The Marquis and the Magician's Assistant (The Rebel Royals 4)

Chapter One

“Ladies and gentleman," called the young, fresh-faced man in a top hat and tails. "I, the Great Blaze Mercury, will astound you with an age-old trick, the skill most desired by men, and that is to saw a woman in half."

There were a few catcalls and whoops from the skeleton audience in the theater. It wasn't showtime, just a rehearsal. As the show's financial backer and producer, Omar al Shariff, the Marquis of Navarre of the island nation of Córdoba, settled into the cushions of the couch just off stage. He had a front row seat to the actual action. As he'd learned in these last couple of weeks since he'd taken a step into the wondrous world of magic, the real action happened behind the curtain.

Just off to the side of the stage, a tiny brunette heaved a weary sigh before she took beleaguered steps towards the baby-faced magician. She had a dancer’s body and grace. Her long, brown locks were swept up high on her head, but a few tendrils escaped the coiled bun to caress her swan's neck. She swayed like a willow dancing on a light breeze as she made her way across the stage. She had elongated limbs that ended in perfectly arched points, whether they be her arched toes in satin heels or her elegant fingers that fanned out as she spread her arms when she came up beside the magician.

"My assistant, the beautiful and sexy Lark Voorheen here will step into this box," said Mercury the Great. He held out his hand to the magician's assistant. Lark gave the man a death glare and stepped around his proffered hand.

Omar grinned at the fire in her eyes and the bladed edge of that tight smile. He knew the woman's wit was sharp, and her tongue could cut a man into a thousand tiny pieces before he knew that man was in trouble. The magician was in trouble.

"You know you're setting Women's Liberation back with your cheesy jokes and this even cheesier trick," came Lark's biting pronouncement. "Our worth is already calculated at less than the value of a man's. Now you want to cut me in half?"

The magician bit his upper lip, revealing unnaturally straight teeth that could have only been the result of years of orthodontic intervention. His Adam's apple worked up and down, like the gears of a broken clock trying to figure out if the time on the dial indicated whether it was day or night. Finally, the young man laughed. But it came out like the sound of a scared hyena.

"That time of the month, my dear?" And then the fool had the audacity to pat her hands before turning to address the audience. "Don't worry, everyone. No blood will be spilled."

Omar was certain the subtle change in Lark's face could be seen from the back of the theater. The inner corner of her catlike eyes narrowed ever so slightly. That perfectly, heart-shaped mouth pinched just at the divot in the center, making her lips even more plump and rounded.

If it wasn't clear to the peanut gallery in the audience before, it was clear to everyone in the room that the magician was in serious trouble. The magician's assistant’s mouth smoothed out into a smile so sweet and captivating that the Great Mercury gasped. A few other men in the seats gasped as well; a slight, swift intake of breath that said loud and clear I'm under your spell.

Omar felt a sharp thud in his chest. He'd gasped too. He'd already known he was in trouble from the first moment he saw that woman.

Lark stepped into the cheap plywood box that would render her in two. The magician went about putting in the stocks that would hold her head and feet in place. He chattered on while he went about his preparations.

Omar wasn't paying attention to him anymore. No one in the theater was. All attention was rapt on the woman whose gaze hadn't ceased its calculating gleam since she'd arrived on the stage.

The buzzing of a saw sounded. It began to lower toward Lark. The blade hit the top of the box, and wood splinters began to fly. Then the wrenching sound of gears was like a record scratch on the performance. The blade sped up.

"Wait, that's not supposed to happen." The magician fumbled with the blade. But he couldn't stop the sharp wheel from spinning. Splinters flew faster, farther.

"Turn it off, you idiot," said Lark. Her calculating eyes now filled with terror as the splinters made way for the blade to pierce her flesh.

A second later, Lark's pretty mouth opened on a scream. A different gasp went through the audience, one of uncertainty. Omar leaped from the comfort of the couch just as the blade hit pay dirt.

Red splattered from the crevices of the wood box. Men rushed to the stage. Omar was just at the edge of the curtain when Lark slipped out of the box.

Her long limbs were attached. Her torso was an unblemished hourglass. Her hands were in the air, fingers fanning in a pose of ta-dah.

"Relax," she crooned, sending the audience a wink. "I'm good. It's him you need to worry about." Lark turned and shoved the magician into the open box.

"What most people don't understand about magic is that it's all an illusion," Lark continued. With a few flicks of her wrist, she had Mercury secured. Ignoring the man's protests, she reset the blade and aimed it for his torso. "Magician's wave their hands and shout silly words all to distract. Meanwhile, it's the assistant that does all the work."

The blade made its way through the magician's body. Lark began to pull the box apart but stopped.

"Oh, right, say the magic word."

The audience, now assured of her safety and apparently not caring about the magician's fate said the word; abracadabra.

Lark leaned against the box, speaking conversationally and completely unconcerned about the mutilated man in the box. "Do you know that even that word is believed to be sexist? Ab is Hebrew for father. Ben means son. I'm telling you, it's like they were asking for it."

She pulled apart the box with a flourish to reveal that the magician was, in fact, sawed in half.