'Magnini's First Trick' by Sean Hill

 The Mystic Magnini flung out his cloak with a dramatic flair as he crossed the small stage,
all lights on him—for all he was a performer, he focused better when he couldn't see the
audience so well. He had never quite gotten over the stage fright of his first failed
performance. He looked to his assistant, Asenath. Beautiful. Graceful, beyond compare.
Invaluable. But the price had been heavy. A siren they called her. Oh they had no idea.

Magnini had been studying. Deeper than anyone ever should, he was told. He was finding
it hard to hold back the laughter. When does an illusion become so real that the performer
forgets it's an illusion? When it's not an illusion. Oh they really had no idea. They couldn't
see the names, the signs, the grisly totems which all hung just out of sight—a sleight of
spirit.

Three words that hadn't been spoken by human tongues in ages too horrible to recount
were transmitted through a cheap microphone and resounded across the smoky little
theatre. Magnini did not hide his smile as with a flourish of his wrist—a personal touch—he
slid his hand behind the very air itself, half his arm vanishing into nothing as the audience
erupted into the whispers and craning necks he had desired.

He could see beyond the lights for a second. Victor and Marianna. They knew. Oh, yes,
they knew. Victoria's knuckles, white with straining. Marianna's lips pursed and pale with
fright. Stop me. I dare you, thought the magician.

From the air, the Mystic Magnini began to beckoned something that began to turn the
whispers into raised voices, and the raised voices into screams.

They had no idea.

But tonight, they would know. They would all know.