Emmet jumped back so quickly he nearly sprained an ankle. When he’d recovered his balance, the two boys bolted down the sidewalk. After a brief sprint they collapsed against another building. Leopold felt an inappropriate giggle building in his chest. He covered his mouth, but it couldn’t be contained.

  “Larry,” Emmet said, his tone a warning. “Pull yourself together.”

  “I can’t.” Leopold shook his head, a high-pitched laugh escaping. “I’m freaking out. I’m freaking out—”

  “Me too.”

  Leopold made an effort to calm himself, but he couldn’t stop shaking his head. “You don’t understand. I promised myself I would move past this—that I wouldn’t lean into the visions anymore—”

  Emmet picked up a discarded soda can from the ground, then turned the label for Leopold to see. Aetherblast was printed on it in bold letters. “You think this is a vision?” He squinted at the fine print. “ ‘Extends casting effectiveness up to three hours.’ You’re telling me this is fake?”

  “Yes?”

  Emmet tossed the can away. It rattled across the pavement. “I’m the logical one, Larry.” He poked himself in the chest. “And logically speaking, two people can’t hallucinate the same thing at the same time.”

  “We’re in LA!” Leopold tossed up his hands, sounding a little desperate even to himself. “What’s more likely, that we’re in Sunder—that magic is real and my childhood fantasy has come true—or that we’re on some weird, elaborate studio backlot?”

  “I don’t know.” Emmet’s gaze had fixed on a nearby storefront. On its roof stood a massive, lighted T. The letter by itself made no sense, but the jaunty neon sign on the door was simple enough to understand: Information. “But there’s one way to find out.”

  Seventeen

  The place was small, just a short counter fanned with colorful pamphlets, a few posters on the wall. Experience the Sunderhoods of SoCal. Take a Trip via Tumbleport. A gentle thrumming sound emanated from a short corridor at the back.

  There didn’t seem to be anyone around.

  Leopold noticed a desk bell on the counter and gave it a tap; it let out a surprisingly loud, resonant ding. After a moment they heard what sounded like footsteps approaching—not from the corridor, but underground.

  From the center of the room came the loud clack of a bolt sliding. A door in the floor swung open on a squeaking hinge, and then the top few rungs of a ladder rose up as if on a spring.

  “What,” Emmet said, pointing, but that was all he could manage before a hand appeared on the ladder, followed by a red-sleeved arm and a head with a matching red cap atop it. Then a whole person was climbing out of the floor—a young man in what appeared to be a bellhop’s uniform.

  “Keep the coffee hot!” he called down the ladder. He dumped an armload of pamphlets into a box under the counter, shoved the ladder back down with one foot, and kicked the door shut with a bang. With all this accomplished he pulled his jacket straight, nudging the cap on his head to a slight angle, and turned to face them with a chipper smile.

  “Sorry to keep you folks waiting! You caught me on my two-minute break.” He laughed to show it was no big deal. “Name’s Art,” he said, tapping the name tag on his jacket, “and you’ve just arrived, if I’m not mistaken?”

  Emmet balked. “How’d you know?”

  “I can always tell,” Art said with a wink. “Something in the eyes—stunned by the majesty of it all. Or the noise and the smog, depending on where you’re in from. Where are you in from, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “In from?” echoed Leopold.

  “Which sunder, I mean to say.”

  Emmet began, “We’re just from regular old—”

  “Iowa,” Leopold interjected, instinct advising him to lie. “The…Iowa one?”

  Art squinted, then snapped his fingers. “Right—Dubuque! Sometimes I forget we have sunders out in flyover country, no offense meant and none taken, I hope. Not a big spark community, Dubuque. Though I suppose none are, compared to good old Los Angeles”—he pronounced it angle-eez—“biggest and best in the whole US! Though I’m biased, of course. Either of you been to Sunder Hill before?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “Well, on behalf of the Department of Inter-Sunder Cooperation and Commerce, welcome in. You caught us short-staffed today, but I’m happy to give you the nickel tour, so if you’ve got any questions…” He pointed to a button on his jacket that read Ask Me!

