The Girl Who Sees E-Book

Dima Zales

• Herausgeber: Mozaika Publications
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

I'm an illusionist, not a psychic.

Going on TV is supposed to advance my career, but things go wrong.

Like vampires and zombies kind of wrong.

My name is Sasha Urban, and this is how I learned what I am.

Leseprobe

The Girl Who Sees

Sasha Urban Series: Book 1

Dima Zales

♠ Mozaika Publications ♠

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 purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 Dima Zales and Anna Zaires

www.dimazales.com

All rights reserved.

Except for use in a review, no part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

Published by Mozaika Publications, an imprint of Mozaika LLC.

www.mozaikallc.com

Cover by Orina Kafe

www.orinakafe-art.com

e-ISBN: 978-1-63142-351-2

Print ISBN: 978-1-63142-352-9

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Sneak Peek at Misfortune Teller

Sneak Peek at The Thought Readers

About the Author

Chapter One

“I’m not a psychic,” I say to the makeup girl. “What I’m about to do is mentalism.”

“Like that dreamy guy on the TV show?” The makeup girl adds another dash of foundation to my cheekbones. “I always wanted to do his makeup. Can you also hypnotize and read people?”

I take a deep, calming breath. It doesn’t help much. The tiny dressing room smells like hairspray went to war with nail polish remover, won, and took some fumes prisoner.

“Not exactly,” I say when I have my anxiety and subsequent irritation under control. Even with Valium in my blood, the knowledge of what’s about to come keeps me on the edge of sanity. “A mentalist is a type of stage magician whose illusions deal with the mind. If it were up to me, I’d just go by ‘mental illusionist.’”

“That’s not a very good name.” She blinds me with her lamp and carefully examines my eyebrows.

I mentally cringe; the last time she looked at me this way, I ended up getting tortured with tweezers.

She must like what she sees now, though, because she turns the light away from my face. “‘Mental illusionist’ sounds like a psychotic magician,” she continues.

“That’s why I simply call myself an illusionist.” I smile and prepare for the makeup to fall off, like a mask, but it stays put. “Are you almost done?”

“Let’s see,” she says, waving over a camera guy.

The guy makes me stand up, and the lights on his camera come on.

“This is it.” The makeup girl points at the nearby LCD screen, where I have avoided looking until now because it’s playing the ongoing show—the source of my panic.

The camera guy does whatever he needs to do, and the anxiety-inducing show is gone from the screen, replaced by an image of our tiny room.

The girl on the screen vaguely resembles me. The heels make my usual five feet, six inches seem much taller, as does the dark leather outfit I’m wearing. Without heavy makeup, my face is symmetric enough, but my sharp cheekbones put me closer to handsome than pretty—an effect my strong chin enhances. The makeup, however, softens my features, bringing out the blue color of my eyes and highlighting the contrast with my black hair.

The makeup girl went overboard with it—you’d think I’m about to step into a shampoo commercial. I’m not a big fan of long hair, but I keep it that way because when I had it short, people used to mistake me for a teenage boy.

That’s a mistake no one would make tonight.

“I like it,” I say. “Let’s be done. Please.”

The TV guy switches the screen back to the live feed of the show. I can’t help but glance there, and my already high blood pressure spikes.

The makeup girl looks me up and down and wrinkles her nose minutely. “You insist on that outfit, right?”

The really cool (in my opinion) borderline-dominatrix getup I’ve donned today is a means to add mystique to my onstage persona. Jean Eugène Robert-Houdin, the famous nineteenth-century French conjuror who inspired Houdini’s stage name, once said, “A magician is an actor playing the part of a magician.” When I saw Criss Angel on TV, back in elementary school, my opinion of what a magician should look like was formed, and I’m not too proud to admit that I see influences of his goth rock star look in my own outfit, especially the leather jacket.

“How marvelous,” says a familiar voice with a sexy British accent. “You didn’t look like this at the restaurant.”

Pivoting on my high heels, I come face to face with Darian, the man I met two weeks ago at the restaurant where I do table-to-table magic—and where I’d impressed him enough to make this unimaginable opportunity a reality.

