Sleeping Beauty and the Demon

by Marina Myles

  She shuddered. “Don’t remind me.”

  They passed a clothing boutique, a bank, and a barber shop without saying a word. But as they strolled passed a newsstand, Olivia burst out, “Look, Rose. Drago has revealed another detail of his magic act in today’s paper!”

  Hands trembling, Rose picked up the latest edition of The Gotham Times and read the headline.

  “Magician to Climb Summit of Woolworth Building”

  The paper rattled in her grasp as she scoured the article.

  Dragomir Starkov—a talented illusionist stripped of his reputation—has returned to New York City seeking redemption and retribution. He intends to get those very things on June twentieth. From high atop the Woolworth Building, Starkov will hypnotize his wife, the beautiful Rose Starkov, by way of an accursed amulet he bestowed on her. Following in the footsteps of everything mysterious, the ancient Egyptian necklace comes with a spell. Will Mr. Starkov’s wife (a self-proclaimed victim of vertigo) wear the amulet of Tousret and join her husband as she climbs from the building’s pier level to its topmost spire?

  The more important question is: If Rose Starkov succumbs to the amulet’s curse, will it cause her to kill her husband before she takes her own life—just as the Egyptian prophecy predicts?

  Legend has it that only its counterpart, the bracelet of Amenhotep, can save them.

  Olivia, who’d been reading the article alongside Rose, whistled with disbelief. The air escaped Rose’s lungs and she fought to breathe. “I left the amulet and the bracelet behind in France.”

  “Does Drago know that?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Rose was more worried about her mother’s prediction. You will fall to your doom from someplace high and a demon will cause it to happen.

  “Apparently, Drago has this whole thing planned out,” Olivia said. “But I don’t understand why he’s publicizing it so heavily. It’s an open invitation for Morvina to sabotage the whole thing—and for the police to capture him.”

  The color seeped from Rose’s face.

  A luminescent moon brightened the top of the Woolworth Building in the distance. She’d learned in grammar school that the structure stood over seven hundred and ninety-two feet high and had taken over three years to construct.

  She’d been in the lobby only once. And though she’d been astonished at its beautiful veined marble and vaulted mezzanine ceilings, she never dreamed she would be on top of the building.

  She shook her head vehemently at the thought. No. I can’t possibly climb it.

  Olivia tightened her grip on Rose’s arm. “It seems diabolical that Drago wants you to climb to the pinnacle of a building when he knows you have vertigo.”

  Sometimes Olivia wasn’t very smart, but Rose loved her anyway. “That’s the point. If I heed his commands, it’ll tell people his hypnotic powers are genuine.” He got the idea from the spinning wheel at Château de Maincy.

  Rose remembered Drago’s words that night. “If I hypnotized someone and commanded them to touch the spindle, they’d do it in a dreamlike state—because consciously they would never put their finger on something sharp. The action would convince people that I’m a viable magician with the ability to spellbind.”

  Olivia took the paper from her and threw it in a trash bin. “I hate to see Drago’s face when he finds out you’re not wearing the amulet anymore.”

  Rose fell silent. She touched the faded brass locket she wore instead. Once she opened the locket, she stared at the tiny artist’s rendition of Drago she’d cut from a show program. She should be scared to death of her husband, but she still felt a certain pull toward him.

  Was there more to what I saw in the coin?

  Worried that she’d been rash when she notified the police, Rose took another look at Drago’s image. His enigmatic eyes gave her chills and made her misgivings multiply. What if there was another demon stalking the city? An alternate demon that was responsible for killing the girl in Coney Island last year?

  After all, Drago couldn’t be the only one. But who was it?

  Damn! Rose wished she’d been able to actually communicate with her mother at the séance.

  “You miss Drago, don’t you?” Olivia asked gently.

  Rose nodded numbly. “I saw him turn into a demon, but I didn’t actually see him kill anyone in the vision.”

  “What are you saying?” Olivia eyed her dubiously.