  Leopold cleared his throat. “Well”—he cleared his throat again—“I guess, um, just to be clear? We’re definitely in, like”—he laughed nervously—“Sunderworld right now?”

  Art frowned. “You mean Sunder Hill.”

  “Yeah.” Emmet shot Leopold a look. “Sunder Hill. That’s what we meant.”

  Art peered curiously at the boys, as if sensing something was off. “Yes, this is—”

  He was interrupted by a loud bang, which drew Leopold’s attention down the short rear corridor, where he glimpsed a few large, industrial-looking washers and dryers in an adjacent room.

  “There’s a laundromat back there?” said Leopold. “I thought this was an information post.”

  “Information-post-slash-tumbleport-station,” Art corrected. “Not technically a laundromat, though there was enough confusion on the matter that we decided to offer the option. Washers and dryers down that aisle, tumbleports over there.” He nodded toward the connecting room.

  Leopold craned his neck to get a better look. Tumbleports had figured briefly in an episode of Sunderworld. An old lady dozed beside one in a plastic chair, the curls of her blue perm vibrating against the whirring machine.

  “Now, pardon my confusion,” Art went on, his brow furrowed. “But if you came all the way from Dubuque and didn’t arrive via tumbleport”—he nodded again at the machines—“then how did you—”

  Leopold startled as one of the tumbleports flew open, releasing a cloud of gray smoke. A middle-aged man in a suit crawled out, coughing and swearing. “Damn thing’s defective!”

  Art rushed over to help him, Leopold and Emmet shifting for a better view of the commotion. The man was covered in mud and cobwebs. He stood up, furiously trying to brush off his clothes while Art fussed over him.

  “Let me help you, sir—”

  “Get off me, you imbecile! I had an important meeting in Poughkeepsie—ended up in Madagascar! Six hours in the jungle, missed the whole conference, ruined my best traveling suit!”

  “I’m very sorry, sir!”

  “Do you know how big the insects are in Madagascar?” he cried.

  Art wrung his hands. “I don’t, sir, but I’m sure the Department of Transportation will pay for your suit to be cleaned—”

  “Lot of good that’ll do me, I already missed the meeting! And that’s not the worst of it. Look at my focuser!” He reached into the machine and pulled out what looked like a smashed camera lens. “This was a Leica!”

  Leopold stared. He’d dreamed his whole young life of owning a focuser like that. He and Emmet had made countless prop versions from old magnifying glasses and broken thrift store telescopes.

  “I’m sure you’ll be compensated, sir—”

  “I want this problem fixed! Do you think I have time to cross the country on a damned airplane?” He was scraping clumps of mud from his clothes and tossing them at Art’s feet. “I suppose they’ll blame it on the Aether drought, like everything else. Well, I’m sick of it. Don’t I pay my taxes? This place is falling apart!”

  With that, he stormed toward the exit without so much as a glance at Leopold and Emmet, slamming the door so hard a banner fell off the wall. Leopold read it before it folded over on itself:

  Keep LA magical. Be Aether-wise!

  Aether, even a casual fan of Sunderworld knew, was the fuel without which spells could not be cast and magical objects could not function. It occurred naturally in trace amounts in the air, the rain, certain foods, and the bodies of sparks, but the most potent variety was drilled from deposits buried deep in the earth.

  Art turned to face them, looking sheepish. “I’m terribly sorry you had to witness that.” He produced a small sign from his jacket that read Out of Aether and went to set it on the broken machine.

  Leopold and Emmet traded nervous looks. They didn’t know anything about an Aether drought, but it was clear they needed to leave before Art started asking more questions they couldn’t answer.

  “Well, we better get out of your way,” Leopold said. “I’m sure you’ve got a lot to do—”

  “Now, wait a second,” said Art. “We didn’t finish the tour—”

  Emmet was shaking his head as they backed toward the door. “Sorry, we’re meeting friends for, um, dinner—”

  “Oh,” Art said, straightening. “I see.” He studied the boys, a trace of suspicion still lingering in his eyes. Then, glancing once more at the smoking tumbleport, he seemed to make a decision, and herded them out the door and onto the sidewalk without further interrogation.

