Autopsie, tome 3 : Escaping from Houdini

“Nervous?” I whispered as the aerial performers gracefully descended, one by one.

“Of a performance that boasts of causing arrhythmia, according to this program?” He flicked the black and white striped show-bill he held. “Not at all. I cannot wait for my heart to burst. Really livens up an otherwise monotonous Sunday evening, Wadsworth.”

Before I could respond, a drum thundered and a masked man emerged from a cloud of smoke in the center of the stage. He wore a frock coat the color of an opened vein and a starched shirt and trousers that were an endless black. Scarlet ribbons and silver bullion trimmed his top hat and a burnished filigree mask covered everything from his nose up. His mouth curved in wicked delight as every eye in the saloon went to him and each jaw dropped.

Men jumped in their seats, women’s fans snapped open, the sound akin to a hundred birds taking flight. It was unsettling, witnessing a man materialize, unscathed by the tempest raging about him. Whispers of him being the devil’s heir reached my ears. Or Satan himself, as Miss Prescott’s father would have it. I nearly rolled my eyes. As a chief magistrate, I should hope he’d have better judgment. This was clearly the ringmaster.

“Allow me to introduce myself.” The masked man bowed, mischief sparking in his eyes as he slowly drew himself back up. “I am Mephistopheles — your guide through the strange and magnificent. Each night the Wheel of Fate will choose your entertainer. I warn you, though, beware of midnight bargains…taking your fate in your own hands is poorly advised.”

Passengers fidgeted, probably wondering at the sort of bargains they might make — how low they might fall in the pursuit of pleasure so far from society’s watchful shores.

“Our tricks might appear sweet, but I promise they are not treats,” he whispered. “Are you brave enough to survive? Perhaps you’ll be another who loses their heart and their head to my midnight minstrel show. Only you can decide. Until then?”

Mephistopheles prowled on stage, a caged animal waiting for an opportunity to strike. My heart thudded wildly. I had the distinct impression we were all prey dressed in our finest, and if we weren’t careful, we’d be devoured by his show.

“Tonight is the first of seven in which you will be dazzled.” The ringmaster lifted his arms and a dozen white doves flew from his sleeves into the rafters. A few excited cries erupted, Mrs. Harvey and Miss Prescott among the first.

“Horrified,” he continued, a slight croak now in his voice. From one blink to the next, his tie was no longer made of cloth — it was a writhing snake, wrapping itself about his neck. Mephistopheles clutched his throat, his bronze face turning a deep purple under the filigree mask. My own breath caught when he bent over and sputtered, gasping for air.

I almost stood, convinced we were bearing witness to this man’s death, but forced myself to breathe. To think. To compile facts like the scientist in training I was. This was only a show. Nothing more. Surely no one was going to die. My breath came in short gasps that had nothing to do with the corset of my fine dress. This was utterly thrilling and horrible. I hated it almost as much as I loved it. And I adored it more than I cared to admit.