"I fucking swear, Jérôme, if you ain't done within the next thirty seconds I'm making you eat it back up."

A street corner, a dingy pub. A young demon, doubled over, one hand on the filthy wall and one on his alcohol-queasy stomach. He gives no reply other than a grunt and a shaky middle finger. Husk stuck holding the kid's apron, swearing. None of the demons huddled for a smoke in the neon glow of the pub's sign even spares them a look.

"... no, ok, listen… I was covering at the bar," Jérôme tries to say, wheezed, "and these girls kept buying me drinks…"

"Fucking unbelievable."

Husk throws his hands up, letting them fall back against his thighs. Slack, like an exasperated market vendor. Who the fuck gets plastered in the middle of his waitering shift? Don't answer that. He's buzzed himself, unfiltered with irritation, but not enough gone to ask out loud.

"But I had just, like, three." Jérôme staggers upright, a frown of concentration. "... maybe it was four. And a sundae. Wait, no… five? Wait…"

The irritated swish of Husk's tail lifts up dust from the street in the evening air. He holds back from moving his wings too much. Most of his props are stashed in them. Wings are the magic-keepers.

"First rule of bartending, for fuck's sake." The movement also fans a whiff of the kid's unfortunate life choices from the sidewalk right to his nostrils. He gags. "Gh—no mixing beer and ice-cream, God. Can't believe I have to be the one to tell you. Again."

"Ugh, shut… get off my back… stop, uh, judging and shit..."

One time. The one time Husk has the chance to use his other hobby to make a quick buck. The one fucking time. His last minute piano guy bent over power-washing the sidewalk with sick, what more? Husk hits the pub's wall, side-hands it, crinkling a faded band poster. Some dust comes off the stone, leaving streaks on his sleeve. Why is this guy's name Jérôme? he thinks sourly. He's not even French.

"You shouldn't be mixing your fucking alcohol, too."

Jérôme lets out a feeble, peevish scoff. "It's a… it's a fucking cocktail, man, it's already mixed..."

"Oh boy."

"Who do you think… who in there you think even gives a shit about a magic show, anyway?" Fresh round of retching and dry-heaving. The kid groans, "Place came with a stage, Boss wants to sell drinks, that's all. It's you tonight and some shitty Ska band tomorrow."

Yeah, Husk thinks, and that's the goddamn point.

If it had to be any good, Husk would have said no. Who has that kind of energy these days? But there's no point explaining that to Jérôme. Kid works in a pub and can't tell cider from apple juice, he's a lost cause.

Jérôme is a demon of the worst kind: dead both young and recent. A nightmare of cultural disconnect made cockatiel crest on gangly legs. Can't be more than twenty-five or so. Husk sighs through his teeth, letting out a throaty hiss.

"Yeah, and the Denny & Dunipace rejects play on Monday night. I work here too." Using the Don't get cheeky with me, son tone really makes him feel his age. For the purposes of this discussion though, he's decided that his occasional bartending gig counts as working here. "Any point you're trying to make?"

"You… you should consider joining them."

"Really? That's your comeback?"

Most importantly, Jérôme is a dick. And an unreliable one to boot. Fool me once, fool me twice, you know the saying.

But Jérôme can find his way around a piano, and this kind of thing is always last minute. It's not like Husk can just snap his fingers and summon some other demon to do it, now, can he? If he could, he wouldn't be in this situation.

"Why do you even need a piano man for a magic show, anyway?"

Husk has the misfortune to know a guy that does exactly that. Every time there's a job he doesn't feel like doing himself, or some new harebrained scheme—click go those red-clawed fingers. And bam, here's some weird crap to deal with, Have fun, Husker! Let's get drinks sometime!

Not the way Husk works. Never has. Bartering, scheming, maintaining a network of connections… listen, it's enough that he remembers to wash his spats, and ring up ol' Niffty once in a while. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.

It's true, yes, piano accompaniment is a non-essential. Especially for a routine that's mostly close-up, with no stage grandiosity, no big props to justify that kind of flair. He really… he really shouldn't care.

but it helps keep time, it sets the mood, it makes the transitions smoother. And Husk, for fuck's sake, he likes it. It's the one thing he likes. He has a process. Can't he have this one thing, just this once? Something going the way it's supposed to go?

Husk nods at the puddle. "Stick with what you know, Jérôme."

It's a stupid little hobby, isn't it? Magic, bah. It's childish. It doesn't need to be good, he'll get paid anyway. Probably. And if he doesn't, whatever. He can win that money back three times over, just name the game.

This is Hell. Of course no one would care. Husk himself cares least of all. This tipsy, you couldn't pay him to care about shit.