A senior producer on the popular Evening with Kacie show, Darian Rutledge is a lean, sharply dressed man who reminds me of a hybrid between a butler and James Bond. Despite his senior role at the studio and the frown lines that crisscross his forehead, I’d estimate his age to be late twenties—though that could be wishful thinking, given that I’m only twenty-four. Not that he’s traditionally handsome or anything, but he does have a certain appeal. For one thing, with his strong nose, he’s the rare guy who can pull off a goatee.

“I wear Doc Martens at the restaurant,” I tell him. The extra inches of my footwear lift me to his eye level, and I can’t help but get lost in those green depths. “The makeup was forced on me,” I finish awkwardly.

He smiles and hands me a glass he’s been holding. “And the result is lovely. Cheers.” He then looks at the makeup girl and the camera guy. “I’d like to speak with Sasha in private.” His tone is polite, yet it carries an unmistakable air of imperiousness.

The staff bolt out of the room. Darian must be an even bigger shot than I thought.

On autopilot, I take a gulp of the drink he handed to me and wince at the bitterness.

“That’s a Sea Breeze.” He gives me a megaton smile. “The barman must’ve gone heavy on the grapefruit juice.”

I take a polite second sip and put the drink on the vanity behind me, worried that the combination of vodka and Valium might make me woozier than I already am. I have no idea why Darian wants to speak to me alone; anxiety has already turned my brain to mush.

Darian regards me in silence for a moment, then pulls out a phone from his tight jeans’ pocket. “There’s a bit of unpleasantness we must discuss,” he says, swiping across the screen of the phone before handing it to me.

I take the phone from him, gripping it tight so it doesn’t slip out of my sweaty palms.

On the phone is a video.

I watch it in stunned silence, a wave of dread washing over me despite the medication.

The video reveals my secret—the hidden method behind the impossible feat I’m about to perform on Evening with Kacie.

I’m so screwed.

“Why are you showing me this?” I manage to say after I regain control of my paralyzed vocal cords.

Darian gently takes the phone back from my shaking hands. “You know that thing you went on about at the restaurant? How you’re just pretending to be a psychic and that it’s all tricks?”

“Right.” I frown in confusion. “I never said I do anything for real. If this is about exposing me as a fraud—”

“You misunderstand.” Darian grabs my discarded drink and takes a long, yet somehow elegant sip. “I have no intention of showing that video to anyone. Quite the contrary.”

I blink at him, my brain clearly overheated from the adrenaline and lack of sleep.

“I know that as a magician, you don’t like your methods known.” His smile turns oddly predatory.

“Right,” I say, wondering if he’s about to make a blackmail-style indecent proposal. If he did, I would reject it, of course—but on principle, not because doing something indecent with a guy like Darian is unthinkable.

When you haven’t gotten any for as long as I haven’t, all sorts of crazy scenarios swirl through your head on a regular basis.

Darian’s green gaze turns distant, as though he’s trying to look through the nearby wall all the way into the horizon. “I know what you’re planning on saying after the big reveal,” he says, focusing back on me. In an eerie parody of my voice, he enunciates, “‘I’m not a prophet. I use my five senses, principles of deception, and showmanship to create the illusion of being one.’”

My eyebrows rise so high my heavy makeup is in danger of chipping. He didn’t approximate what I was about to say—he nailed it word for word, even copying the intonation I’ve practiced.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised.” He places the now-empty glass back on the vanity dresser. “You said that exact thing at the restaurant.”

I nod, still in shock. Did I actually tell him this before? I don’t remember, but I must have. Otherwise, how would he know?

“I paraphrased something another mentalist says,” I blurt out. “Is this about giving him credit?”

“Not at all,” Darian says. “I simply want you to omit that nonsense.”

“Oh.” I stare at him. “Why?”

Darian leans against the vanity and crosses his legs at the ankles. “What fun is it to have a fake psychic on the show? Nobody wants to see a fake.”

“So you want me to act like a fraud? Pretend to be for real?” Between the stage fright, the video, and now this unreasonable demand, I’m just about ready to turn tail and run, even if I end up regretting it for the rest of my life.

