Sleight of Hand

By Ilse V Rensburg and Jason Hes

Destroy the magicians.

Destroy all unnaturals.

New York City. 1926.

Demento, a young magician with a sinister past, becomes the target of a secret organisation when a string of bizarre murders leaves the nation perplexed.

Gwen Cavanagh, an agent of the October House, is sent to invistigate the brutal crimes. She poses as an eager magician's assistant, wanting nothing more than to relish Demento's demise.

What both ladies discover not only shakes the very fabric of their realities. 

It could bring about the end of the world, as their journeys take them through the crumbling nickel empire that is Coney Island, to the ritzy ballrooms of the American uppercrust, glamorous theatre halls, and the soulless alleyways of Hell's Kitchen.

"Magicians and subterfuge, Sleight of Hand is the cat's meow!" - Carmen Dominque Taxer, Sanguinem Emere

"I love this world. I can see the flappers in their risqu`e dresses and smell the crime in New York!" - N M Millen, author: The Black Cube

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sera Blue
• Release date: Feb 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9780639983721

Ilse V Rensburg

Ilse V Rensburg (B. November 20, 1989) is a South African author of young-adult, urban and dark fantasy novels. A self-proclaimed verbivore with a passion for puns, Ilse has a BA in Languages and Literature, and an ineffable love for cats. She also wrote the fantasy series titled The Lost Day and co-authored the novelette Sleight of Hand.

Book preview

First published by Sera Blue in 2018

A South African Publishing company

Operating from offices in Midrand

www.serablue.com

ISBN 978-0-6399837-1-4

Copyright ©2019 Sera Blue

Copyright ©2019 Jason Hes & Ilse V Rensburg

The right of Jason Hes and Ilse V Rensburg to be identified as the authors of their own work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright Act, 1978

Use of this work by persons without prior permission from the publisher is liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages

A CIP catalogue of this book is available at the

Pretoria National Library – South Africa

This book was printed and bound by, SA Paperback

a South African company

This book was edited by Sera Blue

Cover art was done by Ilse V Rensburg

The views expressed in this book do not represent the writer,

the publishing house or associated organisations.

Its intended purpose is for entertainment only. ­­

Any character or aspect of a character similar to persons

alive or deceased is purely coincidental.

For more information such as the latest book releases, author interviews and news, please go to www.facebook.com/serabluepublishing

Review Books to Help Authors

Magicians and subterfuge, Sleight of Hand is the Cat’s Meow!

-  Carmen Dominique Taxer, Sanguinem Emere

I love this world. I can see the flappers in their risqué dress and smell the grime in New York!

-  N M Millen, author of The Black Cube

For

Kelan

The Prometheus behind our stories and a true force to be reckoned with.

If it were not for your encouragement of our wildest (and often most bizarre) dreams, our stories wouldn’t be what they are.

Thank you.

Glossary

Beat gums – Chat  

Bushwa – Bullshit

Blotto – Extremely intoxicated

Canary – Snitch

Cat’s meow – Cool

Cancelled stamp – A wallflower

Close [his/her/your] head – Shut up

Dewdropper – An unemployed, lazy man who sleeps all day

Dizzy with a dame – To be infatuated with someone

Don’t take any wooden nickels – Don’t do anything stupid

Don’t know your onions – Not knowing the facts

Flapper – A fashionable young woman intent on enjoying herself and flouting conventional standards of behaviour

Gaspers – Cigarettes

Gat – Gun

Mrs Grundy – A prude

Now you’re on the trolley – Now you get it

Panther Kiss – Whisky

Quiff – Prostitute

Zozzled – Drunk

CHAPTER ONE

This place is worse than hell , Gwen thinks to herself as she makes her way along the Riegelmann Boardwalk, built along the southern shore of the Coney Island peninsula. Nothing more than a filthy, decaying nickel empire. Revolting.

Today, the boardwalk, which was once a luxurious waterfront promenade nestled between West 37th and West 5th, is populated by immigrants fleeing the dirty heat of the city and freak show rejects looking for a quick coin.

Gwen knows all these details, clinically so, off by heart because her handler at The October House drilled them mercilessly into her skull before she began her mission.

But even memorising all the facts and repeating them back to her handler like a bizarre second language couldn’t have prepared Gwen for seeing the details brought to life before her eyes. And, embarrassingly enough, being overwhelmed by them too.

Before she knows it, she’s caught in the stifling, throbbing crowds of Italians, Polish and Latin Americans as they bustle past her in every direction possible. She squints her eyes against the beating sun. The air is thick with the nauseating rot of discarded hot dogs and sweat.

It’s insufferable. Everything. She can barely walk a few feet without knocking into a screaming child or tripping over the rickety soapbox of a barker, who roars over the crowds about bearded women, mer-babies and horned geriatrics.

