Now he was here, in Sunder, grasping for meaning again.

  Grasping for his mother.

  “Look,” said Emmet. “The only thing we know for sure is that we’re here. You’re here.” He shrugged. “And yeah, maybe it’s a little grittier than we imagined it would be—but it’s real. You really want to know whether we’re supposed to be here?” He pointed out the window. “Let’s fuck around and find out.”

  Leopold sank back into his pleather seat, suddenly short of breath. Heat was building behind his eyes. Years of agony were unknotting in his chest, a lifetime of self-doubt being undone in minutes. It was almost too much to bear.

  “Hey,” Emmet said quietly. “You’re not crazy, Larry. And you never were.”

  Nineteen

  Kaye slid two overfull cups of black coffee toward them, dumped a handful of creamers onto the table, then set two chipped plates down with a clatter. Emmet mopped up some spilled coffee as Leopold stared in awe at the large, golden-crusted wedges of pie. Oozing from the crust was a jammy indigo filling.

  “Enjoy!” she said, before swishing off to another table.

  Once Kaye was safely out of earshot, Emmet asked, “What kind of pie do you think it is?”

  “Blueberry?” Leopold guessed.

  An aged busboy paused beside their booth to readjust the tub of dishes he was carrying, then glowered into it. Something in the bottom was snarling. “Oh, shut up in there,” he growled, using his free hand to slap the dishes with a dirty rag.

  Emmet and Leopold looked at one another uncertainly, and then, more uncertainly, at the pie.

  “We have to take at least a couple of bites,” Leopold said.

  “It’d be rude not to,” Emmet agreed.

  Leopold leaned down and gave his slice a sniff. Seemed safe. He picked up his fork and cut a small bite. The texture was convincingly pie-like.

  Slowly, he chewed. And then he nearly fell out of the booth. “Oh my God.”

  “What?” Emmet said, alarmed. “Is it disgusting?”

  “No,” said Leopold, taking another bite. “It’s amafing.”

  “I hope you mean amazing.”

  Leopold nodded eagerly, too distracted by the bright flavors going off like fireworks on his tongue. The first bite had started out tasting like perfectly ripe, sweet raspberries, but before he’d swallowed had become the best apple pie he’d ever had. The second bite began as pumpkin, then transformed to cherry cola spiced with something incongruously savory but delicious, which left a pleasant fizzing sensation in his mouth.

  Emmet leaned in. “What does it taste like?”

  “Lots of things—I can’t describe it,” Leopold said while cutting a third bite, “but it might be the single best thing I’ve eaten in my entire life.”

  “Seriously?” Emmet picked up his fork and took a huge bite, his eyes widening as he chewed. “Holy shit,” he said with his mouth full. “Are we eating magic right now?”

  “Yeah.” A thrill laddered down Leopold’s back. “I’m pretty sure we are.”

  As Emmet redoubled his efforts, something drew Leopold’s attention to a corner of the diner. Alone in a dim booth sat a girl about his age. She wore a dark green cloak that matched the mossy green of her eyes, its hood pooling around her shoulders, her dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail. She was beautiful. He couldn’t help but register this as she stared at him—with a look bordering on suspicion—until he met her gaze straight on and she ducked behind one of the Brite Spot’s voluminous menus.

  How long had she been watching? Were other people? Leopold worried that he and Emmet had been talking too loudly and did not sound at all like magically abled tourists from Iowa.

  “Larry.” Emmet was snapping his fingers at Leopold. “Where’d you go?”

  “Sorry. This girl was staring at me.”

  Emmet looked skeptical. “Where?”

  “Wait—don’t look—”

  Emmet turned and sat up in his seat, obvious as a fire alarm. “The one in the booth by the bathrooms?”

  Leopold scowled. “Idiot. I told you not to look.”

  Emmet dropped back into his seat. “Okay, is there something about this place that makes you irresistible to women?”

  Leopold’s face went hot. “Shut up.”

  The girl was still pretending to read her menu.

