I lock eyes with my brother. His face is ashen, but despite that, he gives me an awkward smile. Like this bold display of Black magic and Black excellence was something his soul needed too.
“You were right,” Demetri says. “We need to update our show.”
Streetlamps glow with warm amber light as we move toward the theater. A red neon sign readsSEE THE AMAZING MALCOLM DAVENPORT!
“Let’s go,” Demetri says. “I got a bad feeling about—”
But I can’t leave now. I walk into the theater and find a seat.
My brother frowns as he sits next to me. Others funnel in, filling in the seats, and I scan the crowd. A slick drumbeat sounds, and the stage morphs into skyscrapers and sparkling city lights around us.
“That’s the Philadelphia skyline,” my brother whispers.
A man with his dreadlocks tied in a low ponytail at the base of his neck steps onstage. As he does, the shiny silver suit he’s wearing darkens to blood red, and white paint blooms on his face, gliding across his cheeks and broad chin to form a skull with dark circles around his eyes and a black triangle on his nose.
The crowd gasps as he pulls an ace of spades from the thin band above the brim of his hat and tosses it into the air. The card bends into origami and turns into a butterfly, with flapping wings of bright orange flame. “Welcome to a world of magic and mystery!” the guy says. “To a show designed to ease your burdens and lift your mood.” A smile curves the teeth painted on his lips. “I’m Charles Davenport, and we’ve got something special for you tonight.” With a crackle of lightning and a mushroom cloud of glittery silver smoke, he disappears.
The beat drops, and the drums pulse. People sway, clap, and snap in their seats. Suddenly, a motorcycle bursts from the shadows of the tent, ripping across the concrete floor. The path down the center of the rows of chairs becomes alive with smoke and humming motorcycles. Black guys in black leather vests ride them around the crowd. The riders stand up on their motorcycles and do death-defying tricks, tilting the bikes into the air at impossible angles and whirling in complicated formations. Some pop wheelies, with only their back wheels bouncing on the ground to the rhythm, as the beat bumps. The motorcycles swerve and swoop, kicking up dust and making sparks on the concrete floor as their riders do handstands on the steel horses. The crowd applauds, amazed.
But from the ease of their launches, their smooth flips on moving motorcycles, and their perfect balance, it’s clear their performance is assisted by someone who has supernatural skill. Strong magic. Maybe that’s why they don’t feel the need to wear helmets for protection. The riders havelow-cut fades or dreadlocks that flap behind them like flags as they ride, flattop haircuts and handsome faces in every shade of brown. They all have the number 215 painted in black under their right eye.
I scan the euphoric faces of the crowd, seeing smiles, cheers. My mind whirls with questions.
How does the Davenport family work together to pull off performances like this? Or does one of them have the massive amounts of power that would be needed to create these spectacles on their own? A chill runs through me at the thought. If someone can do this alone, I hope to God they aren’t the person I’ll face in the Tether.
I need to find out. Grandmère might be proud of my newfound boldness—once she finishes punishing me for disobeying her orders. I stand, pretending to go to the bathroom. I need to see what’s backstage. But my brother reaches for my arm, never taking his gaze off the stage. Like he doesn’t want me to miss a second of what’s coming next.
A man rides his motorcycle tilted so much that his elbow is practically dragging the ground. I lower myself back into my seat.
The rider wears a black vest with a lion made of fire painted on the back. He flips the motorcycle right side up. He moves his body fast, so he’s suddenly standing on the motorcycle with one foot on the seat and the other on the handlebars. The bike is driving itself. He gives the crowd a breathtaking crooked smile.
His hazel eyes catch mine, and my breath stops.
Malcolm Davenport. Light illuminates his muscular arms as his motorcycle speeds closer. He looks in my direction and winks before contorting himself into a handstand. He balances his body on one hand, allowing his driverless motorcycle to circle the audience with the other humming bikes and wild cyclists.
Bikers are everywhere, making cycles jump, dance to the beat, and fluff up dust as they pump up the crowd. Malcolm rides close again, and I swear he’s looking directly at me as his bike zooms forward. It nears the arc of the stage, and he flips off the seat, landing onstage crouched on one knee. One fist is pressed into the stage, but his other arm is extended toward the gleeful crowd, his palm opened wide. He smiles like a conqueror returninghome from battle. His brown skin glistens under the lights. “What’s up, Philly?” he yells.
The audience screams.
A smile tilts Malcolm’s lips. He paces like a king before his people, his every move intoxicating the crowd. Torches of fire shoot up from the four corners of the stage, their light illuminating his face and shimmering on the black velvet curtain behind him. He takes off his vest and holds it toward the crowd to show off the black lion with a fiery outline that’s printed on the back. With a roar, the lion jumps out of the fabric to stand in front of him on the stage.
With his vest gone, Malcolm’s arms flex in the spotlight. He’s probably six feet tall, but onstage he looks larger than life, especially with a lion outlined in flame stalking beside him.
Fire dances in the lion’s eyes, and ribbons of muscle ripple as the creature circles Malcolm. The lion opens its pink mouth and roars.
The lights blink. Another flash of darkness. The other bikers vanish. But the energy in the room is nuclear when Malcolm reappears. Fire flashes from the floor behind him. More smoke explodes on the stage. He glances at us through the haze, and he slams on his flaming bloodred guitar. The lion continues to circle him. The fire on the guitar doesn’t melt its strings or scorch Malcolm’s flesh.
I catch myself swaying toward him, enthralled and unable to resist the pull.
He strums, shredding on the red guitar and singing in perfect pitch. I don’t recognize the words, but it doesn’t matter. His voice is hypnotic. He shares his energy and his pain through the music. The crowd roars so loud it makes my seat tremble.
Malcolm lowers his eyes and starts slamming his guitar with more intensity. He turns, almost aiming the skinny handle of the guitar at the audience. Blood-colored smoke bubbles and shoots from the instrument and spills onto the crowd. Music notes flash in them like lightning. The screaming stops. Stage lights cast an amber glow on the crowd as they are splattered with flickering red smoke. They freeze into human statues.
I turn to Demetri, but he’s frozen too. I shake him, but he doesn’t move.He’s like a mannequin. I push the girl on the other side of me. Her whole body is stiff, unmoving. But why am I free to move?
I hold myself still, trying to will myself to not even show that I’m breathing.
Malcolm turns to the lion stage. “Yo, those bike tricks got me tired. I need a quick intermission.” He chuckles. “What am I saying? They won’t notice. I’ll be back and get everybody fixed up and having fun in no time.”
