What was up with that? It was just an opening ceremony show.
And even more bizarre was the Wiz next to him. The guy had his nose in a cheap three-ring binder, moving his lips as he read. No kidding. Josh could see it from the stage. The guy’s mouth was moving as he read whatever was in his hands.
Then the show started. David Jenkins, the president of MoreCon, stepped onto the stage and spoke into the microphone. The guy was in his late forties, gay, and had the most amazing anime collection Josh had ever seen. Josh had been to his house a few times for viewing parties that came complete with great nachos. David and his partner, Glen, were the living example of a healthy gay couple. They weren’t weird or cartoonish. Glen was an accountant, David owned a couple of Taco Bell franchises, and they loved each other, which was more than Josh could say about his own parents. It was what Josh aspired to have some day: quiet, suburban anime parties with his sweet husband. Though he wouldn’t be opposed to some hot flings with a mountainous guy in stripper pants along the way.
David finished the greeting, listed important changes to the programs, and introduced the fandom guest of honor. He was a minor character in a long-running TV show, but it was the most the con could afford, and two minutes into the guy’s self-important chatter, Josh got his cue.
He stumbled onto the stage as if he was drunk. He had his staff in one hand and an empty goblet, which he turned upside down so everyone could see it was empty.
“Get to the important stuff!” he cried. “Where can a humble wizard get a drink?”
Grinning, David went back to the mic. “Well, the bar is right through those doors—”
“Never mind. I’m a wizard, right? I can conjure my own drink!”
“Um… I don’t think you should be doing magic, sir. You’re clearly not fit—”
“Fit, Schmidt!” Josh pointed and winked at one of the con regulars, Tom Schmidt, who waved from the fourth row. “I’m as fit to cast magic as a Schmidt!” He really put some gusto into Tom’s last name, making sure to spit a bit as he slurred the name.
Everyone thought it was funny, Tom included, and so Josh got ready to detonate the least of his pyrotechnics: a small explosion from a lined pocket on the outside of his cape.
“Spirit of the grape,” he intoned as he held his goblet high, “the grain, and the hop.” He did a little hop at that. “Refill and renew my goblet, and not with pop!”
He pressed the detonation button, and sure enough, his pocket exploded with a shower of sparkles.
“Oops!” he said to everyone’s amusement. “That’s not what I meant at all.” He peered owlishly into his empty goblet, but as he did so, a strange heat began deep in his belly. It was a weird sensation, like inferno-sized acid reflux, only lower and with accompanying cramps. Was he getting sick? Had some of his more dangerous chemicals spilled out of an inside pocket?
It was alarming to be sure, but he was in the middle of his big moment. Although he felt like he was about to vomit, he locked it down and tried to go on with the show.
Just like they’d planned, David scrunched up his face in mock alarm. “I really don’t think you should be doing that—”
“Riddikiiiieeeee!”
He’d meant to say, “Riddikulus!” but the word burned like fire in his throat and became a scream of agony. That killer heartburn exploded through his body, setting his nerves on fire. His eyes felt like they were bulging out of his head, and his gaze shot to Savannah’s. Her mouth was open and she looked worried, but everyone else around her was grinning. He was about to vomit his lunch all over the stage, and they thought it was part of the show.
At least David knew this wasn’t planned. He stepped forward, a look of concern on his face. “Josh—”
Lightning struck him. It wasn’t real lightning, but that’s what it felt like. Electricity shot through his body, making every muscle tighten unbearably. His head flew back, and he screamed as his bones snapped from the strain. Spine, hips, legs. Crackle, crackle, pop.
He collapsed to the floor, the pain making his vision burst with stars. His cape fluttered down across his back, but it didn’t fit right and slid to the side of his body. His mind was white with agony, and he tried to cry out, but no sound emerged.
He felt his jaw unhinge, his mouth and face burst apart. He could hear the audience gasping, but he couldn’t see. Damn it, he couldn’t see! And then he completely dissolved. As if he melted into air while his body shifted horribly, and everything felt wrong, wrong, wrong. It wasn’t pain so much, but his hands, legs, face all stretched or compressed or just plain broke. At least that’s what his mind was telling him, while everything also felt completely incorporeal. Like he was energy soup and not form at all, except suddenly, he coalesced. He had a body and it was hunched on all fours. Well, that was good, right? He tried to straighten up, but he couldn’t stand.
Then the audience burst into thunderous applause.
What. The. Fuck? He was dying, and they applauded?
He turned his head, and now that his vision was clearing, he could see everything. People clapping, elves laughing, movement everywhere, but where the hell was Savannah? He found her eventually, though all the standing and clapping was blinding him. She was there, right where she’d been, with her mouth ajar and her eyes huge.
Savannah!
He screamed out her name. She needed to call 911. He needed a doctor. But what happened shocked him to his bones.
He heard a howl instead of her name. And he felt the noise come from his own throat.
He skittered backward, startled and confused. And as he moved, he saw paws. Big, thick dog paws where his hands should be. And his footing was fouled in clothing and shoes that fell off him. The audience was starting to whistle their approval. Fucking idiots!
He glared at them, trying to speak. He had to make them understand!
