Free Three Slices by Chuck Wendig, Kevin Hearne, Delilah S. Dawson Page B

too tall, neither a glossy blonde nor a vivacious redhead. She must be agreeable and innocent, with a certain universal girl-ness to her, a shy, dimpled maid in whose wide brown eyes all the other girls can envision themselves.
    A girl I can fleece, but who’ll be glad of the fleecing, you see.
    That’s part of the magic.
    There she is. Third row, flowered bonnet, pink dress that covers her from throat to toes, wrist to wrist. Rosy cheeks, mouth open just a little in excitement to show gapped front teeth. I grin a perfect grin and whip out my arm, flinging sequins and fireflies into the air to rain down on the crowd.
    “You, love.”
    I point at her and turn my hand over, curling my finger at her, drawing her to me. She gasps and puts a gloved hand to her well-covered chest, laughs at her good luck. Her two friends push her towards the stage, and she blushes as I hold out that same blood-red velvet glove to help her up the steps between the lights.
    “What’s your name, darling?” I ask as I lead her to a gilt-armed chair in the center of the stage.
    “Elise. It’s...Elise, sir.”
    “Have you ever been hypnotized, Elise?”
    She sits, daintily, as if the chair might explode from too much weight. “I...no. No, sir.”
    I chuck her under the chin, leaving the barest swipe of pinkish powder hidden under her high, lacy collar. “Well, then. You’re in for a treat.”
    “Will it...hurt, sir?”
    A low chuckle drifts through the crowd. Do they want it to hurt? Perhaps.
    I lean down to whisper in her ear and she shivers. “No, love. You won’t feel a thing. Just do as I ask, and everyone will clap for you. You’re the star tonight.”
    She nods, and I step back with a swirl of my cape. The crowd goes silent, expectant. Many of them have never seen a circus before, and no one has seen an act like mine. Some things are more real than others, and I am the former. Very few of the people on the other side of the footlights will ever understand the difference between legerdemain and true magic.
    “The lovely Elise has volunteered to help us today, and for that, she will be richly rewarded. Tell me, Elise. What is your heart’s dearest desire?”
    Her mouth drops open as she struggles for the right answer, gloved hands shaking as they clutch the chair’s arms. “To marry well and have healthy children.”
    Well, of course it is, you unimaginative twit . Which I don’t say out loud.
    “A fair request that I’m sure Saint Ermenegilda will hear and grant. And now, tell me: What is your darkest fear?”
    Her eyes flash in terror and embarrassment, and she looks down at my polished boot tips, which can’t help but show her the worst of herself. “Being drained,” she whispers. She could mean by bludrats in the city or bludbunnies in the fields, but what she really means is me, or someone like me.
    But the audience didn’t hear that. They never do.
    Louder, I say, “What’s that, Elise? You’re afraid to be turned into a chicken?”
    The crowd erupts in laughter, and she splutters a bit and gives me a wobbly grin.
    “But...but...BUCK BUCK BACAW!” It erupts from her rosebud mouth as she leaps up from her chair, tucks her fists into her corseted waist, and jerkily pecks her way across the stage.
    Her eyes are glazed over now, the crowd is loving it, and I twist a lone feather in my fingers and continue whispering under my breath. Elise hops up onto her chair and settles down in an unladylike crouch, making the crass lads up front howl. Her clucking builds to a surprised cackle, and she stands and lifts her skirts just a little, revealing a sky-blue egg between her high, buttoned boots.
    “And wake,” I mutter.
    “What...what happened?”
    As if on cue, she swoons, and I catch her in a dramatic sweep of pink taffeta. Ever so gently, I set her atop the skull-sized egg on the chair, and it breaks with a loud crack.
    “Oh!”
    She stands and reaches for the pile of shards, withdrawing a simple slip of paper.
    “Go