Magician's Muse (12 page)

“They left and I had the meeting.”

“In the back room?” I guessed, remembering when I’d gone there for a séance.

“Yes.” Velvet nodded. “Friends from my coven. So I don’t know any more about Jade. But I’m worried about her going off with that disturbing young man.”

“I’m worried, too,” I said, nodding. “Jade hasn’t been seen or heard from since Sunday evening.”

“That’s when they were here.” Velvet bit her lip. “Have the police been called?”

“I don’t think so—not yet, anyway. With Jade, you can’t be sure what’s going on.” I hesitated, not sure how much to reveal about my dysfunctional family. “Her mother takes off for weeks at a time with no contact. Jade may be doing something like that.”

“That girl has jumped head first into trouble. I can feel it.”

I could feel it too.

“Well, I better go,” I told Velvet. As I thanked her, I felt comforted by her aura of lavender, pink, and mystical greens—the colors of someone who’s lived many times.

Then a memory hit me.

Old soul
, Opal had said. Could she have meant Velvet?

“One more thing,” I said quickly, opening my tote bag.

“What?” Velvet asked.

“Don’t laugh, okay,” I said, embarrassed. “But my spirit guide insisted I bring this along. I think she meant for me to show it to you. It’s just a cheap toy.”

I drew out the plastic, fake-jewel wand.

And Velvet didn’t laugh.

She gasped.

“Heavens to the Goddess!” she cried, reeling back as her eyes grew wide. “It’s Zathora’s Muse!”

“Not the actual Muse,” Velvet clarified as she reached out to touch the plastic wand, almost reverently. “But a duplicate that gives me chills considering its history. There’s even the initial Z on the handle.”

I followed her gaze to a tiny scratch of a “Z” I hadn’t noticed before. “Who’s Zathora?” I asked.

“A brilliant, eccentric, doomed soul.” Velvet ran her fingers across the faux-jewels. “She died a century ago. In stage magician circles, her story is legend.”

“Why?”

“Because she nearly achieved two amazing feats: bringing the dead back to life and breaking into the very male-dominated world of magicians.” Velvet gave a wry chuckle. “Some say that the latter would have been the more amazing achievement. Being female and a magician was a rarity back then; come to think of it, even now it’s uncommon. Can you name even one famous woman magician?”

I tried to think of one, but the only magicians I’d heard of were famous guys like Houdini, Copperfield, Blaine, and Angel.

Velvet’s gaze was distant as she studied the wand. “It’s strange that you would have a replica of the Muse. How did you get it?”

“It belongs to my friend Josh. He’s apprenticed to the Amazing Arturo, so it’s not unusual for him to have magic props. Why did you call this wand a muse?”

“Zathora claimed that her wand whispered the secrets of the universe to her, just like a muse inspires an artist to achieve greatness,” Velvet explained. “At each performance, she would introduce her wand the way most magicians introduce their assistants.”

“What happened to the real wand?”

“Buried with Zathora.” Velvet pursed her lips thoughtfully. “From what I remember, the photos of the Muse showed amazing details, down to the circle of emeralds and sapphires near the tip—exactly like this one.”

“These green and blue beads are plastic.”

“Yes, they’re not real, obviously, but this copy is extraordinary. Did Josh tell you anything about how he came to have it?”

“He doesn’t know I have it. He left kind of abruptly and I took this to Thorn, hoping she could find him.”

“And did she?”

“Well, she pointed to a large forested area on the map. But since then I’ve found out he’s contacted his family and said he was okay.”

“Yet you’re still worried,” Velvet guessed. “I’m sensing a connection between this wand and your young man.”

“My
ex-
young man,” I corrected. “And you’re right, I am worried. It’s silly, though, because he told his family he’s safe. I just have this … I don’t know … an uneasy feeling.”

“Feelings can be messages from the other side.” Velvet glanced down at the wand in her hand, frowning, then returning it to me. “You’ll want to read up on Zathora.”