He must sense that I’m about to lose it, because the predatory edge leaves his smile. “No, Sasha.” His tone is exaggeratedly patient, as though he’s talking to a small child. “I just want you to not say anything. Don’t claim to be a psychic, but don’t deny it either. Just avoid that topic altogether. Surely you can be comfortable with that.”

“And if I’m not, you would show people the video? Reveal my method?”

The very idea outrages me. I might not want people to think I’m a psychic, but like most magicians, I work hard on the secret methods for my illusions, and I intend to take them to my grave—or write a book for magicians only, to be published posthumously.

“I’m sure it wouldn’t come to that.” Darian takes a step toward me, and the bergamot scent of his cologne teases my flaring nostrils. “We want the same thing, you and I. We want people to be enthralled by you. Just don’t make any claims one way or another—that’s all I ask.”

I take a step back, his proximity too much for my already shaky state of mind. “Fine. You have a deal.” I swallow thickly. “You never show the video, and I don’t make any claims.”

“There’s one more thing, actually,” he says, and I wonder if the indecent proposal is about to drop.

“What?” I dampen my lips nervously, then notice him looking and realize I’m just making an inappropriate pass at me that much more likely.

“How did you know what card my escort was thinking of?” he asks.

I smile, finally back in my element. He must be talking about my signature Queen of Hearts effect—the one that blew away everyone at his table. “That will cost you something extra.”

He arches an eyebrow in silent query.

“I want the video,” I say. “Email it to me, and I’ll give you a hint.”

Darian nods and swipes a few times on his phone.

“Done,” he says. “Do you have it?”

I take out my own phone and wince. It’s Sunday night, right before the biggest opportunity of my life, yet I have four messages from my boss.

Deciding to find out what the manipulative bastard wants later, I go into my personal email and verify that I have the video from Darian.

“Got it,” I say. “Now about the Queen of Hearts thing... If you’re as observant and clever as I think you are, you’ll be able to guess my method tonight. Before the main event, I’m going to perform that same effect for Kacie.”

“You sneaky minx.” His green eyes fill with mirth. “So you’re not going to tell me?”

“A magician must always be at least one step ahead of her audience.” I give him the aloof smile I’ve perfected over the years. “Do we have a deal or not?”

“Fine. You win.” He gracefully sits on the swivel chair where I went through my eyebrow torture. “Now, tell me, why did you look so spooked when I first came in?”

I hesitate, then decide it will do no harm to admit the truth. “It’s because of that.” I point at the screen where the live feed from the show is still rolling. At that precise moment, the camera pans to the large studio audience, all clapping at some nonsense the hostess said.

Darian looks amused. “Kacie? I didn’t think that Muppet could frighten anyone.”

“Not her.” I wipe my damp palms on my leather jacket and learn that it’s not the most absorbent of surfaces. “I’m afraid of speaking in front of people.”

“You are? But you said you want to be a TV magician, and you perform at the restaurant all the time.”

“The biggest audience at the restaurant is three or four people at a dinner table,” I say. “In that studio over there, it’s about a hundred. The fear kicks in after the numbers get into the teens.”

Darian’s amusement seems to deepen. “What about the millions of people who’ll be watching you at home? Are you not worried about them?”

“I’m more worried about the studio audience, and yes, I understand the irony.” I do my best not to get defensive. “For my own TV show, I’d do street magic with a small camera crew—that wouldn’t trigger my fear too much.”

Fear is actually an understatement. My attitude toward public speaking confirms the many studies showing that this particular phobia tends to be more pervasive than the fear of death. Certainly, I’d rather be eaten by a shark than have to appear in front of a big crowd.

After Darian called me about this opportunity, I learned how big the show’s studio audience is, and I couldn’t sleep for three days straight—which is why I feel like a Guantanamo Bay detainee on her way to enhanced interrogation. It’s even worse than when I pulled a string of all-nighters for my stupid day job, and at the time, I thought it was the most stressful event of my life.

My roommate Ariel didn’t give me her Valium lightly; it took a ton of persuasion on my part, and she only gave in when she could no longer bear to look at my miserable face.

Darian distracts me from my thoughts by fiddling with his phone again.

“This should inspire you,” he says as soothing piano chords ring out of the tinny phone speaker. “It’s a song about a man in a similar situation to yours.”

