The Masquerading Magician

by Gigi Pandian

  Copyright Information

  The Masquerading Magician: An Accidental Alchemist Mystery © 2016 by Gigi Pandian.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2016

  E-book ISBN: 9780738746623

  Book format by Bob Gaul

  Cover design by Kevin R. Brown

  Cover illustration by Hugh D’Andrade/Jennifer Vaughn Artist Agent

  Editing by Nicole Nugent

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  One

  Persephone & Prometheus’s Phantasmagoria: A Classic Magic Show in the Modern World.

  The giant poster was illustrated in the style of Victorian Era stage magic posters. Two figures faced each other from opposite sides of a stage, the larger one in a tuxedo and top hat, the smaller impish figure in a devilish red suit. The taller tuxedoed figure held a wand pointed upward toward an ethereal floating figure. The devilish man held a ball of fire in his hand.

  I smiled to myself as Max and I made our way through the lobby, my fingers looped through his. Some things had changed since the Victorian era. The tuxedo-clad magician in the poster was a woman. Prometheus and Persephone were a husband-and-wife magic act with equal billing.

  Their style reminded me very much of posters of King of Cards Thurston and Carter the Great, both of whom used ghost and devil imagery in their posters and shows to illustrate the motif that they were magicians able to control the spirit world. The ambiance felt more like Paris in 1845, on the day Jean Eugène Robert-­Houdin took to the stage at the newly built Palais-Royal theater with his ingenious mechanical inventions and masterful sleight of hand. But this was a small theater near Portland’s Mt. Tabor, over 150 years later. Seeing that poster made me feel like I’d been transported back in time.

  I should know. I attended Robert-­Houdin’s show over a century ago.

  Though I look outwardly like a woman in her late twenties with trendy dyed-white hair who’s named after her grandmother Zoe Faust, the truth is far different. Long before I bought a run-down house in Portland, Oregon, three months ago, I was born in Salem, Massachusetts. In 1676.

  A shiver swept over me as a memory of a different time and place overtook me. Casually dressed Oregonians with cell phones in their pockets became formally attired members of society who would remember this performance for a lifetime.

  Breathe, Zoe.

  I willed myself to remember it wasn’t a taut corset constricting my breathing, but my own nerves. I had thought tonight’s opening performance would be the perfect way to spend time with Max after he’d been away, but could I trust myself with him? I couldn’t tell him the truth about my past, no matter how much I wanted to. Maybe this had been a terrible idea.

  Max pulled me toward the ticket-taker. I was holding up the line. I took one last look at the floor-to-ceiling poster in the lobby. Though the artist had done a wonderful job projecting the ghostly feel of the first phantasmagoria acts, down to faux-faded edges, there was a twenty-first-century addition: across the bottom, a garish yellow stripe contained a warning to theater patrons that any attempt to photograph the show with cell phones or other recording devices would result in expulsion from the theater.

  I didn’t have time to think more about whether I’d made a mistake coming here tonight. Almost as soon as we found our seats, the lights went down. The dramatic opening of Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana sounded from speakers overhead. The music was in the spirit of the era they were invoking, even though it hadn’t been composed until the 1930s. A spark appeared in the far corner of the darkened stage. It was barely noticeable at first, but a moment later, flames erupted from the back of the stage.

  A wave of murmurs and stifled exclamations rippled across the rows of the theater. Max swung his head around, presumably looking for the fire alarm.

  “Relax,” I whispered.

  “There’s no way this little theater is safe for this kind of fire,” he whispered back. “We need to—”

  “It’s only an illusion.” I put my hand on his arm. “I promise.”

  Max’s reaction didn’t surprise me. No matter if he was on duty as a detective or not, he was always looking out for others. He settled back into his seat and gave me a sheepish grin before turning his attention back to the stage.

  The flames followed a course, like dominoes. The tiny spark that had ignited in one corner of the stage as a slow simmer was now a full-blown fire that followed the path of a rope that appeared on the stage floor. The flames then snaked upward in a renewed fit of energy, as if being chased, jumping to a hanging spiderweb made of rope. The flames followed the woven web, tracing the intricate pattern like rabid mice in a maze.

  I inhaled deeply, making sure I was right that this was only an illusion. I didn’t smell fire. Smoke and mirrors. Or, more accurately, glass and lighting.

  As the false flames approached the middle of the web suspended over the back of the stage, the music swelled, culminating in a crash of cymbals at the moment the fire reached the center.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” a disembodied woman’s voice boomed from offstage. “This display of fire is the handiwork of Prometheus. Never fear. I know how to handle him.”

  The illusory flames extinguished as abruptly as if a tidal wave had blanketed the stage. A small man dressed in a bright-red tuxedo, with spiky red hair that resembled bursts of flame, walked out onto the naked stage.

