“Yes,” Davidoff said heavily, “we do.”
Silence washed back and forth across the cellular ocean.
“I cannot imagine why anyone would do such a thing,” said the professor. “Can you, Mr. LaSalle?”
“Professor, you don’t think I—”
“I expect everything to go by the numbers tomorrow, Mr. LaSalle.”
Before Trey could organize a reply, Professor Davidoff disconnected.
And it all went by the numbers.
More or less.
Drawn by the gruesome news story and the maudlin PR spin Davidoff gave it, the Annenberg was filling to capacity, with lines wrapped halfway around the block. Three times the expected number of reporters were there. There was even a picket by a right-wing religious group who wanted the Spellcaster project stopped before it started because it was “ungodly,” “blasphemous,” “satanic” and a bunch of other words that Trey felt ranged between absurd and silly. The picketers drew media attention and that put even more people in line for the dwindling supply of tickets.
Bird, Jonesy and Anthem showed up in very nice clothes. Bird wore a tie for the first time since Trey had known him. The girls both wore dresses. Jonesy transformed from mouse to wow in a black strapless number that Trey would have never bet she could pull off. Anthem was in green silk that matched her eyes and she looked like a movie star. She even had nail tips over the gnarled nubs of her fingers. Trey was in a black turtleneck and pants. It was as close to being invisible as he could manage.
Davidoff was the ringmaster of the circus. He wore an outrageously gorgeous Glen Urquhart plaid three-piece and even with his ursine bulk he looked like God’s richer cousin.
Even the university dons were nodding in approval, happy with the positive media attention following so closely on the heels of the murder.
When the audience was packed in, Davidoff walked onto center stage amid thunderous applause. He even contrived to look surprised at the adoration before eventually waving everyone into an expectant silence.
“Before we begin, ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “I would like us all to share in a moment of silence. Earlier this week, one of my best and brightest students was killed in a savage and senseless act that still has authorities baffled. No one can make sense of the death of so wonderful a young man as Michael Kidd, Jr. He was on the very verge of a brilliant career, he was about to step into the company of such legendary folklorists as Stetson Kennedy, Archie Green and John Francis Campbell.”
Trey very nearly burst out laughing. He cut a look at Bird, who gave him a weary head shake and a half smile, momentarily stunned out of all consideration by the absurdity of that claim.
“I would like to dedicate this evening to Mr. Kidd,” continued Davidoff. “He will be remembered, he will be missed.”
“Christ,” muttered Trey. The stage manager scowled at him.
The whole place dropped into a weird, reverential silence that lasted a full by-the-clock minute. Davidoff raised his arms and a spotlight bathed him in a white glow as the houselights dimmed.
“Magic!” he said ominously in a voice that was filtered through a soundboard that gave it a mysterious- sounding reverb. The crowd ooohed and aaahed. “We have always believed in a larger world. Call it religion, call it superstition, call it the eternal mystery . . . we all believe in something. Even those of us who claim to believe in nothing—we will still knock on wood and pick up a penny only if it is heads up. Somewhere, past the conscious will and the civilized mind, the primitive in us remembers cowering in caves or crouching in the tall grass, or perching apelike on the limb of a tree as the wheel of night turned above and darkness covered the world.”
Trey mouthed the words along with the professor. Having written them he knew the whole speech by heart.
“But what is magic? Is magic the belief that we live in a universe of infinite possibilities? Yes, but it’s also
From there Davidoff segued into an explanation of the Spellcaster project. Trey had to admit that his script sounded pretty good. He’d taken what could have been dry material and given it richness by an infusion of some pop-culture phrasing and a few juicy superlatives. The audience loved it, and they were carried along by a multimedia show that flashed images on a dozen screens. Pictures from illuminated texts. Great works of sacred art. Churches and temples, tombs and crypts, along with hundreds of photos of everything from Mickey Mouse as the Sorcerer’s Apprentice to Gandalf the Grey. And there were images of holy people from around the world: Maori with their tattooed faces, Navajo shamans singing over complex sand paintings, medicine men from tiny tribes deep in the heart of the Amazon, and singers of sacred songs from among the Bushmen of Africa. It was deliberate sensory overload, accompanied by a remix mash-up of musical pieces ranging from Ozzy Osbourne to Mozart to Loreena McKennitt.
Then the floor opened and a gleaming computer rose into the light. It wasn’t the department mainframe, of course, but a prop with lots of polished metal fixtures that did nothing except look cool. A laptop was positioned inside, out of sight of the audience. Smoke began rising with it, setting the stage for the evocation to come.
Suddenly four figures, two men and two women in black robes lined with red satin swirling around them, stepped onto the stage. Juniors from the dance department. They did a few seconds of complex choreography that was, somehow, supposed to symbolize a ritual, and then they produced items from within their cloaks and began drawing a conjuring circle on the floor. Other dancers came out and lit candles, placing them at key points. The floor was discreetly marked so the dancers could do everything just so. Even though this was all for show, it had to be done right. This was still college.
The conjurer’s circle was six feet across, and this was surrounded by three smaller circles. Davidoff explained that the center circle represented Earth, the smaller circle at the apex of the design represented the unknown, the circle to his right was the safe haven of the conjurer; and the circle to the left represented the realm of the demon who was to be conjured.
It was all done correctly.
Then to spook things up, Davidoff explained how this could all go horribly, horribly wrong.
“A careless magician summons his own death,” he said in his stentorian voice. “All of the materials need to be pure. Vital essences—blood, sweat or tears—must never be allowed within the demon’s circle, for these form a bridge between the worlds of spirit and flesh.”
The crowd gasped in horror as images from
“A good magician is a scholar of surpassing skill. He does not make errors . . . or, rather, he makes only
He paused for laughter and got it.
“A learned magician is a quiet and solitary person. All of his learning, all of his preparation for this ritual, must be played out in his head. He cannot practice his invocations because magical words each have its special power. To casually speak a spell is to open a doorway that might never be shut.”
More images from horror movies emphasized his point. The dancer-magicians took up positions at key points around the circle.
“If everything is done just right,” continued Davidoff, “the evocation can begin. This is the moment for which a magician prepares his entire life. This is the end result of thousands of hours of study, of sacrifice, of purification and preparation. The magician hopes to draw into this world—into the confined and contained protection of a magic circle—a demon of immeasurable wisdom and terrible power. Contained within the circle, the demon
The audience was spellbound, which Trey thought very appropriate. He found himself caught up in the magic
