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“We’re symbionts for life,” I say solemnly. “Don’t you ever forget it.”
The rest of Pom turns purple, and he grins. “We make a good pair of symbionts, don’t we?”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” I kiss his furry forehead and set him down. “Now how about I do what I came here to do?”
We both look over at Mom. Her beautiful features appear so peaceful in her slumber.
“Do you want some privacy?” Pom asks.
“Please.” It’s been four months since Mom entered her coma. The chances that I’ll cry when we finally speak are pretty high, and seeing that might upset Pom.
He obligingly disappears.
I place my hand on Mom’s forehead. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “If I could save you without breaking my promise, I would.”
Steeling myself, I dive into her dream.
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Sneak Peek at The Girl Who Sees (Sasha Urban Series: Book 1)
I’m an illusionist, not a psychic.
Going on TV is supposed to advance my career, but things go wrong.
Like vampires and zombies kind of wrong.
My name is Sasha Urban, and this is how I learned what I am.
“By day, Sasha works for the infamous Nero Gorin at his hedge fund,” Kacie says, reciting the intro I’ve prepared. The words reach me as if I’m in an underground bunker. “By night, she performs at the sumptuous, Zagat-rated—”
The sips of Sea Breeze churn painfully in my stomach. It’s going to be my turn to speak in a couple of seconds.
The crowd looks at me menacingly.
The cliché of picturing them in their undies just makes me want to gag, so I picture them sleeping—which doesn’t work either.
Without Ariel’s medication, I might’ve run out screaming.
Scanning the audience again, I admit what should’ve been unsurprising: Mom didn’t come. When I sent her the invitation, I knew this was likely, but on some level, I must’ve still been holding out for her to show up. I only had one invite to give out, and I now wish I’d given it to someone else. Mom has never approved of my passion for “silly tricks,” as she puts it, probably because she’s worried that my income could fall drastically if I pursued magic as a career. And since she benefits from that income—
“Sasha?” Kacie repeats, her smile extending almost to her ears. “Welcome to my show, dear.”
I swallow and choke out, “Thanks for having me, Kacie.” If I hadn’t practiced it a million times, I would’ve messed up even this basic greeting. “I hope I can add a little mystery to everyone’s day.”
“I’m certainly intrigued.” Kacie looks from me to the camera and back. “I understand you’re going to predict the future today. Is that right, Sasha?”
Damn Darian. Why did he put me in this situation? Before he asked me not to end the show with a disclaimer, I had my act and speech perfectly planned out. Now I have to tread carefully and pick only the “safe” lines from the patter I’ve rehearsed so many times.
Kacie is looking at me expectantly, so I nod and plunge ahead, steadying my voice as I say, “My day job at the hedge fund requires me to predict how the market and individual investments might behave. I do so by absorbing a lot of financial and political data and using it to make my forecasts. As it turns out, I’m very good at this.”
Though magicians often lie in their patter, every word I just said is the truth. As much as I hate my job, I do excel at the forecasting aspect of it. I’m so successful at it, in fact, that my boss Nero puts up with my crap.
Having said that, the only reason I bring up my job at all is because every book on magic performance instructs you to make your material personal. Comedians use the same trick. And since nothing is more personal to me than my current purgatory, into the patter it went.
“Well then.” Kacie turns to the camera. “Sounds like a demonstration is in order.”
“Definitely,” I say, and hoping nobody notices the tremor in my hands, I casually roll up my sleeves—a move every magician worth her salt does before performing to rule out suspicion of the go-to “something up your sleeve” explanation.
Swallowing to moisten my dry throat, I say to Kacie, “Two days ago, you and I spoke on the phone, and I asked you to think of a playing card. Did you choose one?”
I hold my breath, my heart thrashing in my chest. What she says next will determine how amazing my first trick will seem to millions of people.
“Certainly,” she replies. “I have a card in mind.”
I exhale in relief, most of my nervousness melting away. She didn’t accidentally rat me out—which means I messed with her memory as intended. What I actually told her on the phone was, “Think of a card in the deck that represents you, or one that feels personal to you.”