It takes me a few moments to recognize the tune. Given that I last heard it when I was little, I up my estimate of Darian’s age by an extra few years. The song is “Lose Yourself,” from the 8 Mile movie, where Eminem’s character gets a chance to be a rapper. I guess my situation is similar enough, this being my big shot at what I want the most.

Unexpectedly, Darian begins to rap along with Eminem, and I fight an undignified giggle as some of the tension leaves my body. Do all British rappers sound as proper as the Queen?

“Now there’s that smile,” Darian says, unaware or uncaring that my grin is at his expense. “Keep it up.”

He grabs the remote and turns up the volume on the TV in time for me to hear Kacie say, “Our hearts go out to the victims of the earthquake in Mexico. To donate to the Red Cross, please call the number at the bottom of the screen. And now, a quick commercial—”

“Sasha?” A man pops his head into the dressing room. “We need you on stage.”

“Break a leg,” Darian says and blows me an air kiss.

“In these shoes, I just might.” I mime catching the kiss, throwing it on the floor, and stabbing it with my stiletto.

Darian’s laugh grows distant as my guide and I leave the room, heading down a dark corridor. As we approach our destination, our steps seem to get louder, echoing in tune with my accelerating heartbeat. Finally, I see a light and hear the roar of the crowd.

This is how people going to face a firing squad must feel. If I weren’t medicated, I’d probably bolt, my dreams be damned. As is, the guide has to grab my arm and drag me toward the light.

Apparently, the commercial break will soon be over.

“Go take a seat on the couch next to Kacie,” someone whispers loudly into my ear. “And breathe.”

My legs seem to grow heavier, each step a monumental effort of will. Hyperventilating, I step onto the platform where the couch is located and take tiny steps, trying to ignore the studio audience.

My dread is so extreme that time flows strangely; one moment I’m still walking, the next I’m standing by the couch.

I’m glad Kacie has her nose in a tablet. I’m not ready to exchange pleasantries when I have to do something as difficult as sitting down.

Knees shaking, I lower myself onto the couch like a fakironto a bed of nails (which is not a feat of supernatural pain resistance, by the way, but the application of scientific principles of pressure).

Time distortion must’ve happened again, because the music signifying the commercial break comes to an abrupt close, and Kacie looks up from her tablet, her overly full lips stretching into a smile.

The pounding of my pulse is so loud in my ears I can’t hear her greeting.

This is it.

I’m about to have a panic attack on national TV.

Chapter Two

“By day, Sasha works for the infamous Nero Gorin at his hedge fund,” Kacie says, reciting the intro I’ve prepared. The words reach me as if I’m in an underground bunker. “By night, she performs at the sumptuous, Zagat-rated—”

The sips of Sea Breeze churn painfully in my stomach. It’s going to be my turn to speak in a couple of seconds.

The crowd looks at me menacingly.

The cliché of picturing them in their undies just makes me want to gag, so I picture them sleeping—which doesn’t work either.

Without Ariel’s medication, I might’ve run out screaming.

Scanning the audience again, I admit what should’ve been unsurprising: Mom didn’t come. When I sent her the invitation, I knew this was likely, but on some level, I must’ve still been holding out for her to show up. I only had one invite to give out, and I now wish I’d given it to someone else. Mom has never approved of my passion for “silly tricks,” as she puts it, probably because she’s worried that my income could fall drastically if I pursued magic as a career. And since she benefits from that income—

“Sasha?” Kacie repeats, her smile extending almost to her ears. “Welcome to my show, dear.”

I swallow and choke out, “Thanks for having me, Kacie.” If I hadn’t practiced it a million times, I would’ve messed up even this basic greeting. “I hope I can add a little mystery to everyone’s day.”

“I’m certainly intrigued.” Kacie looks from me to the camera and back. “I understand you’re going to predict the future today. Is that right, Sasha?”

Damn Darian. Why did he put me in this situation? Before he asked me not to end the show with a disclaimer, I had my act and speech perfectly planned out. Now I have to tread carefully and pick only the “safe” lines from the patter I’ve rehearsed so many times.

