Chapter Six Emma Baldwin #2
I look at Demetri. I want to tell him to check for his dagger, but I’m terrified of being overheard.
His jeans have darkened into sleek black pants, his blue T-shirt morphed into a suit with a crimson jacket with a long tail.
A top hat crowns his head. He checks his shiny black shoes, probably looking for the blade he hid in his boot.
He looks at me and shakes his head. His dagger has vanished too.
He checks his pocket, and his eyes widen.
His pocket watch must be gone too.
Our disguises erased. We’re sitting ducks. I look around, shaking. A drop of sweat runs down my back. My heart starts to hammer so loud I can hear it. We are trapped behind enemy lines. There’s no visible way out. No way to go but forward.
“What now?” I ask. Part of me is waiting for a sword to materialize and chop me in half.
I gaze around. Other guests are in awe at the change in clothes and the surroundings.
“It’s part of their show. For now,” Demetri whispers grimly, “we explore. And hope to God we make it back in one piece. Lie low. Act like everyone else.”
I nod and try to steady my breathing as I study our surroundings. We are standing in the mouth of an alley. Dim slashes of sunbeams in the gloomy tunnel behind us are the only hint that we’ve passed through a magical door.
“Step this way!” a cheery voice calls from the shadows in front of us.
Demetri’s shoulders tense. “Stay behind me,” he tells me. He slowly moves in the direction of the voice.
As we draw cautiously near, an old woman seems to materialize from the shadows wearing a sun-yellow gown that flows like liquid gold, glowing and pulsing with the steel drums of calypso music.
“Welcome, welcome!” She beams as she drapes a necklace of purple Mardi Gras beads around my neck, where my necklace belongs.
Her orange braids sway as she sweeps her arm toward the alley’s exit. “Go. The wonders await.”
We crane our heads to see what she’s gesturing to. Is that a city? We walk forward through air that’s warm, smoky, and sweet, leaving the alley behind us. Suddenly, I can’t move. My gaze is glued to the scene before us.
It’s not a city.
It’s a magical world.
A black sun hangs defiantly in the starry sky. It sparkles like a charm made of smooth onyx, backlit by a golden glow.
Streetlamps line the cobblestone roadway that stretches on either side of us.
Caribbean heat and steam rise from the redbrick sidewalk like it’s a plate of boiled crawfish, and yet the temperature is comfortable.
Curbs lining the street hold squares of gold bearing a symbol similar to my family’s crest. But unlike our blue ouroboros with a crescent moon in the center, their ouroboros is a gold snake eating its tail, and its center depicts a bright Caribbean sun with waving rays.
This must be the Davenport family crest. But why does it look like an odd reflection of ours?
I step forward, scanning every inch of the place for threats.
The rooftops, gleaming like an asphalt street on a rainy night, show no figures lying in wait.
The curved doors, bearing etchings of suns, fireworks, and other rose-gold designs, are all firmly shut.
The duplexes made of ruby bricks have no faces in the windows.
The moss-covered gold fences in front of brightly painted townhomes have no one peering through them.
Relieved for a second, I take a closer look at the Davenports’ world.
Gold rose petals rain down from the town house balconies, falling on the white horses that pull colorful carriages, delivering people to the massive gold-and-black theater down the road. Fireworks explode above in waterfalls of orange, gold, and blood red.
Everything is bright and beautiful.
I look at Demetri’s slack jaw and awestruck expression.
How can anyone beat this? How can I kill anyone with the power to create and maintain a world this stunning?
Demetri’s expression is terrified, as if he can hear my thoughts … and he agrees.
Men walk in fancy top hats and suits; women in glittering dresses, balloon sleeves, gowns with elaborate swirls of embroidery, and sleek satin fabrics.
Along the path, colorful food trucks bubble with the smell of fresh-baked cookies, brown-sugar beignets, and all manner of delicious treats.
Families sit on smooth gold picnic benches, their gold, heart-shaped plates heaped with oxtails, golden-brown mac and cheese, collard greens, candied yams, and jambalaya.
We keep moving, heading for the theater. A prickly feeling claws up my spine. Someone is watching us. I look over my shoulder, but there are so many people … I can’t tell who it might be.