  “Well, uh, thanks,” said Leopold. “For the information.”

  Art nodded, pasted on a thin smile, and shoved a plastic bag into Leopold’s hands. “I can’t let you leave without your welcome kit. Inside you’ll find one token each for Angels Flight—it hasn’t worked in years but it’s a Sunder Hill tradition, so consider them souvenirs—and a coupon for a complimentary meal at the Brite Spot.” He gestured to a diner down the block, its neon sign glowing orange against the dusky sky. “Try the pie, steer clear of the soup, and tell ’em Art sent you. Any more questions, or if you need anything at all, my card’s in there, too…Reach out anytime, living or dead. I mean, day or night!” He seemed in a hurry to get back inside. “And if a survey ghoul visits you, I hope you’ll rate me five out of five stars. Have a great night! Enjoy your time in Sunder!”

  Eighteen

  Leopold and Emmet stood in front of the Brite Spot, a warm but weathered greasy spoon that exuded coziness. Anything Served Anytime was chalked on a sign in its curtained window, through which they could see people snugged into booths and clustered around tables. They only stared, neither of them saying a word.

  At the sound of a bell, the glass door swung open. An older gentleman in a precariously tall hat emerged and nodded in their direction.

  “Coming in?”

  With a glance at his friend, Leopold seemed to emerge from a trance, then moved slowly toward the entrance. He mumbled a thanks to the stranger, then held the door for Emmet, who took another beat to thaw.

  Once inside, Leopold was enveloped by the smell of frying eggs.

  The place presented, in many ways, like a hundred diners he’d patronized in LA: the aroma of overbrewed coffee, the warm hum of conversation, the clink of silverware. Snug red booths lined the walls. A long counter bisected the room, waitresses in uniform bustling back and forth behind it, balancing plates of food. And yet—there was something distinctly unique about this place. A sign on the wall read No Slack Devices Allowed. A man in a Western jacket dug into a plate of food as he scanned a newspaper that hovered before him, the pages turning on their own. A waitress stopped to warm up his coffee, and as she poured it, a scintillating puff of silver sparks shot up from his mug.

  “This place is amazing,” Emmet whispered.

  Leopold nodded in mute agreement. Then, feeling like his limbs had gone numb, he wobbled over to a booth and collapsed into it, his bones having taken on the consistency of jelly.

  Emmet, still fully in possession of his bones, sat down normally, then stared across the table at Leopold. “Okay,” he said quietly.

  “Okay what?”

  “Okay.” Emmet leaned forward, his elbows splayed across the chipped brown Formica. “You were right.”

  “I was right?” That strange thing was still happening to Leopold’s extremities, his limbs going heavy and his skin prickling.

  “About everything.”

  “I’m never right about everything.”

  “Larry. Look at me.”

  Leopold couldn’t. He was staring down at the menus, the two tomes as fat as dictionaries, then up at the ceiling, where bumpy, yellowing tiles were silently rearranging themselves for no obvious reason. A young couple at the next booth sat shoulder to shoulder, chuckling as they watched images dance in the lens of a shared Aether focuser.

  For a moment, Leopold wasn’t even sure whether he wanted this to be real.

  “Larry.” Emmet snapped his fingers in front of Leopold’s face. “Don’t freak out on me again.”

  Leopold shook his head. “I won’t. I’m not.”

  “Listen. This changes everything—”

  “Hi there!” came a cheerful voice. A waitress with horn-rimmed glasses and bobbed brown hair stood at their booth, chewing gum like she was mad at it. Her name tag read Kaye. “Sorry to keep you guys waiting—the kitchen’s a hot mess tonight.” She snapped her gum and took an order pad from her apron. “The transatomiser is on the fritz, so if you came in hankering for double-broiled char, you’ll have to go to Izzy’s. You’re not here for the char, are you?”

  Leopold hesitated. “I don’t even know what that is.”