Kacie is looking at me expectantly, so I nod and plunge ahead, steadying my voice as I say, “My day job at the hedge fund requires me to predict how the market and individual investments might behave. I do so by absorbing a lot of financial and political data and using it to make my forecasts. As it turns out, I’m very good at this.”

Though magicians often lie in their patter, every word I just said is the truth. As much as I hate my job, I do excel at the forecasting aspect of it. I’m so successful at it, in fact, that my boss Nero puts up with my crap.

Having said that, the only reason I bring up my job at all is because every book on magic performance instructs you to make your material personal. Comedians use the same trick. And since nothing is more personal to me than my current purgatory, into the patter it went.

“Well then.” Kacie turns to the camera. “Sounds like a demonstration is in order.”

“Definitely,” I say, and hoping nobody notices the tremor in my hands, I casually roll up my sleeves—a move every magician worth her salt does before performing to rule out suspicion of the go-to “something up your sleeve” explanation.

Swallowing to moisten my dry throat, I say to Kacie, “Two days ago, you and I spoke on the phone, and I asked you to think of a playing card. Did you choose one?”

I hold my breath, my heart thrashing in my chest. What she says next will determine how amazing my first trick will seem to millions of people.

“Certainly,” she replies. “I have a card in mind.”

I exhale in relief, most of my nervousness melting away. She didn’t accidentally rat me out—which means I messed with her memory as intended. What I actually told her on the phone was, “Think of a card in the deck that represents you, or one that feels personal to you.”

There’s a world of difference between “think of a random card” and “think of a card that represents you.” One is a free choice; another is a directed choice.

From my experience, most women will think of the Queen of Hearts when confronted with my carefully worded instruction. This psychological ploy works doubly well for extroverts like Kacie, especially ones who use as much red lipstick as she does.

“It’s very important that the viewers understand that you had an absolutely free choice,” I tell her. I really enjoy saying that line, given how evilly false it is. “Please also confirm to everyone that I offered you a chance to change your mind if you so desired.”

The second part is true. I did tell her she could change the card, but I said it offhandedly, as an afterthought, not giving her a chance to really think it through. It was a risk, of course, but people almost never change their minds after they have a card picked, especially if they are stuck on the idea that the original card “represents them.”

“That’s exactly what she said.” Kacie is on the verge of clapping her carefully manicured hands together in excitement. It’s amazing how magic can turn this polished woman into a little girl again.

Deciding that fortune favors the bold, I say, “This is your last chance to change your mind. If you want, you can do so now.”

Kacie shakes her head, clearly in a rush to know what happens next.

Great.

She’s sticking with her choice.

“For the first time, please name your card out loud.” I make a sweeping, go-ahead gesture with my right hand and prepare to not look disappointed if I have to resort to plan B.

“The Queen of Hearts,” Kacie announces triumphantly.

I swallow a grin. Showing my excitement might hint at my method, just as revealing disappointment would.

Slowly, I turn my outstretched arm toward Kacie. “Remember, you could’ve changed your mind at any time.”

She gasps, her spidery eyelashes fluttering in rapid blinks.

“Is that real?” Her voice is full of awe. She obviously forgot the selection process and believes she genuinely had free choice of any card.

“I got this a few months ago,” I say, keeping my arm steady to make sure it remains within everyone’s sight.

Someone in the audience whispers one of my favorite phrases: “There’s no way.”

The camera zooms in on my forearm.

The big screen behind us shows my pale skin and the intricate tattoo adorning it.

The Queen of Hearts.

“Would you like to touch it?” I slide all the way to the edge of the couch and thrust the tattoo at Kacie. “Make sure it’s not just drawn on there.”

Kacie’s cool fingers massage the tattoo, and she slowly shakes her head, whispering in amazement under her breath.

I now allow myself a huge grin. Every time an effect succeeds like this and I see the awe on people’s faces, I get a huge rush.

This is why I’m pursuing this career of honest deception despite my fear of public speaking.

Risking a glance at the crowd, I notice that they’re even more impressed than Kacie—as they should be. As far as they know, I told Kacie to “think of any card.”

“And of course, this is the only tattoo I have on my body.” I turn my ink-free left arm toward the camera and lift my hair up to display the back of my neck. I debate showing my tramp-stamp-free lower back, but since that requires getting up on still-unsteady legs, I decide not to risk it and quip, “At least the only tattoo in a place I could show on national television.”

