we didn’t have a television. But once I got placed in a temporary home where the television ran all day, I knew what really happened to Mom. I felt it in the way my skin froze watching that redheaded bastard on television brag about how he hadn’t killed anyone in a long time. His name was Gerald. There were a few others, but his face was on the television every day for weeks. The foster-whatevers I lived with at the time were obsessed with it. They had the news on constantly even though I said it scared me. They made me sit with them in the living room, all our dinners on trays, and watch news story after news story until all I could picture was that vampire’s smirking face. All I could imagine was his teeth on my mom’s neck, even though it probably wasn’t him. He lived in Paris, but it didn’t matter. I stopped sleeping.

That’s when I started hunting.

In one interview, they asked him if a wooden stake to the heart really killed vampires, and the bloodsucker didn’t answer, but I saw the way his mouth tightened and knew it was true. That was the first night I snuck out after the foster-whatevers went to sleep. I armed myself with pencils and made it only a block before I turned around and went back, but it felt good to be out there in the night doing something instead of crying and remembering.

A vampire took Mom from me. Me and Parker. I wanted to kill one, just one, to pay them back. If I could do that, I thought, then maybe I had a shot of smiling again and finding a family, because families liked happy kids, not kids who woke up crying.

Then one of the vampires killed a child not long after they tried to live “peacefully” with humans, and they disappeared again. By now most people have chalked the whole thing up to a hoax.

I kept looking though. It became a ritual almost. I had to check the night before being able to sleep. Eventually, I replaced the pencils with real stakes I carved, but the only time I used one was to threaten some guy trying to follow me when I was fifteen. He wasn’t a vampire, just a creep, but it turns out that stakes scare those, too.

The ten-year anniversary of vampires happened a couple of weeks ago, so every television station is still playing an endless stream of documentaries and movies. I came home the other day and found Parker and Jacob watching The Lost Boys. Laughing. Like creatures that killed people to survive could ever be funny. I wanted to run into the room, grab the remote, and throw it into the screen. But I didn’t. I’ve never told Parker how Mom really died. So I let them keep watching it while I went to the bathroom and threw up, imagining that evil fanged face being the last thing Mom ever saw. She must have been scared.

This time of year makes me edgy. It makes me want to be a vampire hunter for real. I’m strong enough—that was one thing I did have control over. I started running and lifting weights at fourteen. I figured it would take a lot of endurance to catch a vampire and a lot of upper-body strength to drive a stake into its heart.

I know there are people actually trying to track them down again. If I didn’t have Parker to take care of, I could travel—we still live in the same town Mom was murdered in, but surely I’d have found something by now if vampires were still here. I need to widen my search to bigger cities where there are rumors of sightings on vampire message boards. Sacramento hasn’t had any spottings in years, so for now I walk the streets out of habit and sometimes imagine what I’d do if I found one.

I reach back and touch the bottom of my backpack, feeling the shape of the stake there.

I take a deep breath and try to relax into my routine. I’m distracted tonight. I force myself to focus on the familiar.

Each side of the street boasts several neon signs with burned-out lights. I pass Cooper’s on the right, the C burned out months ago. Nobody cares. Certainly not the few patrons inside already teetering on their stools. I tuck my head down and keep moving.

The throaty and boyish sound of Def Leppard begging for sugar drifts from the next place along with high-pitched, forced laughter. I don’t have to turn my head to know what I’ll see—a short skirt riding high and groping hands. The night is nothing if not predictable. It may be why I love it now.

I keep moving, letting the familiarity fill and empty me at the same time.

I stop at a light pole on a corner and scan it. I may not be a vampire hunter, but I know how to hunt lost pets, and that’s something at least. No sign of Suzy, though, so I guess I’m not good at that either.

All the other pets must be home and loved tonight since there are no other posters, but my gaze catches on something else. I pause in front of a thick green piece of cardstock with a picture of a dove erupting from a magician’s hat. Gold letters loop across the top: LOSE YOURSELF. The date, time, and “J Street” are in fine print at the bottom. No address.

Someone’s taken great care in attaching it to the pole without leaving any visible tape. I grab the edge and pull. Maybe the address is on the back, meant only for the most ambitious to find. I flip it over. Nothing. No tape, either. I run a hand over the cold metal it was stuck to, coming up empty.