  “Persephone,” he said in a more powerful voice than his slight frame suggested, “you’re no fun.” He turned toward the audience, raising his hand to the side of his mouth as if about to impart a secret. “Don’t mind her. But don’t be too hard on her either. I’d be in a grumpy mood too, if I had to spend time in the Underworld.”

  He turned his head toward the darkness offstage, the direction from which the disembodied woman’s voice had come. I knew that’s where he wanted us to look, so I looked elsewhere, wondering what would come at us next. I tilted my head upward, toward the li
ghts above the stage.

  And froze.

  It had definitely been a mistake to come here tonight.

  Prometheus turned back to the audience, but my own eyes darted back to the catwalk of lighting equipment above the stage as my hands gripped the armrests. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. No, that’s not true. I completely believed it. I didn’t want to believe it.

  Max leaned over and whispered into my ear, “What’s the matter? Were you wrong about this being an illusion?”

  I shook my head. “Just my imagination,” I whispered. I forced myself to pull my gaze from the catwalk. To look away from Dorian. Things could get very ugly if I called attention to the interloper.

  My friend stood in the shadows high above the stage, watching the show from above like Quasimodo or the Phantom of the Opera. It wasn’t that he didn’t have the money to buy a ticket and sit in a proper seat. Dorian Robert-­Houdin couldn’t show himself in public. He was a gargoyle, once made of stone before he was unintentionally brought to life 150 years ago by Jean Eugène Robert-­Houdin, the “Father of Modern Magic” in more ways than anyone realized.

  What was Dorian thinking? What if someone saw him?

  I felt an overwhelming urge to protect him. Should I act? What could I do? He and I were two misfits, surprised to find ourselves partly immortal through alchemy. I’d accidentally unlocked alchemy’s greatest secret, the Elixir of Life, at the turn of the eighteenth-century. The years that followed were filled with crushing pain from the loss of those I’d loved, but also unsurpassable joy from the time I’d been able to spend with them. In the last three months, Max and Dorian had quickly become important to me. How could I deal with Dorian without alerting Max to the existence of a living gargoyle?

  I glanced around the theater. The thudding of my heart filled my ears as loudly as the cymbals that had sounded moments before. It faded ever so slightly as I realized that nobody else had noticed the three-and-a-half-foot gargoyle watching from above. All eyes were focused on the stage. Thank God the entertaining performance was holding the audience’s attention. So far. Prometheus was still speaking, carrying on the silly patter that’s essential for a successful stage magician to master. Carmina Burana continued to play in the background, its intense vocals adding effective background suspense, but the volume had lowered as the magician spoke.

  I pulled my eyes from Dorian as a woman in a black tuxedo stepped into view. She crossed her arms and raised a theatrically painted eyebrow at Prometheus.

  In lacquered black high-heeled shoes that shone brightly under the spotlight, she stood more than six feet tall. Instead of the typical leotard or evening gown you’d expect to see on most women on the stage of a magic show, she wore a tailored tuxedo with tails down to her knees. Sleek brown curls adorned her head in the heavily styled waves popular in the 1920s, and bright red lipstick made full lips stand out on a pale face. If it had been a century ago, I would have described her face as handsome. Broad-shouldered and bold, she held herself confidently. With a top hat in her hands, she was elegance itself.

  “I am Persephone,” her voice boomed. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me. I’m Queen of the Underworld. But don’t worry. I’m also the Goddess of Spring Growth. We Greek gods are difficult to pin down, I know. Since this week marks the first week of spring, you get to see a benevolent Persephone tonight. It’s Prometheus you need to worry about. But I’ll protect you from his fire-starter tendencies.”

  “She’s quite dramatic, isn’t she?” Prometheus said, stepping forward out of the shadows. If ever there was a contrasting duo, it was the two figures on the stage. Where Persephone was large and powerful, Prometheus was a puny wisp of a man. Not frail, though. Even from where I sat several rows back, I could tell he had the lithe body of an acrobat. That was good. The audience would want to keep an eye on him instead of looking around—and up.

  “I’m warning you, Prometheus,” Persephone said. “No fire games for these good people tonight. They’ve come to see a classic magic show. I will impress them with my prestidigitation.”

  Prometheus snapped his fingers. A crackle far greater than the sound of snapping fingers echoed as a burst of flame shot from his fingertips. Simultaneously, a roar of flames surged through the stalk of a potted fennel plant in the back of the stage. The flames stretched upward.

  It was only a matter of time before people in the audience looked up and saw Dorian.