  Rose’s cheeks flamed. “Maybe someone else killed the last Coney Island victim.”

  “You should have thought of that before you got the entire police department involved.”

  “I’ll give you that, but my shock made me panic.”

  Olivia gave her a sympathetic look. “Why don’t you ask the coin who killed the girl?” she suggested.

  “That’s a wonderful idea!” Rose said.

  As she and Olivia sat on a streetcar bench, she delved into her handbag. The coin wasn’t there! Adrenaline rushed through her veins. She fished inside the handbag’s lining. “It can’t be!” Tipping the purse upside down, her heart sank when nothing fell out. “The coin’s gone!”

  “Did you lose it?” Olivia asked urgently.

  “I don’t know.”

  “When did you see it last?”

  “It was in my handbag last night. I checked on it before I went to sleep—and I didn’t open the bag up until now. There’s no way the coin could have fallen out.”

  “Let’s go home and look for it.”

  The girls did just that. They practically tore the house apart looking for the lei coin, yet it was nowhere to be found.

  Exhausted, Rose lay in bed hours later. A thick cloud of uneasiness hung over her. Who would have taken it while I slept last night?

  She replayed the evening’s events in her head. The family had gathered around the dining room table for Elena’s famous rigatoni, antipasto salad, and focaccia bread. Patrick had joined them. After the meal, they’d sat in the parlor, listening to Elena play the piano. Rose had excused herself and gone to bed before anyone else.

  There had been five other people in the house. Who was the thief?

  “Your coming out of hiding * is commendable, Drago,” Archibald McMillan said as he sat in his office chair. “But as your manager, I think you should have stayed in New York to defend your reputation—instead of traipsing off to France.”

  “I disagree,” Drago replied dourly. “Leaving the city gave people time to forget that blasted newspaper article.”

  “Forget? Is that what you think they did?”

  Drago cast him a deep scowl.

  “You wish, Starkov. Bellum’s article shot holes in your reputation like a .45. You’re lucky I signed you on again!”

  Drago’s blood heated—as it always did when the day he was going to morph into a demon again drew near. “After this illusion, McMillan, I guarantee you’ll want me as your only client.”

  McMillan scowled back. He took several drags from his cigarette, snuffed it out, then surged to his feet. “I don’t know about that, but it’s a good thing you’re rich. Getting permission to use the Woolworth Building cost a pretty penny.”

  “I know, and my bank account knows,” Drago said grimly.

  “Do you also know that when your show closed, it tapped my finances out?”

  Drago nodded. He studied his manager. Thin and extremely hyper, McMillan seemed to survive on nothing but coffee and cigarettes. He was a man with no wife and no children and it was said that he had only his job to keep him company.

  The smallness of McMillan’s life made it impossible for him to understand what Drago was going through. But it didn’t matter. Drago didn’t need him to understand. He just needed McMillan to promote his next illusion like it was the last glitzy spectacle on earth.

  “All right,” he said. “I have a lot to make up to you. Now is the chance.”

  Grunting, McMillan shoved his hands in his pockets and moved to the window. Over his shoulder he said, “If you disappoint
me again, Starkov, I’ll hunt you down like a pathetic animal.”

  Drago rose and stalked toward McMillan. He wasn’t taller than his manager, but he was a hell of a lot more muscular, and stronger. “I wouldn’t threaten me if I were you. You’re not the only game in town.”

  McMillan wheeled around. He lit another cigarette. “That’s right. Starkov. I’m not the only game in town, but I’m the best.”

  The next morning, Rose stumbled to the kitchen. As the aroma of espresso pried her eyes open, she saw Elena sitting at the tiny breakfast table.

  “Rose. Sit. Sit.” Elena urged. “I’ll pour you some coffee.”

  Rose murmured a “thank you”. With her hair askew and her face pale and thin from fatigue, she surely looked a mess.

  “Didn’t you sleep, dearest?”

  “No,” Rose admitted. “I tossed and turned all night.”

