by Dima Zales
“You will forget this ever happened,” Lilith commands the clown. “Oh, and you’re now going after us.”
The poor guy gives up his place in line and stands behind me.
Crap.
He might’ve been an easier act to follow.
Oh, well. The juggler doesn’t look too impressive either.
“I do feel better,” I say to Lilith, and it’s true. “I hadn’t noticed blood doing this before.”
“Oh, it can make you feel amazing things,” she says. “You don’t just feel good, you’re more powerful for a while after a feeding. Sometimes you can be a lot more powerful. All depends on the source of the meal.”
“Powerful?” I can’t help but be intrigued.
“Indeed,” she says. “You won’t feel it as much when you drink from a human like that, but with a Cognizant, you will. The more powerful they are, the more powerful you get after drinking from them.”
That’s cool, in a disturbing way.
I wonder if this is why Gaius got Ariel hooked on his blood. Or why—
Wait. I did experience what Lilith is talking about.
Maybe even more than once.
When I drank from Nero the first time we had sex, I felt incredible. More to the point, whatever we did afterward caused a crater in the ground and felled trees.
More powerful indeed.
Oh, and does this explain my nonstop run to save Nero? It happened when I drank all of Woland’s blood.
I ask Lilith if the amount matters.
“Definitely,” she says. “The more you drink, the more power you gain. My rule is: when I get a chance to drink from a powerful Cognizant, I always drain them to the last drop to maximize the benefits.”
Great.
Kill them is what she means.
Kill them over a temporary burst of superpower.
Boy, do I hope I got more of my DNA from my father.
“You’re up next,” Lilith says as the juggler stumbles onto the stage.
I start breathing deeply in an effort to calm my escalating panic. When the light above the stage entrance turns green, I shuffle onto the stage, mask under my armpit and the nail gun dragging behind me.
Someone wires me with a microphone, and I walk on, feeling like a zombie.
At first, the stage lights are too blinding to see anything. Then my eyes adjust, and I realize the situation is much worse than I thought.
It’s not a TV studio, like during my performance on Earth.
This is a full-on theater, with thousands of spectators in hundreds of rows. At the front are seven judges, and all of them are staring at me with homicidal hunger in their eyes.
But that’s still not the worst discovery.
According to all the signs and warnings, this show is being broadcast live.
It’s every glossophobic’s nightmare come to life—and there’s no Bailey to save me.
Chapter Eighteen
“Hi there. What are you supposed to be?” says the leftmost judge haughtily. “A goth or a geisha?”
I nearly choke on my tongue.
It’s bad enough I’m freaking out as is. Now this guy wants to add extra stress with his stupid commentary?
Sucking in a breath, I remind myself that he must be the obligatory rude “Simon Cowell” type, and it’s just show business.
It’s not that he doesn’t like me, specifically.
“I’m supernatural,” I say, my voice a little shaky. “I understand how difficult that is to believe, which is why I’m going to demonstrate the things I can do.”
He—a grown man—rolls his eyes at me, and murmurs, “That patter needs work.”
Deciding that my best bet is to ignore him as if he were a regular heckler, I say, “To start, I will demo my ability to predict the future.” I put down the nail gun and the mask, and fish out the lottery ticket. “Here.” I walk over to a gorgeous lady judge farthest from the prickly one and hand her the ticket. “I came up with this because everyone always says, ‘If you can see the future, why don’t you win the lottery?’”
Speaking to the nearest camera man, I say, “Can you show that to the viewers at home? I want everyone to know there’s no fishy business with the ticket.”
The guy is good. The camera instantly zooms in on the numbers, and someone even puts the whole thing up on a bulky CRT TV screen above the stage.
“Remember those,” I say, pointing to the screen. “Now, would it be possible to tune that TV to the lottery drawing?”
The camera man gives me a thumbs up, so I step away from the judge to make sure no one can suspect me of switching anything, or secretly erasing numbers and printing new ones somehow.
My chances of looking like a fool are astronomical because Lilith’s luck needs to work on multiple levels here. Firstly, the ticket needs to really be the winning one, and secondly, the lottery result needs to be announced right now.
As someone puts the right channel on the screen, one part of the plan falls into place—the broadcast shows a large wheel with white balls covered by numbers.
As the thing spins and spins, it builds the suspense for everyone—especially me.
The first ball falls into place, and the number on it matches my ticket.
The second one matches as well.
The lady judge murmurs my favorite phrase for a spectator to say: “No way.”
When the third number matches, I relax.
Even if the rest of them are wrong, I still have a strong effect on my hands.
My favorite thing about this demonstration is that I really am fooling everyone. I’m not using my seer powers like I claimed. They’re on hiatus for now. Like in every magic effect, there’s an underlying method behind what I’m doing that has nothing to do with my pseudo-explanation.
It just so happens that the method I’m using is supernatural in nature and impressive in and of itself.
The next number comes up matching, and the next.
