by Marina Myles
Dropping her hand from his, she scurried back to her seat, enduring comments such as: “She must be part of the show.” “I saw him bring her onstage before.” “An audience member is always in on the trick!” And, “There must be a trap door beneath both cages!”
But Rose knew better. She could attest that the stage under the cage was as solid as a rock—and that there had been no means of escape.
As she slid into her seat, the house lights illuminated. She sat frozen for a moment before she gathered her belongings. As she did so, she glanced at the man seated next to her . . . a man who was writing zealously in a small notepad.
“Are you a reporter?” Rose asked politely while the theater emptied.
The strongly-built man, whose face was marred with pockmarks, nodded. “I am. Richard Bellum’s the name. And tomorrow morning, when this story hits The Gotham Times, I’ll bet nobody will be able to get a ticket to see Dragomir the Magnificent.”
“He was fabulous, wasn’t he?” She blushed.
Richard Bellum smiled as he secured his hat. “If you care to read about yourself in the morning, Miss Carlisle, be my guest. For your information, Mr. Starkov’s knowledge of your presence was one of the highlights of the show. Your look of surprise was too spontaneous to fake.”
“Please don’t put my name in the paper,” she pleaded.
“Too late. All these people have seen you. And since the trick you participated in was the best of the night, other reporters will be writing about you, too.” He paused. “For what it’s worth, Starkov has obviously taken a fancy to you.”
“I don’t know about that, Mr. Bellum.” She paused. “But I’ll admit I’ve always wanted to be a journalist.”
“You have, have you?” The reporter shot her a quizzical look. “Do you have any experience?”
Because she’d been lying a great deal lately, she decided to be honest. “No.”
“It doesn’t matter. We’re always looking for able-minded reporters at The Gotham Times—and we’re even open to pioneering females joining the profession.”
“Really?” Rose asked excitedly.
“I could put in a good word for you if you come around tomorrow. Here’s my card.”
The stout man handed it over, then disappeared into the crowd.
For Rose, the thrill of making a connection was short-lived because Olivia appeared, red-faced. “Rose Emily Carlisle. What the devil are you doing here?”
“How did you know I was here?” Rose asked.
Olivia arched an eyebrow.
“All right. I would have looked for me here, too.”
“Who were you talking to just now?” Olivia accompanied her into the lobby.
“A newspaper reporter. According to him, my name will be front and center in The Gotham Times tomorrow morning . . . and I’m not supposed to be here, remember?”
“How do you get yourself into these situations?” Olivia shook her head.
“What am I going to do?”
Olivia put a finger to her chin. “Since we can’t afford to buy up all the papers in the city, I suppose you’re going to have to tell Papa the truth.”
Rose hung the handle of her umbrella on her wrist. “I guess you’re right. And don’t worry. When I get home I’ll do all the talking.”
“Let’s go.” Olivia turned toward the theater’s front doors but Rose stopped her.
“Wait,” she said. “Dragomir asked me to meet him after the show.”
“He what?”
“Shh! Do you think I ought to?”
“Certainly not,” Olivia huffed as she stuffed a torn ticket stub into her handbag. “After all, you’re practically going steady with Patrick.”
“Practically—but not officially. Meeting Mr. Starkov will be harmless.”
“I hardly recognize you lately.” Olivia frowned. “Your behavior—”
“Please go ahead without me.” Rose interrupted.
“I don’t know . . .”
“I swear I’ll be fine.”
Olivia lowered her tone before she departed. “I’ll go. But remember what I always tell you: You are a beautiful girl, Rose. A girl any man could lose his head over. Be careful.”
“I will. I promise.”
Standing alone in the vacated lobby, Rose rubbed her hands together nervously. Olivia was right. Her behavior was bizarre—and now that she was standing here with no companion or chaperone, apprehension over accepting Dragomir’s invitation swelled inside her.
A quarter of an hour passed. Without Olivia’s moral support, Rose found it awkward waiting alone. She exhaled with relief when an elderly usher materialized from a side door. “Are you the young woman waiting for Mr. Starkov?”
She nodded.
“Would you follow me, Miss?”
She traced the usher’s steps to a narrow alley outside the building. Thankfully, the rain had stopped. Now the summer air hung around her, thick and damp.
The usher stopped before a portal marked STAGE DOOR 2. “I’m to stay with you until Mr. Starkov comes out.”
Rose stared at the unmoving door handle. Suddenly, she remembered the attack on the young girl in Coney Island. She doubted the elderly usher would be able to protect her if that fiend appeared. Hadn’t the poor girl been squeezed to death like a piece of wrung laundry?
CHAPTER 5
Following the show, Drago escaped to the sanctity of his dressing room. He sank onto a stool and began removing his make-up without the aid of a mirror. His intense aversion to mirrors—and to reporters and their cameras—was understandable because Dragomir Starkov was a man who cast no reflection in glass and who vanished like a ghost in photographs.
He was an Immortal. And the time for the Victory was nearly upon him.
More powerful than a vampire, more human than a werewolf, Drago had been transformed into a rare lord of black magic by the fortuneteller from whom he’d received his powers 448 years earlier.
