Sleeping Beauty and the Demon (8 page)

His eyes flashed with displeasure. “You mean Dragomir Starkov’s show . . . the one you lied to everyone about attending?”

“Yes,” Rose replied. “I want you to see that he’s no crackpot.”

He dropped her hand and stood. Obviously frustrated, he began pacing the length of the room in long strides. “I don’t understand. What is it about this magician you find so enthralling?”

Now it was her turn to look flustered. “I don’t find
him
enthralling. I simply enjoy watching his fascinating illusions.” The look on Patrick’s face, however, told her that he wasn’t buying her story. She decided to try a different approach. “You’re clever, Patrick. Perhaps you’ll be able to come up with a good explanation for the tricks.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “You’re missing the point, Rose. I have no interest in figuring out any of Starkov’s cheap tricks. I’m a skeptic when it comes to magic. I don’t believe in anything that I cannot see, hear, touch, taste, or smell. To me, nothing is real until it’s actually proven to be.”

Rose knitted her brow. Patrick was no fun at all. Besides, she
must
see the show tonight. If Drago was trying to contact her, she knew her attendance was of the utmost importance. “What do you have against magicians?”

He sighed as he sat next to her. “I don’t have anything
against
magicians. My suspicious nature is rearing its head.”

Rose folded her hands in her lap, her eyes downcast. “I suppose that’s what makes you such a good police officer.”

“Maybe.” Patrick seemed to be buying into her flattery. “Look. I did a background search on Dragomir Starkov.
There is no record of him anywhere.
No registration of him entering Ellis Island and no record of him residing anywhere previously.”

“He isn’t a ghost.” She laughed.

“But don’t you find his ghost-like existence disturbing?”

“Some people want to make a fresh start. Maybe Drago changed his name in the process.”

“Drago? You two are on a first-name basis, are you?”

Rose softened her expression. “You have nothing to be jealous about.”

His face flushed. “Rumor has it that this mysterious illusionist is in league with the devil.”

Her lungs hitched at the suggestion. Had the forces of black magic given Drago his seductive powers? She couldn’t fathom it.

“For heaven’s sake,” she said. “The Salem witch hunts have been over for centuries. Dragomir Starkov is a very talented magician. That’s all. And frankly I believe your ignorance is rearing its head along with your suspicions.”

“Do you?” he asked sourly. “How?”

“By speaking of things you haven’t seen first-hand.”

She knew from Patrick’s expression that she’d made a good point.

“Very well,” he conceded. “I’ll take that as a challenge. I’ll accompany you to the show, then we can discuss Starkov’s viability.”

Olivia rushed into the room. “Two tickets just arrived.”

“Tickets?” Patrick echoed.

“Yes, a messenger handed me these.” She subsequently passed them to Patrick.

His face drained of color. “What the hell? They’re for Dragomir the Magnificent’s eight o’clock performance at the Sunshine Theater.”

Rose’s heart beat to an insane rhythm.

“How did he know we wanted to go?” Patrick clenched his jaw.

“Magic,” she replied softly.

Patrick and Rose said goodbye to the Marconis before departing for the auditorium. The windless, muggy night air pushed at them before they found themselves inside the Sunshine Theater. Patrons droned on excitedly about Drago’s astounding talents as Patrick located their seats in the second row. Stepping aside, he allowed Rose to shuffle across to seats B7 and B8.

Just before the curtain rose, Patrick glanced around. “All of these people are obviously under this man’s spell, just like you.”

A rousing overture signaled the start of the show, so Rose gave him a “Shh.” The heavy, burgundy curtains parted with a gentle sway and an empty stage was revealed. Just then, a familiar voice sounded from the rear of the theater.

Rose turned in her seat to see Drago moving gracefully down the center aisle. The audience gasped—then erupted into a chorus of confused murmurs.

“Ladies and gentleman, my name is Dragomir Starkov, better known as Dragomir the Magnificent. I’m beginning my show this way to prove an important point. We, as humans, should never expect the expected. Rather, we should free our minds and open them up to the possibility of
what can be.
Trust me. It makes for a more satisfying life.”

Once he reached the barrier of the stage, Drago trotted up the side staircase with tantalizing elegance. As she watched him, Rose couldn’t help but notice how his muscular legs flexed beneath his snug-fitting trousers and how the cut of his jacket emphasized his wide shoulders.

