17. Visiting Jorge
Laramie decides to confront the magician known as Señor Jorge, who shows little remorse for transforming Laramie and others before her.
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My loquette buzzes with an incoming message. I think open my heads-up display, which shimmers to life in my field of vision. The sender catches my breath in my throat.
Jorge.
It’s that incompetent bastard of a magician who left me like this, trapped without a head.
His message unspools across my virtual vision. “Laramie, mi querida. I long to see your face again. Please forgive me. Visit me, I beg of you. I’m being held in Bucharest...”
Memories of that fateful summer flood back: touring with the carnival sideshow across the Great Plains, late-night laughter, and stolen kisses with Jorge in his beat-up Airstream camper trailer. Oh, and that heady rush as the curtains part, and I can literally feel the excitement of the crowd through the soles of my feet.
But now, fury rises in my throat. That careless, thoughtless man and his amateur magic robbed me of my head and my identity.
Jorge.
His name tastes like ashes on my tongue. No, not Jorge, as I have learned through the court documents. It’s Sergio Marquez, his real name, who has been kept hidden all this time. What other secrets did that silver-tongued magician weave?
My emotions flip wildly between simmering anger and treacherous nostalgia. But the rage is winning, demanding answers and retribution. I need to look him in the eye and make him face what he’s done to me.
Decision made. I storm to my closet, yanking out clothes in a whirlwind of hangers. I’m going to see that lying snake today, and I’m going to look damn good doing it.
I shimmy into tight black shorts that hug my hips. A loose black silk tee drapes elegantly over my curves. Shadowy black tights encase my legs. I tighten the laces on my black sneakers with quick, sharp motions.
The cool weight of my sleek obsidian gem loquette rests in the hollow of my throat. Twin camera lenses glint back at me knowingly.
I pause before the full-length mirror, and I see a fierce, headless silhouette in unforgiving black. I’m ready for battle to finally face the man who sealed my fate.
“Let’s do this,” I mutter grimly to myself as I stride out of my room. The portal to Bucharest awaits.
Time to get some goddamn answers out of Sergio Marquez.
A Quick Trip to Romania
My footsteps echo loudly off the stark white of the portal room, which is just a long hallway with a dead end. Six nondescript doorways line the hall like exam rooms in a doctor’s suite Five of the rooms have red lights above them, indicating an established connection. The others are green, ready for a link.
“Laramie! Looking badass as always, I see.” Mike, the portal operator, grins at me from behind his desk. He’s all casual charm in a rumpled flannel and faded jeans.
“Hey Mike. I need a portal to Bucharest.” I lean against his desk, trying to project an air of nonchalance. “Got a lying sack of shit magician to verbally eviscerate, you know how it is.”
Mike chuckles, shaking his head. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
He consults his screen, fingers flying over the keyboard. “Alright, looks like Portal 3 is prepped and ready for you. Give ’em hell!”
“You know I will.” I flash him a thumbs up before striding purposefully towards the third door.
I press my palm against the biometric scanner. It beeps approvingly, the green light shifting to a red. The door swings open, revealing a shimmering barrier.
Drawing in a breath through my pores, I step through the glowing threshold. Reality warps and twists around me a step or two, my atoms seeming to scatter and recompile in a dizzying instant.
And then I’m standing in a dimly lit hallway, the chill of cold concrete seeping through my sneakers. Damp, moldy air fills my lungs. A bored-looking guard slouches behind a battered metal desk.
Squaring my shoulders, I stride up to him. I switch my loquette to Romanian and hold up my phone, speaker on. Time to put my personal Rosetta Stone to work.
“Bună, am venit să-l văd pe deținutul Sergio Marquez.” (Hello, I’m here to see the prisoner Sergio Marquez.) My phone’s speaker announces my words in flawless Romanian.
The guard looks up, hardly flinching as he takes in my headless state. I guess he’s seen his share of magical survivors. “Aha, deci tu trebuie să fii femeia pe care a transformat-o. Actul de identitate, te rog.” (Ah, you must be the woman he transformed. ID, please.)
He points out a tap pad, and I send my Guild details to his scanner, trying not to fidget impatiently as he verifies it.
“Pe aici,” (This way.)