I shiver in the late evening breeze, or maybe from the thrill of a tiny piece of magic in my hands. I could use a little bit of illusion right now. Tonight I need some extra help pushing the bad memories away. Plus, I’m on the right street, even if there’s no address.

I keep walking, rolling and unrolling the green flyer, making the dove disappear and reappear. I still pause to glance down a dark alley or two, but for the first time in a long time, I have a different purpose.

There. A small flash of gold catches my attention, and I kneel in the middle of the sidewalk, running my finger along the gold-painted magician’s hat no bigger than my fist. The tip of a bird’s wing peeks out the top. A gold arrow beside it points forward. I grin, walking quickly, knowing what I’m looking for now.

I find the next one painted on the side of a trash can. The bird’s wing is farther out of the hat this time. The arrow points across the street. I wait for the cars to clear before darting to the other side.

I find the next one and then the next one—the bird rises out of the hat a little more with each painting. Mom would love this. She was always planning scavenger hunts for me after school with a note taped to the front door and a plate of cookies hiding at the end. She made the best butterscotch chip cookies.

Finally, I reach a navy door painted with the same small hat and a dove flying free above it. A Black girl sits perched on a stool beside the door. She wears a green sequined dress that pops against her dark brown skin and falls around her knees in points. Miniature silk flowers in an array of colors line the hem. Her black hair curls down to her waist, and as she shifts to look at me, the gold glitter sprinkled into her hair flashes in the light. She reminds me of Tinker Bell.

“This is what you’re looking for.” Her words jar me. Her voice is deep and smooth, like she’s a breath away from singing, and it feels like a kind of magic already. Her warm brown, gold-rimmed eyes stare right into mine like she’s reading my mind.

“How do you know?”

A soft smile spreads across her face, and she slumps a little on her stool like she’s breaking character. She nods to the flyer in my hand.

“Oh. Right.” I twist the paper again before tucking it away and pulling money from my pocket. I hold it out, but she doesn’t take it.

“Are you sure?” she asks instead.

I just stare at her. She’s the one who told me this was what I was looking for.

“You can’t go back, you know,” she says.

She must be in character, trying to unsettle me before the show even starts, but there’s an earnestness in her eyes that almost makes me step away from her.

But then she smiles again and waves my money away. “The first show’s on us.”

She hops from the stool in a swirl of flashing green, pulls open the door, and gestures toward the dark. I step into a heady mix of perfume, cologne, sweat, and alcohol. Underneath, the dank, old smell of the building bides its time, waiting to take control when the room empties. Old buildings always have that same mustiness at their base. It’s comforting. Something I can count on.

I step around the hipsters heading toward the booze. The gleaming metal stools contrast with the tired oak of the bar.

Unfortunately, there’s no music, and noisy shouts and drunk laughter grate on my nerves.

Someone bumps my shoulder. The crowd swells, and I let myself flow with it toward the seats set up in front of a metal stage draped with plain and simple twinkle lights, the kind I get sick of seeing around the holidays. They aren’t magical. If anything, they’re tacky.

I plop down on one of the black folding chairs near the front. I take the edge seat and regret it immediately as I shift my knees to the side every time someone needs to move past me. My toes still end up bruised. Drunkenness has no grace.

A blond boy with spiked hair sits down beside me. He stares at the side of my face as I focus on the stage, willing him not to speak to me.

The lights fade and the noise fades with them. Only jarred lights dangling above continue to flutter, barely illuminating everyone’s heads. Any remaining whispers die as a spotlight flickers on.

A girl stands with her chin tilted slightly down so her black ringlets fall against her cheekbones. She glows under the harsh light, and her strapless purple dress shimmers even with her stillness. The dress ends above her knees, leaving just inches of bare white skin between the hem and the top of her lace-up black boots.

She stays frozen long enough for the audience to fidget in their seats. Everyone holds their breath, and I realize I’m doing the same. I let mine go the second before the loud thrum of a violin bursts through the speakers. With the sound, one of her palms twitches upward, and a ball of flame shoots to life. There’s a moment of silence, aside from the low murmurs of a few assholes in front of me, and then her other palm opens with a surge of flame, accompanied by the violin.

