“May the ancestors and the starlight protect you as the stardust grants your wish,” I say. With those words, my pulse quickens, my skin tingles, and a smile bends my lips. It’s time to make her wish come true. It feels amazing to finally do what I want—what feels right.
People clap as the cloud of stardust flies across the tent. But instead of heading toward the woman, it races into the man’s mouth and curls into his nose. He sits straighter, and his eyes turn red and bulge.
Dread twists my insides as I watch.
Inky blackness begins spilling from the corners of the man’s eyes. His brow beads with sweat, and he grunts. He jolts up from his chair, and I stagger backward, as if he’s shoved me, but he’s too far away for that. What just happened?
The crowd is wide-eyed and silent. They think this is part of the show. But then the people around him see what I see: his strained breathing and clear distress. People jump to their feet, knocking chairs over. Voices cry out for someone to help him.
The man tugs at his hair and scratches red lines around his eyes. He falls to the ground, his body flopping like an electrocuted fish. He’s having a seizure right there in the front row. He vomits blackness onto the feet of the now-frightened old racist man and the people around him. The man’s body shakes uncontrollably.
I don’t know what to do. I can’t scream. I can’t speak. I can’t move. I fixate on the man’s pulsing belly and the black vomit streaking his white shirt like tar. Bone-shaking shivers rock me as I stare in horror. I glance at my brother.
Demetri gapes, and he’s as scared as he was when he saw the fog… as scared as our mom when she sees ravens.
I look for the girl’s mother. She stands silently, hugging her daughter. Was hers a wish for revenge? Is that why her wish was murky and unclear? Am I now an accessory to whatever this is? My heart races as wildly as my thoughts.
Oh, God! I messed up! A trembling in my belly shakes through me.
The man thrashes, tries to stand, foaming darkly at the mouth. Black tears run from his eyes. He seems to reach for the girl, but the mother pulls the child away. She cradles her daughter closer. The girl’s body relaxes, and she exhales hard as the man falls flat on his face, gasping one last time.
He doesn’t move again.
Fear nails my feet to the stage. It glues my mouth shut. The crowd stands, unmoving. Shock and terror immobilize them too.
A red-haired woman bends down and checks the man’s pulse beneath sticky black vomit. “He’s dead!” she hollers. “He’s really dead!”
Someone screams.
Demetri leaps to the stage and stands protectively in front of me. “Ladies and gentlemen, please don’t panic,” he shouts. “I’m going to ask you to walk calmly toward the exit and let us seek medical attention for our guest.”
“She killed that man!”
A little boy in a baseball cap and overalls gives a terrified shriek. His mom covers his eyes to shield him from the gruesome sight. Children are crying. More shouts echo. The cacophony rings in my ears. What have I done?
“Black witch!” The old white man glares at me again. He points a skinny finger, yelling, “She’s the Devil.”
“Murderer!” the redhead shouts.
“Monster! Get them both!” someone else yells.
I look at Demetri, panicked. I’ve killed a man. A white man. Put my family in jeopardy. All because I couldn’t stick to the script. I thought I could handle the stardust… At eighteen years old I should’ve known better. “Ladies and gentlemen!” Demetri protests. “Please remain calm and find the nearest exit! This isn’t her fault!”
But he’s wrong. It is my fault.
“Kill the Black witch!” The old man rushes the stage.
Demetri waves a hand in the air, compelling Papa’s animal illusions to storm the big top. The crowd scatters in a thousand directions. He grabs my hand, and we dash toward the hidden tent flap that leads backstage.
I look over my shoulder toward the audience. Mothers scoop up crying children, carrying them toward the exit. The faint wailing of police sirens can be heard.
In the center of the melee, the girl’s mom stands calmly, her dark glasses removed to reveal a blackened, swollen eye. Just before the curtain blocks the crowd from view, I catch her mouthing the wordsThank you.
CHAPTER TWOMalcolm DavenportMISSISSIPPI DELTA, 1904
My guitar is an albatross strapped against my back, a warning for all those who have come to hear me play. But when I enter a venue, very few know that. I walk through the juke joint. The place is inside a converted old plantation home. The decor even beats some clubs I’ve been to in twenty-first-century Philly. That’s because of Loot—Luther Holbert, the owner. He looks white, so he was able to avoid the racist Jim Crow laws. That’s the Mississippi Delta in 1904 for you.
I move through a cloud of smoke. A man is a smudge against the cream interior, his dark suit almost the color of midnight. The tip of a cigarette glows like a tiny sun. The whole place is studded with women dancing and men drowning their sorrows in half-empty glasses. The crowd is super small compared to my usual shows, with not even sixty people hanging out in front of the stage. I walk toward the bar with a relieved sigh.
