“It sounds bad,” he says. “But I don’t use it if I don’t have to, and even then, I only use it if the person asks. And
“So you could make me think anything you wanted.”
Like making me fall madly in love with him. The moment the thought crosses my mind, I push it away. After all, if Disney taught me anything, it's that love can't be forced through magic. Thank you Aladdin.
He raises an eyebrow. “In theory, yes. In practice, no.” His voice drops. “Consider me reformed.”
Then he points his fork at Vanessa’s salad and it bursts into flames, instantly disintegrating into ash.
“Don’t fool yourself, Vivienne,” he whispers, almost to himself. “I might have the magic, but the others… they’ll get into your head way before me.”
Practice is a disaster.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the black eye and three bruises on my chest from missed passes. So after about twenty minutes of having clubs thrown at my face and torso, and subsequently missing every single one, Richard and Vanessa give me three juggling balls. They scoot me over to one corner, where I can practice without interrupting them and they can keep an eye on me.
“It’s like trying to keep a beat,” Vanessa says in a voice most people reserve for very small and very stupid children. “You have to imagine a rhythm, and throw at the proper time.” She demonstrates by throwing the balls in the air, while saying, “One, two, three, catch.”
They land in her hands like magic. I don’t care that she’s probably been doing this longer than I’ve been alive: I hate her for making it look so easy. “Keep trying,” she says, and hands them back to me. She stands up to go and I stand with her, but she puts a hand on my shoulder and pushes me back down. “No,” she says. “Don’t move around. The balls need to stay in one plane. If you move, you won’t learn anything.”
Then she goes back over to Richard — who is, of course, practicing with knives. Eight of them. They're even on fire. I stay in the corner to fumble around on my own. I try. Over and over. But I don’t have the coordination, and with every failed attempt, the image of Mab’s angry face grows in my mind. Then I just start freaking out that in this case, getting fired might actually mean getting incinerated. An hour later, Vanessa tells me to head out before I frustrate myself. A bit too late for that. I drop the balls into their prop trunk and wander off, sorely tempted to find Kingston and have him
I don’t, of course. Instead, I make my way back to the trailers and find Sheena sitting by herself under the awning of the dining area, a book in one hand and a mug in the other. I’ve only spoken with her once, in my first week here. She took me aside after dinner and asked to read my tea leaves. As I drank down the bitter tea, we made small talk about life and art and how nice it was to get away. When she read the dregs, her eyebrows furrowed, and she said my future was hazy, like my past. Then she started talking about all the indie bands she’d seen on tour, and asked what sort of music I liked. We hadn’t spoken much since then, but she smiled at me whenever she saw me. For me, that made her my friend. I sit down beside her, and it’s not until I clear my throat that she looks up and notices me there.
“Oh, Vivienne. Sorry.” She holds up the book. “Got carried away.”
“It’s fine,” I say. I’ve been trying to figure out how to broach the subject all day, and I still haven’t gotten an idea. So I just ask straight out, “Why are you hiding that you’re a faerie? I mean, you’re in good company.”
She does a little half-smile and puts the book down. It’s then that I notice the coffee cup is empty, but she’s still cradling it like it’s the nectar of life.
“Well,” she says. “That’s a political matter. I’m kind of a refugee.”
A few months ago, I’d have no clue what she was talking about. Now I was catching on.
“You’re from the Summer Court,” I say, because it’s not really a question.
She smiles at me, and her cheeks dimple. “Yes,” she says. “A few years ago, I found myself on the losing end of a deal with a satyr. My only option was to flee, but in Faerie, there’s nowhere to go. Mab found me and offered me sanctuary in exchange for my services to the show.”
“And let me guess: the Summer Court still has a warrant out for your arrest.”
Sheena laughs at this. “I’d say
“Thus the human disguise.”
She nods, and her smile slips. “I don’t know
“Are you worried?” I ask. “That someone will sell you out? Now that you’re in the open.”
“Not really,” she says. The smile she gives me is horribly sad. “Mab and I sorted that out when I signed on. If I’m ever taken from the troupe against my will, my life is immediately forfeit.”
“You mean your contract will kill you if you’re stolen?”
“Yes,” she says. “There are many worse things than death.”
And now we’re edging close to the subject I’ve wanted to ask her about all day. I still don’t have a nice segue, so I just ask.
“Like what happened to Roman?” I whisper.
“Yes,” she says. “Though his death was quick in comparison to what to my own fate would be. He was just a half-blood, not a traitor like me.”
I pick the next words carefully. Sheena seems to be the first person who is honestly willing to talk about what’s been going on. I don’t want to mess this up.
“So…your safety’s clearly important to Mab. Why would she jeopardize all that? What was she asking you to do?”
“Big questions,” Sheena says. “And I can’t answer the first because I truly do not know. As to what she wanted from me, well…in my contract, she has the right to call upon my skills whenever she deems it necessary. Today was such a time.”
“And those skills are?”
“I’m a medium.”
“You’re like Miss Cleo?”
“No,” she says with a laugh. “When I’m in my true form, I can communicate with the recently deceased, before they pass on. I can catch the last few moments of their life, ask them questions. In the case of murder, I can see who or what killed them.”
“But you said you were blocked from Roman?”
“Yes,” she says, and her eyes look down to the ground. “His spirit was there. I could sense it. But it was blocked. I couldn’t reach it.”
“I take it that’s never happened before.”
She laughs, “It should be impossible. Like everything else going on.”
The show goes up that night without a hitch. Anyone on the outside wouldn’t have noticed a thing. But for those of us within the troupe, well, it felt different. There’s an energy before a show — an excitement and expectation — like every time has the potential to feel like the first. Not so this time around. The clouds came in shortly after dinner; the sky grew heavy, mirroring our mood. There was no pre-show circle and cheer. There was no pep talk from Mab to rally our spirits after the horrendous morning. No. She was absent, appearing only to introduce the show and to do her postintermission whip act. No one knew where she spent the rest of the time, and no one was about to ask.
I watched the jugglers from the side aisle. Vanessa and Richard flipped and cartwheeled and threw clubs and knives and flaming torches high in the air, cartwheeling around before coming together for the dramatic catches. Not a single club was dropped, and when they took their bow, their faces gleamed like they’d been a duo act all along. The entire thing made my stomach clench. There was no way in hell I’d ever be that good. No way. Not in a week.
When the magic show was up, Melody appeared onstage with a ton of makeup to cover whatever was ailing her, and Kingston played up his part of fumbling magician with panache. For their final trick, he waved his wand in the air, chanting a gibberish spell he told the crowd would make Melody grow ten feet tall before their very eyes. “A feat,” he said,