This time the music continues, drifting away until the violin whispers just on the edge of our hearing before slowly growing as she finally raises her head. She stares out at us, face stoic, until the music hits a loud and frenzied high, and she jerks her hands toward the audience, sending harmless sparks above the heads of the first two rows.

Her palms close, and she smiles, taking in the few whistles and claps.

I don’t clap. I’ve seen similar tricks online with people shooting sparks from their hands and using hand sanitizer to light their palms on fire. It’s a cheap party trick used by drunk frat boys. I’ve never seen anyone maintain it as long as she did, but I crave more. I want the rush of seeing a new trick and believing for one glorious second that the magic is real and anything is possible. I want those childhood moments of wonder while standing at the edge of the stage watching Dad make Mom disappear and then reappear across the stage. Or those times at the dinner table with Mom when she made a card appear underneath my dinner plate while she was across the table. My parents were magic—even if Mom told me again and again that it was only illusion.

The music dies, and so does the little applause. Her boots click as she turns and walks to a table set up on the side of the stage.

She picks up three red balls and holds them out for us as if she’s asking for our approval before launching them in a couple of lazy arcs.

Some jerk boos and the crowd snickers.

She gives a small, mocking bow while raising her eyebrows. Her smile is back, but it’s different now, sharper.

Twisting and grabbing two more balls off the table, she launches all five in the air as she takes a few steps toward the center of the stage.

She’s flawless. The balls rise and fall in a pattern that looks effortless but can’t be. But it’s not enough to lose myself. It’s not enough to forget about Parker and Jacob laughing back at Deb’s without me.

And then, as if she can read the audience’s growing boredom, a single ball catches fire as it passes from her hand and back above her head, and then another and another until they all burn.

The audience applauds, finally satisfied.

They rise and fall like fireworks, the kind that explode downward like a wilted daisy.

I catch myself leaning forward in my seat before pulling back. The rest of the crowd is in awe with me. The boy next to me has his jaw ajar.

She completes a spin. The balls fly effortlessly like she never moved. She spins again, leaving two flaming balls in her hands and three flying through the air. Her purple dress blossoms like a flower.

Only this time, when she faces the crowd again, one ball slips below her grasp, and she catches it with the tip of her boot, kicking it out above the audience, where it erupts into ash like it was nothing more than a runaway wisp of paper from a bonfire. Before the audience can react, she lets ball after ball connect with her boot and soar above our heads only to become nothing.

She’s left with two flaming balls she tosses up and down in each hand. She stares at us impassively as she lops each one to the side, into one of the stage curtains.

The curtains blaze to life in green fire as she turns and stalks off the stage. People in the front row rise to their feet. My face heats in the second row. The fire is real.

Some people shout and others clap—the green flames don’t touch anything but the curtains.

Spike-hair turns toward me. “Amazing,” he breathes into my face, along with the overpowering stench of beer.

I wave him away, leaning into the heat wafting off the unnatural flames. This. This is what I was waiting for.

The audience is beginning to squirm when a white boy with green hair saunters onto the stage. In his hands, he bounces a deck of cards back and forth. They thwack as they gently hit one another. He glances at the burning curtains and snaps his fingers.

The flames go out, and the curtains remain whole, with no trace of burns.

“She’s so dramatic,” he says, grinning.

The crowd roars, and he just waits there, smiling like the world will always be on his side, and with a face like his, he’s probably right.

It’s the kind of face I hate.

Except his hair is the bright, deep green of forest ferns, almost shaved on the sides, longer and flopped over on the top. The hair of someone who doesn’t give a shit.

He wears fitted slacks that crease perfectly to his polished black shoes. His bottom half could be headed for a business meeting at any one of the sky-high office buildings down the street. His top half tells a different story. He has a vest, sure, black and pinstriped with green to match his hair, but he wears no shirt underneath.

I try not to notice the way his muscles flex slightly as he passes the cards between his two hands. It’s a ridiculous thought.

He paces at center stage. “I’m going to need a volunteer for this one.”

