The Magic Of Christmas

Chapter One

Drake Vale looked out his dressing room window, peering into the blackness and expecting to see the worst of a winter traveler's nightmares - snow.  Seeing nothing, he flopped back into his chair with a sigh and took a healthy swig of water from the cut-crystal tumbler that was hanging almost lazily from his fingers.  An open bottle of what appeared to be vodka sat on the table next to him within easy reach if he wanted a refill.  He was the only person who knew the bottle really contained sparkling water.  He also planned to keep it that way.

Just beyond the old theater's walls, he could hear the shuffle of sneakers and boots on wet sidewalk, people traversing the alley behind the theater.  Doors opened and closed in the distance within the building itself as his crew prepared for his show, which was scheduled to begin in only a few minutes.  The hum and rustle of the audience beyond the stage blended with the ancient heating system in the old building producing a low hum that nearly lulled him to sleep.

He could feel the soft brush of the crushed red velvet of his antique lounging chair beneath his fingertips.  If he moved his fingers ever so slightly, he could feel the cool slide of highly polished cherry wood as well.  His black silk shirt slid over his chest like a lover's caress, and his gaze was full of the old-world opulence inherent in the room around him.  

The wallpaper was a flocked gold and burgundy pattern, almost more like something from a bordello than an opulent, turn-of-the-century theater that had once hosted the biggest names in show business.  Gold gilt mirrors were framed by filigreed wall sconces, once probably lit by oil but now powered by regular electricity.  Other pieces of antique furniture, including a long fainting couch were placed around the room, making it feel both cozy and yet somehow foreign at the same time.

The mirror at his dressing table had been recently polished and someone, probably an over-eager fan had sent him a small box, probably with a trinket of some type inside.  Or, given his reputation as a ladies' man, a pair of panties.  Not that he was even interested in looking.  Not tonight anyway, though in another time and place, he would have undoubtedly sought out the sender of the gift and, if she was to his taste, offered her a night of pure pleasure in his bed.

But that was for another night.  Not here and not now.

Now, the smell of oil and greasepaint mixed with the musky scent of his well-worn leather pants and for a moment, he almost imaged that he was living in another time and another place, a time when the old Orpheum Theater had been home to such legends as George Burns and Bing Crosby.  Or, in this area, perhaps Fred Waring.

Now, Drake closed his eyes and titled his head back to rest against the plush red velvet of the chair.  This was not how he had planned to spend the final Friday night before Christmas, but then, as he had learned early on in life, nothing ever went the way he planned.  Then again, when one lived a life where nothing was real, what could one expect?

As a professional magician, or rather illusionist, Drake was accustomed to living in a world where perception was reality and reality was a very fluid thing.  What people thought they saw became the truth, even if it was really a lie.  The truth, such as it was, didn't matter, usually because it was disappointing.  Reality often was.  At least in his experience.

The drink in his hand?  People assumed it was vodka because that was the illusion of himself that he chose to project, one of a hard-partying and sophisticated man of the world.  The tight black clothes covering his well-muscled and much-photographed body, making him appear an over-sexed playboy?  The bleached blonde, spiked hair and specialty contact lenses that deepened his normally brown-gold eyes to pure black?  Merely a role he played because it made him money.  Not David Copperfield wealthy, of course, but close enough.

The real illusion, however, was that Drake was somehow in control of everything, that his life was as perfect - and perfectly sexy - as the tabloids made it out to be.  He might drive sexy, exotic sports cars and he might date supermodels and throw erotic parties, but, at his heart, he was still the little boy from the wrong side of the tracks and no amount of magic and illusion could change that.  Not if he was being honest with himself anyway.  Which was why, long ago, he had preferred to hide behind illusions rather than admit that reality was extremely disappointing.  But he could only hide for so long.  Eventually, reality intruded whether one wanted it to or not.

That was also why when his old mentor and current owner of The Orpheum, Mr. Corbin, had called Drake and inquired about the possibility of Drake ending the winter portion of his national tour at the old theater, Drake hadn't been able to say no.  He hadn't planned on ending his tour in his former hometown.  Instead, he had been thinking more of Las Vegas or someplace in Florida, a place where he might spend the winter and give serious consideration to setting up a permanent show at a nice little theater rather than keeping up the grueling tour schedule he had embarked on five years ago.

Drake was popular now, certainly popular enough to headline his own show in one of the flashy Vegas casinos.  However, he was also smart enough to know that such a move would force him to give up some of his precious control - not just over his show but over his life.  A smaller, regional theater might be more to his taste.  Still, it would be a change and changes came with consequences.  Every action had a reaction.  That was life.  Such a decision wasn't one to be made lightly and Drake knew that he needed time to think.

Then Corbin's call had come and because Drake could not bring himself to say no to the man who had first introduced him to the arts of magic and illusion, he now found himself backstage at the man's theater, waiting to entertain a crowd who, if they knew who he truly was, would want nothing to do with him.

No, Drake Vale was an illusion to everyone, but especially to the people of College Heights, Pennsylvania.  However, the child he had once been, the little boy named Logan Valliente was all too real.  Especially to one prominent local family in particular - the Lindens.

And it was that family that Drake was hoping to avoid for the duration of his stay in town.  It was also why he planed to leave town the moment his show that evening ended.  He didn't need the complications the Lindens brought to his life - or rather, one Linden in particular - filling his head with confusion and want when there were life-changing decisions to be made.

Drake had learned long ago to make those kinds of decisions with a clear head or not at all.  Seeing familiar old faces would only cloud his judgment, making him long for things he could not have.

That was another lesson he had learned as a child.  It was better not to want anything.  That way, you wouldn't be disappointed when you didn't get it.  Hope led to pain.  Wanting led to pain.  Better to seal yourself off from everyone and everything.  That way, he would never hurt.  Not again, anyway.

Growing up, the little boy who had been known as Logan was often ignored by his alcoholic mother and beaten by his overbearing stepfather.  Even now, Drake had no idea who his biological father had