Dream Walker (Bailey Spade 1)

There’s a world of difference between “think of a random card” and “think of a card that represents you.” One is a free choice; another is a directed choice.

From my experience, most women will think of the Queen of Hearts when confronted with my carefully worded instruction. This psychological ploy works doubly well for extroverts like Kacie, especially ones who use as much red lipstick as she does.

“It’s very important that the viewers understand that you had an absolutely free choice,” I tell her. I really enjoy saying that line, given how evilly false it is. “Please also confirm to everyone that I offered you a chance to change your mind if you so desired.”

The second part is true. I did tell her she could change the card, but I said it offhandedly, as an afterthought, not giving her a chance to really think it through. It was a risk, of course, but people almost never change their minds after they have a card picked, especially if they are stuck on the idea that the original card “represents them.”

“That’s exactly what she said.” Kacie is on the verge of clapping her carefully manicured hands together in excitement. It’s amazing how magic can turn this polished woman into a little girl again.

Deciding that fortune favors the bold, I say, “This is your last chance to change your mind. If you want, you can do so now.”

Kacie shakes her head, clearly in a rush to know what happens next.

Great.

She’s sticking with her choice.

“For the first time, please name your card out loud.” I make a sweeping, go-ahead gesture with my right hand and prepare to not look disappointed if I have to resort to plan B.

“The Queen of Hearts,” Kacie announces triumphantly.

I swallow a grin. Showing my excitement might hint at my method, just as revealing disappointment would.

Slowly, I turn my outstretched arm toward Kacie. “Remember, you could’ve changed your mind at any time.”

She gasps, her spidery eyelashes fluttering in rapid blinks.

“Is that real?” Her voice is full of awe. She obviously forgot the selection process and believes she genuinely had free choice of any card.

“I got this a few months ago,” I say, keeping my arm steady to make sure it remains within everyone’s sight.

Someone in the audience whispers one of my favorite phrases: “There’s no way.”

The camera zooms in on my forearm.

The big screen behind us shows my pale skin and the intricate tattoo adorning it.

The Queen of Hearts.

“Would you like to touch it?” I slide all the way to the edge of the couch and thrust the tattoo at Kacie. “Make sure it’s not just drawn on there.”

Kacie’s cool fingers massage the tattoo, and she slowly shakes her head, whispering in amazement under her breath.

I now allow myself a huge grin. Every time an effect succeeds like this and I see the awe on people’s faces, I get a huge rush.

This is why I’m pursuing this career of honest deception despite my fear of public speaking.

Risking a glance at the crowd, I notice that they’re even more impressed than Kacie—as they should be. As far as they know, I told Kacie to “think of any card.”

“And of course, this is the only tattoo I have on my body.” I turn my ink-free left arm toward the camera and lift my hair up to display the back of my neck. I debate showing my tramp-stamp-free lower back, but since that requires getting up on still-unsteady legs, I decide not to risk it and quip, “At least the only tattoo in a place I could show on national television.”

The joke bursts the pent-up tension from the revelation, and everyone laughs.

I beam at them.

I’ll remember this moment forever.

The act has gone perfectly.

Of course, there’s a slight problem. The people who have seen me perform at the restaurant—like Darian—might catch on to the fact that I always reveal the Queen of Hearts.

I meet his inscrutable green gaze in the VIP section of the first row and wink. Is he any closer to figuring out the method behind the effect, having seen it twice?

Hopefully, he thinks I’m a careful manipulator who can make people think anything I desire—which I guess isn’t that far from the truth. The question that should be eating at Darian now is: “What if Kacie didn’t name the Queen of Hearts?”

The answer to that question is very simple: I’d go to plan B. I have a deck of cards in my right pocket—something I never leave home without. If Kacie named the wrong card, I’d try not to look disappointed and would use my already-extended right hand to retrieve the deck from my pocket. I’d ask Kacie to name a number between one and fifty-two, and I’d count to that number from the top of the deck to “magically” reveal her card—an effect that feels like a prediction, and for other magicians might seem like a bigger miracle than the tattoo version. No one—besides Darian—would be the wiser.