  “Oh shit,” Emmet hissed. “Is that really what time it is?” He was gaping at a clock on the wall. It was well after midnight. “I told my parents I’d be home by eleven thirty.” He dug out his phone. “I have to text them to at least let them know I’m…What the hell?”

  He turned the screen toward Leopold. It was black, with a message in red across the middle:

  Slack Tech Disallowed

  Leopold raised his eyebrows, took out his own phone, and tapped its screen. He got the same message.

  Slack was the pejorative Sundarian term for people with no magical ability, and though Leopold was increasingly sure he wasn’t one, his phone apparently qualified as “slack tech.”

  “All right, time to go,” Emmet said, gathering his things. “I mean, at this point your dad’s going to straight-up kill you when you get home, right? You don’t want to be late for your own murder.”

  Leopold didn’t laugh. A sudden apprehension had gripped him. “Wait—we can’t just leave.”

  “Why not?”

  “How will we get back in again?”

  “Art gave us two tokens for Angels Flight, remember? And I’m sure we could get more just by asking. He was super casual about it.”

  “Right,” Leopold said, relaxing. He fished the coins from the welcome bag and held them gingerly in his hand. After years of waiting for his key to Sunder, the idea that he could come and go as he pleased was so profound he felt lightheaded just thinking about it. Why Angels Flight had been retired and abandoned was a question for another time. But that was the point: They had time.

  “Take both,” Emmet said generously. “There’s no way I’m coming here without you, anyway.”

  Leopold took a bracing breath. “Thanks, man,” he said. “I appreciate that.”

  He dropped the coins back into the small bag and placed it on the table. He’d go home tonight to face his father, who’d rage at him for at least an hour, but the idea didn’t fill him with the same dread it usually did. Just knowing this world would be waiting for him—and that the tokens were safely in his possession—was like wearing a suit of armor, one Richter could do nothing to pierce.

  “Check, please!”

  Emmet signaled to Kaye while Leopold searched the welcome bag for their meal coupon. Along with a few brochures, a bright green card fluttered out. It was about the size of a dollar bill and printed on heavy paper.

  Leopold read it, reread it, then slid the card across the table. “Hey, look at this.”

  Emmet snatched up the card. “It’s a gift certificate,” he said, his eyes widening as he scanned the text. “For spells.”

  They looked at each other.

  “Mister Worthington,” Leopold said evenly. “I’m of the opinion that it would be completely irresponsible of us to leave here tonight without first doing some magic.”

  Emmet nodded seriously. “Stupid, even.”

  Kaye arrived with the check. “You guys have a coupon, is that right?”

  Emmet handed it over, then held up the green certificate. “You wouldn’t happen to know where we could use this, would you?”

  She squinted at it, then glanced out the darkened window. “Tonight?”

  “Tonight,” the boys said at the same time.

  Kaye pursed her lips, thinking. “At this hour, only one place will be open.”

  Twenty

  The blindingly bright sign on the roof read 99 Spells…and More!

  The magic store stood between a hamburger joint and a print shop, both closed for the night. Despite the late hour, Sunder Hill’s eternal dusk still cast its pinkish glow over everything, but the streets were increasingly deserted and a chill had sharpened the air. Leopold, arms folded tight across his chest as they crossed the small parking lot, wished he still had his jacket.

  It looked like the kind of chain drug emporium that anchored every strip mall in LA, its windows allowing a glimpse of neat aisles and carpeted floors within. The automatic doors whooshed open. They walked into a blast of garish white light and overzealous air-conditioning.

  At the front, a young man in a purple vest was passing a woman’s purchases over a beeping scanner. A lone shopper meandered with a basket. Signs above each aisle announced categories like Cleaning Prod. & Household Charms; Cold Remedies; Glamours & Bladder Control.

  The in-store speakers were playing an old, cheesy pop song, which was quickly interrupted by a PA announcement. “Jorge, customer assistance in Beauty and Life Extension. Jorge, Beauty and Life Extension.”

