Intoxicating has a minion!

Crossroads the Lantern Ghoul

...

Hey pal. I'm on my break. If you like what you see, you'll just have to wait 'til 2.

…You can buy me a drink if you want, though.

Nice. Hey Tommy! Two of the usual - prince charming here is buying.

…Well, you do look out of place for this side of town. Lemme guess - the haircut alone probably cost more than Tommy over there makes in a week. So, what brings you to the southside?

…Layla Ross, huh? Yea. I've heard of her. Hey Tommy! Make mine a double shot!

...So, what are you? Another amateur magician looking to pick up some secrets from the great Forscythe's sideshow whore?

…Don't look so surprised. Bet you actually thought you were the only one to think of tracking me down. Well, you aren't. You're more like the sixth…maybe seventh. I still have no idea what that Chinese guy wanted.

(…Thanks Tommy.) Look. I'll be straight with you. I can tell you my side of things, but best guess is, it's probably not what you're looking for. Forscythe never told anyone anything - and I mean anything. That canary he kept shoved up his sleeve is probably just as mystified as anybody.

…Put that away, hon. I can't take cash when I'm on break. "Establishment policy", or whatever. Don't get me wrong though - I'd take it if I could. Hell, I'd blab his secrets to that hobo on second avenue if it meant extra cash. It's just that I don't know. Not even a couple big ones'll change that.

…Okay, fine. I'll tell you what I told all the other wannabes that waltzed in here waving their wallets in my face.

But seriously, it's not what you want to hear.

"The Pledge"

Layla Ross was your average prostitute: pouting lips, painted eyes, platinum extensions, and a petite figure to boot. She had once dreamt of studying ballet as a profession, but life's a bitch - and consequentially, so was she. Layla had been resentful at first, but after a while the shame began to dissipate; her calloused, booted feet weren't the only things growing numb, it seemed.

All of that changed when Forscythe arrived on the scene, one unusually warm night in southern Chicago.

He hadn't said a single word to her, the night he had left her his card at the bar - but all the while when he was there, he hadn't stopped staring at her. Not even when Layla's coworker, Helen, had tried her hand in piquing the interest of his wallet, among other things. It could only mean trouble, she knew, but despite herself, Layla was curious. And as the jovial barman Tommy pointed out later, it could have also meant an escape from the life that had made her grow so apathetic - so lifeless.

She followed the address on the shiny silver card he had left for her to an enormous, upper class theater, complete with a balcony level and gargantuan crimson curtains. When she arrived, Forscythe was waiting for her, clutching an unopened bottle of expensive wine as he sat alone on center stage. He had been courteous, charming and mysterious - a combination that usually resulted in trouble, in Layla's rather limited experience. He was an upcoming magician, he told her, though she had gathered as much from the towering posters that plastered the weathered, weary wall of the theater as she had walked in.
…And as a magician, he went on to say with a devilish, smoldering smirk, he was in desperate need of an appropriate assistant.

It took a fair bit of convincing, on Forscythe's part. Layla had always hated magic shows; she hated not knowing how the illusions worked. Anywhere from a simple card trick to an elaborate floating routine and beyond, the unknowable secrets of a magic act frustrated Layla more than she ever cared to admit. She even said as much to Forscythe, looking him in the eye over the rim of a raised wine glass. To her surprise, he had calmly dismissed her distaste.

"So much the better," He had even told her.

"I'll have to let you know the secrets of some of my acts anyway, if you are willing to work for me. However," He was quick to add, a bit harshly.
"Don't get any ideas of double crossing me to my competitors for extra cash. The acts you will be helping with directly are the more amateur, well known ones that a simple trip to google will give away. There happen to be three illusions which you will neither be allowed to assist with nor witness, and no amount of begging, bribery, or blackmail will change that. But before I elaborate, what is your answer? I'd like one before you depart, and as much as I'd love to sit around and drink Burgundy, I'm afraid I just haven't got all night."

Layla had only one last question:

Why her?

She could never decide afterward if Forscythe's frank answer was insulting, scathing, or in some warped way, flattering.

"I chose you because of your face." He had said.
"Even beneath those layers of make up, I could see the good, plain cleanliness beneath. In a word, your face is forgettable; and it's just what I need."

"The Turn"

Layla and Forscythe worked together for a grand total of thirteen months. As a survivor, Layla was quick to learn the ropes of her new duties as Forscythe's faceless stagehand - for faceless she was, under Forscythe's adamant direction. The mask he insisted she wear was the one and only point of dissent between them. Whether or not Forscythe had designed it himself, or he had bought it from some second-rate consignment shop under some violent whim, Layla never knew nor cared.
The ivory mask concealed her whole face; it was smooth, inscrutable, and almost completely unadorned. The only color present was on the lips, which were the delicate, deadly shade of fresh blood.

