The guests hesitate, then lightly fold their fingertips into one another’s palms. Their eyes flutter closed, then open, then ease shut again. This is not a crowd that trusts easily. Noted.
“You can trust me,” I say, just above a whisper. “This is a place where you can let your guard down. You don’t do this often.”
One woman gasps sharply. Hammer meets nail.
I don’t need the tricks Nirav set up for my show—these guests areblotto—but I can’t resist using them. This crowd deserves all the deceit I can dole out, don’t they? They are here, after all, feting this horrible human Blanck. Whatever trickery I can use to make them feel the same depth of loss that I feel, every minute of every day, the better.
“Breathe,” I instruct. The shuffling of clothing and the quiettinkling of jewelry slowly subside. I shift under the table, and there, tied around the leg to my left, is the fishing wire. Both my hands are holding the hands of others—intentional, that. “Are you there, Spirit?” I ask.
Ask.
I nudge the wire with my knee.
The chandelier overhead sways. Tinkles. Several of the guests’ eyes shoot open and upward. They gasp.
“Ah, thank you for joining us,” I say. There is a note of sarcasm in my voice, and the real Spirit, the actual Spirit, harrumphs like a toddler, showing me an image of a scowling child.
Okay, fine. I’ll keep up the theatrics.
I touch the toe of my ballet slipper to the underside of this table, until I feel the pull of the magnet in the tip of the pointe shoe connect with the magnet above. I draw circles with my ankle. The planchette on the Ouija board begins to move, with no one touching it. The guests shake their heads, eyes wide. They look to one another,Are you seeing this?
I have reduced myself to tricks.
Harry Houdini, standing nearby, scoffs.
I smile at him. Showmen know showmen. He does not smile back.
“Do you have a message for us this evening, Spirit?”
Stop this right now, Stella.
That’s the message.
You are treading into evil territory here.
I shake that off,no. That is my own conscience, giving me these messages. Spirit surely believes in justice. Spirit will come through for me as they always do.
Stella, our message is obvious:
We are NOT to assist you in this plot.
Goodbye, Stella.
I scoff.Okay, right. Goodbye. I know it’s dangerous, opening this portal here, in front of the man who murdered 146 souls. The dark souls will surely leap at this opportunity to share their wrath. But this is my part of the plan. My part of the revenge. I push forward, despite the danger.
“If you have a message to share, tell us now.”
It’s time for the bells and smells portion of the show. Kiyoko, whose hands are neatly tucked inside her kimono, shakes a leather horse strap covered in bells. This part is a gamble, but the size of the room, coupled with the bells muffled by layers of fabric, means the befuddled guests cannot tell where the noise is coming from. Heads swivel, trying to find the source of the sound.
I lock eyes with Pax, dressed in his crisp caterer’s uniform, as he ducks into the parlor, across the foyer. He is right on time with this part of the plan. Moments ago he looked lost, injured, but now he’s jagged. Harsh. He is a bomb, ready to explode. It is just a moment, our connection, and then he disappears.Itdisappears.
I reach into my pocket and retrieve a weeks-old hard-boiled egg. I roll it slowly on my knee, and the shell cracks. The terrible sulfur stink slowly fills the room. The guests recoil, gag.
“You are definitely here,” I say, and attempt a light chuckle. “Give us a message.” I’m light-headed. Because of the smell? Because of the lack of noise in my head? Does sanity make one light-headed?
Blanck rattles the ice in his drink and snorts. “It looks like your ghosts are mum tonight, lady.”
“Do you have a message, Spirit?” I prod through gritted teeth. “I think I’m getting a message from a John… or a Joseph…?”