The teller responsible for his demonic immortality had been a master of the occult. But he hadn’t known it until it was too late.
That fateful night replayed in his mind, even though he’d willed the memory away a thousand times.
When Drago was thirty, he found himself unmarried and the son his ill father relied on to run their family’s farm. Harsh winters in the countryside made putting food on the table increasingly difficult. Frustrated, lonely, and fascinated by the dark side, Drago became passionate about magic. In order to help his family and perhaps change his life, he wanted to find out if it was possible for someone to render genuine magic. He decided to pay a visit to a fortuneteller to discover the answer.
“Make yourself comfortable, young man.” An aged woman garbed in a purple head-scarf indicated the chair opposite hers. A crystal ball on a draped table separated them.
“You would like to know what the future holds?” she asked.
“Yes,” Drago replied. I’ll start off with that, he thought. After he paid the required fee, he leaned forward anxiously.
The woman moved her hand over the crystal ball. The object began to sparkle. As it turned dark, she cocked an eyebrow in alarm.
“Is everything all right?” Drago asked.
“It seems the forces of black magic are requesting a card reading.”
He swallowed hard. “A what?”
“Most people play games with picture cards. I use them to tell the future.”
“Will it cost extra?”
“Of course.”
He rolled his eyes and slipped the old woman a few more coins.
Nodding with satisfaction, she removed the crystal ball from the table and produced a stack of ordinary cards like the ones Drago’s family often played with. The colors were faded and the cards’ corners were curled, but for some reason, they intimidated Drago tremendously.
The woman pulled in a breath. “What I do with these cards is unusual, so allow me to explain. As you know, there are four suits of cards. Wands, cups, swords, and penta
cles. Each suit contains fourteen cards. The order in which the cards are drawn and laid out will indicate the path of your physical and spiritual journey.”
As the fortuneteller put the stack on the table, anxiousness filtered up Drago’s spine. She proceeded to cut the deck into two equal parts. Next, she shuffled the entire pile with her gnarled hands. After that, she repeated the steps twice more. Perspiration beaded Drago’s lip. He watched the old woman draw the topmost card and turn it over clockwise—from left to right.
The woman’s weary eyes lit up. “The Ace of Swords. It denotes male sexuality, the beginning of a powerful relationship, and forces that will surround you without your control.”
“Seems like a decent card,” Drago said, cautiously. “Except the ‘forces beyond my control’ part.”
“It is a good card because it shows you will enjoy success in spite of all obstacles. In a word, you are invincible.”
Next, the woman turned over the Knave of Swords. She raised both eyebrows. Drago noticed that her hands had begun to shake. “This card tells me you’ll become a fearless man as well as a dangerous opponent.”
Opponent in what circumstances? Anticipation swelled inside Drago. Perhaps his life would contain some excitement after all.
“Ah,” she paused. “Together, the Ace and the Knave of Swords indicate hostile opposition.”
Drago dropped his stare back to the deck.
The woman turned over the Queen of Pentacles. “This symbolizes your true love. She will be a generous, warm-hearted female full of curiosity and willingness.”
Drago felt a stirring in his soul.
The teller laid out more cards that didn’t seem to impress her. However, the subsequent card did. “The Magician!” she announced.
Drago studied the card. Marked with Roman numeral I, it showed an angel with wings. Strangely, the angel wore a demon-like face as it kept watch over a group of mortals. “The Magician?” he cried. “It’s a perfect card.”
“You like magic?” the woman asked slyly.
“I live for it. I came here to find out if it’s possible to enact real magic.”
Hunched over, the hideous woman narrowed her eyes. “Indeed it is.” With hands that shook with the ferocity of an earthquake, the woman turned over the last card. “My God!” she gasped. “The Final Judgment.”
Drago grew concerned.
“I’ve never witnessed this kind of reading,” she said. “It seems you have enormous talent, young man. I, in turn, can give you the power you need to perform real magic.”
“You mean it’s possible without using tricks and deception?”
“Yes.”
“How can you give me the power I need to do it?”
The woman pulled a silver coin from her skirt pocket. “If you’re willing to accept this gift, you will be granted abilities associated with black magic.”
His fingertips tingled at the idea.
“Your fascination with the unearthly led you here,” the woman said slowly. “To take that fascination one step further, this coin will give you the talent many people wish they had. Not the kind of cheap props and tricks.”
The hair on the back of Drago’s neck stood up. This was too good to be true.
“What’s the catch?” he asked.
The teller glanced around to make sure they were alone. “Accepting the coin comes with a huge price.”
“Price?”
“You shall become immortal.”
To live forever! Who wouldn’t want to perform astounding feats of magic and live for all eternity?
Before Drago could say “yes,” the woman raised a hand to quiet him. “Please know that remaining immortal will require you carry out a special deed. I cannot reveal what that deed is. But for the spell to work and for you to become immortal, you must agree to perform it on this day, every year.”
“I agree,” Drago said hastily.
“Good,” the woman said. “When you leave this place you’ll discover what the deed is.”