At first Layla refused to wear it, unnerved by the haunting vapidity of her new face. Layla and Forscythe argued, causing both parties to suddenly doubt the new appointment - but eventually, Layla relented. She knew full well that if she disappointed her new employer, she would have no other alternative than to return to her previous line of work. So she swallowed her pride and donned her unsettling persona without further protest.

During those few months, Layla was granted an intimate look into the dizzying, deceptive, often cutthroat world of stage magic, guided by none other than The Great Forscythe himself. She learned that such a life was not all disappearing rabbits and card tricks, but that it required an extensive amount of cleverness, skill, and well-executed showmanship to sell even the most basic illusion to an often incredulous audience.

Forscythe was a master of stage magic; he was smooth, collected, deliberate, and, above all, charismatic. When not on stage, Layla would watch him from the folded shadows of the great curtains as he manipulated even the simplest of tricks into something wondrous and unforgettable - until the time came for her to Disappear, that is. 'Disappear' was something of a codeword, meaning the time right before Forscythe unveiled the Grand Three acts which he insisted Layla have no part of.

The Grand Three took up the entire last half of the show. Every night during intermission, right before Forscythe returned to stage alone to perform them, he would accompany Layla to the dingy basement beneath the stage and offer her a glass of wine in congratulations for a night well done. Layla would remove her mask, and they would drink and talk and laugh together. But Layla always somehow ended up drinking a bit too much, because she would always jolt awake, alone in the darkness of the basement and her mask replaced over her face, to the sounds of tumultuous applause above that signaled the end of the show.

This happened consistently every night, though Layla never thought anything of it. Wine had always effected her more so than other drinks, and she wrote it off as carelessness on her part.

Layla loved to watch Forscythe perform. There was an unnameable element to his elaborate persona when he was on stage - every movement, every word, every facial expression of the act was so well placed that the audience would suddenly find itself torn between deciding the greater of two wonders: the magician or the magic.
More than once, Layla found herself desiring nothing more than to find her place Forscythe's side. As his assistant, it was her job to be ready when he called for her - whether he should lock her in a musty old trunk and stab at her with a grandiose collection of swords, or instead bind her by the arms and dangle her over the center of a target as he hurled knives less than a centimeter from her neck. This was what he asked of her - what he did not ask for was the sense of over eagerness to please that she gradually developed. Eventually this too evolved into something greater, and far more terrible: a longing of sorts, laced with the faintest touch of some tender emotion that Layla had sworn never to feel again.

At first she hated herself for it. She had made the conscious decision long ago to give up love as a freedom and accept it as a well-paying slave driver instead. She was nothing more than a whore, she kept telling herself - and feelings had no place in a world where pleasure was a business. Even if her days at the club were officially over, in Layla's mind she would never fully escape the life she had just left behind. She simply didn't deserve another chance.

She didn't deserve to move on.

Layla thought that she could handle it. She had had enough experience in setting aside her emotions in the past that, by rights, it should have been easy for her. But despite herself - her anger and shame, her desperation to keep a professional grip on her act - she could not smother the painful little flutter of her heart every time Forscythe brushed the cool porcelain of her mask with a kiss of thanks as she stepped from the curtains to take her bow.

It might have passed eventually, as phases often do - except that her insecurity started to translate into her performance.

They were small things, at first - excessive fumbling when Forscythe called for the knife kit, a slip of the step as she tripped over the curtain tassels. Forscythe, for his part, was obliged to politely ignore her blunders, putting it off as something forgivable, like fatigue or natural human error.
Until, that is, Layla's absent-mindedness very nearly cost them more than just the life of the ill fated canary in the opening act.

They had a thunderous argument. Two titans of will and wit pitted against each other in a long overdue explosion of emotions. Finally, Layla gave up and came clean.

"I'm done", Her voice cracked under the strain of tears, "I'm sorry Forscythe, I can't do this any more. For my own sake."
"Where will you go?" Forscythe demanded. "Do you remember what you were when I found you? Without me you have nothing. There's nothing for you to go back to!"
That cut her hard - mostly because it was true. "Maybe It's because of what I am that I can't do this anymore. I'm a whore, Forscythe, or were you actually stupid enough to pretend otherwise?"
"I'll admit, I had the audacity to hope that you wanted to be something more." he said bitterly.
"Well, lucky for you, girls like that nowadays are a dime a dozen.You'll have no trouble finding someone else." she started for the door.
"Layla," he pleaded, desperate at last. The ache in her heart flared again, and she turned one last time. He reached for her hand, but she shrank away on an impulse. This only exasperated him further.
"You never used to flinch from me," he accused. "What's gotten into you?"

And in those next few seconds of echoing silence, Layla finally saw the comprehension dawn in his shrewd green eyes.

That was the first night they slept together.

"The Prestige"

obligatory space filler here durr hurr

coming soon~