“For a moment,” Layla replied.
“Well, good luck to you both. Boy, if all goes as planned, it’ll surely lock your place in history as the greatest magicians ever perfor—" At that instant, Mengyao seemed to have felt a small quiver vibrate up the stool at which he sat. The coffee inside his mug exerted tiny ripples over the surface, and within moments the entire studio pulsed with faint tremors.
But by the time Szilva pressed a hand on the table only seconds later, it was still.
* * *
October 31; the day of finality had come at the junction of Seventh Avenue and Broadway in New York City. Szilva and Layla stood in front of a pumpkin patch at One Times Square, a 25 story skyscraper. Usually shielded in a gaudy display of digital advertisements, today was stripped of all but one. At what would be 24 stories up, hung an emblem, lit in triangles of white light. It displayed Szilva and Layla's logotype in fanciful font. From behind, fog spewed over all sides and cascaded down the entire front of the building like a ghostly waterfall, flowing right down to the ground below.
Szilva and Layla stepped forward, closer to the crowd, who were sectioned off with yellow police tape and burly guards. Huge digital screens flickered on around them, displaying live shots of the women in matching cloaks from different angles. Their hoods shielded their faces from the growing crowd. The deep velvety purple material glistened and flapped in the cool autumn breeze and the bright city sun.
They stood still, peering down at the sidewalk, their hands interlocked. Szilva felt Layla trembling at the wrist.
"You okay?" Szilva asked her. Layla didn't respond.
A rhythm of music pulsed through stereos hidden throughout the busy square. Szilva and Layla pulled their hoods back enough to unveil a set of Venetian skull masks. Through orbital cavities, black marbled eyes glared out at the ever-eager crowd. Camera shutters clicked.
A fog gathered at the foot of the crowd and billowed upward, covering Szilva and Layla. And at a blast of white light, the fog dissipated and the magicians disappeared.
Pumpkins rolled off each other at once and began floating upward, showing off carved faces. The crowd peered up at them and the pumpkins peered back down. They all scattered about like a startled colony of bright orange bats. They bobbed with the music and belched out purple glitter from the pits of their carved mouths.
At once, a scattered group of spectators raised their index fingers toward the top of the skyscraper where a flash of light and a cloud of smoke burst out. And there, Szilva and Layla had appeared at the roof's edge. They stood there, hands still interlocked.
It took a stumbling minute for the cameras to focus back on them, but sure enough, all eyes and lenses were locked on them.
As the music gained momentum, the pumpkins flew toward One Times Square. Szilva and Layla held up their arms, released their grip on each other, and began chanting:
Blanket the sky,
Shadows multiply,
And fill them with fear,
O’ Sun disappear,
And blanket the sky,
Shadows multiply,
And fill them with fear,
O’ Sun disappear.
Layla stuttered the last verse in panic as she saw rivers of dark clouds flowing across the sky. The pumpkins lit up as the sky blackened. They twirled off their stemmed tops and from within their empty shells, a fury of skulls shot out as if they'd been imprisoned their whole lives.
Lightning flashed sideways across the city sky. The skulls and pumpkins danced with each other like old friends and swirled around the skyscraper in a fanciful Halloween tornado.
The floor shook from thunder, and two more lightning bolts darted across the sky. Dots of rain tapped across their Venetian skull masks. Szilva looked over at Layla, whose eyes were glossed in tears.
"Layla, what's wrong?" Szilva asked. Still, Layla said nothing, continuing to stare at the Sun as it faded to black like a shimmering evanescent bubble. The crowd roared below. A bombardment of horns sounded from vehicles and echoed off buildings. Within moments, the air chilled and the roof rumbled again.
"Layla, something's not right," Szilva said, her breath visible in the chilled air. "The time is off. It shouldn't have disappeared yet, right?"
Layla turned her head to Szilva. "No, it shouldn't have. This better not be one of your surprises. You better let me know right now if it is!"
At the strike of another lightning bolt, the music deadened. An eerie calmness took over. Powerful thrusts of wind ravaged the sky and knocked the pumpkins and skulls off track. They pummeled down at the crowd below, leaving the streets covered with slippery orange sludge.
The digital screens so far capturing every move the magicians made flickered to live images of mountains billowing out smoke. Szilva and Layla stood there on the roof in awe. Their velvety cloaks flapped forward in ravenous waves. And all of a sudden, the glittering towers surrounding Times Square blacked out.
Although it was dark, Szilva could see something falling from the sky. It wasn't rain, nor sleet, nor snow or glitter. She held out her hand and snatched what she saw. She tipped up her mask and rubbed a finger over the flaky thing. It smeared dark against her palm. It was ash. And it was raining down in a swelling swarm of flurries.
Szilva turned to Layla, who knelt on the floor, her hood covering her mask.
"We've got to get down!" Szilva yelled over the coursing wind, which blew her mask right off her head. She held on to Layla's shoulders, trying to coerce her to stand. She wouldn't budge.
"We've got to get down!" she yelled, forcing Layla to stand. But by the time they turned around, two cauliflower-shaped debris clouds thrusts between Seventh Avenue and Broadway, blinding out everything below; all the people, the streetlights, the cars and traffic lights. Everything disappeared behind the dark cloud and the temperature made a drastic reverse from the pyroclastic flow. The force snapped Layla's mask off her face.
"We didn't know," Szilva cried out. She thrust Layla closer to the stairs, against the wind. "We didn't know." She saw Layla's face gazing forward, cringing in terror.
Szilva looked up. Plumes of scorching smoke thrust out from the sky and terror torched forth in roves of heat and fire. Szilva grabbed Layla's hand. At once, the wind thrust them up and off the rooftop, taking them through ashy smoke clouds and over streets flowing red lava.
For Szilva and Layla's next feat, magic would be useless, and life, merely an illusion of a past performance.
END
Acknowledgments
I would like to extend my sincerest thanks to those who have provided support, talked things over, read, offered suggestions, assisted in editing, proofread, modeled for photo shoots, acted in the book trailer, and marketed during this arduous publishing process.
I would like to thank Michael Garrett for helping me in the process of editing. His acceptance of my manuscript was a great honor; I appreciate the time and effort spent on reviewing and helping strengthen its overall quality.
My appreciation goes out to Lydia Peever, author of Nightface, for her early interest in Wake the Wicked, and for accepting my endorsement request. Her supporting hands carried the book to a darker place.
I would like to thank my beloved ferrets, Pumpkin and Benjamin, my parents, Donna and Dave Baloga, and my Nana, Pauline Richardson for being there for me in spite of all the time it took me away from them.
Above all, I want to thank my dear friend, Harley
Kupstas, and my sister, Angela Baloga, who supported and encouraged me when others remained indifferent.
About the Author
Christian Baloga lives in rural Pennsylvania and was born just one day after Halloween, on the Day of the Dead. When not writing books, he harbors a peculiar interest in urban exploring, paranormal investigation, traveling, and creating works of art. In fact, three of his human hair sculptures are displayed in Ripley's Believe It or Not! museum.
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Christian Baloga, Wake the Wicked
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