Running from Nicodemus was an instinct, but what she really wanted to do was confront him.
She hadn’t known where she was running to when she started, but after her brain caught up with her legs, she turned toward the main house she shared with her dad. Crashing through the front door, she sped past the faux fireplace and into the kitchen they barely used. The soles of her sneakers squealed as she came to an abrupt stop in front of the cherrywood grandfather clock that led to the secret garden. The eight-foot clock was nestled into a nook the perfect size for the antique clock that would have been at home in a Victorian mansion, except for the wooden griffin that clung to its side.
Tempest pushed on the lion body of the griffin more forcefully than usual, but the eagle head and wings took their time climbing up the side of the clock. As soon as the climbing creature unlocked the pendulum door, Tempest yanked hard on the pendulum. Although the clock above was real, it didn’t need this faux pendulum to function. It was merely decorative, to disguise the door behind it. Tempest’s arm brushed against the side of the smooth wood as she stepped through the narrow door to the secret garden, leaving the door of the grandfather clock open behind her.
The spot was secluded, but it also gave her escape routes. She desperately hoped she didn’t need them, but she was taking no chances. If she was right, her whole life had just turned upside down.
Her inelegant entrance scared away two hummingbirds, reminding her of the benefits of entering a difficult situation with a calm disposition. She spun on her heel to face the open doorway, then took a moment to steady her breathing. She didn’t close her eyes, but she took deep breaths of the fragrant air from the blooming snapdragons and red hummingbird sage.
One of her grandmother’s easels was set up in a corner of the small enclosed garden. A large canvas rested on the wooden frame, and a thick background of acrylic paint was built up on the canvas—an abstract assortment of greens and blues that could have been sky or sea.
Eleven seconds after she’d entered the secret garden, Nicodemus stepped through the grandfather clock. He was breathing hard, and he rested his good hand against the frame of the secret door.
Tempest took four steps to cross the small garden to face him without the sun in her eyes. “You planted the theater’s booby trap.”
“Tempest, there’s more going on than you understand.”
“Then why don’t you tell me?”
“I’m trying to protect you. I’ve always been trying to protect you.”
“Don’t patronize me,” Tempest snapped. “You at least owe me that much.”
Nicodemus remained silent as he sat on the wooden bench with wrought iron legs.
“Fine,” said Tempest. “Then I’ll tell you what I know. The great Nicodemus the Necromancer, who commanded stages across the world and was used to rousing applause and standing ovations, found his health fading more quickly than he would have liked. He wanted to go out with a bang, not a whimper. At first, he thought of a farewell tour. He spent the better part of a year arranging it, with dozens of locations around the world, where he’d take a last bow in front of his adoring fans and retire as a beloved semi-famous figure. The Elder Statesman of Scottish Magic would be enshrined in the history of magic.”
He gave her a barely perceptible nod.
“But in the course of the year,” Tempest continued, “his health deteriorated more than he admitted to anyone. The thought of a three-month tour went from exciting to frightening. What if he couldn’t pull off his previous level of illusion?
“But among his many talents as an illusionist, this magician had always loved mechanical automata. He didn’t only collect them, he built them. What we thought of as a ‘booby trap’ at the theater could also be thought of as a mechanical apparatus—otherwise known as the mechanics behind an automaton.
“The magician never set out to kill Julian Rhodes, but he wanted to go out with a bang instead of a whimper. So instead of embarrassing himself in his farewell tour, what if he was injured saving his protégée, The Tempest? The pair were planning on visiting the Whispering Creek Theater together. A theater that was long suspected of being haunted and that was tied to the infamous Raj family curse. A theater that Emma Raj’s daughter had rented out and was using. If the nearly retired magician could convince the world that a malicious prankster was trying to harm Tempest Raj, but that he, Nicodemus the Necromancer, could jump into action to save her, sacrificing himself for his beloved mentee … that would be even better.
“He would have known exactly how the mechanism was triggered. His protégée would never be in any danger. He could trigger the blade to spring from the door, injure his hand, and force the cancellation of the farewell tour he knew he could never successfully perform.”
She should have seen it sooner. Since arriving, Nicodemus hadn’t been practicing his routine. Instead, he had been visiting friends in the area, keeping his unsteady hands busy making paper pop-ups, and reminiscing with her. None of those things were individually suspicious, but any performer about to go on a farewell tour would have been far more concerned with practicing their act and getting the logistics right. In magic, you have to be precise. But Nicodemus was already in retirement mode. Because he already knew he wouldn’t be going on tour.
