A tall man with wild salt-and-pepper hair stepped out of the car. A man Tempest knew well. And one she thought was fast asleep in a guest room back at Fiddler’s Folly. Nicodemus the Necromancer.
That was only his stage name, of course. Nicodemus was not actually someone who could command the dead. He was a Scottish actor who’d built a career performing a classic style of stage magic for the past fifty years and was now getting ready to retire after one last tour, which would begin in a few days. With his pointed goatee and mercurial gaze, he did rather resemble a devil, or at least a stylish demon. Tempest had known him since she was a child, but she couldn’t seem to remember him looking any other way.
Ivy assured Tempest she could finish the last bit of the attic on her own, so Tempest headed down the two flights of stairs to meet Nicodemus at the front door.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Tempest closed the heavy wooden door behind him.
“I could ask the same thing. I thought you slept the hours of the civilized world now.”
Tempest shrugged. “These are the hours I’ve kept my entire adult life. It’s hard to change.”
“You’re in your twenties, lass. There’s plenty of time for you to change into anything you want to.”
He wasn’t wrong. She was simply stuck. Whenever she felt like she was moving forward, something held her back from fully embracing the change. From embracing life. She knew what it was. And what she needed to do. But she didn’t know how to get there. “I didn’t mean to abandon you at the house. You said you were tired and going to bed.”
“I’m knackered, so I tried to sleep. Unfortunately, my body insists it’s morning.” He stroked his goatee. “Why are your arms covered in white paint? Are you a performance artist now?”
“Very funny.” Tempest was well aware that she was perhaps the world’s worst house painter. That didn’t bother her. Her strengths lay elsewhere. Ivy had done 90 percent of the work tonight but had managed to remain paint-free aside from a few streaks on her fingers. Tempest was only on site to help as needed. “How’d you know where to find me, anyway?”
“I knew you and your da were behind schedule renovating the Whispering House. It’s not difficult to find the address of a house that has its own name. It’s far more challenging to find a restaurant or even a pub that’s open at this hour in Hidden Creek, but I finally found one not far from here. Can I treat you and Ivy to a midnight snack? I’m desperately in need of breakfast and would love some company.”
“I can do even better than that,” said Tempest, turning toward the kitchen. “Follow me. Ivy is just wrapping up painting the attic, but our client Lenore insisted we help ourselves to the food she left in the fridge while we’re finishing the house. She’s been stealthily restocking while we’re not here. What can I fix you? Looks like we’ve got the ingredients for French toast.” She held a loaf of fresh sourdough bread in her hand that definitely hadn’t been there the previous day.
“If you’re cooking, I’ll stick to toast.” He plucked a bottle of strawberry preserves from the door of the fridge.
“I choose not to be offended by that comment.” She wasn’t insulted. She didn’t actually know how to make French toast, but how hard could it be? She’d spent the last decade honing her skills to become one of the world’s greatest illusionists at the expense of pretty much everything else. Even though things hadn’t turned out as she’d expected, she wouldn’t trade the skills she’d gained both creating and seeing through misdirection to know how to cook a midnight snack.
Tempest had moved back home after her career as a stage illusionist in Las Vegas had crashed and burned the previous summer. Tempest Raj. Twenty-six years old and living in her childhood bedroom while she was learning the ropes at her dad’s company. It was solely his now that Tempest’s mom was gone. Even though she’d lost the career she thought she wanted, she was surprised by how much she loved her new job. Creating architectural misdirection wasn’t so different from crafting stage illusions. Her bedroom even came with its own secret staircase.
Like her mom before her, Tempest had an eye for how to elevate mundane objects into magical experiences. Her dad was a good general contractor and a brilliant carpenter, but his wooden creations were best when he executed other people’s visions. Tempest was skilled at imagining what could be. Her new life creating architectural magic wasn’t the job she’d envisioned for herself, but it was quickly becoming more perfect than she ever imagined.
Tempest sliced two lopsided pieces of bread and popped them into the toaster. You’d think with how precisely she could shuffle a deck of cards that she could cut a decent slice of bread. You’d be wrong.
Nicodemus twirled what looked like a folded greeting card of thick kraft paper in his fingertips. He pulled it open, revealing an intricate pop-up of a Gothic cathedral, its paper spires so detailed that vaulted windows appeared in the pinnacles. A top hat made of black cardstock paper sat in the open space of an arched main door. This wasn’t a cathedral. It was the Whispering Creek Theater.
“My theater.” Tempest took the card and wondered how long it had taken him to cut, fold, and glue. This wasn’t one of his most ornate paper designs, even considering the delicate spires, and the edges weren’t as crisp as she remembered some of his old pop-ups, but it did the trick to make her smile. Paper people and sets had more freedom than real ones, Nicodemus had always said, and pop-up paper art creations created their own magic.
“I wish you wouldn’t think of it like that.”
“You still don’t approve of me renting it?”
“It’s an exquisite building. Since you’re taking me there tomorrow, this is what came to mind when I couldn’t sleep. Though I still don’t think it’s a good idea to rent the theater where Emma—”
“Don’t.” Tempest slammed the card shut and her smile vanished. She squeezed the card even harder in her hands, but it popped back open, this time revealing the stage inside the Gothic exterior. She blinked at the paper theater in her hands—a double pop-up, with this layer hidden beneath the last. Red paper curtains were drawn back, revealing a stage, and a row of metallic silver stage lights swayed above the main attraction: two paper people center stage.