He made a very attractive figure on stage.

She glanced at Patrick to gather his impression of Drago—only to see him glowering.

“Why doesn’t he just get on with it?” He hissed without taking his eyes off the stage.

“It’s all part of the theatrical anticipation,” she whispered, “to prolong the wonderment of what he’ll do next.”

Patrick crossed his arms defiantly and watched the majority of the show with a scowl. When it came time for Drago’s final illusion, he looked as if he couldn’t wait to go home.

“Only one more trick,” Rose said gently.

“Ladies and gentleman,” Drago announced, “My lovely assistant, Katherine, will now wheel in the apparatus I require for my final illusion. This is a trick I haven’t practiced frequently, but I assure you it’s perfectly safe. You’ll know what I mean once you witness it.”

He did a tiny bow toward the crowd then turned his attention to Katherine. She positioned the twelve foot high, draped apparatus just behind him. With the flourish of a professional, Katherine whipped the red drape off the structure. Rose gasped. It was the guillotine she’d seen in Drago’s workshop!

“Please don’t ask me or Patrick to volunteer,” she murmured under her breath. But it was too late. Drago had already singled Patrick out. “You, sir. Would you be so kind as to join me onstage?”

In response, Patrick pointed a finger toward himself and mouthed the word: “Me?”

“Yes, you. The man in the seersucker jacket. I believe your name is Patrick O’Leary. Is that right?”

Patrick nodded, then looked at Rose. “I’m going to prove this fellow is a fraud.”

Finding herself speechless, Rose watched him hasten up the steps and take a spot next to Drago.

“Thank you for participating, Mr. O’Leary,” Drago said. “That is your name, isn’t it?”

Mouth agape, Patrick nodded.

Without wasting any more time, Katherine bound Patrick’s hands with a rope while Drago explained the stages of the trick for the audience’s benefit.

“As you can plainly see, Katherine is incapacitating Mr. O’Leary. His head will then be placed inside the guillotine. You must remember that the device was, and still is, the only official method of execution in France. Personally, I view it as the ultimate death machine. Rulers such as King Louis XVI and his beautiful wife, Queen Marie Antoinette, lost their heads to its razor sharp blade in 1793.”

Drago paused as he checked the rope’s knot. He nodded with approval. “And we can only wonder, what were those unfortunate royals thinking as they marched to their deaths? Did their entire lives flash before them? Did their regrets burn at their souls—too late to undo?” He paused. “Maestro, a little marching music for Mr. O’Leary.”

A solemn drum roll ensued. Wide-eyed, Patrick moved behind the frame of the guillotine at Drago’s instruction. A moment later, he was seated straddle-style over its narrow bench. Katherine helped maneuver his head into a nestled position.

Rose glanced at the blade suspended above him. The way it caught the light sent her stomach into a roil. What was about to happen?

Common sense told her there was no such thing as real magic. Yet her entire body hummed with fright.

The crowd remained on edge as a transparent screen descended over the stage, leaving the three people behind it in shadowy outlines. Drago, now garbed in a black executioner’s mask, grasped the rope that governed the rise and fall of the blade. Rose went into full-panic mode. Would Patrick be harmed—or even killed? Should she leap out of her seat and stop the trick?

The dangerous obsession she’d witnessed in Drago’s eyes made her think he was capable of violence.

Before she could stand up and protest, Drago leaned over and said something to Patrick. Then, with a wild slicing noise, the blade dropped to meet its cruel ending point. Screams filtered through the crowd as what appeared to be a head rolled off and fell to the floor. The body it had been attached to was gone!

The buffering screen lifted. Drago strode forward, grasping a head of lettuce. He removed the executioner’s mask, then raised the round object above his head. In response, the crowd exploded in applause.

“Thank you, ladies and gentleman,” he said, as a sly smile spread across his face. “Are you wondering what happened to our brave Mr. O’Leary? If the usher at portal five will open the door to the lobby, you’ll see that he’s perfectly intact.”

The usher, looking as surprised as anyone, pushed the door open. In stepped Patrick. Face flushed with rage, he raced forward, holding his neck with one hand “You bastard!” The severed rope hung from his wrist. “How dare you threaten me, then scare me out of my wits!”

