Madam Arden's House of Illusions and Magic

Chapter 1

Artemis Mallory Ferrier

I didn’t intend to buy anything or to become involved in any way, shape, or form. But the sales associate was excellent; against my will, his patter reeled me in, like a dog on a leash desperately trying to avoid a bath—maybe more like a fish on a line. Worse, I enjoyed it and paid for my items with my own money.

I’m excellent with the patter myself and I can appreciate an artist who has mastered the skill. Back in the day, back when I was just thirteen, I used to work in a mall kiosk and I sold truckloads of cheap trinkets, all based on my ability to engage the customer.

That mall was in the crappy end of town, not as upscale as the mall Keith usually takes me to these days. Selling toys that look cool and fun, but fall apart about a day after you leave the mall, means angry, tough parents might come looking for you. Smooth talking your way out of a beating is the true test of your patter. I mastered it out of necessity. Those lessons in life continue to serve me well as I approach my eighteenth birthday.

At first, I was skeptical when Keith proposed going to a magic shop he’d found online. But since his fervor burned with an intensity I’d not seen before, I kept my lack of enthusiasm internal. Outwardly, I was avidly interested, clapping my hands and bouncing up and down, making my no-bra status obvious. Keith lost his train of thought mid-sentence. What is it with guys and nipples, anyway?

After all, it was only fair to reciprocate for all the times he’s tagged along with me while I shopped. I suppose that’s not particularly accurate; Keith’s an avid shopper, and it takes no effort at all to persuade him to come to the mall with me. Truth be told, he always spends more than I do. But then, he’s a trust fund baby and generous with his money. That’s one of the main reasons I latched onto him quick when I started in my new school. The other is that he’s an athlete and one of the cool kids. With him as a boyfriend, the other kids wouldn’t dare mess with me.

There is an ugly, materialistic part of me that likes him specifically because he’s rich and spends so much on me. I have a surefire tactic to trigger his gift mode. Just picking something up, looking at it longingly, maybe sighing, then putting it back sets it in motion. He returns to the store without me to buy whatever it was and has it gift-wrapped.

Then, the next time we fight, which is often, he produces this beautifully wrapped gift along with flowers and an apology. I gush over it, forgive him, and say, “How did you know?” then we rush off to the nearest bedroom for mad, passionate makeup sex. Well, not always a bedroom… Screaming and moaning, I claw his back, leaving visible scratch marks to give him bragging rights in the gym class shower. He loves that; it makes him feel like a stud and makes all the other guys jealous. They characterize me as slutty or easy, but I’m neither. What I am is strategic. It took Keith quite a while to get me into bed, but once we crossed that bridge, I was, and am, an enthusiastic partner. And Keith’s the only one I’ve slept with since we moved here.

My best friend Melanie knows how inauthentic I am at these times. It drives her just a little bit nuts. I’m mercenary, almost predatory, but I treat it as more of a transactional event because we both get something we want. Mel always jokes that if I became a whore, I’d own the entire country before long. The thing is, she’s only half joking, and I think she might be right, so I don’t mind. There is another part of me that hasn’t ruled high-end prostitution out as a potential career path. I like sex; I do it well, and I’m a great saleswoman. It’s an easy gig if you can stomach it. I can, and I have no moral scruples about it.

I don’t have scruples about much—I grew up with socio-path con artist parents who hid nothing about who they were from me. Whatever skimpy moral foundation I have comes from the three years I lived with Gramma while Mom was in prison and Daddy was on the run.

Or, if not a prostitute, maybe I’d be a porn queen. But those are tricky businesses, and I’d need to be at the top of the pay scale. If I chose one of those lifestyles, I’d need to be very well paid indeed. I probably won’t go that way; a lot of interaction with disgusting human beings is required. There're easier ways to make money.