Even the majestic Wonder Wheel – a true modern marvel she had once read about in a Yanky Doodle magazine – seems foreboding as it dwarves her where she stands. It’s too much. All the activity curdles around her – the shouting, colours, radiating heat and smells.

She can’t think straight. She knows she has to find the shop of a fortune teller, who lives and works on the boardwalk, but with everything going on about her, Gwen becomes more and more distressed until, to her horror, she realises she’s forgotten the most important detail. The name of the damned shop.

Her eyes dart around the boardwalk, looking for a safe space to hide from the crowds. She needs to hold the letter she had been given at The October House up to the sun to find out the name of the fortune teller. Again.

All other information on the letter is meant to be understood by her handler only. It’s even written in a code she doesn’t understand, one made up of ancient numerals and hieroglyphs. But no matter where she looks, all she can see is a pulsing sea of people crammed like sardines as they make their way to the beach. Gwen sucks in her breath as her stomach rolls.

She decides to navigate her way to the edge of the boardwalk, where a long strip of shops face the Indian Ocean ... or was it the Atlantic? She can’t remember, and in the state of mind she is in, she doesn’t care. Her handler would be so proud.

An obnoxiously loud Italian man, carrying an overloaded picnic basket of food, walks right into her. Gwen wobbles on the soles of her feet and gasps as she crumbles against the side of a hotdog stand. Apples, bread rolls and cheese bounce to the ground by her feet. A bottle of cheap wine tumbles out of the basket and shatters on the boardwalk, painting it a bloody red.

The man clenches his fists and howls at her, grabbing at her dress and feet. She kicks him away, using the hotdog stand for support as she lifts herself up and ducks between a man and a woman devouring each other in a passionate, wet kiss.

Gwen feels for her M1911 she has strapped to her inner thigh, and the letter she holds against her breast. Thankfully, both are still there. She looks back at the Italian man as he pushes his way through the swollen crowds to try to reach her. She could kill him if she wanted to. Right then and there. Put a bullet straight between his eyes.

Gwen doesn’t know if she is a very good spy, it’s her first official mission after all, but she makes an excellent shot. Of course, she’d never shoot the man. He’s all human, completely Natural. Nothing about him suggests any ties to the paranormal, other than his overly-aggressive response to a spilt picnic basket.

Humans are untouchable in the eyes of The October House. Humankind is to be protected, at all costs. Anything or anyone who chooses to deviate from it is the enemy. Always. Even something as small as breaking the angry man’s nose would corrupt the mission. Plugging him would destroy it, but to be fair, it would clear the boardwalk very quickly.

As soon as she loses the irate Italian, she tries to gather her thoughts. She runs through the alphabet in her mind, hoping at least one letter will spark her memory as to the name of the fortune teller’s shop. None of them do. She is boiling hot, overwhelmed, way over her head ... and hopeless.

Her legs turn to jelly and she loses all feeling in her feet. She sinks to her knees, below the surface of the crowds.

She has to make it to the edge. She can’t give up. All she needs is space to clear her head away from the swelter and the people, and breathe.

She barely has enough strength to pull herself to her feet, but she does anyway, only just.

Light-headed, she wades through the crowds until she comes to a staggered halt underneath a massive, worn wooden cut-out of a crystal ball. Below it is the name Madame Luna in a curly crimson typeface. Gwen exhales. Her vision goes fuzzy and she closes her eyes.

Madame Luna. Of course!

Relieved, she thanks whatever guardian angel or god is up in the deep blue sky watching over her.

She has found her rendezvous point at last. Clearly, she is favoured, but as to why, she doesn’t know. Perhaps her parents are still with her, even after all these years. Carving a celestial path for her which she follows blindly.

Whispering encouragement in her ears and reminding her why she chose the life she now leads. Avenge us.

Gwen’s knees buckle and she falls forward. The rickety boards of the Riegelmann seem so far away, obscured by deep blots of darkness. She dives headfirst into a pool of ink.

CHAPTER TWO

An ice-cold chill, slowly creeping its way into her pores and freezing the very blood in her veins makes Gwen open her eyes with a start.

She gasps and tries to sit up, but the sudden movement makes her dizzy and she slips under the ice and water. She flails her arms, trying to grip onto something. Anything. At last, her fingers snag what feels like a dulled edge, and with a deep breath, she rises from the water once more.

Spluttering and confused, she wipes her eyes and takes in her surroundings.

She’s in an old, dirty bathtub. It’s filled to the brim with murky water and ice cubes. To her left, is a gargling toilet. Above it, a boarded-up window.

A cracked mirror, from where she’s positioned,