The joke bursts the pent-up tension from the revelation, and everyone laughs.

I beam at them.

I’ll remember this moment forever.

The act has gone perfectly.

Of course, there’s a slight problem. The people who have seen me perform at the restaurant—like Darian—might catch on to the fact that I always reveal the Queen of Hearts.

I meet his inscrutable green gaze in the VIP section of the first row and wink. Is he any closer to figuring out the method behind the effect, having seen it twice?

Hopefully, he thinks I’m a careful manipulator who can make people think anything I desire—which I guess isn’t that far from the truth. The question that should be eating at Darian now is: “What if Kacie didn’t name the Queen of Hearts?”

The answer to that question is very simple: I’d go to plan B. I have a deck of cards in my right pocket—something I never leave home without. If Kacie named the wrong card, I’d try not to look disappointed and would use my already-extended right hand to retrieve the deck from my pocket. I’d ask Kacie to name a number between one and fifty-two, and I’d count to that number from the top of the deck to “magically” reveal her card—an effect that feels like a prediction, and for other magicians might seem like a bigger miracle than the tattoo version. No one—besides Darian—would be the wiser.

Enthusiastic clapping brings my attention back to the audience.

“Thank you.” I bow slightly, ignoring the sweat trickling down my spine. “That was just a small appetizer before the main event.”

Kacie, the crowd, and even Darian (who knows the method of what’s about to come) are hanging on to my every word. Maybe it’s presumptuous, but I can picture the people at home scooting closer to their TV screens.

After all, they just saw me predict, via a tattoo no less, a free thought that occurred in a human mind, yet I call it an appetizer.

My pulse is still too fast, and I become aware of an odd sensation—like I’m filling up with warm energy. Is this the Valium kicking in? I hope it’s not the cocktail mixing with the medicine.

Pushing the worry aside, I focus on my performance.

“A few weeks ago,” I say evenly, “I mailed an important letter to Kacie.” I actually mailed it to her assistant, but she doesn’t correct me, so I proceed. “Kacie, do you have that letter now?”

Kacie triumphantly picks up a large sealed envelope.

“This envelope was at the studio at all times, was it not?” I ask and lock eyes with Darian.

A horrific idea just popped into my head.

What if he doesn’t want me to deny being a psychic so he can play the cursed video and make me look like a fraud?

Debunking a fake psychic might make for good TV.

Shoving that awful thought away, I refocus on Kacie as she says, “Yes, and it’s sealed. There’s no sneaky business here.”

I could kiss her. Now I don’t have to emphasize how untampered the envelope was and how impossible it was for me to access.

“Great. Thank you,” I say. “Now, before we get to the envelope, can you please put up the front page of TheNew York Times on that big screen behind me?”

The familiar page appears on the screen, with the biggest story of the day prominently featured. The headline reads: MAJOR EARTHQUAKE HITS MEXICO; DOZENS KILLED. Under the article is an image of a tall building lying on its side, with people digging in the rubble.

This is my moment, but I can’t help a huge pang of guilt. What I’m about to do is going to seem that much more dramatic because of this terrible tragedy. Of course, I had no control over today’s headlines, and this sort of outcome is always a risk with this illusion. One mentalist accidentally predicted Elvis’s death like this, and to this day, he’s stalked by conspiracy theorists.

Swallowing the guilt, I say in my most authoritative tone, “Kacie, please open the envelope and show everyone what’s inside.”

“I’m not sure I want to open this,” Kacie whispers, but her fingers are already ripping at the paper in front of her.

She reaches into the envelope gingerly, as though it has anthrax inside. Pulling out the big sheet of paper, she looks at it, and blood leaves her cheeks.

I want to kiss her yet again. Her reaction is fueling the audience’s anticipation.

Finally, the entertainer inside Kacie takes over, and she turns the paper toward the camera with a flourish.

On the paper, there’s a hand-drawn recreation of the newspaper still on the screen behind us. In the neatest script I could manage, I wrote MAJOR EARTHQUAKE HITS MEXICO; DOZENS KILLED. Using my shoddy artistic abilities, I also drew a big building on its side and a couple of matchstick people next to some splotches of ink that represent the rubble.