He heaves himself to his feet with a put-upon sigh, leading me down the gloomy concrete hall. I expect to be taken to a room with old-school phones and a plexiglass wall separating me. Instead, we stop before a reinforced metal door, flakes of rust stippling its surface. The guard unlocks it with a heavy clank, gesturing for me to enter.
“Ai cincisprezece minute.” (You have fifteen minutes.)
He shuts the door behind me, sealing me into the chilly gloom. I’m in a small cell of my own with an old Soviet-era metal chair. Beyond a floor-to-ceiling set of bars is another cell. There, slumped on a threadbare cot, is the magician himself.
Sergio Marquez, aka Señor Jorge.
His once-black hair has faded to a shocking white, and deep grooves line his haggard face. He seems to have aged decades in the few short months since I last saw him.
But it’s him, the incompetent sorcerer who changed my life forever.
Sergio looks up, his eyes widening as he takes me in. He staggers to his feet, holding his arms out as if to embrace me through the bars.
“Laramie, oh Laramie. You came, I can’t believe you actually—”
I hold up a silencing hand, rage simmering in my veins. I set my phone on a small table to project my words.
“Cut the shit, Sergio.” I snarl, his name tasting like venom on my tongue. “You don’t get to ‘Laramie’ me, not after what you did. I’m here for answers, not whatever bullshit reunion you think this is.”
He flinches as if struck, lowering his arms slowly. “I... I understand you’re angry, but please, let me explain...”
“Explain?” A harsh laugh rips from my speaker. “Explain how you gambled with my life for a fucking parlor trick? How you left me trapped in this, this body? This should be good.”
I cross my arms over my chest, my entire stance radiating icy hostility. The tense silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating.
Sergio opens his mouth, grasping for words. But I’m not finished. Months of pain and fury bubbling to the surface in a blistering torrent.
No more secrets, no more lies. It’s time for the great “Señor Jorge” to face the fucking music.
Defiance
“You think you’re the only one suffering here?” Sergio snaps back, anger sparking in his rheumy eyes. “Do you have any idea what I’m facing? The charges they’re trying to pin on me?”
I scoff, rolling my eyes even though he can’t see it. “Oh, cry me a river. Poor little Sergio finally faces the consequences for his actions. How tragic.”
He slams his fist against the wall, the sudden violence making me flinch despite myself. “You don’t understand! Magic is a risky business, Laramie. Accidents happen all the time, but no one bats an eye. But me? I’m being made an example of.”
“Accidents?” I seethe. “Is that what you call it when you permanently disfigure someone for your own gain? An accident?”
Sergio runs a hand through his white shock of hair and frustration etched into every line of his face. “That’s not... I never meant for this to happen, Laramie. You have to believe me.”
“Believe you?” I laugh, the sound harsh and grating. “Like I believed you when you said you’d never let anything happen to me? Forgive me if I’m a little short on trust these days.”
He slumps back onto the cot, looking every bit his age. “I’m sorry, Laramie. I truly am. I never wanted to hurt you.”
I stare at him, searching for any hint of deception in his weathered face. But all I see is a broken man, worn down by his own mistakes.
“Sorry doesn’t give me my life back, Sergio,” I say quietly, the fight draining out of me. “Sorry doesn’t undo what you did.”
The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken regrets. I want to hate him, to cling to my righteous anger like a lifeline. But seeing him like this, so pathetic and small...
I don’t know what I feel anymore.
Consequences
“You gambled with my life,” I finally say, my voice low and intense. “With my independence. And you lost.”
Sergio looks up at me, his eyes haunted. “I know. And I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my days.”
“The rest of your days?” I scoff. “How long is that, exactly? Another century or two?”
He shakes his head. “If they find me guilty, they’ll cut me off. Force me to age naturally.”
Despite everything, surprise registers through my anger. “Cut you off? From what?”
“From magic,” he says simply. “From the source of our power, our longevity.”
I lean forward, my curiosity piqued in spite of myself. “How old are you, really?”
Sergio hesitates as if weighing the consequences of his answer. “I’m 197 years old, Laramie.”
The number hangs in the air between us, almost tangible. Nearly two centuries of life, of experiences I can’t even begin to fathom.