  If he was spotted, would he have the sense to stand perfectly still and pretend to be a stone gargoyle placed there as a joke? Or would he try to run? I hoped it wasn’t the latter. Dorian was no longer the swift creature he’d once been. His body was slowly returning to stone. This night was a rare break for me from my research and experimentation with the secrets of Non Degenera Alchemia—Not Untrue Alchemy—the book Dorian hoped could save his life. He’d stowed away in a crate from France just to find me, but three months of alchemy work had yielded few results. After so many decades of denying my gifts, my gifts were now denying me.

  I’d discovered a quick fix, a Tea of Ashes that temporarily reversed his deterioration. But if I failed to find a permanent solution, a fate much worse than death awaited my friend. Soon, Dorian would be fully awake but trapped in an unmoving stone body—and I didn’t know if the condition could be reversed.

  I stole another glance at Dorian. He was no longer stock still. I let out a breath of relief as I saw him inching slowly along the catwalk toward the wings. At least, that’s what he was trying to do. One of his claws caught in the metal latticework. It was the foot that had been giving him trouble. He tugged at his leg with his hands. My chest tightened when I saw what was happening.

  Dorian’s clawed hands flailed as he lost his balance. I clutched the armrest, expecting to see him fall onto the stage in front of over a hundred onlookers.

  Two

  On the stage, Prometheus’s illusory flames flickered and grew. High above, Dorian’s hands flailed wildly at his sides.

  I held my breath and considered what sort of distraction I could create to prevent people from noticing a three-and-a-half-foot gargoyle crashing into the audience.

  Before I could act, Dorian caught hold of a metal railing and steadied himself. He stood perfectly still. If anyone looked up, they would assume he was simply a stone gargoyle. A carving that resembled the “thinker” gargoyle of Notre Dame de Paris, with wings folded behind broad shoulders and small horns poking out on top of his head, was certainly an odd choice for a catwalk decoration, but everyone knew theater folk were an eccentric bunch, right?

  I swallowed hard. How could he be here? Dorian knew how important it was that he not be seen. It was difficult enough to keep his existence a secret without him appearing above the crowd of a sold-out show.

  I also understood the impulse. The gargoyle was homesick. He couldn’t resist the lure of a magic show with posters showing a classic performance more reminiscent of Belle Époque era Paris than dot-com era Vegas.

  Persephone pointed a red-tipped finger at Prometheus. The fennel flames extinguished. Like a phoenix rising from the flames as it renewed itself, a metal tree sprouted from the top of Prometheus’s head, pushing through his spiky crimson-tipped hair. The trunk inched upward, and green leaves emerged from the trunk.

  “What are you doing?” Prometheus sputtered, holding onto his head as if the roots of the tree pained him as the metal branches continued to grow. “Fire is supposed to bring death and destruction, not renewal.”

  “Is it not all connected?” Persephone replied. “Your fire fed the soil for this tree to grow. This is your own doing.”

  Prometheus moaned as the mechanical tree grew slowly but methodically until it was over a foot high. Prometheus shook his head, causing a few of the false leaves to fall to the stage floor. In place of the leaves was an orange. Persephone walked across the stage, the tail of her black tuxedo flapping behind her, and pluck
ed the orange from the two-foot tree now sitting atop her partner’s head. This illusion was one that Jean Eugène Robert-­Houdin had created—as Dorian must have realized too. That’s why we were here on opening night. I wanted to see a classic stage show like the ones I remembered from a distant past, from a happy time that had been far too brief. I couldn’t fault Dorian for wanting the same thing, especially since the gargoyle had a stronger connection to the great magician than anyone.

  The posters hadn’t been misleading. The suspense here was much more subtle than most modern shows I’d seen, building slowly and holding our attention with wonder rather than demanding it with glitz.

  Of course, I couldn’t tell my date that I’d actually seen the illusion performed by its original inventor well over a century ago.

  Perhaps coming here tonight had been a bad idea. Perhaps it had all been an awful idea.

  I couldn’t worry about that now. I was too terrified that someone would see Dorian. I felt the warm pressure of the heavy gold locket I wore on a chain around my neck. I couldn’t let this happen. Not again.

  It was times like these I felt foolish for thinking I could have a normal life here in Portland. But I was so tired of running. Finding a community where I fit in seemed too good to be true. As did meeting a man whose herbal gardening skills rivaled mine and was handsome and intriguing to boot. Max Liu was dangerous for the same reason that he wasn’t dangerous. He was simultaneously alluring and safe. A rational detective who’d learned the teachings of his grandmother, an herbalist and apothecary in China. He was in his early forties, single after his wife died years ago. Losing her caused him to live his life in the present rather than the past, and part of this mantra made him avoid all talk of the past. It was one of the reasons it was easy to spend time with him. He didn’t push me to open up about a past I could never make him understand.

  But I knew Max and I would never work in the long run, because even if he accepted me for who I was, he would continue to age naturally while I never would. Yet, I could imagine myself comfortably settling into life with him and the many friends I’d made here in a short time.