Music pulses. Dancers wearing red carnival costumes with feathers and black sequins slip through the crowd inviting others to join them. Instead of sharing their joy, I walk slowly, fearfully. We weave through the smiling, bouncing, dancing crowd, on high alert.
The faces around us are blissful, as if the weight of the past is nonexistent here.
I begin to think that the real magic here is its power to uplift.
The Davenports are doing what I have always wanted to do at our shows.
Displaying magic courageously, being themselves, and bringing people excitement and delight.
I scan the crowds. You can’t tell the homeless from those with money.
What the Davenport family has created with their power is breathtaking. Bold. Unapologetic.
I love it.
And it terrifies me.
I smile despite myself.
“What are you grinning for?” Demetri asks.
“This isn’t the worst place to die,” I reply.
His frown in return is less than amused.
I understand now why the Davenport family chose this location. These are the people who need magic the most. Those who are told and treated like they don’t deserve it.
I lock eyes with my brother. His face is ashen, but despite that, he gives me an awkward smile. Like this bold display of Black magic and Black excellence was something his soul needed too.
“You were right,” Demetri says. “We need to update our show.”
Streetlamps glow with warm amber light as we move toward the theater. A red neon sign reads SEE THE AMAZING MALCOLM DAVENPORT!
“Let’s go,” Demetri says. “I got a bad feeling about—”
But I can’t leave now. I walk into the theater and find a seat.
My brother frowns as he sits next to me. Others funnel in, filling in the seats, and I scan the crowd. A slick drumbeat sounds, and the stage morphs into skyscrapers and sparkling city lights around us.
“That’s the Philadelphia skyline,” my brother whispers.
A man with his dreadlocks tied in a low ponytail at the base of his neck steps onstage.
As he does, the shiny silver suit he’s wearing darkens to blood red, and white paint blooms on his face, gliding across his cheeks and broad chin to form a skull with dark circles around his eyes and a black triangle on his nose.
The crowd gasps as he pulls an ace of spades from the thin band above the brim of his hat and tosses it into the air.
The card bends into origami and turns into a butterfly, with flapping wings of bright orange flame.
“Welcome to a world of magic and mystery!” the guy says.
“To a show designed to ease your burdens and lift your mood.” A smile curves the teeth painted on his lips.
“I’m Charles Davenport, and we’ve got something special for you tonight.
” With a crackle of lightning and a mushroom cloud of glittery silver smoke, he disappears.
The beat drops, and the drums pulse. People sway, clap, and snap in their seats.
Suddenly, a motorcycle bursts from the shadows of the tent, ripping across the concrete floor.
The path down the center of the rows of chairs becomes alive with smoke and humming motorcycles.
Black guys in black leather vests ride them around the crowd.
The riders stand up on their motorcycles and do death-defying tricks, tilting the bikes into the air at impossible angles and whirling in complicated formations.
Some pop wheelies, with only their back wheels bouncing on the ground to the rhythm, as the beat bumps.
The motorcycles swerve and swoop, kicking up dust and making sparks on the concrete floor as their riders do handstands on the steel horses. The crowd applauds, amazed.
But from the ease of their launches, their smooth flips on moving motorcycles, and their perfect balance, it’s clear their performance is assisted by someone who has supernatural skill.
Strong magic. Maybe that’s why they don’t feel the need to wear helmets for protection.
The riders have low-cut fades or dreadlocks that flap behind them like flags as they ride, flattop haircuts and handsome faces in every shade of brown.
They all have the number 215 painted in black under their right eye.
I scan the euphoric faces of the crowd, seeing smiles, cheers. My mind whirls with questions.
How does the Davenport family work together to pull off performances like this?
Or does one of them have the massive amounts of power that would be needed to create these spectacles on their own?
A chill runs through me at the thought. If someone can do this alone, I hope to God they aren’t the person I’ll face in the Tether.
I need to find out. Grandmère might be proud of my newfound boldness—once she finishes punishing me for disobeying her orders.
I stand, pretending to go to the bathroom.
I need to see what’s backstage. But my brother reaches for my arm, never taking his gaze off the stage.
Like he doesn’t want me to miss a second of what’s coming next.
A man rides his motorcycle tilted so much that his elbow is practically dragging the ground. I lower myself back into my seat.