“And without magic?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I’ll wither away,” he says, a tremor in his words. “I’m afraid, Laramie. Afraid of death, of the unknown.”
For a moment, I almost feel sorry for him.
But then I remember my love of performance: the lights and the roar of the crowd. I’ll never know what it’s like to open a show, with the hours of rehearsal and the backstage friendships.
“You should be afraid,” I say coldly, standing up. “You should be fucking terrified.”
I turn towards the door, my hand reaching for the knob. But something stops me, a question burning in my mind.
“Are there others?” I say, not looking back.
Silence. Then, a sigh.
“So there were others,” I accuse, my voice sharp as a knife. Tell me about the other women you’ve transformed, the ones you left behind.”
Jorge sighs, his eyes distant. “There was Mina back in 1894. We were touring through Argentina, and she volunteered for the tiger transformation. It was supposed to be temporary, but something went wrong. She stayed a tiger for the rest of her life and died in a zoo in Buenos Aires.”
I feel a chill run through me. “Any others?”
A ghost of a smile flickers across his face.
“Ah, Mitzi. That was during a state fair in 1955. She wanted to be sawed in half, but I erased her from the waist up instead. It was an accident, but she seemed to enjoy the attention it brought her.”
I stare at him, incredulous. “Enjoyed the attention? Are you sure about that?
He shrugs, a casual gesture that ignites a fury in my chest. “I don’t know. I moved on. The show must go on, as they say.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing—the callousness and lack of remorse. It’s like he doesn’t even see them as human beings.
“You bastard,” I spit out, my hands clenching into fists. “You ruined their lives, and you don’t even care. How many others were there? How many women did you leave broken and alone?”
He flinches at my words, but there’s a defiance in his eyes. “You don’t understand, Laramie. Magic is a risky business. Sometimes things go wrong. It’s the price we pay for the power we wield.”
I shake my head, disgusted. “No, it’s the price they paid. The price I’m paying. Meanwhile, you get to sit here and reminisce about the good old days.”
The tension between us is a living thing that crackles in the air. I’m grateful for my voice model, programmed with recordings of old arguments with my ex. It lets me express the rage I feel inside instead of sounding like a calm AI assistant.
“I trusted you,” I say, my voice thundering. “I believed in you. And look where it got me.”
He reaches out a hand, but I jerk away. “Laramie, please. I never meant for this to happen. You have to believe me.”
I don’t. I can’t. Not anymore.
I stand up abruptly, my chair scraping against the concrete floor. “We’re done here,” I say, my voice cold. “I hope you’re dead by the end of the year.”
I turn to leave, but his voice stops me. “Laramie, wait. Please. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
For a moment, I hesitate. Part of me wants to believe him, wants to forgive him.
But then I remember Mina, and Mitzi, and all the other nameless, faceless women he’s left in his wake.
And I harden my heart.
Back Home
As I stride away from the cell, my anger propels me forward. I yell for the guard. “Deschide ușa!” (Open the door!)
The guard startles at my harsh tone but quickly complies. The heavy metal door clangs shut behind me with an air of finality.
Jorge’s muffled voice reaches me as I start down the hallway. “Laramie, is this really how it ends? After everything?”
I pause, my hand on the cell door. Doubt crosses my mind. Am I doing the right thing, leaving like this?
But the anger surges again, drowning out any uncertainty. He doesn’t deserve my forgiveness, not after what he’s done.
I wrench open the door and step through without looking back. The clang of it closing behind me feels like a severing of ties, a cutting of the strings that once connected us.
As I step through the shimmering portal, the cold sterility of the jail melts away, replaced by the warm, familiar chaos of the Recovery Home. People bustle past, chattering in a dozen different languages, their loquettes flashing and flickering.
And there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, is Dave. My heart does a little flip-flop at the sight of him, all rumpled hair and crooked smile.
“Hei, tu,” I say as I approach, still stuck in Romanian mode.
Dave raises an eyebrow. “English, Laramie. We’re back in the States, remember?”
“Right. Sorry.” I shake my head, my language settings reverting to default. “It’s been a hell of a day.”
Without a word, Dave steps forward and wraps his arms around me, pulling me close. I stiffen for a moment, surprised by the sudden contact. But then I melt into his embrace, burying my face in his shoulder.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs, rubbing soothing circles on my back. “You’re safe now. No one’s gonna take advantage of you like that ever again.”