When the last number is exactly the same, the audience breaks into mad clapping.
My pulse skyrockets, and I become aware of an odd sensation—like I’m filling up with wonderfully warm energy.
Oh, yeah. I remember this feeling. I had it when I was on TV on Earth. It must be what it feels like to get a faith-based power boost.
That’s good. It means some people out there believe I really did predict the lottery. They’re convinced that what just happened isn’t an illusion.
Phew.
It used to annoy me when people thought my mentalist powers were real. Now, though, I’m super grateful for human gullibility.
“You’re amazing,” says the judge I gave the lottery ticket to. “Why are you even here? You just made yourself a millionaire with your gift.”
“Well, I enjoy performing,” I say honestly. “I’d do it even if I had all the money in the world.”
“It was a nice trick,” the prickly judge says with a modicum more respect than earlier—but not much. “Especially good for a girl magician. And you do look like you’re enjoying yourself.” He looks me up and down and crinkles his nose. “You just need to work on your showmanship and your stage presence. Also, it’s obvious you somehow—”
“I’m not actually done yet,” I say through gritted teeth. “Save your criticism for the end and your theories about my methodology for the tabloid magazines.”
He raises an eyebrow, and I can tell he’s about to say something else snide.
A burst of anger overrides my stage fright.
His behavior, especially that “girl magician” bit, needs to be addressed.
Wait a minute. I can get revenge and do an impromptu demonstration that’s worthy of Lilith herself.
If this works well, it should boost one of my core vampire abilities.
“I have a few more impossibilities planned,” I say, speaking over whatever the judge just said. “I want the viewers at home to have no doubt that what I do is real. It’s not—as you put it—tricks.”
“Now that’s a tall order,” the annoying judge says. “Lots of idiots come here and think they can sing, but they screech like broken records. Like you, they believe their own—”
“If you’re such a skeptic, how about you volunteer for the next demonstration?” I say sweetly. “It’s going to involve mind control, but since you’re convinced all I do is tricks, it should not work on you, should it?”
Usually, I’d never choose a heckler as a helper—that’s audience management 101—but this isn’t a usual situation.
Here, the more skeptical he is, the stronger the effect.
“If you mind-control me, you’ll get my full support.” He raises a little paddle with a 10 written on it. “Now, do you need me to come join you on the stage?”
“No.” I turn my eyes into mirrors—and the audience gasps. With honey-laced voice, I say, “I want you to crawl to the stage on all fours.”
The room goes dead silent.
They think this must be a bad joke.
Then the judge robotically gets up from his seat, gets on the ground, and starts crawling onto the stage like a good puppet.
The silence grows heavy.
I can almost hear everyone’s incredulity.
The other judges and camera people look even more astonished than the audience behind them. As I surmised, my victim is a real primadonna, and no one can imagine that a performer like me could’ve bribed him to humiliate himself like this—which is the best non-supernatural explanation.
“Good job,” I say when he crosses the stage like a dog. “Now you will kiss my shoes and stand up.”
Am I getting too BDSM-y for family television?
Oh, well.
He gives my shoes a smooch as I commanded, then slowly rises, his expression still blank.
“Please give my brave volunteer a round of applause,” I say, and that finally breaks the tension. Everyone claps with insane enthusiasm.
Just like before, I feel a warm sensation of power—and it’s getting stronger.
Uh-oh.
I hope it doesn’t get as bad as the last time. I don’t want to faint again.
I take a deep breath.
I can’t think about fainting—or other potential pitfalls—as that way lies a freak-out on national TV. In a world that’s not my own, but still.
“Thank you,” I say when the ovations subside. “The other power I wanted to demonstrate is my ability to control luck itself.”
I pick up the welding helmet and put it on in such a way that I can still use my microphone.
“Is there anyone in the audience who owns one of these?” I wave the nail gun in the air.
A large man rises, and I ask him to join us on the stage.
“Take this.” I hand the man my nail gun. “Please check to make sure this is a regular nail gun, but be careful. I don’t want you to shoot your foot off, in case this show isn’t insured.”
Everyone chuckles, and the man verifies the gun is indeed a regular one.
“Please hand it to him”—I nod at the judge—“and return to your seat to a round of applause.”
As the hardware expert leaves, with the audience cautiously clapping, I walk over to the end of the stage, where I press my back against a wooden wall.
“You ready?” I ask the judge.
He nods robotically, clearly still under glamour.
“Good.” I take in another calming breath. “I want you to shoot me with one of those nails. Do your best to aim and don’t worry. My power over luck is going to make it so not a single one will hit.”
This is as close to the truth as a magician’s ever gotten.
The method will indeed be power over luck—only Lilith’s power, not mine.
The prickly judge points the nail gun at me.
I theatrically spread my arms.
Everyone in the audience moves to the edge of their seat, dead silent.