* * *

Those choices are not so likely now Daddy has, as he puts it, come into money. I don’t know where Daddy’s cash appeared from this time, but I’m 99% certain that wherever it came from, it wasn’t legal. I’m squirreling away as much as possible, just in case our newfound family wealth evaporates. Experience suggests money vanishes as fast as it shows up. Daddy may end up dead or broke if his scam blows up, so I’m building my own parachute as a contingency. Without his knowledge, of course, although it’s likely he's guessed and I’m certain he’d approve. He taught me, after all.

Honestly, there’s another red flag that makes my internal alarms go off. We’ve got beaucoup moolah and Mom’s in the wind. For her to run from such a big score, she must believe the money was dragging serious trouble on its tail. On the other hand, she’s paranoid, especially so after her jail time, and her flight response could be an overreaction. Still, I’m keeping my eyes and options as open as possible, just in case. Daddy’d be the primary target of any retribution, but I might wind up as collateral damage or get caught in the spillover of something nasty if I’m not careful.

I’ve participated in plenty of scams with my parents, especially when I was younger. The presence of a baby or an adorable little girl screams, “This is not a con!” and I’d cry on demand, which often sealed the deal. The cute little girl shtick doesn’t work anymore, but I did fill out well. I’ve got a model’s face and an eye for fashion. Being Keith’s arm candy slash boy toy pays pretty well. Keith isn’t the only one giving me gifts. Daddy’s been crazy generous since he made his big score, whatever it was. And he’s out of the game at the moment, just living his best life, as he defines it, which mainly includes lots of women and alcohol.

It’s funny. Meli is pretty skeptical about my feelings for Keith; she won’t say it, but she thinks I’m a gold digger. There’s some truth to that, as I’ve said, but I also have real, genuine feelings for Keith. Accepting Keith’s gifts is easy and practical; he’s a genuinely good guy, and I adore him. If he asks me to marry him, I’ll probably say “Yes.” That’ll be good for me, not so much for him. But I’ll say it because doing so will be to my advantage. I’ll make some conditions about college, tell him I don’t want children right away, and when the time comes for me to leave him—and it will—I’ll do so without a single glance backward. And before you judge, know that I love him in my own twisted way.

* * *

The shop, when we found it, was a hole in the wall, tucked away in a tumble of shops that looked like they’d been built by a series of drunk contractors, each one taking on another little shop with absolutely no sense of order. The entire shopping mall, if it could be called that, was a rabbit warren, a strip mall gone crazy, with twists and turns, stairs, bridges, and ramps leading all over the place, and the entire thing looking as though it might collapse in a strong breeze.

I loved it! Something interesting and unique to find around every corner. I’d be back, I knew, to explore this fantastic place at my leisure. Today, however, we were on a mission, and Keith’s focus was more laser-like than I’d seen before.

This place put the Winchester Mystery House to shame. That’s the house in California where the gun heiress believed she’d live as long as work was being done on the house; it’s full of crazy things, like stairs going nowhere or doors opening on nothing—and she died when her carpenters were pretending to work, just hammering away on a board while drinking beer.

The mall itself was in a part of town I might have lived in before Daddy’s “big break.” I thought Keith was pretty funking brave to park his expensive car there and leave it without a thought. He was so eager to get to this magic store that he dragged me by the hand as he rushed around, looking for the right store. There was no directory, so we got lost repeatedly. Keith never shut up as we flitted around the place, and I learned one of his deepest secrets. Keith wanted to be a stage magician when he grew up. Not only that, he’d taken tons of magic classes and had all kinds of props and tricks he’d never shown me. But once I’d shown interest, he shared his secret un-coolness without hesitation.

He impressed me with a couple of magic tricks. I followed his sleight-of-hand moves only because I knew what to look for. I told him how amazed I was and that I thought he could make it as a magician if he kept at it. Of course, I did so while looking up at him adoringly. I thought he might ask me to marry him right then and there.

The store itself, when we finally found it, didn’t appear to be very large, but it was stuffed to the gills with stuff. Shelves reached up to the ridiculously tall ceiling, each one packed with goodies for sale, little tags tied on with strings, hanging down and bearing a handwritten number in a cramped script.