Sober Husk and all that caring, he just sets himself up for failure. Sober Husk and all those questions, like rain that pours. What am I doing, why did this happen, why didn't I say that when I had the chance. Son of the desert, he does not do well with too much rain. (Sober Husk and all that wretched hope.)

He swats the dust off his dirty sleeve. A string of colored handkerchiefs, three plastic flowers, and his pack of trick cards tumble out of it, deaf to his imprecations. He spares a moment to look up at the sky over Pentagram City. Cold, dull, the color of a day-old bruise.

Just looking up at it makes you regret having put effort into anything, ever.


Husk has no taste for actual magic.

He'll look at it, sure, maybe even enjoy it. But he's done messing with it himself. If it can't all fit in your coat pocket, he ain't with it.

Of course, when he saw his first show as a boy, stage magic and actual magic were one and the same. That's the appeal, isn't it, to a child's mind? The power, the mystery, the wonder.

Any chance he got, he was on stage. Shot right out of his seat to volunteer, every time a performer popped the question. He loved to play Assistant, take part in the show as more than audience. Disappearing Box, the old classic, was one of his favorites. He'd crawl into the dusty space and listen, heart pounding into the echo of his breath, waiting for his cue. His whole being soared with the applause as he reappeared, but the best part was the Secret. Knowing how the trick worked, when the rest of the room did not. Having been made safekeeper, for a little while. A time-bound spell.

This is about unveiling. The beauty of it. A child-loved fascination that did nothing but grow the more he peered into the skill and engineering of magic. It made him dream that this could be his future, and some dreams are like rattlesnakes: kill them when they're young, the poison's already there. Life won't waste any time trying.

Hell is a place of actual magic. Cause and solution of all power struggles. Messy business. Real pain in the ass.

In a place like this, the charm a magic trick lies all in the skill, in the performance, in the way the magician carries himself. The cards are Husk's element, his native language, his playing field. And at the same time, there's no need for every trick to come out perfect. In this upside-down place, it is the measure of imperfection that serves as a gauge of skill, and will not get him accused of simply—psh—having powers, or some shit.

He is fond of close-up magic especially. Sitting with people there at the same table. Like a round of cards between old friends. Pick a card, any card. The honesty of it, no bets, no stakes. No need to cheat. It's a fragile, time-bound kind of trust. Like a spell, it lasts only until the show does.

Look at my hands. Would be simple, if I explained it. (I won't.) You could do it too, if you practiced. (You won't.)

Life hasn't managed to beat this out of him. It tried, it did, beat down on that rattlesnake with a stick until it was mush. It didn't die. Then war had come. Then Hell itself. I swear, his hands say, I swear it is innocent. Husk has stuck with it beyond death, stubbornly human. Just like his old acquaintance, king of stubbornness, sticking with the name his mother gave him.

(Magician's fingers, keepers of secrets.)

This is all the good he has to share, this last shining glimmer.

(Don't reveal the trick.)


Preparations. All his props in place, Husk adjusts the sleeves he never wears. Straightens down his ill-fitting vest. Inhales deep in the greasy air of the pub, pushing the rebreathed alcohol fumes down, down, down. Punishes his lungs for making a grab for oxygen.

He clears his throat, offers his audience what passes for a smile these days, and makes a last ditch effort.

"Evening, folks." He stands up a little taller, at least tries. Damn, he used to be tall. "So, my guy's still outside chucking up. Anyone in here can play the piano?"

Some nasty laughter. Some heckling. A couple demons up and leave. All expected, nothing old, nothing new.

It's the variety in audiences that makes them cruel. It's a game of chances that can't be won. This is your everyday pub crowd. The folks that come here are so used to shitty performers, it might have become this place's shtick. Nothing in common except, perhaps, having nowhere else to go tonight. A healthy dose of self-hate. A tolerance for cheap gin.

Husk allows himself a last resigned sigh. Whatever, he tells himself. It's just a stupid hobby, anyway.

When he looks back up, he catches a ripple of movement at the corner of his eye. The base of his whiskers gives a prickle, a familiar feeling as a faint buzz of static makes his ear twitch. Oh, crap.

All turn. All couple dozen pairs of eyes, drawn as one by the same foreboding dread. All look to the suspiciously deserted corner at the back of the pub. A flash of teeth glints off the wan stage light.

Someone else has stood up, but not to leave.

Oh, not you. Husk's hackles rise. Anyone but you.

A red-clad arm shoots up, straight as a flagpole, in the universal gesture of volunteering. The alarmed chatter Husk is just now noticing grows louder. A current of motion through the small crowd as many try to shuffle away to the exit. A few faint screams: locked.

"I'll rephrase," Husk deadpans. Everyone falls silent. "Can anyone else in here play the piano?"


Chapter title from Paper Lace's Billy don't be a Hero