  The store was a mishmash of the magical and the mundane. There were shelves of items that didn’t seem magical at all mingled with things that clearly were. Leopold grabbed a plastic-handled basket from a stack by the door, then joined Emmet, who was already browsing.

  “Okay, this isn’t magical,” Emmet said, turning over a stick of deodorant in his hand. “I use this brand. And here”—he picked up a box of toothpaste—“they carry this at CVS.”

  “Well, CVS sure as hell doesn’t carry this.” Leopold studied a small black bottle. “Nev-r Stink. Says it makes you ‘odorless forever.’ In fact”—he squinted at the fine print—“if you take enough, you even become ‘odor absorbent.’ Whatever that means.”

  Emmet crossed to the other side of the aisle. “No way,” he said, his voice hushed with wonder. “Doppel-Buddies!”

  “What, seriously?” Leopold turned to look. A stack of dusty boxes lined a shelf, each containing one naked, sexless, blank-faced action figure. The stock color was gray, but the label promised the figures would adapt to any skin tone.

  Grow a New You! read the display.

  Leopold grabbed a box, turning it reverently in his hands. “Remember the episode when Max makes a copy of himself?”

  “Yeah—so it would impersonate him at school while he was battling Noxum in Sunder.”

  Leopold dropped a Buddy into their basket. “But then it turns violent in episode six or seven, and he has to hunt it down and—”

  “Hold up,” Emmet said. “Why doesn’t anything here have a price tag?”

  “Maybe everything’s the same price?” Leopold said doubtfully. He took the gift certificate from his pocket and studied the back. “Wait, this says it’s redeemable for only one item.” He peered at a line of smaller type. “Of low value.”

  Emmet muttered, “Art, you cheap bastard.”

  “Shit. Okay. If we can only get one thing, what should it be?”

  They looked at each other.

  “A focuser,” they said in unison.

  Twenty-One

  Emmet flagged down the only clerk on shift: a grumpy, gray-bearded man who’d been stocking supplies in the Divination aisle. The name tag on his red polo shirt read Jorge, and when Leopold and Emmet explained what they wanted, Jorge set down his price-tagging gun, cut them off with a single, tired look, and slouched off toward the Aether focusers.

  With unsubtle irritation, he unlocked the doors of a glass cabinet.

  “All right, what’ll it be?”

  Arranged upon the cabinet’s felt-lined shelves were all manner of focusers—which looked like gleaming camera lenses housed in sleek, circular bodies. For a moment they were all Leopold could see, as if a spotlight from heaven were illuminating the dingy cabinet, throwing all else into darkness. The Aether focuser was Sunder’s answer to the magic wand, its lens designed to strengthen and concentrate a spark’s magical energy in a particular direction. Spells cast without them were messy, unpredictable, weak—unfocused—and, with rare exceptions, illegal.

  Leopold fought a powerful urge to grab one off the shelf without asking.

  “We need your best model,” Emmet said confidently, and Leopold nodded.

  Jorge rolled his eyes. “Good ones with primo glass are up top. Contax, Rolleiflex, Hasselblad. They auto-calibrate to your ability level. The lenses open up to ƒ/1.2 for maximum spell extraction and are built like Sherman tanks. You could drop one from an airplane and probably still get a decent cast out of it.” Then, with a sidelong glance: “You planning on dropping yours out of an airplane?”

  “No.” Leopold laughed nervously.

  “Then I’d recommend one of these.” He pointed to a lower shelf, stocked with focusers that were more compact but still sturdy-looking.

  Emmet took out the gift certificate. “Which one will this get us?”

  Scanning it, Jorge’s irritation blossomed into unveiled anger. He studied Leopold and Emmet a beat, then stalked away, muttering, “Goddamn teenagers. Always wasting my time.”

  “Wait—” Emmet called after him. “We’re serious customers! Do you take regular-world credit cards?”

  Quietly, Leopold said, “You have a credit card?”

  “It’s my mom’s,” Emmet answered under his breath. “For emergencies.”

