Magic Mansion by Jordan Price (best fiction books to read .txt) 📕

a silk. And another silk, and another, and then while the third silk floated, he sent a query to the ring: are you ready?

Ready.

Take-snap-look, but this was not a silk or a card or a rope. This was a ring, and he put a special backspin on it. It leapt up, sparkling in the studio lights, and twirled on his fingertip before he gave it another pop, and it spun away and clattered to the floor with the other props. It was perfect.

Ricardo looked to Iain, smiling for real now, not just camera-smiling. “Don’t you have one more card there?” Iain didn’t seem particularly wowed. “Pitch that over your shoulder and we’ll move on to Bev—it looks like her ‘chalk’ is dry.”

Though Ricardo was deflated about his spectacular ring twirl going completely unnoticed, he didn’t allow his smile to falter. A card. Fine. Whatever. He grabbed it from the green-painted cart and flicked it over his shoulder with hardly a thought. The card, thrilled it wasn’t getting left behind after all, did a jubilant swan dive, rising and falling in a spiral that seemed to hover in front of the camera on its way down.

It settled on the pile of silks face-up. The ace of hearts.

“Weird,” Iain said. “That almost looked like we did it on the computer.”

Great. Leave it to the take he hadn’t been trying to do well to come out the best. “Card tricks really aren’t my specialty,” Ricardo said. “Did you see the ring? The light was hitting it just right.”

Iain ignored him, turned to the cameraman and said, “You got that card, right?”

“Pretty cool.”

Ricardo said, “I think the ring will read better on tape.”

“We’ll see what the graphics department ends up doing with it,” Iain said. “Have a seat.”

While Ricardo well and truly thought that if he wanted to pick his battles, a decision about what he would do in the opening credits might very well be a crucial skirmish to win, he sensed that any amount of dissension with The Big Important Producer’s wishes would only make Iain more likely to use the footage of the card-flick, not less.

Maybe the editors would pick the ring after all. It really had been a very cool twirl. Ricardo gathered his pride and turned back toward his seat—though when he took another look at it the props on the floor, he had to admit, the ace of hearts was looking pretty damn pleased with itself.

Chapter 8

THE ARRIVAL

On warm days when nights turned cool, mist would often gather in Hollywood’s canyons and valleys. Tonight, though, it received the help of three strategically placed fog machines. John’s driver sighed as he rolled through the mist for an exterior shot. A dozen town cars crept up the drive—which was undoubtedly shot in such a way that the tattered trampoline across the street didn’t show, nor the house with the pair of recliners on the front stoop, indoor furniture with stuffing hanging out of the cushions where they’d been picked at by birds. The mansion itself likely belonged to a “flash in the pan” who’d needed to sell off the land around it, then sell off the mansion itself once his or her heyday came to a close. And maybe the same thing had happened to whomever purchased it from them. And no doubt there were plenty of slapdash repairs inside done by set designers with the intension of those fixes holding only as long as the shooting schedule.

But even in the context of the neighborhood in which it sat, and even with the likelihood of its unfortunate history, the mansion, with its manicured lawn and dazzlingly lit exterior, did indeed look magical as John approached. A director on the lawn signaled, and the town cars filed past the cameras more quickly, then swung out the U-shaped drive, only to begin their approach yet again. Once the cameras had filmed them from dozens of angles, they coasted to a halt, and John’s window rolled down.

The scent of dry ice crept into the car. Marlene poked her head in and said, “Good to see you, Professor. Right now we’re getting shots of everyone stepping out of their car. Then we’ll put you over by the juniper while you wait. Just remember, the only time we want you to look directly into the camera from here on out is when you record your video journal. Other than that, pretend it’s not ever there.”

John glanced over her shoulder. Pretending the cameras weren’t even there was nowhere near as easy as it sounded. It seemed like everywhere he looked, there was a camera.

“Once you get over there with the other contestants, talk to whoever you want—your reactions are being taped—but make sure you greet Fabian Swan. Play it up a little, since you both run in the same circles. You two are our mentor-types, so make sure you act like the mansion is no big deal and nothing fazes you.” She glanced at John’s immaculate new suit and spotless white gloves, and added, “Not that it probably does.”

As the window whirred back up, Marlene retreated into the fog to debrief the next car, saying into her cell, “No flash paper, no open flames—no exceptions. I don’t care who’s asking. We do not have the liability coverage for it.” John allowed himself a small smile beneath the camouflage of the mist. Unfazed? Hardly. But he could almost hear Casey now: You’ve got the world’s best poker face, babe. Make sure you work it to your advantage.

John was accustomed to performing live, not recorded, so the scrutiny of the three cameras when he exited the town car was definitely unsettling. Still, it wasn’t as if they would catch him smoothing his hair or picking lint off his sleeve. He was a professional, therefore, he did not fidget.

One of the cameras did a sweep around his face from a low angle. He could imagine how he might look in the shot, framed by fog and the night