Hands dart up. I catch my own hand in the air and drag it back down before he can notice. Memory made me do it. I don’t really want to be up there, but for a split second, I was a little girl again, sitting on the couch in our living room, watching my mom in her best red dress ask for volunteers as she twirled a top hat in her hands. I’d dart my hand up, and she’d pretend to scan the invisible audience before calling me to the stage.

Maybe I do want to be up there. But the thought of standing next to him in his crisp black clothes while I’m dressed in my faded black tee turns my stomach. I definitely don’t have Mom’s grace and style, and I might enjoy my coin tricks, but I’ve trained myself to be a killer, not a performer. I clasp my betraying hands together in my lap.

His eyes narrow as he scans the faces in front of him. He pauses the movement of the cards long enough to lift a finger in the air and do a spinning motion. The spotlights shift off the stage and into the crowd.

People groan. I wince and lift a hand to shield myself from the glare. Turning slightly, I look down and away from the light. Black, shining shoes pause in front of me.

Shit.

I don’t look up.

He clears his throat rather loudly, and the people next to me snicker.

One of his shoes taps lightly on the ground, keeping time with my accelerated heartbeat.

I’m stuck like a freaking rabbit in a hat, except I can’t make myself disappear, so I drop my hand and glare up at him.

He gives me a wicked grin, catching the cards dancing between his lithe fingers in one hand. Holding out his other hand to me, he says, “Give a round of applause for my lovely assistant.”

I force myself from my chair, ignoring his outstretched palm as I step around him into the aisle.

He lets out a roaring laugh and leans down to spike-hair. “Pleasant company, isn’t she?”

Spike-hair laughs at my expense with the rest of the audience.

My skin tingles from embarrassment, and my pulse beats too hard in my throat, like all my blood’s trying to make a run for it, and I can’t tell if it’s begging me to turn and leave or begging me to take the stage. I choose the latter.

At least a couple of people give me a jealous glare as I pass.

When we reach the steps, he holds out his hand for me again. Probably because he knows I won’t take it. I don’t. He gives a soft chuckle only I can hear—a joke between us and not the audience.

I hope I get to throw knives at him.

The spotlights shift and follow us to center stage. Squinting, I tug at the hem of my T-shirt, wishing I’d worn some of my new clothes.

The boy gives me an exaggerated bow as the audience laughs.

Rising, he splits the deck between both hands and flicks his thumbs at the same moment, creating two perfect fans of cards. Bringing them together, he flaps them toward the audience like a childish butterfly. One clearly drunk girl in the front row giggles. He raises an eyebrow at the rest of the crowd. “No?”

Someone boos, but the boy only chuckles in response before turning back to me. A red stone in a brown leather cuff on his wrist blinks in the light as he angles the cards for only me to see.

“Choose your fate.”

Not my card. He’s awfully dramatic, yet the words pause my hand. I glance up at his face, relaxed and amused, but his eyes don’t match—green and burning like an unnatural fire on damp spring grass. They narrow at my hesitation.

I focus back on the cards and raise my hand, plucking the queen of spades from directly under his thumb and pulling it back against my chest. Mom’s favorite card.

A sly smile crosses his face, like he already knows what I chose. It changes from sly to dazzling as he turns back to the audience.

“Show these lovely people your card, please. Don’t let me see it.”

He winks at me, then turns slightly for effect as I lift my card out to the shadowed faces before me. The orbs of light above them highlight their foreheads and cheeks, leaving their eyes darkened and hollow—a crowd of skeletons. My hand shakes only a little as I pull the card back toward me.

The magician turns to me again, the cards in one fan now, held facedown in front of him.

I slip my card back into the deck without being told.

He laughs toward the audience. “She’s a natural.” He slides the deck together and places it in my hand. “Mix them,” he commands.

I do as I’m told, shifting the cold cards until I don’t know where my queen has gone.

I hand them back to him, and our fingers touch. I jolt. My pulse throbs in my fingertips, and he smiles at me, eyes laughing now. What the hell is wrong with me? My face flushes, and I hope nobody notices in the bright lights.

Taking the smallest step away from me, he fans the cards out and flicks them back together in the same breath. And then they’re just gone. He holds out his empty hands for the audience and gets a few claps in return.

He sighs. “You’re a tough crowd.”

