Chapter Three

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.

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