Night Rune (Prof Croft Book 8) Brad Magnarella (the red fox clan TXT) 📖

from the interesting—a display of wooden tribal masks—to the absurd—a cat-powered weaving loom. I also kept a close eye on Bree-yark. There was no telling what he might find objectionable, and he had a bad habit of settling things with his fists.

We bypassed the third floor, where signs pointed the way to live animal enclosures, including an albino tiger and a monkey with two heads, and continued to the fourth.

Visitors were already lined up in front of “The Theater of the Otherworldly” for the four o’clock show. From inside came screams and rapturous applause. A door opened shortly to release the audience, all of them talking at once. I grabbed the arm of a young man in suspenders and a tweed flat cap who looked like he’d come from the Five Points neighborhood we’d just left.

“Is a magician a part of the show?”

“Aye! And a dead flash one at that!”

“Flash?” Bree-yark grunted.

By the man’s animated eyes, I took that as slang for something good.

“Was his name Asmus the Great?” I asked.

“Didn’t catch the name,” he said, “but there weren’t nothing hugger-mugger about ’im. No, siree. But wait till you catch the last act. Ooh-hoo! Best fist yer eyes so they don’t pop from yer skull. Though yer lad there’s liable to kak himself.”

He was referring to Bree-yark, still glamoured to look like a boy who’d been in one too many playground brawls. If he was insulted, though, he didn’t react. More likely he didn’t understand what had been said.

With a nod, I let the young man go on his excited way.

“Think the magician is your gramps?” Bree-yark asked.

I considered asking another of the patrons streaming out, but our line was already moving. “We’ll know soon enough.”

The inside of the theater wasn’t the gaudy venue I’d been expecting. With its Greek columns, decorative bunting, and two levels of balcony seating, it was almost elegant. Ushers directed Bree-yark and me to the main floor, where we ended up in the middle row facing a stage hidden by plush red curtains.

As the seats filled up, I opened my wizard’s senses. No remnants of magic, but my grandfather had still been hiding his abilities from Lich while he worked with the Order in exile. Most likely he’d relied on stage tricks and sleight of hand during his stint here.

The crowd fell to a hush of eager whispers as the gaslighting in the theater dimmed. A circle of limelight swelled onto the stage until we were all looking at a rotund man in a three-piece flannel suit. Bright mustard hair glistened under an exaggerated stovepipe hat. His jowls were covered with trimmed side whiskers of the same color.

His sudden appearance drew murmurs of appreciation.

“Welcome to Barnum’s American Museum!” he called in a barker-like voice. “The inimitable P.T. Barnum has searched far and wide, high and low, has navigated strange and perilous lands, risked treacherous seas, to bring you, esteemed audience, the Theater of the Otherworldly. For the next twenty minutes prepare to be educated and scintillated, mystified and stupefied, to feast your eyes on that which cannot be and yet absolutely is. Because seeing, ladies and gentlemen, is believing!”

As he backed to the side of the stage, the curtain opened onto what appeared a human pandemonium. Oohs and aahs went up, and a few children screamed. But the chaos was choreographed, resolving into a hypnotic rotation where sets of acts took their turn in the full glare of the limelight. There were unicyclists and stilt walkers, knife jugglers and fire breathers, contortionists and sword swallowers. The audience’s reaction to each one was spirited, many jumping to their feet to applaud.

“They act like they’ve never seen this stuff before,” Bree-yark grumbled.

“They haven’t,” I pointed out. “The modern circus hasn’t been invented yet.”

The performers all came to the forefront and bowed to more applause. The two knife jugglers, who had sent their dozen-odd blades spinning overhead, received an ovation as they caught each one, the final blades between their teeth. The curtain closed over the encore bow, and the barker bustled back into view.

“Did you enjoy that?” he asked.

Bree-yark palmed his ears against the enthusiastic response.

“Well, that’s just the start,” he said. “Next up, a conversation between two exceptional individuals: the world’s largest man and Creation’s most diminutive woman. I present to you, Mimi and Biggs!”

The curtain opened on a pair of chairs angled toward one another, one massive, the other of doll-sized proportions. A tuxedoed man lumbered in from stage right to murmurs and gasps. He must have been at least nine-feet tall and in excess of six hundred pounds. From stage left appeared a tiny woman in a white dress, no more than twelve inches from her heeled shoes to the little tiara atop her head.

A storm of wonderstruck approval met them.

“Th-they’re from Faerie!” Bree-yark exclaimed.

I’d thought maybe their sizes were exaggerated through some trick of perspective, but Bree-yark was right. Biggs was an ogre, shaved and groomed to appear human. He bore a long cane for his clumsy gait, and was likely wearing a back brace under his jacket to correct the slumping posture characteristic of all ogres. Mimi was a pixie. Aside from her costume, which included a tiny parasol and hand fan, no enhancements would have been necessary. Pixies were already plenty theatrical.

“Look at them,” Bree-yark grumbled. “Parading around like trained monkeys.”

When the two beings arrived at center stage, Mimi thrust her little chin up at Biggs. “You’re late!” she squealed.

Biggs dragged a massive hand through his slick hair. “Sorrrry,” he rumbled.

The crowd broke into a foot-stomping bout of laughter that rattled the walls.

“That’s not even funny,” Bree-yark complained.

I gave him a warning look that told him to cool it.

“Well, what’s your excuse?” Mimi demanded of Biggs.

“A … uh … a cloud … Got lost in a cloud.”

He’d fumbled his line, but the crowd didn’t care. The sight of Mimi giving the business to a man large enough to squash her underfoot—and him taking it—was the punchline. Men slapped knees and doubled