  Elena handed her a cup of espresso. She took a sip. The house was quiet since Lorenzo and Anthony had gone off to work and Olivia was still sleeping. Elena peered at Rose for a moment, then shook her head. “Olivia told me about your missing coin. I can’t believe it.”

  “No one broke in to get it,” Rose said with certainty. “Someone in the house must have taken it.”

  Elena glanced at the pope’s photo she’d hung on the wall last year and did the sign of the cross. “I trust everyone who was here last night. Don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Rose replied between sips of espresso. She did trust everyone, including Patrick. She’d rushed into his arms when she returned from France because she desperately needed an ally.

  A few moments of silence ensued. Rose finally said, “You’re a deeply religious person, Elena. I know that. But what do you think of supernatural things?”

  “What do you mean, exactly?”

  “Do you think extraordinary things exist beyond this material world?”

  Elena ran a hand through her dark curls. “Olivia told me that you girls attended a séance. Is that what you’re referring to?”

  Olivia. Sometimes she’s too honest for her own good. “Yes,” Rose replied unsteadily.

  “This is what I think of ghosts and goblins.” Elena sat back and folded her arms. “If we are honorable on earth, then we go to heaven. If we are disgraceful, we go to hell. There are no other options. Therefore the things that exist beyond this material world are either the work of an angel—or the devil.”

  Demons, Rose considered. Are they really fallen angels?

  “Elena,” she asked, “was it hard for you to be friends with my parents, their being mediums, I mean?”

  “Your parents tried to help innocent people contact their loved ones. I saw nothing wrong with that.”

  Rose paused. “Here’s another question. What if people are good on earth, but then they do one horrible thing while they’re still alive?”

  “Then God will punish them by making them endure a living hell in this lifetime.” Elena replied firmly.

  That’s precisely what’s happening to Drago, Rose thought. She desperately wanted to help him, but she didn’t know how to reverse the deal he’d made with the fortuneteller. Nor could she make contact with her real mother. Both failures stabbed her heart.

  “I wanted to summon my mother’s spirit last night,” she admitted to Elena.

  “What would you have asked her?”

  “About Morvina. I’m beginning to sense her evil energy all around me.”

  Elena reached across the small table and clasped Rose’s hand tightly. “I hate to remind you but your birthday is tomorrow.”

  Icy shivers jolted Rose’s body. “I wish I could go back and change everything. The fire that killed my parents. Learning Drago is a demon. Even meeting him in the first place.”

  “At least you found out what Drago is,” Elena said darkly. “Thankfully you took off the amulet he gave you.”

  “How do you know I took it off?”

  “Olivia told me about that, too.” Elena paused. “If I were you, I’d stay far away from your husband. I’d also stay away from the Woolworth Building. Oh, yes. I read the newspapers, too.”

  Rose nodded in understanding.

  A dog’s bark and a squeaking streetcar disrupted the momentary silence, but she barely heard the noises. What was it she’d read once? That children of people with special gifts often inherited their parents’ talents?

  If I could hone the ability to see the future, like my parents did, I’d know exactly what was going to happen on my birthday.

  Could Elena give her some essential tips? She decided to lead into the subject gently. “Elena, I’d love to know what my mother was like.”

  Elena set her cup of espresso down and smiled ruefully. “Lorenzo and Malcolm Hayes were childhood friends. But the more I got to know Florence, the more I thought of her as a sister.” She paused. “She was witty and gentle and kind. And very pretty. Much like you, cara.”

  Rose smiled, too. “Am I similar to her in other ways?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I read once that children can inherit certain traits from their parents. Do you think I have any type of clairvoyant abilities?”

  Elena drew back suddenly. “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “What I’m saying is that I’ve had several premonitions. Just a few, mind you, but maybe I can make more happen, over time.” Rose’s limbs tingled. Unfortunately, time was something she was running out of.

  “I don’t remember you doing anything odd as a child, if that’s what you’re asking.” Pale-faced, Elena stood.

  “I didn’t have visions?” She paused. “Did I show any signs of my parents’ gifts when I was a little girl?”

