Savanah had gone to the theater every night for the last week. Sitting in the front row, she couldn’t decide if the “Magnificent” in Santoro’s title referred to his remarkable abilities as a magician, his arrestingly handsome face, or his incredible physique. Most likely all three.
She had to admit that, aside from his astonishing good looks and his hard, lean body, he was far and away the best prestidigitator she had ever seen, and she had seen many. Santoro the Magnificent didn’t do anything as ordinary as sawing a woman in half or making an elephant disappear, although Savanah was pretty sure he could manage both feats with ease. No, he stood on a bare, well-lit stage and performed the impossible. She had seen him step into an open box on the left side of the stage and, seconds later, step out of a similar box on the right side. He had caught a bullet, fired by the local chief of police, in his bare hand. He had levitated a full-grown horse into the air. He had levitated himself three feet off the floor, and while hanging suspended in midair, had invited everyone in the audience who was so inclined to come up and see for themselves that there were no invisible wires holding him up. Savanah had accepted that invitation and left the stage more convinced than ever that he was the real deal, a true magician. A recent article in a neighboring newspaper suggested that Santoro the Magnificent had sold his soul to the devil in order to obtain his remarkable powers. She couldn’t help wondering if that also accounted for his devilish good looks.
One of the highlights of the magician’s act occurred when he stood in the spotlight at the front of the stage and vanished from sight, only to reappear moments later in the rear balcony of the theater. She had seen similar gags performed before, but always there had been a trick involved—some sort of sleight of hand or a stunt double, because it was virtually impossible for a man to teleport himself from one place to another in a matter of seconds.
Savanah would have traded her brand new Jimmy Choo suede boots—boots that she had scrimped and saved for—to know Santoro’s secret. If it was a trick—and what else could it be?—it was the best one she had ever seen. She remembered standing on the very stage he was on now, close enough to touch him, when she was nine years old. Remembered watching him open an ordinary-looking door, step through the opening, and disappear. To this day, she was convinced he had dropped into a cleverly hidden trapdoor. After all, people didn’t just vanish into thin air.
Santoro’s most astonishing feat occurred when he transformed into a wolf in full view of the audience. Smoke and mirrors, some said, but Savanah was sure it was more than that. Mere illusion, others said, and she might have agreed if she hadn’t seen him perform, up close and personal, on several occasions. There were rumors that he was a Werewolf, but she had dismissed the idea, since she had seen him change on nights when the moon wasn’t full.
Savanah recalled seeing him perform on her fourteenth birthday. He had been billing himself as The Marvelous Marvello at the time. Once again, he had called her out of the audience. Was it mere chance that he had picked her, or did he remember her as she remembered him? He had bid her watch closely as two men tied his hands and feet with thick rope and then bound him with golden chains. Once again, he had disappeared before her eyes, leaving the ropes and chains behind.
The last time she had seen him, he had been calling himself the Great Zander, but she had known it was him the minute he’d walked onto the stage. Hardly daring to blink, she had watched his every move closely, hoping to catch him using sleight of hand or a device of some kind as he performed one amazing trick after another, convinced once again that he was either the greatest magician since Harry Houdini, or a wizard gifted with Supernatural powers. That had been two years ago.
Last night, Santoro had again called her out of the audience. He had taken her hand in his and kissed her palm, sending little frissons of electricity shooting up her arm. He had felt it, too, she was sure of it, though he had given no sign of it. Even-voiced, he had asked her if she was afraid of heights and then explained that he was going to levitate her. She had expected him to put her into some kind of trance or hook her up to an invisible wire while he distracted the audience; instead, he had looked into her eyes and then, to her utter astonishment, he had lifted his hand and she had risen vertically into the air. She had hung there for what seemed like an eternity, with his gaze locked on hers, before he slowly lowered his hand until her feet again touched the floor. Before she’d left the stage, his gaze had caught and held hers. In that brief moment, she had found herself wondering again if he remembered her from times past and then, to her amazement, she realized that he hadn’t changed at all. He looked exactly the way he had when she had first seen him sixteen years ago. Why hadn’t she ever noticed that before?
Now, as he finished his act, she applauded as wildly as the rest of the audience. Perhaps he really was a wizard. Perhaps he was a magician in league with the devil, but whatever he was, he was the most amazing showman she had ever seen.
In his dressing room, Rane Cordova removed the trappings of Santoro the Magnificent and slipped into a pair of well-worn jeans and a bulky black sweater. The crowd had been with him tonight, eager to suspend belief and be entertained. Another two weeks, and he’d move on to another theater in another town. It was an easy life, and one that suited him perfectly. In the winter, he did an eight o’clock show during the week, shows at six and nine on Saturday nights, and one show at eight on Sundays. In the summer, he cut the six o’clock shows. Matinees were out of the question at any time of the year.
He ran a comb through his hair, thinking, as he did so, of the woman he had called on stage that evening. He wondered if it was coincidence that she had been in the audience again, not only in this city, but in others. He had seen the recognition in her eyes when she’d stepped onto the stage, knew she remembered him from times past. The hell of it was, he remembered her, too. She had been a cute kid sixteen years ago.
She wasn’t a kid any longer, but a beautiful young woman with hair the color of moonlight. Long and thick, it fell in waves down her back and over her shoulders. Her eyes were a soft shade of blue, reminding him of the noonday sky he hadn’t seen in over ninety years. Her skin was smooth and clear, what used to be called a peaches-and-cream complexion. And her mouth…He swore under his breath. Her lips were full and pink, the kind of mouth that made a man think about cool sheets, long nights, and hot skin.
Rane frowned as he turned out the lights. There was something about her that was vaguely familiar. He shook his head. She reminded him of someone he had met long ago.