The Last Magician by Jack Hunt

Author:Jack Hunt [Hunt, Jack]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Direct Response Publishing
Published: 2019-07-01T04:00:00+00:00

15

Back at the hotel that evening, I counted the money I’d made. Over four hundred and twenty bucks. This could be a great way to earn a living, I thought. But that wasn’t what I was there for. I wondered how long it would take for the Circle to locate me. I thought about the spiky-haired guy. I was torn between wanting to be found, and wishing to stay hidden. My mother’s warning, my uncle’s death, every single thing told me to run, that it was dangerous, but what other choice did I have? Living out my life doing street magic? Moving from city to city, looking over my shoulder? That wasn’t a life. A gnawing deep inside me wouldn’t let up. What if the Artifice could bring back my parents? My uncle? It seemed too fantastic, too outlandish even to believe that such power existed. Then there was the deeper question that ate away at the back of my mind — who was I?

Over the following days and weeks, I continued performing in Times Square. I even bought a permit which annoyed the illusionist. Though I know it was mostly the sheer number of people that gathered to watch me, while his crowd dwindled. Eventually he must have decided to pack it in and left, as by summer, he was no longer there. Every day the crowds got larger. Every day I would see the same spiky-haired kid, though as time went by his staring changed into a scowl. I could see displeasure in his eyes. If he was part of the Circle, whatever I was doing was working. Or was it? He hadn’t approached me and no one had attacked. So I continued, regardless.

Week after week the crowds grew larger.

Some folks came from as far as the West Coast just to see if it was real. It was then I realized that videos of my performances had gone viral. The line between what was an illusion and what was real was blurred in more ways than one. Some said I had set the bar for what magic was, other magicians questioned my methods, and some overly religious folks turned out to protest, saying I was of the devil. I had to laugh at that. It never ceased to amuse me the types of crowds that showed up. The question was always the same — how do you do it?

I stayed tight-lipped.

Truth was, I’d taken the mechanics of what I’d learned from regular illusions and put my own twist on them. Even creating some of my own. The only difference was I wasn’t using gimmicks. Everything was real. But to them, it was nothing more than illusion, a case of misdirection that anyone could do if they knew the secret. But as the performances got more mind-boggling, people started to wonder. I could hear whispering in the crowd, and see many circling me, trying to figure out how it was done. Yet it seemed the more I practiced, the quicker and easier it was to perform at a moment’s notice.

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