He’d seen the show in the local listings in the back of The Other, the weekly alternative magazine that had proven much more interesting than the Times. Roman Emperor. The name was either cheeky or awesome, depending on how you looked at it, and Dick was sold.

Now, seated before the man and his assistant, Dick couldn’t wrap his mind around what he was seeing. Of course every magician has secrets, but this maniac Emperor was good.

“Oh God,” Theresa whispered, leaning into Dick. “What are they doing now?”

Dick had to admit, the trick looked dangerous. Emperor stood on one side of the stage. His master of ceremonies, a blonde whom Dick couldn’t get a handle on (Is she pretty? Is she sick? Is she perfect?) stood across the shaky stage, an ax raised high in her hands.

“I will stop this tool with my mind,” the blonde said. And everybody knew what that meant. She was going to throw it at Emperor and…stop it with her mind.

Dick looked for the strings.

A wood log stood at Emperor’s feet. The blonde did the whole ring-around-the-weapon thing to show the audience there were no strings attached and even went as far as to hand the weapon out for the audience to inspect themselves. Dick wanted to hold it, but Theresa pulled the arm of his suit coat back as he reached out. Like she was scared he might catch something. Dick didn’t entirely disagree with her.

Emperor paced as the audience inspected the weapon. In fact, he’d been pacing most of the show, as the (sick? gorgeous?) blonde did all the talking.

“It’s so dark,” Theresa whispered. Dick wasn’t sure if she meant the lighting or the show itself.

Emperor finally stood motionless, but the animal energy within him still seemed to pulse. He had his back to the audience now, his head cocked toward the blonde. Dick guessed the magician was under forty, but it was very hard to tell. He was a throwback, to be sure, a character you’d see in a dramatization of the Old World. He wore tight slacks, black boots, a vest, and a white, ruffled button-down shirt, what Dick knew some people called a poet’s shirt. Some gray showed in his mustache and sweaty black hair, but not much. So little, in fact, that it might have been applied for effect. Dick thought he looked like a poet bullfighter. A philosophical hunter. Despite his masculinity, there was something deeply neurotic about him. The way he paced. The way he stood. The unglued look in his eyes coupled with an unseen, but felt, confidence in his craft.

Beyond the prepared look of a showman, Dick detected fear.

And the blonde…what was her name? Had she given it? When she first came out from backstage, Dick thought Theresa was going to kill him.

Oh, sure, Dick. Nice night out.

And yet as stunning as she was, there was something unnerving, too, a sense of fakery that outweighed her features.