Eleven

An hour later, I dropped a hefty duffle bag at my feet and glanced around.

We would have been there sooner, but Dorian insisted on cooking us an early lunch to “keep our energy up.” I didn’t object as soon as I tasted his newest version of macaroni and “cheese” made from cashew cream.

“We’re alone,” I said as I unzipped the duffle bag. Sweat trickled down the side of my temple. That gargoyle was heavy. “But you should hurry.”

“Mais oui.” Dorian stepped out of the bag, asking for my assistance with his left foot, then got straight to work on the lock in front of us. He had it open in less than a minute.

“Merde,” he whispered. “I do not think I will be able to relock this door from the inside.”

“As long as we can get back out, that’s fine with me.”

I grimaced at the sound of the door’s screaming hinges, even though rationally I knew that we didn’t need to be quiet. Not yet. The front of the theater was locked up. The staff and performers hadn’t yet arrived to prepare for that evening’s performance. I’d had Dorian pick the lock of the side door, located on a deserted alley that led to a backstage area.

With the dexterity of Dorian’s clawed fingertips, it was like having my own personal locksmith. I thought of him as a “locksmith” rather than “burglar” because my intentions were pure—I wasn’t planning on stealing anything. I wanted to take a look around to see if anything suggested these magicians were more than they seemed. Before confronting a potential murderer and showing that I knew his secret, I insisted we do reconnaissance. This was a long shot, since alchemists know how to be careful. But at the same time, since nobody expects alchemy to be real, it’s tempting to let your guard down. That’s what I was hoping Prometheus, aka Peter Silverman, had done.

Dorian could see in the dark, so he didn’t need to turn on any lights. I, however, did. At least, if I was going to be of any use. But I found there was already a light burning.

“Zoe!” Dorian whispered in the deep, gravelly voice he erroneously believed was quiet enough not to be overheard. “We are not alone!”

“It’s okay, Dorian. It’s a Ghost Light.” I pointed at the solitary bulb on a standing lamp in the center of the stage. It didn’t mean someone was inside the theater. The theater tradition was an old one. The solitary burning bulb was meant to ward off ghosts. Or to protect the safety of anyone working late. The rationale depended on who you asked. The point was that it was an old tradition no longer needed with modern lighting. A few theaters still used it, but it would be second nature to someone who had worked in the theater a hundred years ago.

Dorian didn’t notice my worry. He got to work exploring the theater by the light of the unadorned, ghostly bulb.

“Everything is locked!” he declared indignantly.

“Isn’t that what I brought you along for? It was difficult lugging you inside that bag. I think you’ve been eating too many of the pastries you’re cooking for Blue Sky Teas.”

Dorian wrinkled his snout at me. “An important role of the chef is to taste his own creations! How else would culinary progress be made? Especially with these complicated vegan rules you impose.”

“How can you say the rules are complicated? The only rule is no animal products.”

“Semantics,” Dorian mumbled. “Alors, these are locks beyond what my claws can unlock. I cannot imagine what foul magic lurks beyond these chains.”

I knelt down to inspect the chain wrapped around a traveling trunk, then eyed the dramatic little gargoyle. “They’re performers, Dorian. You know very well from your father that stage magicians are careful to protect their illusions. All this tells us is that they’re magicians who create their own illusions. Which we already knew from seeing their show.” I wished I was as confident as my words indicated.

I walked around the trunks, crates, and cabinets that had been locked with complex sets of metal chains. They were perhaps a bit on the paranoid side, but nothing out of the ordinary for stage magicians.

In the 1800s, several famous magicians stole cutting-edge acts from each other. Many magicians filed patents for their inventions, such as the Ghost, but spies infiltrated crews to gain enough knowledge to pretend they’d invented similar illusions on their own. I must have been lost in my memories, because I didn’t hear anything until a voice rang out.

“Who left the lights on?” A deep female voice echoed through the theater.

“Perhaps it was the ghost,” a male voice answered.

Dorian and I slunk into the shadows at the back of the stage as Prometheus and Persephone, sans costumes, strode down the center aisle toward us. If they turned on any spotlights, we’d be seen. I pulled Dorian behind a section of curtain and opened a fold just enough to peer out.

“Very funny, darling,” Penelope said.

Peter shrugged. “I don’t remember doing it, but you’re right. It was probably me. Old habits … ”

I felt my heart racing. Old habits.

“I thought you were over the need to leave a light on for the ghosts of the theater.”

The two magicians hopped up onto the stage, just a few yards away from us. Though they were both dressed casually in paint-stained jeans, their hairstyles were already in place for their characters that night. Penelope’s highly stylized curls pressed along the sides of her face, and Peter’s flame-inspired spikes were stiff enough to impale someone.

Peter ran his hand across the edge of a beaten-up trunk wrapped in chains. “Being back in Portland has brought back a lot of memories, Pen.”

Dorian tugged at my hand. The magicians were close enough to us that I dared not whisper a reply, or even shift to look at him.

“Nobody has messed with these locks,” Penelope said. “I don’t know why you insist on locking up everything like this. It takes so long to open.”

“You know why.”

“I swear,” Penelope said, “I’d like to clock the person who started that damn rumor about ‘The Scottish Play’ being cursed and Gaston Leroux for writing The Phantom of the Opera.”

“Right. Let’s focus. We don’t have much time. The crew will be here soon. Let’s get this trunk open and get out of here.”

So Peter didn’t trust the crew. I thought about the illusions the magicians had performed. Though the tricks were detailed and involved precision, they didn’t require many players to implement them. I’d learned from Dorian (who’d learned from his father) that there were many ways to perform the same trick. Instead of using complicated rigging as some performers did, the illusions I’d seen the previous night involved ingenious tricks of light. The magicians hadn’t used real fire, so they could have made do with one or two local stagehands.

Penelope opened two combination locks that held the chains in place around the storage trunk.

“Just one more—” Peter broke off. “Did you hear something?”

“The ghost, perhaps?”

“I’m serious, Pen. I think I heard something.”

“I wish you didn’t have to be so secretive.”

Peter stood still for a moment, listening, then sighed. “You’re right. It must be getting to me. I must have imagined the sound.”

Only he hadn’t imagined it. Dorian pointed up toward the catwalk above the stage. Two figures, barely visible in the shadows, were making their way across the walkway that held the stage lights.