His words send a warm tingle through my body, and I pull back slightly to look at him. There’s something in his eyes, a depth of emotion that catches me off guard.
Does he...? No. No way.
I clear my throat, stepping out of his arms. “Thanks, Dave. I...I really appreciate you being here.”
“Anytime.” He gives me a lopsided grin. “You know I’ve always got your back, right?”
I nod, swallowing past the sudden lump in my throat. “Listen, would you mind... I mean, could you maybe come sit with me for a bit? In my apartment? I just...I don’t really want to be alone right now.”
Dave’s smile softens. “Of course. Lead the way.”
We walk in silence through the winding hallways, the hum and chatter of the Recovery Home fading behind us. As we reach my door, I hesitate, my hand on the knob.
“I’m gonna take my loquette off,” I warn him. “So things might get a little...dark and quiet.”
“That’s fine,” Dave says gently. “Whatever you need.”
I nod, step inside, and make my way to the couch. With a deep breath, I reach up and lift away the inky black gem and its silver chain.
Instantly, the world goes black and silent. There are no more AR overlays, no more ambient noise filtering through the tiny speakers, just...nothing.
But then I feel the couch dip beside me and the warmth of Dave’s body as he settles in close. His knee brushes against mine, and I feel the tentative touch of his hand on my own.
I don’t say anything. I can’t. But I turn my hand over, interlacing my fingers with his.
And we sit there like that, in the dark and the quiet, holding onto each other like lifelines in a storm-tossed sea. No words, no loquettes, no magic.
Reflecting
As we sit there in the stillness, my mind can’t help but wander back to that holding cell. Back to Jorge—no, Sergio. That lying sack of shit.
Part of me wants to hold onto this rage forever, to let it burn through me until there’s nothing left but ashes and spite. He fucked me over, plain and simple. Gambled with my life like it was just another prop in his show.
But then I think about the defeat in his eyes, the way his shoulders slumped under the weight of nearly two centuries. Is that what I want? To be so consumed by anger that I rot from the inside out?
Fuck. I don’t know. I just...I don’t know.
Dave’s thumb traces gentle circles on the back of my hand, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. I focus on that touch, on the solid realness of him beside me.
Slowly, tentatively, I shift on the couch, draping my legs over his lap. The slippery fabric of my tights whispers against his jeans. For a moment, Dave is still. Then, carefully, he rests his free hand on my knee, giving it a soft squeeze.
And something in me just...breaks open. All the fear and the fury, the grief and the confusion, it all comes pouring out in great, heaving sobs that wrack through my body like convulsions. I wish I could cry out loud.
I curl into Dave, burying my neck stem in his shoulder as I let myself shatter. His arms wrap around me, strong and steady, holding me together even as I fly apart.
I feel the vibrations of his comforting works, his breath warm against my skin.
My sobbing spasms continue until I can’t sob anymore. Exhaustion settles over me like a leaden blanket, dragging me down into the dark.
Distantly, I feel Dave shift us on the couch, stretching out so that I’m lying half on top of him. He pulls a throw blanket over us both, cocooning me in warmth and softness.
I let myself drift off into a dreamless sleep.
The Next Day
Morning light filters through the gaps in the curtains, casting the room in a hazy glow. For a moment, I’m disoriented, my mind struggling to piece together where I am and how I got here.
Then it all comes rushing back: the visit to the jail, the argument with Jorge, the breakdown in Dave’s arms. I sit up abruptly, the blanket falling away. I fumble on the side table for my loquette, put it on, and recoil as the bright room materializes.
“Hey, easy,” Dave says, his voice rough with sleep. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”
I turn to look at him, really look at him, for the first time since last night. His hair is mussed, his clothes rumpled. But his eyes are clear and steady, filled with a tenderness that makes my breath catch.
“You stayed,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Of course I did. I told you I would.”
Something warm and fragile unfurls in my chest, like a flower turning its face to the sun. I lean into his touch, savoring its simple comfort.
Maybe falling in love isn’t some grand, sweeping gesture. Maybe it’s just... this—tiny moments of grace strung together like beads on a string.
Yes, there. I said it. Falling in love.