Before anyone had the chance to stop him, Patrick leapt onstage and began pummeling Drago to the ground.

“Patrick!” Rose bolted out of her seat and charged up the staircase. The two men at center stage were in the middle of a violent brawl—and no one was making a move to stop them. “Somebody get the police!” she called out.

Falling to her knees, Rose tried to pry Patrick off Drago. But it was no use.

As the men rolled about with ruthless ferocity, blood began to fly. Rose stepped out of the way. Praying that the brawl would stop soon, she clutched her chest. Luckily, an officer bounded up the main aisle and blew his whistle.

“What’s goin’ on ’ere?” the cop asked in an Irish accent. When he reached the stage, he halted. “Is that you, young O’Leary?”

“Yes, it’s Patrick!” Rose responded. “Stop them, officer!”

“See ’ere, ya two maniacs. Stop yer fightin’ or I’ll arrest ya both.” The red-faced officer managed to pry Patrick away from Drago. When the enemies stood apart, they wiped the blood from their lips with the backs of their hands.

“Who started this nonsense?” the policeman asked.

Patrick remained silent. Drago, on the other hand, pointed at his opponent, his breath too ragged to speak.

“Is it true?”

Ashamed, Patrick hung his perspiration-soaked head. But then he seemed to get his second wind. “This lunatic nearly killed me. And he has every intention of stealing my girl away!” He started at Drago again with clenched fists.

“Hold on there, young man. Let’s get some fresh air, shall we?” The policeman didn’t wait for an answer, but took Patrick by the jacket lapel and started to yank him away.

The audience remained fixated in their seats, entertained as much by the brawl as they had been by the magic.

“Rose,” Patrick called over his shoulder, “let’s go.”

She stood frozen for a moment.
What should I do?

She longed to comfort Drago and Patrick both, but her need to be with Drago overshadowed everything else. She stared at him. His smoldering stare bore into her soul, speaking a thousand words, though he never opened his mouth.

“I’m staying,” she murmured in Patrick’s direction.

“You’re what? Rose, you don’t know what that bastard said to me just before he pretended to kill me!”

The officer rolled his eyes and whisked Patrick out of sight. Hushed words of surprise and criticism followed them as the crowd began to filter out of the theater as well.

Now that she was alone with Drago, Rose moved to him. “Are you all right?” She placed a hand to his bruised and battered face. Her eyes welled with tears. “I need to know what you said to Patrick.”

He said nothing. Instead, he took her hand and pressed it to his swollen lips. “Come with me,” he whispered with passion and urgency.

CHAPTER 12

A
slew of reporters that hadn’t been allowed in until then attempted to get close to the stage. In the meantime, four ushers barred the side staircases.

As Drago dodged the camera flashes, he shielded his face with his hand and grimaced. Racing into the wings with Rose alongside him, he shouted, “Get their film, Archibald!”

Ducking questions from Katherine and avoiding murmurs from the stage crew, who claimed that the guillotine trick was nothing like it’d been rehearsed, Drago managed to escape with Rose out the side door.

The alley was filled with shadows and the smell of rancid trash but, thankfully, it was void of people. Drago grasped Rose’s hand tightly and directed her around the corner. They spotted a throng of reporters and on-lookers at the front of the theater, lying in wait.

“I grant interviews to reporters on one condition,” Drago said darkly. “No photographs.” He pulled Rose in the opposite direction from the crowd. “We’ll go to my apartment.”

Had Rose lost her mind? She’d dragged Patrick to the theater tonight only to snub him in public. The reality of it convinced her that she had no control over her actions.

She wouldn’t be surprised if Patrick never spoke to her again. And to make matters worse, she was in the center of Drago’s media frenzy.

It took five minutes for them to reach the sanctity of Drago’s apartment building. Never before had Rose been so happy to see a common redbrick structure with tin molding. Still grasping Drago’s hand tightly, she followed him up a flight of stairs to apartment 9G.

After Drago slipped his key into the lock, she stepped inside and gathered her collar about her throat. She’d never been alone with a man inside his home and knew nothing about how to behave. Drago seemed to sense her unease. He offered her a smile as he removed his jacket with slow, pain-filled motions.