He nodded.
“Now, before I hand you the coin, you must understand that it will show you the past and the present only. The one and only time it shows you the future, you must go to that place immediately—and follow the chain of events it predicts.”
“What chain of events?” Drago asked quickly.
“All I can tell you is that you’ll be unable to alter the course the coin shows you.”
A part of Drago suspected that the Gypsy was delusional—and that nothing would come of their encounter. But as he stuffed the coin into his pocket during the long walk back to his family’s farm, his painful transformation into a demon occurred for the first time.
Drago realized he’d just made a deal with the devil.
He reeled out of the memory with a scowl. Becoming immortal had been a terrible price to pay. Certainly, he’d made enough money to turn the Starkov farm around. But as the years rolled by, he was forced to watch loved ones die while he never aged.
Still, Drago couldn’t change his decision and eventually, he grew hell-bent on raising himself to the status of the world’s greatest magician. Over the centuries, the picture cards used by the fortuneteller came to be known as the tarot. What evolved also were the quality of Drago’s acts and the sophistication of his audiences.
Despite his growing fame, he’d become introverted and secretive, delving into the realm of magic as a way to deal with the loneliness of his existence. Thankfully, his profession as a magician garnered him an impressive income. It also garnered him a certain kind of power.
Not only had Drago come to like his famed status, he needed it like a drug. After all, how could he ever feel alone with the eyes of the world watching him?
He adjusted his bow tie by feel. Now that he’d had the vision of the future that the fortuneteller had told him about, he sensed his immortality might be coming to a close. Countless Immortals had roamed the earth before 1912, yet there were only two left in the world—himself and another incredibly potent demon.
If Drago could defeat this last demon and stand triumphant in the Victory, he might be able to die whenever he wanted to.
That would be the best prize of all. I wouldn’t need to suck out someone’s soul to maintain my current identity anymore. Nor would I be required to invade a foreign body if I want to live as somebody else.
As Drago waited for the Victory to take place, it was extremely difficult keeping the monster below his surface a secret. Yet he must, if he wanted to possess Rose. When he’d envisioned the other Immortal’s arrival in New York, Rose had appeared to him as well. And because he’d waited an eternity to find his soul mate, he had purchased the amulet of Tousret and the bracelet of Amenhotep as insurance against her curse once he learned of it.
Patting the bracelet inside his jacket pocket, Drago’s lips quirked. It was an object he carried around with him at all times—as was the coin. One of the items had brought him to Rose; the other would allow him to save her.
Had she figured him out yet? Had she come to the conclusion that his magic came from the dark side? Did she know there were no explanations for his illusions?
Drago couldn’t tell her the truth without scaring her away. The dehumanizing stipulation that had allowed him to live for centuries would force her to flee from him. And he was not a man who was willing to lose his true love. Not after all this time.
This was his chance to be with Rose. And he needed to win the Victory to make that happen.
He donned his black cape and opened the dressing room door. Surely he could forget his morbid history for a moment in order to bask in her presence. After all, she was his angel of light.
Rose, who had been fidgeting uncontrollably in the dark alley, willed her knees to stop shaking. She was drawn to Dragomir Starkov like a magnet. I must be hypnotized or I wouldn’t be standing in this filthy side street.
Growing more and more nervous, she glanced at the closed stage door.
Can Dragomir help me w
ith my curse? Rose was hesitant to tell him about it because she didn’t want him to think she was a fan who’d crossed the line. Yet she sensed he could come to her aid.
She would simply have to choose the right time to bring it up.
She waited a few more minutes. The lateness of the hour and the strange smells in the alley brought nausea to her throat. She laced her fingers together tensely. Suddenly, an image of Drago surfaced in her mind. He would open the door any minute, bearing a bouquet of roses.
Premonitions had been popping into her mind more and more—but before she could mull this one over, the side door burst open. A figure silhouetted by the theater lights stepped forward. Smiling seductively, Dragomir Starkov exited into the tepid night. Still dressed in his tuxedo, he’d added a stylish cape and a shining top hat to his ensemble.
Rose glanced down self-consciously at her lace blouse and ordinary trumpet skirt—disappointed that she could do nothing about her plain attire now.
Dragomir bent from the waist. His gaze never left her face. With all the flourish of an accomplished magician, he pulled a bouquet of roses from the folds of his cape.
At times like this, the accuracy of Rose’s predictions scared her.
“For you,” he greeted in an enticing tone.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
The usher excused himself.
“Happy birthday, Rose,” he said, handing her the roses.
“You’re too kind. But my birthday was yesterday. And you already gave me two gifts. The amulet and the music box . . .”
“How do you like the music box?”
She blushed. “It plays my favorite Mozart melody.”
It was then, as the moonlight glittered in the depths of Dragomir’s cyan eyes, that Rose first glimpsed his obsession for her. Stunned, she cleared her throat. “How did you get the music box inside my room?”
He drew his brows together. “You must never ask a magician such things.”
He spoke so firmly that she dropped the subject.
“I’m glad you like your present, my draga,” he went on.