  Elena clutched the collar of her robe together. “No.”

  “This is no time to lie, Mama.”

  Rose spun around. Olivia was standing in the doorway.

  “I’m not lying, Olivia.” Elena’s voice quivered.

  Olivia entered the kitchen and went to her mother. “You’ve kept things from Rose to protect her, but she can use all the help she can get right now.”

  Elena remained silent. The sight of her lips trembling flushed alarm through Rose. What is she so scared to tell me?

  “What has been kept from me, Olivia?” Rose begged.

  “Don’t, Olivia!” Elena cried. “It was horrible—and we agreed to never speak of it again!”

  “Rose deserves to know, Mama. Show her the paper.”

  Elena’s knuckles went white as she grasped her robe. “But you were terrified that night, Olivia. And Rose was so traumatized by our reaction that she blocked it out of her mind.”

  “Please. She needs to know.”

  Elena closed her eyes and fell silent for an excruciatingly long moment. Then she opened her eyes in surrender. “Very well. Follow me.”

  Rose held her breath as she, Elena, and Olivia traveled down to the basement. A single lightbulb hung from the low ceiling, lending the space an eerie glow. Elena stepped out of the light’s circle to retrieve a box. She dragged it toward Rose’s feet.

  “I’ve been saving these things for you,” Elena said. “To give you . . . someday.”

  Rose’s pulse thrummed wildly. She started to delve in, but her adoptive mother put a hand on her arm to stop her.

  “First you must know the events of that dark evening,” Elena spoke carefully. “When you were about seven years old, you awoke in the middle of the night. As if you were possessed by something unearthly, you grabbed a piece of paper and began writing furiously.”

  “Your eyes rolled back in your head and your face went completely white,” Olivia chimed in. “It scared me to death and I couldn’t sleep for weeks afterward.”

  Elena nodded before she went on. “The word, which wasn’t written in your normal penmanship, was almost illegible. Almost.”

  “What did I write?” Rose asked excitedly.

  “Take a look.”

  Rose’s gut wrenched. As warm tears rimmed her eyes, she qu
ickly sifted through the items inside the box. There was a photograph of her as a baby. She was being held in her mother’s arms, and just as Rose had ascertained by way of the scrapbook, Florence Hayes looked a great deal like her.

  Rose replaced the photograph with a smile. Next to the photo sat a baby rattle. She picked it up and ran her fingers over its indentations sentimentally. Then she returned it to the box.

  Her hands brushed a folded piece of paper. With trembling hands, she picked it up and looked at Elena. Elena nodded solemnly.

  Breathing unevenly, Rose unfolded the large sheet. It read, “DRAGO.”

  “My God,” she gasped. “I’m a psychic and a spirit writer.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Rose sagged against Olivia for support.

  Grasping her arm, Olivia asked, “You knew you’d meet Drago someday?”

  Rose sucked in a breath and tried to gather her wits. “I guess I did.”

  Olivia dug her fingernails in. “How?”

  “Spirit writers channel spirits through meditation,” said Rose.

  “They record what they hear. But the messages are penned without the conscious thoughts of the writer because they come from the departed.”

  Elena frowned. “They come from the devil, you mean.”

  “These spirits, whether they are good or bad, take control of the hand of the medium.”

  “With no harm done to the medium, I hope?” Elena asked.

  “As far as I know, the medium remains safe,” Rose said.

  “How do you know so much about spirit writing?” Olivia cocked a brow.

  “I told you: I’ve always been fascinated with the supernatural.”

  Olivia crossed her arms. “Can this type of channeling become scary? You should have seen yourself that night, Rose.”

  Rose shook her head. “If it’s monitored, a spirit writing session can be fascinating instead of dangerous or scary. A medium can pen sentences, even paragraphs, in languages unknown to her—and she can remain under a trance long enough to transcribe entire books.”

  “If that’s the case”—Olivia smiled—“are you thinking what I’m thinking?”