Chapter 2

House of Illusions

Fortunately, as Keith was mansplaining obvious things to me, Ed-The-Salesman interrupted. Keith’s attention wandered away from me as the Ed-The-Salesman demonstrated a bigger, more elaborate set-up for an illusion. When Keith asked him if he had anything bigger, Ed called his manager. They had a fish on the line, and they wanted to make the biggest sale possible. “I can see you are a very serious artist. Come into the back with me and you can see some of our custom illusions. We can also build illusions you design yourself.”

I didn’t want Ed-the-Salesman to go into the back with them. They’d double-team him and sell him all kinds of outrageous things. That might happen anyway, but the manager didn’t seem quite as oily, so I asked Ed-the-Salesman to show me some card tricks while Keith and the manager disappeared behind a black velvet curtain. It might be fun to learn a few tricks for parties and things, plus it could only improve my own sleight-of-hand skills, which were passable but not great.

Ed was a surprisingly effective teacher and in a few minutes, I’d mastered several basic card tricks. I realized something else. While the Ed’s hands were quick, deft, and sure, executing his tricks with efficiency and confidence, mine were better. I’ve been told I have beautiful hands since I was a small fry, first by my beginning piano teacher, and then by an increasing host of friends and neighbors who told me I had the elegant hands of a pianist.

It’s true that I enjoy playing the piano, but I’ve never seen it as an avocation and I don’t have the belly fire necessary to be great—if my life experience has taught me anything, it’s that keeping a low profile is desirable and fame is dangerous. But this, doing these card tricks, that sparked a flame. I recognized my rising interest immediately and this may sound vain, but watching my own hands move through the steps of the card tricks was mesmerizing. I could be stellar at this—I just knew it! When I mentioned my growing interest, Ed gave me a flyer listing several classes he and his colleagues were teaching soon.

The ugly part of me chuckled to itself. Keith would be ecstatic that I was embracing his passion. He’d be fantasizing about us as a duo before we left the store. In his visions, he—of course—would be the headliner. My role would be the talented, but minor, partner and assistant. He would be designing posters in his head before morning, something like The Magnificent Keith and The Mysterious Mallory.

About that, my birth certificate reads Artemis Mallory Ferrier. Keith thinks Mallory is cooler than Artemis. But most of the time, I go by Artie or Art, but to him, I’m Mallory. Always. I don’t mind.

There was a crash in the back and the manager called out for Ed. “Wait here,” he told me as he rushed off to see what the problem was. I wandered around, looking over the merchandise crammed into the tiny space of the store. It took me only seconds to identify which shelves held the cheap stuff, the gimmicky stuff that got sold to customers mesmerized by the spell of the pitch. The better stuff was all out of reach behind the sales counter; that’s where I’d gotten the things I’d paid for. The markup on this stuff was insane. Even though this was the cheap stuff, I discretely looked for cameras while planning what I could steal.

* * *

Before I could execute my plan, I heard a cough. Startled, I spun around. An old man with an employee’s badge was standing behind the counter. I laughed and clapped. This was the best trick of the day! I had no idea how he’d gotten in here without me being aware of him. The curtained doorway to the back and the shop entrance had been in my peripheral vision the whole time. I may have been pretending casual disinterest in the items I'd picked up and set down again, but my alertness had never faltered.

I smiled brazenly at the old gent. We both knew I’d been planning to steal a few things, and we both appreciated the skill demonstrated by the other. “Ed was showing me a few tricks,” I said. “He was about to show me more sleight-of-hand and close-up magic—my weakest skills. Can you show me anything while we wait for him to return?”

He beckoned me, gesturing for me to come back. Arthritis, or some other horrible disease, had twisted his gnarled hands into knots. I stared; rude, but I couldn’t help myself. I’d never seen hands so disabled. He pretended not to notice and plucked the flyer Ed had given me from my hand. It surprised me he could manage it at all.

