All six of us went. Judd seemed to believe that was the lesser of two evils
—the greater of those evils being the possibility that Sloane might find a
way to go alone.
As we found our seats, I scanned the auditorium. My gaze landed on Aaron Shaw a moment before he registered Sloane’s presence. In an instant, his entire demeanor changed, from perfectly polished—every inch his father’s heir apparent—to the person I’d caught a glimpse of back in the security office. The person who cares about Sloane.
He made his way through the crowd toward us. “You came,” he said, zeroing in on Sloane. He smiled, then hesitated. “I’m sorry,” he said. “About earlier.”
For a moment, in that hesitation, he looked like Sloane.
Beside me, our numbers expert cleared her throat. “A substantial portion of apologies are issued by people who have nothing to apologize for.” That was Sloane’s way of telling him that it was okay, that she didn’t blame him for giving in to their father, for leaving her with him.
Before Aaron could reply, a girl about his age appeared beside him. She wore dark jeans and a fashionably loose shirt. Everything about her— accessories, haircut, posture, clothes—said money.
Old money, I thought. Understated.
After a moment’s hesitation, Aaron greeted her with a kiss to the cheek.
A friend? I wondered. Or more than that? And if so, then what is Tory?
“Ladies and gentlemen.” A deep voice came over the auditorium speakers. “Welcome to Tory Howard’s Imagine. As you prepare to be swept into a world where the impossible becomes possible and you find yourself questioning the very depths of the human mind and experience, we ask that you set your cell phones to silent. Flash photography is strictly forbidden during the show. Break the rules, and we may be forced to make you… disappear.”
The moment he said the word disappear, a spotlight highlighted the center of the stage. A light fog rose off the ground. One second the spotlight was empty, and the next, Tory was standing there, clothed in tight black pants and a floor-length leather duster. She whipped her arm out to one side and suddenly, without warning, she was holding a flaming torch. The spotlight dimmed. She brought the flame to the bottom of her jacket.
My mind went to the second victim. Within a heartbeat, Tory was wearing a coat of fire. With a stage presence far more magnetic than I would have ever imagined, she lifted the torch to her lips, blew out the flame, and disappeared.
“Good evening,” she called from the back of the room. The audience turned to gape at her. The coat was burning blue now. “And welcome to… Imagine.” She threw her arms out to the side, and suddenly, the back two rows were on fire, too. I heard someone scream, then laugh.
Tory smiled, a slow, sexy smile. The flames surged, then disappeared. She stepped through the smoke. “Let’s get started,” she said. “Shall we?”
When most people watch a magic show, they try to figure out how the magician does it. I wasn’t interested in the magic. I was interested in the magician. She wasn’t Tory, not the Tory I’d seen before. The persona she’d slipped into the moment she’d walked onto the stage had a mind and a will and a personality of its own.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, I’m looking for volunteers.
Specifically”—Stage-Tory raked her eyes over the audience, as if she could make out each of our faces and read each of our thoughts—“I’m looking for individuals who would like to participate in the portion of tonight’s show devoted to hypnotism.”
Hands shot up all over the crowd. Tory went through, calling people up
—a handful of women, an eighty-five-year-old man who punched a fist into the air when he climbed up on stage. “And…” she said, drawing out the word once she had about a dozen volunteers pulled out, “…you.”
For a second, I thought she was pointing at me. Then I realized she was pointing in front of me—at the girl sitting next to Aaron. Sloane’s brother went ramrod stiff. The girl next to him stood up. A couple of seats down from me, so did Michael. When Tory realized Michael was acting like she’d called on him, she rolled with the punches. “Looks like I got two for the price of one. Both of you, come on up!”
“Michael,” I said, reaching for him as he brushed past me. “Come on, Colorado,” he told me. “Live a little.”
Up on stage, Michael gave a courtly bow to the audience and took his seat. Tory faced her volunteers and spoke to them for a moment. None of us could hear what she said. After two or three seconds, she turned back to the crowd and the volume came back up on her microphone.
“I’m going to count backward from one hundred,” she said, pacing the row in front of her volunteers. “One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight. I want you to picture yourself lying on a raft, next to an island. Ninety-seven, ninety-six, ninety-five. You’re drifting. Ninety-four, ninety-three. The further I count, the farther you go. Ninety-two, ninety-one…”
As she counted, Tory went by each of the volunteers. She took their heads in her hands and rolled them back and forth.
The further I count, the farther you go. She kept saying those words. “Your body is heavy. Your head, your neck, your legs, your arms…” Up
and down the row she went. She tapped a couple of participants on the shoulder and sent them back to their seats, then began to describe a light, floating sensation. “Your body is heavy, but your right arm is weightless. It floats up…up…seven, six…The further I count, the farther you go. Five, four, three, two…”
By the time she hit one, the nine volunteers remaining on the stage were slumped in their chairs, their right arms creeping upward. I turned toward Lia.
Is Michael faking it? I raised an eyebrow at Lia, hoping to get an answer, but her concentration was fixed on the stage.
“You’re on the beach,” Tory told her hypnotized subjects. “You’re sunbathing. Feel the sun on your skin. Feel the warmth.”
Their faces instantly relaxed, smiles crossing their lips.
“Don’t forget to put on sunscreen.” Tory’s voice was light and silky now.
I couldn’t help snorting as Michael began rhythmically rubbing pretend sunscreen all over his biceps. He flexed for the crowd.
“Now,” Tory said, walking up and down the length of the stage. “Whenever you hear me say the word mango, you will come to believe that you have just passed gas. Loudly. In a crowded room.”
It was five minutes before Tory said the word mango. Immediately, all of the hypnotized subjects started looking distinctly uncomfortable, except for Michael, who gave an elaborate shrug, and the girl who’d been sitting with Aaron, who took a step forward. And then another. And another.
She walked straight to the edge of the stage, her head bowed. Just when I thought she might walk off the front, she came to a sudden halt.
“Miss, I’m going to need you to take a step back,” Tory called.
The girl lifted her head. Her light brown hair fell away from her face.
She stared at the audience, her gaze piercing. “Tertium,” she said.
One of the stage lights shattered and popped.
“Tertium,” the girl repeated, her voice louder, more piercing.
Tory was trying to get her to back up, trying to wake her up, but she couldn’t.
“Tertium.” The girl was screaming now. Behind her, the rest of the hypnotized subjects stood perfectly still. Michael broke away from the others, his eyes cogent and clear.
The girl raised her hands to the side, palms out. Her voice lowered itself to a coarse but powerful whisper that hit me like spiders crawling down my spine. “I need nine.”