One of the studio’s graphics people puts my prediction letter side by side with TheNew York Times, and the visual is very powerful.

I prepared a spiel about the difficulty of predicting earthquakes, but I don’t go into it. There’s no need. The audience is in the rare state of silent shock, and I don’t want to ruin it with words. This is the coolest reaction a magician can hope for—frightened awe.

Alternatively, the audience might be sucking in a breath to start booing me off the stage.

Darian breaks the spell by beginning a slow clap, like in a teen movie.

The roar of the applause that follows is the best thing I’ve ever heard. I jackknife to my feet and take a bow.

“Bravo,” Kacie says, her voice still uneven. Into the camera, she says, “We have to take a quick commercial break and will be back in a moment.”

The commercial music turns on, and I’m glad. If I freak out now, at least it won’t be broadcast live.

The audience slows their clapping, and I notice a few people in the crowd who didn’t react at all. One is a sickly looking older gentleman in the third row, and the rest are pale men in aviator sunglasses and black suits who remind me of security guards. They’re all the way at the back of the studio.

I look at Darian. He’s stopped clapping and is staring at the unhealthy-looking senior citizen. Something about the man must upset him because Darian’s face darkens. Bringing his finger to his ear, he mouths something, and one of the men in black repeats the gesture.

Is he talking to the studio security, and if so, why?

Concealing my puzzlement, I glance at Kacie. She’s fanning herself with the envelope, clearly still recovering from my prediction.

I remain on my feet, waiting for the applause to cease. As honored as I am by the ovation, I hope it ends soon because my knees feel weak, and the odd, warm-energy sensation is back, but much stronger this time. It’s like I’m being flooded with it, and my pulse accelerates further, my breathing quickening uncontrollably.

What’s happening?

Is this the panic attack I’ve been trying to stave off?

My nails dig into my palms. If I didn’t keep them so short for dealing with cards, I’d be bleeding.

Another tsunami of oddly pleasant energy rushes into my body, making my extremities tingle.

My toes curl inside my high heels. Did I just orgasm in front of a hundred people?

The pleasure lasts only a moment, and as intensity builds, the sensation morphs into pain.

The bright studio lights turn into suns, and my vision blurs. I squeeze my eyes shut, my muscles locking up as I begin to shake uncontrollably.

Am I having a seizure? A stroke?

The intensity of the experience is now beyond pain. I’m going into shock, like the day I got my tongue pierced, only infinitely worse. It’s as though my whole body has turned into a nerve ending that someone zapped with a billion volts of electricity.

If I weren’t feeling the ground under my feet, I’d be convinced I’m levitating, with lightning striking me, Highlander style.

I bear the sensation for only a few short moments before something short-circuits in my brain and I collapse, my consciousness winking out.

Chapter Three

I’m on the couch, my awareness diamond sharp.

The commercial tune is still on, so I must not have been out for long.

The sickly older man in the audience leaps to his feet, causing everyone to stare at him and his gray skin.

“Stop him!” Darian screams, and a pale man in black starts running toward the stage.

The sickly man is painful to look at as he moves. He must have brain damage or a muscle disease because his limbs are uncoordinated as he wields them in jerky trajectories. Yet despite the apparent motor difficulties, the guy has enough energy to propel himself forward.

People shriek as he jumps onto the shoulders of the audience members in the second row.

Then his nondescript black shoes land on two women in the first row.

They scream, but the old man just uses his perches to leap onto the stage.

I’m too stupefied to move.

The black-clad security guy is moving like an Olympic sprinter, but he’s too far back and the crowd is in his way.

This would be a great time to run away screaming, but I’m still too petrified to move a muscle.

“Sir,” Kacie yells, her voice panicked. “You can’t be up here!”

The guy’s rheumy eyes glance at Kacie, but he must not find her worth his time because his gaze zeroes in on my neck.

The man in black and some of his colleagues are almost here, but it’s clear they won’t intercept the gray-skinned weirdo before he reaches me. I have no idea what he wants, but I don’t like the blank expression on his sickly face. He might be on something like meth.