A sleight and a misdirect. Just like a magic trick. It was his specialty, and he’d expressed his disapproval just enough to get her to activate the magical theater he wanted her to see.
She looked more closely at the deceptive pop-up card. One of the paper people on the stage had long wavy hair that flowed almost to her waist, and she was posed with her muscular arms outstretched, as if about to begin spinning like her stage persona, The Tempest. What she hadn’t noticed right away was that the flat paper shadows of the two people weren’t mirror images. In Tempest’s shadow, her hair billowed wildly as if caught in a fierce storm, and in the man’s shadow, a top hat on the stage’s trapdoor rested squarely on the shadow’s head. Their shadow selves.
“Are you going to do more with your paper art in your retirement?” Tempest asked.
He snorted. “The whole point of retirement is to relax. These paper creations help me imagine the possibilities of what I can create on stage. But being on the stage is what’s relaxing.”
Tempest loved what the stage could do and the joy it could bring so many people, but she’d never call it relaxing. It was both exhilarating and exhausting. Never easy. “Then why are you even retiring? Why—”
He snatched the card from her fingertips just as the bread popped up from the toaster, only slightly burnt, and Ivy stepped into the kitchen.
“Good to see you, Nicodemus,” Ivy said hastily, “but pleasantries will have to wait. I’m off. Tempest, the attic is done and the can of paint is sealed, but I didn’t move the tarp. It can stay where it is. I’ll get it in the morning when I paint the last room. Bye!”
Ivy barely took a breath during her speedy monologue, and she was out the door before either Tempest or Nicodemus could react.
“I don’t remember your friend being so jittery,” said Nicodemus as Tempest’s phone began ringing.
Strange. Who would be calling her at midnight? Twelve o’clock wasn’t remotely late for the performer’s schedule she was used to, but it wasn’t a time she usually received unannounced calls. She didn’t recognize the number, so she should have let the midnight caller go to voice mail. But curiosity got the better of her, as it often did.
“Where are you?” demanded the angry male voice.
She would have hung up on instinct because of the vitriol in the voice, but she recognized it.
“Julian?” She was so surprised that she forgot to call him Mr. Rhodes. She’d been attempting to be deferential to placate the man who could easily ruin her life, but clearly, she was failing. It wasn’t in her nature to bow down to bullies.
“Who else would it be?” he snapped.
Julian Rhodes. The man who could easily destroy Secret Staircase Construction. It was more than a nuisance lawsuit brought by an unhappy customer. The false accusation was big enough that if Julian won, the family business would be ruined.
They couldn’t catch a break. After the murder at the housewarming party at a previous jobsite, they’d barely had time to regroup after Tempest caught the killer. They’d been excited about two new jobs at local historic homes—until Julian Rhodes attempted to kill his wife. After purposely breaking one of the top steps of the circular stairs, he was trying to blame his misdeed on the supposedly shoddy workmanship of the Secret Staircase crew. It wasn’t true, but Julian Rhodes was the type of man who got away with his lies.
“It’s two minutes past midnight.” Julian spat out the words. “You said you wouldn’t leave me waiting. Well, you did.”
“I’m not supposed to be talking to—”
“Obviously. I don’t like using our cell phones either. Oh.” His voice shifted. It wasn’t exactly friendly, but it was at least civil. “The door. Are you already inside the theater?”
“The theater?”
“I didn’t see your car, so I assumed you weren’t here. That was smart not to leave your car visible.”
“I’m not—”
“Fine. I’ll wait inside for you to get here.”
“Julian. Listen to me.” Tempest meant to sound calm yet forceful, but the words came out more frantic than she’d intended. Something odd was going on, and she didn’t like it one bit. “Don’t you dare go inside my theater. I don’t know what you think—”
The line went dead. She stared at the phone.
“What was that about?” Nicodemus asked.
“I don’t know.” Tempest was already reaching for the sweater she’d left on a stool next to the kitchen island. She pulled it over her white T-shirt, not worrying about her paint-stained arms, and extricated her hair. “But I have a feeling it’s something very bad.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the theater.”
“Tempest. It’s midnight.”
“I know.” Tempest swallowed hard. Nothing good happened at the Whispering Creek Theater at midnight.
“That’s where…” He let his words trail off.
Tempest raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re superstitious, like Ivy.”
He smiled. It was not a sweet smile. Her septuagenarian mentor was incapable of being “sweet.” Macabre. Mysterious. Mischievous. Yes to all three. That’s why he was far better as Nicodemus the Necromancer than playing bit parts for the BBC, which was how he got his start. He’d perfected his ghoulish stage smile performing with his first magician’s assistant, the Cat of Nine Lives, who he raised from the dead each night. But right now, there was genuine concern in that smile, and Tempest couldn’t stand it. She didn’t need to be pitied for the past he was alluding to, or protected in the present.
Sensing that the piteous smile was too much, Nicodemus cleared his throat and moved on. “You said the name Julian. Please don’t tell me that was Julian Rhodes. The man is a murderer. Or at least an attempted one.”
“One who’s messing with my theater.” Tempest grabbed her car key. “Are you coming?”
“I really don’t think you should—”
“I’m going with or without you. If he’s broken into the theater and messed with my notebooks or props, we can use that against him and his lawsuit.”
Tempest didn’t consider herself superstitious. But as she felt the key press into her palm and glanced at her bracelet filled with silver charms related to stage magic and folklore, one thought ran through her mind. The last time the Whispering Creek Theater had held a midnight show, someone Tempest loved dearly had vanished, never to be seen again.