Rolling up the sleeves of his jacket, he takes another quick step back. The spotlight on him shifts to a greenish hue as he raises both arms out into the air, palms facing the audience. He snaps, and the nine of diamonds blinks to life in his fingers. He raises his eyebrows. “Is this your card?”

I shake my head, and he frowns. The audience cackles.

He snaps the fingers of his other hand as the nine disappears, and a jack of spades takes its place.

He glances at the card and then at me. “Not it,” he says without even asking. “Shoot.” The card disappears, and he flips his hands back and forth in front of him, then pulls at his sleeves and glances up them. “I think I lost it.”

The audience murmurs. Some laugh, unsure if they’re in on a joke or not.

I shuffle my feet.

He lifts his arms again, palms forward, and the cards begin pouring from the cracks between his fingers.

The crowd gasps and applauds, and the cards just keep coming. An impossible number—more than the single deck he held in his hand at the start. Just as they begin to pile around his feet, he drops his hands to his sides, staring down at his mess.

He closes his eyes for a moment, stepping back slightly from the pile. Only his chest moves up and down.

Someone coughs.

My muscles tense with something like anticipation, and I take the smallest step back.

His eyes snap open, and he jumps forward, landing in his pile of cards, making them bounce off the ground. Only they don’t come back down. They float upward toward his splayed fingers as his hands rise, pulling them with invisible strings until they fly over his head like a gambler’s personal storm cloud. Lifting his face toward them, he blows, and they shift with his breath, taking shape, forming wings.

Building a butterfly. Spades and clubs, hearts and diamonds, separate to create patterned wings.

Now I move forward, holding a hand out underneath it, feeling for the gusts of air that must be keeping it afloat. Nothing. My hair blows gently from the beating wings.

The magician gives me a cocky grin.

Strings, then. I look for the hundreds of wisp-thin threads you’d need to pull this off.

He shakes his head, still grinning. He pushes his lips together and blows again, and it moves, drifting out and over the heads of the audience. Some of them grasp for it, but it flies just out of reach. Their mouths gape, but I turn from their faces to watch him.

With the audience’s focus on the butterfly, his smile vanishes like one of his cards. His lips are set, and his eyes narrow like those of something feral, a cat kicked one too many times. I recognize the look as one of my own.

“Do you like me now?” he asks them. There’s a sharpness in the question. He turns to me and the look disappears, replaced in an instant with bland amusement.

The audience claps. He bows for them a few times before raising a hand for silence. They obey his every command. He has them now, and the smile on his face turns genuine as he brings his hands together in one loud clap. The butterfly explodes. Cards rain on upturned faces, and the people roar, rising to their feet with applause. My skin vibrates with the noise. My hands sweat, and I wipe them against my jeans. He’s done it—given me that moment when every wild thought feels possible. It feels like home.

Forgotten by the audience, I back toward the stairs of the stage, but he sees me and straightens, lifting one hand out to me. “My lovely assistant,” he croons. “I’m not done with you quite yet.” The audience stills and settles back. He glides toward me, and I struggle to stop myself from stumbling down the stairs before he gets to me.

Facing me, he holds out a hand, and when I don’t reach for it, he takes my hand from my side and pulls me a step back toward the center.

And then he starts coughing, wheezing so hard he bends over at the waist, and I’m not sure if I should slap his back or let him go. He stops, finally, and holds a hand in front of his mouth, spitting into it.

He opens his fist and lifts out the queen of spades. Holding it delicately between his middle and pointer fingers, he shows it to the audience. “Found it.”

He hands it to me, and I take it, grimacing at the dampness.

“That’s your card, is it not?”

“Mine was drier.”

The crowd laughs, and this time it belongs to me, not him. They’re in my hand. I meet his stare to make sure he knows it. He does. He gives me the tiniest nod of respect, then joins their laughter, turning back to them. “Quite a character, eh?”

They clap and roar for me, and I swear the blood in my veins is carbonated, bubbling against the skin containing it. I feel sick and powerful all at once—like I could explode and have everything I’ve ever wanted. I bend slightly at the waist. The magician observes me for a moment, and I know he recognizes what I’m feeling—maybe this is what everyone feels onstage. Maybe this is why everyone wants to be a singer or an actor as a kid—to feel like this.