Velvet led me into the back room, where candles flickered from wall sconces and heavy curtains blocked the bright daylight. She flicked on a light switch near a long bookshelf and ran her finger down titles. “Hmm,
The Experience of Magic
by Eugene Burger has fascinating information. It says that archeological evidence suggests the origin of the magic wand came from the lunar calendar stick, dating back 50,000 years.”

“Wow, that’s a long time ago.”

She nodded, and I reached out my hand for the book, but she seemed to change her mind and instead gave me a different book. It was slimmer, with a silver and purple spine and a beautiful cover showing a woman with flowing silver hair. She was draped in a golden gown and surrounded by mystical stars, moons, and other symbols.

I read the title out loud: “
She-Magic
.”

“This one should have what you seek. It discusses the cosmic role of women who shaped the evolution of magic. There’s a fascinating chapter on Zathora.”

Confused but intrigued, I thanked Velvet and left with the book.

I planned to read it at home, but as soon as I got there my gaze fell on the barn, and a memory of Dominic’s blue eyes overwhelmed me. A lump stuck in my throat. I stared, expecting to see a falcon soaring down from the high loft window or hear Dominic’s voice calling my name. But I only heard chickens squawking and the soft roar of a wintry wind. Dark clouds were rolling in, darkening the sky.

I felt something brush my leg and looked down at Lilybelle, who was rubbing against my ankles. She meowed, and for a second my hopes rose.

“Is he back?” I whispered, bending down to pet her soft fur. “Did Dominic send you to get me?”

She meowed again, then ran up the porch steps and leaped for her favorite sitting spot on the rail. She curled up comfortably, and I took that as my answer.

And I died a little.

Moving slowly, my limbs heavy, I went inside and asked Nona if she’d heard anything. She knew what I meant without my saying it and simply shook her head.

I checked my phone (sitting by my computer instead of in my purse where it belonged) and found one missed call—from Manny. I didn’t return his call. Instead, I covered myself in a warm quilt and curled up on the window seat in my room to read about She-Magic.

Skimming through, I learned that the role of women in the world of professional stage magicians was largely limited to being graceful, beautiful assistants. They bring props on and off stage, are the “victims” in tricks using torture devices, and often do most of the magic work while the male magician gets the applause.

There were also chapters about the few women magicians who did rise to fame and achievement. I read about Melinda Saxe, who was billed as “The First Lady of Magic” when she performed in Las Vegas; Dell O’Dell, who was considered one of the most successful female magicians of the twentieth century and had a TV show in the 1950s; and Clementine (AKA “Ionia the Enchantress”), who vanished from the stage when she became a princess.

Then I came to the chapter on Zathora.

She was born Jane Elizabeth Meade in 1894 and married a magician who mostly performed at local festivals. She worked as his assistant until a wire broke during a levitation trick and he fell to his death mid-performance. Jane renamed herself Zathora and struggled to work as a magician. The men who dominated the world of illusion excluded women from their secret magician societies. Women were rarely considered real magicians—until Zathora proclaimed she could bring the dead to life. When she revived small animals, usually birds or mice, on stage with no props other than her wand, audiences were bewitched.
Zathora the Miracle Maker,
they called her. She gained fame but still not the respect of male magicians, who called her
The Miracle Faker.

So Zathora planned for the most amazing performance ever: she announced that she would kill herself on stage, then bring herself back to life.

When I turned to the next page, eager to find out what happened, there was a colored photo of Zathora with her Muse. A shudder rippled through me. I’d dreamed about this woman. Her copper hair rained down her slim shoulders and her smoldering eyes seemed to burn through the paper.

Reading on, I came to the last paragraph, which described how hundreds of people watched as Zathora literally died on stage. She swallowed a deadly poison and collapsed immediately. A doctor, waiting nearby, pronounced her dead. Then the hushed audience watched her still body, waiting for her to come back to life … only she never did.

Rather than being the most famous woman magician in the world, she became a footnote of failures.

“So sad,” I whispered as I closed the book. Still, it didn’t explain why Josh had her faux-wand and why I’d dreamed about a woman who’d died nearly a century ago.

I picked up the Muse, turning it in my hand and watching the jewels blur their brilliant colors. I tried to tune in to the energy and envision the past or future. But unlike Thorn, who could follow a trail from a touch, I got nothing.