  She laughed out loud, snorting a little, then swatted his arm playfully. “You’re hilarious.” She smacked her gum again. “All right, what’ll it be?”

  Emmet and Leopold looked at their unopened menus. The cover pictured a smiling man in a chef’s hat holding a focuser in one hand and a wooden ladle in the other.

  “How long is this?” Emmet said, struggling to peel open the pages; they were stuck together with a smear of something that was either strawberry jam or blood.

  Leopold managed to pry his apart, and the book fell open with a heavy thud.

  “Thirty-seven chapters,” Kaye said. “Of course, that’s just our late-night menu. If you want the full monty, come back for lunch. So, what’ll you have?”

  Leopold turned a page, then closed the book. His head was too full; he couldn’t decide. Remembering Art’s recommendation, he said, “Uh, how about a slice of pie?”

  She smiled. “What kind? We’ve got seventeen—”

  “Anything is fine.”

  “Oh, that’s my favorite,” said Kaye.

  Emmet frowned. “What’s your favorite?”

  “Anything,” she said, cocking a hip. “So. One for each of you, or are you going to share?”

  Emmet looked offended. “I don’t share food.”

  “Two slices. No problem. That all?”

  “Um, no,” said Leopold hesitantly. “Could we get two cups of coffee?”

  “You got it. Back in a few.” She flipped her notepad shut and, with another crack of her gum and a friendly smile at Leopold, she sauntered off.

  Emmet was the first to speak. “Okay, that was weird.”

  “This whole place is weird.”

  “No—I mean, why’d she keep smiling at you like that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Apparently, you’re hilarious.” Emmet seemed to consider this. “Are you hilarious?”

  “I’d say my hit rate is like forty-nine percent.”

  “That seems generous,” Emmet said impassively. He returned his attention to the menu, open to a page showing a Jell-O mold in which something resembling eyeballs was suspended.

  Leopold exhaled sharply. “Hey.”

  Emmet looked up. “Yeah?”

  “Why the hell aren’t you freaking out?” Leopold looked around, then lowered his voice. “This is crazy.”

  Emmet closed his menu. “No,” he said calmly. “This is awesome. Sunder is real. You had the visions, then you got the key.”

  “The token.”

  “The token, whatever. The point is, this is fate. You’re supposed to be here, Larry—”

  “Yeah, but what if I’m not?” he said quietly. “What if this was all some big mistake?”

  Emmet hesitated. “What are you talking about?”

  From the moment they’d stepped onto Angels Flight, the idea that this had all been an accident had occupied a small but increasingly loud corner of Leopold’s thoughts. There’d been no gloss, no fuss, no finesse to his arrival. Everything had been dark and grimy and difficult—like he’d been pushing through a barred door.

  It was hard to reconcile: His dreams were coming true, but they weren’t happening the way he’d dreamed.

  There hadn’t been a key, but a token. There had been no magical door, just an unmanned, half-broken trolley car. There had been no welcome, no acknowledgment of his arrival. Instead, his every move had been trailed by literal garbage. Even now he was skulking around in Sunder—hiding his identity for reasons that felt important but unclear.

  “What if it turns out they don’t actually want us here?” said Leopold. “What if this was all a screw-up at the head office or something? What if the raccoon got its depressed teenagers mixed up?”

  “No chance.” Emmet was shaking his head. “That raccoon did not get its teenagers mixed up. If anyone’s supposed to be here, it’s you.” He pointed at Leopold. “This depressed teenager. Sunder has always been your dream.”

  Leopold forced a laugh. “She never even mentioned it, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “My mom.” Leopold took a breath. “The videotapes were hers—but she never gave them to me. I found them in her stuff, after she died.”

  He’d been over it a million times in his head. Searched his memory again and again. If his mom had so much as breathed a word to him about Sunder, or about the tapes, it would’ve been seared into his mind. In his more desperate, younger years, Leopold had convinced himself she’d left the tapes behind on purpose—that she’d wanted him to find them, and to find Sunder—but eventually he’d resigned himself to the disappointing fact that he’d probably never know for sure.