The magician shakes his head slightly, almost like he’s breaking his own trance. He reaches forward and grips my hand in his, raising our joined fists above our heads as he spins us to face the audience. He bows, and I awkwardly follow his lead, a second behind, as he pulls our hands down together. When we rise, his fingers slide from my palm to my elbow as he leads me to the stairs. I expect him to let me go then, but he takes me all the way to my seat as people clap and watch.

He lets me go when we reach my chair, and I slump down on the cold plastic, ignoring the gaping mouth of the guy next to me. The green-haired magician leans down until his lips almost touch my ear. “You’ve been lovely. See you later.”

He walks away and disappears behind the scenes. My heart pounds fast enough to impair my breathing, and I’m not sure if it’s from the rush of applause or so much contact with another human being. My face already heats from the memory of his lips so close to my skin.

I try to control my breathing and fail. Part of me wants to vomit and part of me wants to run back onstage and never get off again.

A tall girl with long black hair takes the stage, and I’m sure whatever she’s about to do will be amazing.

But I can’t stay any longer. The rush I feel doesn’t belong to me. It’s like wearing expensive hand-me-down clothes. Right now the world is magical and full of promises, but what about tomorrow when the show is over? The memory will haunt me with all the magic I’ll never really have in my life. If Dad and Mom had lived… if even one of them had lived, it would have been me onstage, pulling someone from the audience and making them feel alive for a moment. They would have trained me. We could’ve been a family act. But none of that is possible, and this magic is almost too good. It makes me want, and that’s never wise. Better to leave now before I make it worse.

I slip from my seat, and in a moment, I’m through the door and on the now-empty street. It’s colder than earlier, and I curse myself for not bringing a jacket. I pull my beanie down almost to my eyes and bury my fists in my pockets like that will help.

The cool security of my coins greets me. I pull one out and flip it into the air, holding my palm open to catch it.

But it doesn’t land in my palm.

I stare down at the sidewalk, thinking I missed it. Nothing.

I can’t leave without it. I’ve had the same four quarters forever.

I dig the other three coins out of my pocket like they can help me find their missing sibling.

But I’m holding all four. I stare at them, counting them again and again like one will disappear.

A slow clap almost makes me drop them all.

I jerk toward the sound, hungry for it. Addicted. I bite the inside of my lip and draw blood, distracting myself from the desire.

The green-haired boy leans against the brick wall in a narrow alleyway that must have a side entrance into the building.

“Nice trick,” he says.

I open my mouth to say I didn’t do a trick, but I did. I must have done it without thinking—on instinct, high on the rush of being onstage.

“Thanks.” My voice is casual. I slide my coins back into my pocket, resisting the urge to count them one more time just to be sure.

“You’re leaving. Did you not like it?” His arms are folded across his chest, which is still covered in only his performance vest.

“Do you not like clothes?”

He looks at me hard for a moment and then bursts out in laughter.

A breeze hits me, and I shiver.

He sees it. “I’m not the one who’s cold. I’d offer you a jacket, but…” He lets his arms drop, and he holds his palms out toward me in case I needed extra evidence that he doesn’t have an extra scrap to give me.

I don’t. I’m already way too aware, and it’s an uneasy, unfamiliar feeling.

“I have to go.” I turn away, hoping I can outrun whatever draw he has on me.

“Ava,” he calls after me.

I freeze before turning back slowly. “How’d you know my name?”

His eyes pinch like I’ve caught him at something. “You gave it to me. Onstage.”

“I didn’t.” I never give my name out easily.

He shrugs, and a charming, easy grin spreads across his face. “Well, maybe I’m a mentalist.” He winks.

“But you’re not.” I say it like a statement, but it’s more of a question. Mentalists freak me out a little.

“No.” He chuckles. “Pretty sure you gave it to me onstage. You haven’t asked for my name, though. Are you a mentalist?”

“No. I just didn’t want it.”

“Ouch.” His smile’s too bright to be hurt. “I’m Xander.”

“Sure.” I step away again, taking his name with me and leaving mine behind.

“Aren’t you going to answer my question?” he calls after me.

“What?” I glance back.

“Did you like it?”

I hesitate. “I loved the show.”

He grins as I start to turn away again. “It’s more than just a show. Come again tomorrow, and maybe you’ll see.”