  Jorge’s only response was to scowl and point at a massive sign by the entrance, which read:

  Cash Only

  Undaunted, Leopold and Emmet rushed toward the register, where Jorge was trying to slip out a door marked Employee Exit.

  “Is there anywhere around here we can get some Sunder money?” Leopold called after him. “An ATM or something?”

  Jorge finally turned around, incredulous. “What the hell is Sunder money?”

  Emmet and Leopold traded a glance.

  “You know, I can’t remember Max actually buying anything on the show,” Leopold whispered. “I just assumed—”

  “I’ve got cash!” Emmet exclaimed triumphantly, pulling a few bills from his wallet. “Ten—no, twenty. Twenty bucks. You take American dollars?”

  “Are you kids stoned?” the clerk said flatly.

  “No, sir,” Leopold said, straightening to his full height.

  Jorge considered them for a moment, then took the money from Emmet’s outstretched hand. “All right, whatever,” he said, nodding toward the cabinet. “I might have something for you.”

  Twenty-Two

  What he had for them was a piece of shit.

  The focuser in Leopold’s hand was made of plastic, small enough to slip into his pocket, its fraying wrist strap printed with cartoon images of cats and ice cream cones.

  Funcast was stamped on the back.

  Jorge had thrown in a couple of disposable pre-cast spells: circular, semi-opaque filters that fit over the tiny lens, which was so badly scratched it looked like someone had tried to sand wood with it.

  But it was a focuser. And it was theirs.

  They stood in the alley outside 99 Spells, Emmet tilting the pre-casts up to a slant of streetlight so he could make out the writing around their edges. “We’ve got one called Lil’ Levitator and one called Make It Snow,” he said. “Seems pretty self-explanatory.” He held them out to Leopold. “You pick.”

  Leopold chose the Lil’ Levitator, then slipped his wrist through the focuser’s strap. Cigarette butts and discarded pre-casts were scattered nearby; clearly, they weren’t the first people to hang out here, casting cheap spells.

  Suddenly, his throat went dry.

  It was happening.

  He was about to do magic. Real magic, on purpose. This night had been so surreal that he’d hardly stopped to process it all, to feel the weight of the moment. Years of dreaming—of doubting—had all come to this.

  “Don’t be in your head right now.” Emmet nodded at the focuser in Leopold’s hand. “Nike.”

  Leopold frowned. “What?”

  “Just do it, Larry.”

  “Dumbass,” Leopold said, cracking a grin, and Emmet smiled to match.

  There was no one at either end of the alley. No one watching. Leopold was hardly even aware of the cold. He fit the pre-cast levitation spell over the focuser’s lens and snapped it into place with a satisfying click. The Funcast’s only movable parts were its flimsy aperture ring and a single Cast button on the side. His finger hovered over the button.

  “Well. Here goes nothing.”

  He triggered the button and the lens flashed dimly. There was a robotic whisper at the edge of hearing—the auto-incantation—and then he was flung into the air and flipped upside down. Leopold cried out as his stomach did a somersault and his car keys dropped from his pocket. Emmet shouted in alarm and made a swipe for Leopold, but he was too late. Graffitied bricks blurred past as Leopold soared feetfirst toward the clouds, but his panic proved unnecessary. About twenty feet off the ground he came to a sudden halt, still upside down.

  “You okay?” Emmet called out anxiously.

  “I’m okay,” Leopold said, his heart racing. “I think I aimed too high.” Blood rushing to his head, he took hold of the focuser again and, this time, pointed it at the ground.

  He pushed the button and flipped upright, the pavement and the pink sky trading places. His confidence slowly building, Leopold twisted the plastic aperture ring and descended a few feet. He twisted it the other way and rose again, bouncing to a stop a little higher than before.

  “I think you’re getting it!” Emmet shouted.

  Leopold aimed the focuser at a nearby wall, pushed the cast button, and was yanked sideways until his feet met brick. He stood then at a ninety-degree angle to the wall, casting a huge shadow across the alley below. It was dizzying and surreal.