One of the camera guys on stage leaps into the sicko’s path. “Sir! Excuse me, sir—stop. You can’t be here.”

The gray-skinned man flings the camera guy aside with shocking strength. I catch a glimpse of him rolling on the stage, and I go into a pure fight-or-flight response, tunnel vision and all.

I only have moments to decide what to do.

As a relatively small person, I ideally need a weapon for the fight option.

I have no conventional weapons, but a thrifty magician can always improvise. Maybe I can use the lock picks that constitute the stud in my tongue to stab him in the eye? Or create a card waterfall from the deck in my pocket as a distraction?

Settling on a more mundane option, I frantically slip off my right stiletto and jump to my feet, channeling Buffy by holding it in front of me like a stake.

I’m face to face with the guy now, and the most horrific odor assaults my nose. It smells as though I plunged head first into roadkill. The fumes are so nauseating I almost pass out.

Instead of fainting, I swing my makeshift stake at his face, aiming for his eye.

I’ve only stabbed playing cards before, and I’ve never done it with one high heel on. As a result, my weapon lands way off the mark—in the middle of the man’s chest.

To my utter shock, the heel penetrates a couple of inches into him, as though there’s a hole there already. His clothing is intact, yet I hear a rip of some kind.

Could there have been stitches in his chest? He does look sick enough to be post-heart surgery, though he’s way too spry.

Ignoring the shoe protruding from his chest, the man wraps his foul-smelling hands around my neck and starts to squeeze.

My hands fly up to claw at his strangling fingers, but he’s bizarrely strong, and I can’t inflict much damage with my short nails. So I knee him in the groin, using all my strength. Pain shoots through my knee, but I take solace in knowing no man could withstand such an attack.

I’m wrong.

The fingers around my neck don’t loosen, and through my blurring vision, I see his glassy eyes staring at me without blinking.

I claw at his face next, but with a similar lack of success. My lungs are now screaming for air, and though I’ve practiced holding my breath in order to one day perform a Houdini-like underwater escape, panic overwhelms me.

My body thrashes mindlessly, and my head feels like it’s about to explode through my ears as the world grows more distant.

With the last remnants of consciousness, I realize that this is it.

Blackness overwhelms me, and I die.

Chapter Four

I gasp, and as air fills my non-exploded lungs, I realize I’ve just had a nightmare.

And what a weird nightmare it was. My heart is still thrashing in my chest as though the strangling fingers are squeezing the life out of me.

This sucks. There’s no way I’ll be able to go back to sleep with this much adrenaline coursing through my system.

What time is it? Do I have to get up for work?

Wait a minute. Am I actually in my bedroom? Now that I’m calmer, I can feel bright light pummeling my eyelids, and I always close the extra heavy curtains at night.

Distant voices speaking nonsense are also inconsistent with the bedroom theory, as is my half-sitting position.

I open my lids by a micron, but it’s enough to show me that I’m still in the TV studio.

Crap.

Did I just black out in front of all these people?

The concerned faces around me support that hypothesis.

As I sit up straighter, memories slowly trickle in.

I was having some sort of an episode and collapsed onto the couch. After I passed out, I had a weird dream—the most vivid dream of my life.

A dream about dying.

I blink my heavily mascaraed eyes in an effort to reorient myself.

The commercial music is playing somewhere, so I couldn’t have been out of commission for long.

As I scan the crowd, a strong sense of déjà vu hits me.

The sickly guy from my dream leaps onto his feet.

His skin is a purple shade of gray, his eyes are blank, and his cheap-looking blazer and over-starched shirt look like they’re being worn for the first time. Just like in my dream, the way he moves is highly erratic.

Also like in my dream, the audience’s attention swings to the strange man.

“Stop him!” Darian screams again, and the nearest man in black starts the sprint that didn’t reach me in time.

Every detail of what’s happening is so familiar to me that I begin to doubt my sanity. Could I be dreaming now?

That would imply that the first dream was a dream inside a dream, like in the movie Inception.

The studio audience all react with the same horror as the gray-skinned guy once again jumps onto the shoulders of the audience members in the second row.

Dream or delusion, I’m not waiting for him to choke me. I take off my heels, but this time, with the intention of fleeing.