Night's Pleasure. Amanda Ashley

      Savanah Gentry stared at the stage, her eyes narrowed as she studied the magician who strutted back and forth. This time, he was billed as Santoro the Magnificent. He wore his long black hair pulled away from his face and his attire was a little different, but she knew he was the same man she had seen on a number of other occasions under a variety of names. Clad in a pair of tight black trousers, a white muscle shirt that clung to his upper body like a second skin, and a pair of knee-high black leather boots, he was the most handsome man Savanah had ever seen. She had seen him at least a dozen times in the last sixteen years, thanks to her father’s fascination with magicians.

      She had to admit that she was also intrigued by the art of magic and by those who practiced it, even though she knew none of it was real, and that the amazing effects performed on stage were accomplished through collusion with a member of the audience, misdirection, deception, or sleight of hand. She knew David Copperfield hadn’t really made the Statue of Liberty disappear, but she had been amazed by the video just the same.

      Of course, magic was a two-way street, with the magician attempting to perform a trick that was so incredibly clever it would completely baffle the audience, while the audience let itself be entertained by an effect they knew was accomplished through deception.

      William Gentry’s passion for magic, illusion, and the Supernatural bordered on obsession, surpassing even his daughter’s interest. He seemed especially obsessed with the man now calling himself Santoro the Magnificent, and had, in fact, compiled a notebook that spanned the magician’s career over the last sixteen years. Of course, finding the magician through the years had been hit and miss, since he continually changed his name. And now Renaldo or Zander or Antoine or whoever he was, was in Kelton again, albeit under yet a different name.

      Savanah had gone to the theater every night for the last week. Sitting in the front row, she couldn’t decide if the “Magnificent” in Santoro’s title referred to his remarkable abilities as a magician, his arrestingly handsome face, or his incredible physique. Most likely all three.

      She had to admit that, aside from his astonishing good looks and his hard, lean body, he was far and away the best prestidigitator she had ever seen, and she had seen many. Santoro the Magnificent didn’t do anything as ordinary as sawing a woman in half or making an elephant disappear, although Savanah was pretty sure he could manage both feats with ease. No, he stood on a bare, well-lit stage and performed the impossible. She had seen him step into an open box on the left side of the stage and, seconds later, step out of a similar box on the right side. He had caught a bullet, fired by the local chief of police, in his bare hand. He had levitated a full-grown horse into the air. He had levitated himself three feet off the floor, and while hanging suspended in midair, had invited everyone in the audience who was so inclined to come up and see for themselves that there were no invisible wires holding him up. Savanah had accepted that invitation and left the stage more convinced than ever that he was the real deal, a true magician. A recent article in a neighboring newspaper suggested that Santoro the Magnificent had sold his soul to the devil in order to obtain his remarkable powers. She couldn’t help wondering if that also accounted for his devilish good looks.

      One of the highlights of the magician’s act occurred when he stood in the spotlight at the front of the stage and vanished from sight, only to reappear moments later in the rear balcony of the theater. She had seen similar gags performed before, but always there had been a trick involved—some sort of sleight of hand or a stunt double, because it was virtually impossible for a man to teleport himself from one place to another in a matter of seconds.

      Savanah would have traded her brand new Jimmy Choo suede boots—boots that she had scrimped and saved for—to know Santoro’s secret. If it was a trick—and what else could it be?—it was the best one she had ever seen. She remembered standing on the very stage he was on now, close enough to touch him, when she was nine years old. Remembered watching him open an ordinary-looking door, step through the opening, and disappear. To this day, she was convinced he had dropped into a cleverly hidden trapdoor. After all, people didn’t just vanish into thin air.

      Santoro’s most astonishing feat occurred when he transformed into a wolf in full view of the audience. Smoke and mirrors, some said, but Savanah was sure it was more than that. Mere illusion, others said, and she might have agreed if she hadn’t seen him perform, up close and personal, on several occasions. There were rumors that he was a Werewolf, but she had dismissed the idea, since she had seen him change on nights when the moon wasn’t full.

      Savanah recalled seeing him perform on her fourteenth birthday. He had been billing himself as The Marvelous Marvello at the time. Once again, he had called her out of the audience. Was it mere chance that he had picked her, or did he remember her as she remembered him? He had bid her watch closely as two men tied his hands and feet with thick rope and then bound him with golden chains. Once again, he had disappeared before her eyes, leaving the ropes and chains behind.

      The last time she had seen him, he had been calling himself the Great Zander, but she had known it was him the minute he’d walked onto the stage. Hardly daring to blink, she had watched his every move closely, hoping to catch him using sleight of hand or a device of some kind as he performed one amazing trick after another, convinced once again that he was either the greatest magician since Harry Houdini, or a wizard gifted with Supernatural powers. That had been two years ago.

      Last night, Santoro had again called her out of the audience. He had taken her hand in his and kissed her palm, sending little frissons of electricity shooting up her arm. He had felt it, too, she was sure of it, though he had given no sign of it. Even-voiced, he had asked her if she was afraid of heights and then explained that he was going to levitate her. She had expected him to put her into some kind of trance or hook her up to an invisible wire while he distracted the audience; instead, he had looked into her eyes and then, to her utter astonishment, he had lifted his hand and she had risen vertically into the air. She had hung there for what seemed like an eternity, with his gaze locked on hers, before he slowly lowered his hand until her feet again touched the floor. Before she’d left the stage, his gaze had caught and held hers. In that brief moment, she had found herself wondering again if he remembered her from times past and then, to her amazement, she realized that he hadn’t changed at all. He looked exactly the way he had when she had first seen him sixteen years ago. Why hadn’t she ever noticed