His words almost pull me back, but I shake my head and start walking. The boy’s chuckling follows me, nipping at my heels. He’s only joking. Magicians always want you to believe they’re more. Except Mom. She always scolded me when I called what she did magic. It’s just a trick, Ava. Nothing more. It’s never more.

Her voice is so clear in my head that I stop walking.

My chest tightens. I can’t stop myself from thinking about it any longer. I wish it weren’t so easy to remember, but all the details, every little one, are hungry to rise to the surface—and not just what I saw but what I felt.

The day my mother was murdered is imprinted in my memory.

That morning, I woke up and headed to the kitchen, where Mom should have been making breakfast. She wasn’t.

Something felt wrong, like the air was too heavy. I wish I could forget that feeling—that sinking dread before you even realize something is really wrong.

I moved to the back of the trailer to check her bed, just in case she was sleeping in, even though she always woke up early. Nothing.

Mom had decided the day before that we needed to move again, so we were parked in an empty campground on the road toward who knows where. I wasn’t supposed to leave our trailer without telling Mom, but I pushed open the door into the cold morning air and shivered as I stepped out onto the metal step.

Mom was sitting against a tree on the edge of our campground. I didn’t want to walk across the dirt or go back inside and get my shoes, so I called her name twice. She didn’t move.

As I picked my way across the rock-covered ground, I laughed like it was a trick. But she wasn’t just sitting against a tree. One leg was bent awkwardly to the side, not broken, but not how anyone would ever sit. Her arms were splayed beside her in the pine needles, holding nothing, doing nothing. Her head was tilted to the side, one cheek against the bark. Her eyes were open, looking at me but not.

Then I got close enough to see the blood on her neck: two wounds with a little stream running from each one.

I got on my knees and grabbed her wrist. It twitched like something releasing, and for a second, I thought she’d get up. That her eyes would flash with that bit of excitement when she knows she’s pulled off something marvelous, and then we’d laugh.

But she never laughed again.

I didn’t laugh again for a long time either.

I still don’t. My laugh is a surprisingly deep chuckle. It sounds so much like Mom’s that every time I laugh, I feel like I’m stuck in that moment again, waiting for her to smile.

I’m still half in the memory when I start walking again and crash into something hard and unyielding. I stumble back.

A cold hand grips my arm and keeps me upright.

My glare meets a crisp white button-up shirt, and I assume I’ve stumbled into one of the many corporate workaholics heading home after reliving their tired day over multiple beers, but then I look up.

He’s not a businessman. Sure, he’s got the black slacks and white button-up, but it’s rolled to the elbows and unbuttoned at the top in a way that looks like it never gets buttoned, and he wears black suspenders that most businessmen probably wouldn’t be caught dead in. And he’s young, not much older than me, with sharp features softened by curly dark auburn hair that falls at every angle around his face. If he were smiling, he might look chaotic and charming, but his mouth is tight, and his dark brown eyes are hard.

All of it doesn’t quite add up, like something about him is just off.

And his hand is still gripping my arm way too hard.

I step back, and he lets go.

“My apologies.” His voice is a low, soft rumble.

“I wasn’t looking,” I answer as I take another step back.

He puts his hands behind his back, but he doesn’t move away or walk on.

“You didn’t do that trick on purpose, did you?” His eyes bore into mine with a seriousness that doesn’t match the question. It’s unnerving, and I can’t get my feet to move, even though my skin is prickling with unease.

“What trick?” My mind’s still half in the past.

“With your little coins.”

I bristle at the way he says “little coins.” Who is this guy? And how would he know anything about what magic I can and cannot do, and why the hell is he watching me in the first place? I’m not the one putting on a show.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I finally get my legs to move and step around him. “If you’re looking for some cool magic, try in there.” I gesture to the door I came from as I walk around him, trying to get him to glance away from me. He doesn’t. He stays still, but he doesn’t stop watching me until I’m past him.

“Don’t come back here,” he says when I’m almost out of earshot.

I think about yelling a retort, but when I turn, he’s facing away from me. So I keep going, glancing back multiple times just to be sure he isn’t following, but he’s still just standing there, hands folded behind his back, staring at the doorway to the club.