'We have an extensive dog and pony show later. Right now, we're here to be seen and let the crowd… simmer,' Savannah said. 'Besides, we-actually, all the performers-wanted to see this show first.'
Jinx stepped to the stage, guided by Alex. 'And now, dear friends, we are proud to present a very special demonstration of magic,' she said, whipping out her spirit cane and extending it to its full length. She drew it in a great circle through the air, creating a pulsing arc of color that shimmered through every shade in the rainbow-very very Jinx! Then she drew the cane up and down, up and down in a mountain shape-and then repeated it, and my mouth opened as I recognized the logo.
'Please welcome-the Mysterious Mirabilus!'
There was a clap of thunder, and all the lights went out. Two hooded figures appeared in the darkness, each carrying a lone torch.
They stepped forward slowly, in unison, approaching two huge braziers on pillars at each end of the stage. Just before lighting them, the figures reached up ostentatiously, and threw aside their hoods.
Each bore the unmistakable features of Christopher Valentine.
'Oh my God,' I said, sitting up in my wheelchair. This was the Mysterious Mirabilus' most famous trick, and he was doing it here, at the Masquerade, for us-and I had the best seat in the house! Just last week I'd seen a trick in a movie where a man 'teleported' to the other side of the stage-but this wasn't teleportation, and it wasn't a movie. There were two of him-right in front of me! Even from this close I couldn't see how it was done. They weren't masks-each commanding face had the same dark eyebrows and the same mischievous eyes. The torrent of white hair even had the same part on the same side, so there was no way the two images could be simple reflections. How was he doing it?
Then the figures plunged their torches into the braziers, and a giant flare of light lit up the whole interior of Hell. I looked back, seeing all the astonished faces, then looked forward again to see the robes collapsing to the ground and-just barely glimpse two dark catsuited figures disappearing behind the stage. But everyone's eyes were on center stage, where a single Mirabilus now stood alone, in a simple tuxedo and a top hat, which he removed and swept across the crowd to release a torrent of flapping birds of fire that darted out across the crowd before dissolving into a thousand colored sparks.
Christopher Valentine was in rare form. Each trick started as something simple-shuffling cards, juggling, pulling a rabbit out of a hat-and then grew more and more spectacular in typical Mirabilus fashion. He made the rabbit and the hat disappear, then kicked off his shoe to reveal bunny slippers, which he turned inside out to reveal the bunny, from which he improbably pulled the hat. While juggling he got a phone call and stepped off to the side of the stage, the balls still tumbling through the air in his absence; on his return he tossed the cell phone into the mix and glared irritated at it when it started ringing again, seemingly unable to stop himself juggling long enough to answer it.
And then a second Mirabilus appeared. The first eyed the phone, and his clone reached in, snatched it and answered it. He began talking animatedly while the juggling Mirabilus glared at him; then a third Mirabilus appeared, also yakking on a phone and tossing a deck of cards. Enraged, the original Mirabilus started tossing the balls at his counterparts, who tossed the phones and deck of cards back in a brief display of three-way juggling. Then the clones took the balls and phones and whirled off-while the original caught the deck, broke the wrapper off, and grinned widely to the crowd as he fanned out the cards.
Now the Mirabilus went straight back to the basics. The spotlight zoomed in, and two enormous screens projected a close-up view of his nimble, graceful hands, shuffling the cards with incredible skill. I wondered if the two projectors and the unseen camera had a big hand in the dueling Mirabiluses we had seen earlier, but I couldn't see how and frankly I didn't care: like everyone else I was mesmerized by his supremely deft prestidigitation. Cards blurred through the air, became flowers, then coins; then the coins were between his outstretched fingers, turning to marbles and gems and dice in rapid succession.
And then I looked up at his face. The lights weren't on it, but I could see Christopher was tired and sweating, scowling with the effort. The Mirabilus was getting old, and I felt saddened. Then his eye looked down and caught me, and he winked, throwing his hands up and turning the glittering marbles into ten sparks of fire.
And with that, all too soon, it was over, the Mirabilus bowing to the crowd and its thunderous applause. He motioned for the mike, also flicking his fingers down at me-and as an assistant named Elijah brought him the mike, I was shocked to see Savannah leaning down to release the bumpers on my wheelchair.
'What are you doing?' I asked, as she started to push me forward. 'He's not done-'
'Ladies and gentlemen of the Masquerade,' Christopher called out to the crowd warmly, waving his arms so no-one would notice he was pausing for breath. 'I am the Mysterious Mirabilus, and I hope you have enjoyed my little show tonight.'
The crowd went wild-as did I, as Savannah pushed me up next to Darkrose and turned my wheelchair around to face the crowd. 'What, what are you doing-'
'And while the date and venue are yet to be decided, I'm proud to announce here on this very stage-my next Valentine Challenge!' he cried. The crowd went a little less wild-apparently the skeptical set didn't make a big showing at goth-fetish-techno dance clubs-but they cheered anyway as he continued: 'You've seen me throw down the gauntlet before to psychics and seers and dowsers and all sorts of mystics, and each time I've won-but this time, I may have met my match: Atlanta's own magical tattooist, Dakota Frost!'
My mouth opened-and then Darkrose and Savannah reached down and effortlessly lifted my wheelchair and set me gently down on the stage next to Valentine, who put his warm hand on my shoulder and winked at me.
The crowd gasped-many of them were close enough to realize that many of my bruises and cuts were not just makeup, and many of the rest realized that my Mohawk was gone. But Valentine raised his hand, calming. 'Now, Miss Frost has had a rough time of late, having recently come back from the brink of death-' and everyone laughed, a bit nervously '-but she told me she was willing to go ahead with the challenge.'
'No-one would blame her if she backed out,' he continued, looking straight at me, ignoring the crowd, 'after all she's been through.'
I reached up and pulled the mike towards me. 'Not a chance, old man.'
'Hear that? You hear that?' he cried, smiling out at the cheering crowd. 'She's a trooper, and I respect that! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you-'
'Dakota Frost!' a man yelled from the upper railing, and there were screams and shouts as I looked up straight into the barrel of a gun. 'You'll never ink that Nazi bastard, Frost!'
There was a terrific bang, everything tilted sideways, and my knee exploded in pain as something slammed into me. There were shouts and screams as I fell off the stage, wheelchair and the world tumbling down on me. I lay frozen a moment, gasping, watching the surge of feet recede; but there were no more shots. So I lifted the wheelchair off me with difficulty.
When it fell aside I saw Christopher Valentine sprawled across me, gasping for breath, clutching his left shoulder with his right hand.
And bleeding. Bleeding fast.
26. VALENTINE'S DAY
Christopher Valentine's head lay tilted on the pillow, hair disheveled, an oxygen tube running under his nose. His eyes were closed, slack, and his breathing was labored. His body seemed as thin as sticks under the flimsy hospital gown-except for his left shoulder and upper left chest, all swollen out of shape, and covered in an array of bandages.
I stood there, on crutches, staring down at him. 'Is… is he going to live?'
'I don't know,' Philip said. 'I just don't know.'
After a long period of waiting, Philip had worked his magic to get me and Alex through the police guard and the hospital staff. It was amazing, like watching a Jedi out of a Star Wars movie pull his mind tricks. But once inside the ICU, I was too afraid to ask any of the staff anything for fear they would ask us to leave, so I just stood there, hunched over the crutches that had replaced my ruined wheelchair, staring down at the old man who had saved my life.
Valentine opened his eyes to slits. 'Miss Frost,' he said, voice hoarse and ancient, holding nothing of his