He laid the slightly wrinkled document on the counter in front of him and smoothed it out using the heel of his hand. Then, with me less than a foot away, he traced across the page in the blank space at the bottom. Right before my eyes, highlighted text appeared. My brain was jumping! How had he managed such a cool trick, especially since it didn’t look like he could straighten a single finger? His hand came up gently under my chin and closed my open mouth. The move was so smooth I was stunned a second time. He grinned, looking for all the world like a mischievous imp, and I let out a laugh—an honest one.

Without saying a word, he tapped the page, drawing my attention down to it. A second highlighted line had appeared. I picked up the paper and read the newly added text. The first line shouted LEARN TO DO REAL MAGIC, followed by a date, a time, and a place. The second line, in more subdued tones, instructed readers to “Attend services at the Church of Seven Bells.” Neither would take place at the Magic Shop, which would host all other courses, the ones that might interest Keith.

“Who’ll be teaching these classes?” I asked. The old gent tapped the Church of Seven Bells line, made a flourish with his hand, and offered me a slight bow. Tapping the other line, he shrugged as if to imply he didn’t know. He still had his devilish grin and the mischievous twinkle in his eyes, so I laughed. “I’m in.”

He proceeded to show me some close-up magic, and he was good! His ruined hands held me spellbound, accomplishing feats that shouldn’t be possible. I had no idea how much time had passed when I looked up at him. I’m sure there was a stupid grin on my face, and he smiled back, eyes twinkling, and tapped the brochure emphatically. “Oh, I’ll be there!” I can’t think of a single time when I’ve meant something so sincerely.

* * *

A muffled noise emanated from the back of the shop, and voices in animated conversation approached us. I glanced at the black curtain and realized, from the echoing quality of the muted voices, that the back of the shop must be huge, which seemed unlikely. My head turned back towards the old man, but I was alone. He’d vanished as quietly and mysteriously as he’d appeared.

Keith popped through the curtain just then, obviously excited, with Ed-The-Salesman and the manager right behind. “O-M-G, Mallory! They have got the best stuff back there! I’m ordering two of their pre-built illusions and I’m hiring them to work with me on an original idea I’ve had for a signature illusion. It’s going to be great! Maybe we can team up for the spring talent show! We could call ourselves…” he paused, pretending to be in deep thought, “The Magnificent Keith and the Magical Mallory!”

“Oh, I love that idea! How about The Magnificent Keith, because you are, and the Mysterious Mallory? Because I am.” I batted my eyelashes coyly—I’d been thinking about names, too. Keith’s eyes gleamed, perhaps because of impending tears of joy. He hugged me.

Ed-The-Salesman cut into our brief fantasy. “Did you find anything else of interest while you were waiting?” His eyes flicked across the shelves behind me as if he expected to notice something missing. He patted Keith’s shoulder affectionately; an obvious sales tactic. “I hated to leave you alone out here for so long, but Mister Emmery here kept us spellbound with his ideas. It’s truly exciting to have a serious illusionist in our shop, and we are looking forward to working with such a young, raw talent.”

“Oh, no, the older gentleman kept me entertained. He’s amazing—to do such brilliant close-up magic with those hands! You should see him, Keith! He’s unbelievable! And he gave me this flyer for magic classes. Interested?”

Both Ed-The-Salesman and the manager paled.

“It’s just the two of us,” Ed said in a strangled and panicky voice. “No one else works here. No one else is here. You must have imagined it. Come on, young man, let’s get you rung up and slated on the calendar for our first workshop. Magic show coming up! How long do we have to prepare everything? Until spring, yes?” Sweat gushed from his forehead, his words gushing out to cover the fact that he knew who the old man was. Anything to steer the conversation away from that topic, it seemed to me.

When Keith took the flyer and read through the offerings, it became obvious he couldn’t see the two highlighted lines. He chose a class held at the shop, handed back the flyer, and signed up on the spot.

“I’m going to try one of the beginner classes,” I told him as I folded up the flyer and slid it into my purse. “It’s not held here, though.”

Ed-The-Salesman protested. “We hold all classes here…”, but the manager paled even more and stopped him. That made me very curious.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood upright, telling me volumes about his fear. The hairs on his arms rose in a garden of gooseflesh; they agreed with the ones on his neck.

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