The biggest clue of all? His shaking hands. It wasn’t that he was shaken by witnessing the aftermath of a murder. His hands were no longer steady enough to perform sleight of hand.
“I don’t think you meant to kill anyone with that hidden knife, Nicky.” Tempest’s voice was more gentle as she addressed him personally. “But I’ve got it right, haven’t I?”
“Almost,” Nicodemus said, with a sad smile. “You almost have it right. I should have known you’d see through me.”
“I was about to say I can’t believe it took me so long to see it, but no. It never even crossed my mind because I trusted you. I never imagined you’d betray me and use the theater I’d rented to stage a dangerous booby trap.”
But he had. It was small comfort that Nicodemus never set out to kill anyone. One of the few people who’d stood by her when her career fell apart, and one of the few people she trusted, had used her. He had ensnarled her in his trap, which he created to make himself look good, not bothering to think about how dangerous it truly was. And he’d set it at the theater where Emma Raj had vanished and that Tempest had rented. Not bothering to think how the fallout would hurt her, even if it had gone according to plan. No matter how he tried to spin it, it was a betrayal.
“You betrayed me.” Tempest felt her voice shaking as she spoke. She’d been so calm as she relayed what she’d figured out, but now that Nicodemus had admitted she was right, she felt her resolve crumbling. She’d hoped beyond hope that she’d been wrong.
“It’s not what you think,” he pleaded. “Julian shouldn’t have been there. I didn’t—”
“Oh, I know,” said Tempest. “That’s the key, isn’t it? Because even though you were the one who set things in motion, Julian Rhodes was lured to the theater that night. Someone else taped a note onto the door, knowing Julian would be stabbed by the dagger instead of what was supposed to happen the next morning with your carefully controlled hand injury.”
“It’s far more than that.” Nicodemus’s eyes were pleading. “I only placed one small dagger in the door. I had to set it once more the following day. The trap I set that night wasnae the one that killed Julian Rhodes. Julian was killed with a far bigger sword than would fit in my wee booby trap. It wasnae me or my booby trap that killed him.”
“But you set two traps.”
“I did. I set the trap that nicked the paramedic and the one I used to end my own career. Only those. Not the sword. I wanted to go out with a heroic bang rather than a pathetic whimper. I might be a vain coward, but I’m not a killer.”
EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND
Three months ago
The name on the UK passport reads Gareth Nicodemus. He hasn’t used his given name in decades, and few people know it. He has always been careful in this regard. Even when referred to by the press by his given name instead of his stage name, they simply call him Nicodemus. Like Cher or Beyoncé. Gareth Nicodemus no longer exists. It’s the name of a man who ceased existing after he stepped onto the stage more than forty years ago.
It’s nearly two years until the document expires. If things were different, he would be renewing it soon. But he doubts he’ll have need of it after what’s to come.
With a shaking hand, he closes the soft cover. Next, he closes his eyes. He wishes things were different. He wishes he didn’t have to go through with his plan. Yet he knows there’s no other choice. Not for him. Nicodemus the Necromancer cannot stand the idea of failure. He’s worked too hard for it to end like this.
When the tour planning began more than a year ago, he thought he’d have more time. But life is unpredictable, as he knows all too well.
As soon as Tempest told him that she had rented the Whispering Creek Theater, his plan began to take shape. It’s a risk, but what in life isn’t? He only hopes he’ll be well enough for the dagger to work properly. If he gets it wrong, the consequences could be fatal. Even if he gets it right, he risks losing Tempest’s love.
Nicodemus has never known the love of a child of his own, but Tempest fills the role more than anyone else. She doesn’t lack a strong father figure, so he knows she doesn’t think of him as more than a mentor. Perhaps a beloved mentor, but not as much as he cares for her. He loves Tempest as if she were his own flesh and blood. He hopes she won’t see through this deception. But it’s worth the risk. He knows he could stage the trick in a location that doesn’t involve Tempest, but the payoff won’t be nearly as great. He needs her involved for him to become a martyr and end his career in a manner worthy of the image he’s built.
Because at the end of the day, as much as Nicodemus loves Tempest, he thinks he loves himself more.