I’ve always wondered what’s going on in an average person’s head when they’re witnessing a dangerous stunt like this. Does anyone want to shout, “Stop!” as would probably be the moral thing to do? Or do they secretly hope the performer gets hurt?
Humans do have a morbid curiosity—that’s why they always stop to stare at an accident on a highway.
Bang!
The first nail hits the wall an inch away from my shoulder.
The audience collectively gasps.
The next nail hits in the space between my legs.
Wow.
If that was just half an inch higher, I would’ve gotten nailed in a very literal way.
The next nail is so close to the top of my head that it scrapes a little paint from the welding mask.
The next one hits between my outstretched fingers.
Lilith must have great control over the trajectories of these nails—and she’s doing her best to make this look good.
What seems like a week later, the gun finally runs out of nails.
I step aside and look back.
There’s a silhouette of me made out of nails.
“And there you have it,” I say. “I’m very lucky indeed.”
The applause is rapturous now. It goes on and on—and I notice everyone, even the judges, are on their feet to show their appreciation.
My knees feel weak, and the warm energy sensation is back, but much stronger this time.
A veritable flood of it.
Crap.
I need to get off the stage before the orgasmic part arrives and makes me fall on my face—possibly undoing some of the effect.
“Thank you so much,” I gasp. “Vote for me!”
With that, I run off the stage.
The ovations don’t stop.
The lady judge I left the lottery ticket with shouts that I should perform something else as an encore.
Lilith meets me with a proud grin, and even hugs me.
I take off my welding helmet so I can breathe, and then an idea hits me.
They can have their encore, and I could impress them even more without breaking a sweat.
Muting my microphone, I urgently tell Lilith, “Switch clothes with me.”
Ignoring the stunned stares of the other contestants, I begin to strip.
Being at least as devious as I am, Lilith catches on quickly and undresses without question.
When our clothes are swapped, I give her the mask, and she puts it on.
Yep.
No one will be able to detect the switch.
“Go out and prove that you can fly,” I tell her.
I can’t see her face through the mask, but I’m sure she’s grinning in anticipation.
Gracefully, she walks onto the stage.
I go into glamour mode and make the other contestants forget what they just saw.
As I do this, it occurs to me that I can use this as a chance to escape.
First, though, I have to make the most of this effect. I locate a CRT TV that’s showing what happens on the stage and turn my mic back on.
Lilith gets to the middle of the stage and bows.
The insane ovations subside.
“Before I perform the next demonstration, please check me for any hidden wires or magnets,” I say into my mic, and Lilith walks up to the still-on-stage-and-probably-glamoured prickly judge.
Without getting too handsy, he checks her for wires and finds none.
Lilith slowly floats up.
This time, the impressed gasp is so audible I can hear it from here.
Someone gets the brilliant idea to put on New Age-sounding music in the background as Lilith soars higher and higher.
I’m extremely pleased with her performance.
If this effect had been done on its own, I doubt anyone would’ve believed I can really fly. David Copperfield performed a levitation illusion that looked just like this back in the early nineties without being a goddess-vampire—as far as we all know, anyway. But combined with my other demonstrations, people should believe this is real.
> At least, I hope they do.
“I’ll now fly to the members of the audience so you can check for wires too,” I say, and Lilith does as I said—landing next to random people who obviously can’t find any secret wires.
As the viewers at home form their beliefs, the warm feelings intensify further.
My extremities start to tingle and I sit down, worried I’ll fall.
There goes my chance to escape. I got carried away with the performance.
My toes curl and I feel a faith-related orgasm crashing over me, akin to the one I had during my first TV appearance.
The power-gasm—or whatever you’d call it—is followed closely by another, and another.
Just like that first time, the pleasure morphs into pain as I feel like my whole body turns into a raw nerve ending that someone zapped with a taser.
The room spins around me, and I get lightheaded.
Then a new wave of the warmth hits me, causing my brain to short-circuit.
I collapse on the floor, and my consciousness goes bye-bye.
Chapter Nineteen
I come to my senses and sit up.
My head was on Lilith’s lap, and we’re inside a moving car, with no sign of the TV studio in sight.
“How did we get here?” I ask, looking out the window at the countless people milling about the busy streets of the city around us.
“When I finished our performance, I came out to find you passed out on the floor,” Lilith says. “Before the adoring fans could gang up on you, I carried you out and we took this cab.”
Wow.
Before, I only passed out for a short time. Maybe I gained even more power today?
“How can I tell if it worked?” I ask Lilith in a hushed whisper. “Am I a more powerful seer and probability manipulator now? And, more importantly, can I fly?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” she says. “I imagine that as a seer, you won’t feel the difference that much—apart from the fact that your daily seer power supply should be much greater.”
To check this theory, I attempt to go into Headspace but fail again.
Maybe the boost will kick in only after I recover from Nostradamus’s attack?
“Now, as a probability manipulator, with greater power, you should have access to lower frequency events—those that look like thicker strands,” she continues.
