Page 17 of Caroled
“The potato pancakes were very good,” Charles agreed. He’d eaten a large stack of them, some slathered in apple sauce and some with jam. He now felt too full and relaxed to consider moving out of the armchair and donning his overcoat. Which was all right since his hosts appeared to be enjoying their company.
Tenrael was kneeling contentedly beside Charles. He’d watched Abe cook dinner—so that in the future he could make latkes for Charles—and he’d also been interested in the prayers Abe recited when lighting the Hanukkah candles.
It was, in sum, a cozy and convivial evening, strangely pedestrian even if Thomas was the only normal human there.
“It’s my bubbe’s recipe,” Abe said. “Everything she made was delicious. And she was always trying to fatten me up.” He patted his muscular belly.
Thomas laughed. “And now you’re fatteningme. By the time I’m mobile again, I’ll be big as a freighter ship. I won’t be able to run after anything.”
“Then you’ll have to float majestically instead.” He turned his attention to Charles and Tenrael. “So is the city still quiet?”
Charles gave a small shrug. “Seemingly. We’ve been wandering and visiting the places on your list. Asking around for news, but nobody has much. We did encounter some kind of cat-spider creature in Chinatown, but it was someone’s pet. Didn’t seem dangerous.”
Abe nodded. “Tsuchigomo, I bet. Some of the Japanese shop owners used them for protection—like guard dogs. But now that the Japanese have been forced into camps, the tsuchigomo have found new homes.” His smile had faded to a deep frown. “Camps.”
“Yeah. In LA too. All over the West Coast.”
“I was born in Budapest. My family came here—where life was a lot harder for my parents—because they were afraid of pogroms. And now….” His face twisted with sorrow and it took a moment for him to steady himself. “Is what we’re doing to Japanese Americans much better?”
“I don’t— I think— I—” Charles stuttered to a stop. He didn’t know what he thought, except that human beings continued to outshine monsters in their capacity for evil. “I’m sorry.” That was the best he could come up with.
“No, I am. I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Abe leaned over and picked up a deck of cards from the side table. “How about a card game?”
Thomas laughed. “Don’t do it. He cheats.”
“I do notcheat. Can I help it if my former profession gives me an advantage?”
Charles had learned that lesson the hard way, many years ago during a stakeout with four other agents. Abe had proposed a friendly game to pass the time, and by the end of the evening he’d collected a week’s wages from everyone. Charles had been too impressed with his skills to be truly angry.
But Tenrael hadn’t been there, of course, and now he leaned forward a bit. “You were a magus?”
“A sorcerer? No. I can’t do true magic. I was an illusionist.” Abe must have read the interest in Tenrael’s expression, because he smiled warmly. “Would you like to see a few of my tricks?”
“Yes, please.”
“All right, let’s see. My signature effect was the bullet catch, and—”
“You’re not doing that one,” Thomas growled.
Abe patted Thomas’s good leg. “Don’t worry. I gave up on that one long ago. Don’t want to worry the neighbors.”
He rummaged in a closet and unearthed a few supplies he said had been gathering dust for years. Then as Tenrael watched eagerly, Abe manipulated cards and coins, made it seem as if a handkerchief was haunted, and pulled a bottle of gin out of a top hat. It was all very engaging, especially when Abe affected a thick Hungarian accent. Even Thomas seemed entertained. But Tenrael was the most avid member of the audience, his eyes wide and sparkling. “Although this is not real sorcery, it is very good. You make it look as if you do magic.”
“That’s the key to a good show. Most people come in as skeptics, but that doesn’t matter. As long as they leave shaking their heads in wonder because they can’t figure out how I did it, then I’ve accomplished what I wanted to.” Abe set the deck of cards on a shelf and gave Tenrael a careful stare. “An illusion can still be a success even if the marks know it’s an illusion.”
For several seconds, Tenrael stared back at him. Then he turned to look at Charles. “Master?”
“Your call.”
There. Right there was the tattered pride that Charles sometimes glimpsed in Tenrael, along with the determination that had allowed him to survive years of torture and later present himself to Charles. Tenrael stood smoothly and, with fingers still clumsy at the task, began to unbutton his shirt.
Thomas sat upright suddenly. “Hey, we don’t—”
“Hush,shefele,” said Abe, gently but firmly pushing him back against the pillow. “He’s lifting the illusion.”
Tenrael removed his shirt and handed it to Charles, maybe thinking of how expensive that item of clothing had been. He handed over his undershirt too. And then he slipped the ring off his finger and set it in Charles’s palm.
Abe and Thomas gasped in unison, but neither of them reached for a weapon. They simply gaped at the creature—and who could blame them? Standing tall with his wings outspread, Tenrael looked especially big and uncanny in the cozy living room. “I am a demon,” he said.
