A Criminal Magic

By the time the Magical Storm finale starts, I’m tight, tense. I should have gone outside. I should have demanded a break. I feel like the lofted show space is tightening, like my magic has somehow caged and trapped me in—and it only makes matters worse that I’m working side by side with Stock for the next hour.

We’re now inches from each other on the right side of the show space, in a little alcove safe haven off the aisle. To our left, the clustered audience stands, necks craned, mouths open, taking in the tropical storm my troupe has started to conjure above them. Tommy and Rose are on the other side of the space, sending a perimeter of lightning bolts crashing down around the audience like a fence of bright white paint. But the pair is clearly coming down off their shine, because their movements are dicey, imprecise. Every time a bolt comes a little too close to the audience, the patrons gasp delightedly, like it’s all part of the show.

Only we know better.

Ral and Billy work together to bring their big-picture magic to the immersive performance: a steady curtain of rain starts to fall from the ceiling, and a sweet, springy scent wafts through the show space. Some of the audience members gleefully reach their hands above their heads, to where the rain stops falling and forms shallow puddles of water in midair. And this is our cue—the time for me to come in with two strong gusts of wind, one coming from the double doors and blowing to the back stage, and an undercurrent blowing in the opposite direction. I focus on the space, imagine a thick, textured wind, speak my words of power. And as Ral and Billy’s rain halts to a drizzle, my first strong gale begins to whistle over the patrons’ heads.

“Haven’t seen Gunn walking around tonight,” Stock says beside me. “Where is he?”

I keep my eyes above the audience, getting ready to conjure the second wind. “How should I know?”

Stock laughs. “You really need me to answer that?”

“Not now, all right?” I close my eyes to regroup. Just focus on the wind. Just focus on the magic.

“So he’s done with you, eh?” Stock whispers. “I know a scorned woman when I see one.” He laughs to himself. “You had to know that was only a matter of time.”

“For the last damn time, Stock, I am not, nor was I ever, with Gunn, so stop spreading lies about me.”

As soon as I say it, Stock’s face bursts into a smile, and I’m angry with myself for even entertaining him.

I sigh and turn away. “You’re missing your cue, dipshit.”

“You aren’t the only one with a vision, Joan. I know when the time is right.” Then he leans against the cinder-block wall of the show space and crosses his arms.

Lord, he’s a child. “Stock, I swear, do it now or—”

“Or what?” He leans toward me as a hot burst of lightning crackles feet away, and the audience gives a surprised, collective gasp. “You’ll put me in your bloody nightmare box again, seal me up nice and good?” He gives a disgusted laugh. “You think you’re above us all, don’t you? The Great Joan Kendrick. You did since you first showed up at the warehouse, looking like a drowned rat with a set of tricks you could count on one hand.”

I look at him icily. “Seriously, Stock, enough. We’re here to work. Get it together.”

“No, you get it together.” He takes a step toward me, and I take a reflexive step back. “If you’re not with Gunn like that, then you’re up to something else with him, that’s obvious. I’ve seen enough. I’ve seen you sneaking around with him like you’re his own right-hand sorcerer.”

“Mind your own business,” I breathe out.

“See, that’s the thing, it is my business.” Stock snaps a laugh. “It’s all of our business—we’re a troupe of seven, Kendrick, linked in a way we can’t separate, even if I wanted to. So what you do? It affects all of us, not just the troupe but the magic itself. And you’re poisoning us.”

I don’t answer him. But just to spite him, to show him how much he affects me, I turn away and look up at my winds, which are still blowing hard and fast through the lofted show space. I raise my hands forward, and then I start churning them myself.

“Hey,” Stock says, as he glances up, sees his signature motion trick being stolen. “HEY!” he calls again, as Grace’s thunder booms over him.

He grabs my arms, pulls them down, but I knock his hands away, and then he pushes me back. All my anger, my frustration, it all comes to a boil, and before I can help myself, think through it, I try to push him against the wall, but he grabs me first in one fluid motion and throws me on the ground.

A crowd of patrons look over, start pointing, whispering.

I stand up quickly, and my anger melts into something else, and then I can’t stop the tears that insist on raining down. I turn to leave, to get my fresh air, to escape just for a minute despite what’s going on above our heads, and I start running down the aisle to the hallway.

“No way. We’re not done, Kendrick—” I feel Stock’s fingers lightly brush my arm as he reaches for me, forcing me to deal with him, but I manage to wriggle away.

“Get off me!”

He rushes after me. “You tell Gunn, I swear—”

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