Setting both the book and the wand aside, I glanced at the clock. I felt like I’d lived a few lifetimes in the last couple of hours, yet it was barely noon. Usually the first day of winter vacation was cause for a celebration, like going to the mall with friends or taking my little sisters to a movie. But I had no plans. My sisters were in San Jose, Penny-Love was off with Thorn, and Dominic …

I sighed and left my room.

I wasn’t really hungry, but eating was something to do. I poured kiwi-apple juice and sliced up left-over roast beef for a sandwich. I made one for Nona, too, since she was busy at her computer and sometimes forgot to eat if not reminded. As I set down her plate, my fingers brushed a folder titled
Heart Lights
and I wondered if she was serious about merging her business with Roger Aimsley’s. My intuition triggered an image of a credit card bursting in flames. That couldn’t be good.

But my intuition wasn’t proof of anything, so I said nothing about my suspicions and went back upstairs to run a search on Mr. Heart Lights on my computer. I found a website with glowing reviews for his business. I tried a few different search engines but only came up with all kinds of positive comments. Everyone loved him, perhaps including Nona. So I had to trust her judgment.

I switched windows to catch up on my email. There were some jokes from my cheerleader pal Kaitlyn, a petition for a greener community from the other Catelyn, the usual spam, which I reported and deleted, and one message from my sister Ashley and nine from her twin, Amy.

Nothing from my third sister.

I heard the phone ring.

I didn’t always get a name when I heard the phone, usually just a sense of age, gender, and the connection to me. So I knew it was a guy, someone from school. The energy felt warm, with pastel shades of trust and friendship seasoned with snappy purple attitude.

“Hey, Manny,” I said as I picked up.

“Why didn’t you call back? I’ve been waiting hours! Didn’t you get my voicemail?” he demanded in an exaggerated, hurt tone. Manny could be such a drama king.

“Sorry, I forgot. Things have been all kinds of weird for me.”

“Well, you are a weirdness magnet.”

“I could do with less weirdness in my life.” And more Dominic, I thought wistfully.

“Uh oh. What’s wrong? You used the
tone.”

“It’s nothing … much.”

“Which means it’s something …
lots
. Mystic Manny sees all and knows even more. He senses you are in great distress and invites you to dump your worries on his strong, muscular shoulders.”

“How do you manage to make everything about you?”

“It’s a god-given gift. I am humbled by my own magnificence.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, which felt strangely good. Maybe I just needed to let all my emotions out in a primal way, and laughing was better than screaming.

“So dump your crap on me,” Manny said.

Debating how much to share, I held up my fingers on one hand and mentally counted my stress-issues:

1. Dominic probably headed to jail for murder, if he couldn’t prove he’d acted in self-defense.

2. My half-sister missing after meeting a vandal.

3. My best friends conspiring to solve Jacques’ murder.

Manny didn’t know about #3, so I had to be careful not to let it slip. Also, I wasn’t ready to talk about Dominic with anyone—it was too raw and painful. So I told him about Jade.

“Jade’s missing?” Manny asked, surprised.

“Yeah—after she met with Grey.”

“The same guy who Josh left with,” Manny said, and I heard a jingle of beads so I knew he was shaking his beaded dreadlocks. “Is Jade interested in magicians, too?”

“Depends on how you mean that. Jade was interested in Grey, which is why she met with him. And get this—they met at Trick or Treats. The scene of his first crime.”

“And now Jade is missing just like Josh.” Manny sounded perplexed.

“Josh may not be missing,” I told him. “He called home and said he’d be back by Christmas.”

“How touching. But I bet he didn’t tell his family where he was.” Manny’s tone hinted that he knew a secret.

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Well I do.” I could imagine the cocky grin on his face. “I did some checking on the Amazing Arturo, and let me tell you, he’s one evasive dude. His website is all flash and no substance—like a magic trick where you think you see him but it’s all an illusion. Arturo isn’t even his name. The dude’s birth name was Zacharius Arthur Pizowitz. And get this—he has a criminal record for theft and forging checks.”