With his head gently spinning, he took a few exploratory steps. His shoes stuck like they were glued in place until the moment he lifted them, when they came away with easy pops.

  From this vantage he could see the rooftops of Sunder Hill. He lingered a moment, gazing out across Sunder’s dazzling main street, where a few night owls were leaving a beautiful art deco theater, the movie titles on its marquee sign spelled out in runic Sunderese. A few streets away, the top floor of the fortresslike Sunder Bank and Trust was encircled with angry, swirling mist—some sort of defense mechanism, Leopold reckoned, against thieves or something worse. Standing proud at the edge of it all, the tallest building in Sunder Hill was a towering pyramid of glass. Leopold recognized this as the headquarters of the Department, where Sunder’s governing bureaucrats and decision-makers had their offices. Reflecting the sky, its mirrored surfaces were a beacon of gold and pink that stood in stark contrast to the dim, unmagical neighborhoods that rolled out endlessly beyond it.

  It was all here, all knowable. All finally within Leopold’s grasp.

  There was a jangle below as Emmet scooped up Leopold’s fallen keys. “You good?” he called up to Leopold.

  “Yeah.” Leopold could feel something strange coursing through him. A stinging behind his eyes, a fullness in his chest.

  It was, he realized, happiness.

  Twenty-Three

  “I still don’t understand why it didn’t work for you,” said Leopold. They were walking back toward Angels Flight, passing the Brite Spot, its windows now dark. “It was probably that crappy focuser. Or maybe that snow pre-cast was expired—”

  “Seriously, it’s not a big deal,” Emmet replied, his eyes on a service station at the corner, where a lone man stood gassing an old, boatlike sedan. There was a wistful quality to his voice when he spoke. “I don’t really care that much whether or not I can do magic.”

  Three times Emmet had tried and failed to get the Funcast to work, to no avail. Finally, he’d insisted that getting home before dawn was more important, and Leopold had begrudgingly relented.

  Still, he couldn’t deny the glaring differences between their experiences.

  In Emmet’s hands the focuser had seemed clumsy, alien. But to Leopold casting had felt natural, like something he’d done a thousand times before, the hum of power in his hands as he held the focuser a sensation embedded in cell memory. Somewhere in his marrow the feeling fit, and he allowed himself, for the space of a breath, to picture more: him, Leopold Berry, among the most powerful sparks in Sunder, entrusted with protecting the magical world from shambling, snarling night-realm beasts. Learning colossal spells. Wielding some fat-lensed focuser to blast a Noxum with a bolt of death magic, then dragging its body into a black, bubbling containment pit.

  The fantasy was so grand, he was almost embarrassed for himself.

  Leopold cleared his throat, cleared his mind, then returned his eyes to Emmet. “You sure you don’t want to try again before we leave?”

  “I’m sure,” Emmet said, shifting his gaze skyward. “Sunder was always your dream, man, not mine. I was happy to be along for the ride then—and I’m happy to be along for the ride now.”

  Leopold nodded, ever grateful for his friend’s even temper. They walked for a while in affable quiet, taking in the final blocks of Sunder Hill’s dreamy, pink-hued cityscape before the Angels Flight station. They passed a travel agency, its window advertising trips to sunders around the country—there was a flash sale on tumbleport tours to Muncie—and then a grand hotel, this one firmly secured to the ground, with a tuxedoed valet standing outside a lobby gleaming with chandeliers. Nearby, a garbage man was tossing trash bags into a portable hole he dragged along behind him; the clatter the bags made when they finally hit bottom, several seconds later, was an almost inaudible tink.

  “You know what’s weird?” said Emmet, his eyes shifting to Leopold. “In the show, there were outer-realm creatures walking around in Sunder. Orax, perishers, the occasional well-behaved rust fiend—but can you remember seeing any tonight?”

  Leopold paused, trying to recall, then shrugged. “In the show, Max rode a flying horse,” he pointed out. “I don’t think whoever made Sunderworld was super concerned with accuracy.”

  It occurred to him that the show might’ve fudged or exaggerated some details to make Sunder appear less real. The more artificial the fantasy seemed, the less likely some overly curious slack would go looking for an entrance. The same theory might also explain the show’s bargain-basement production values. Leopold was about to suggest this to Emmet when he realized Emmet was no longer beside him, but had darted off to examine a nearby statue.

  “Check this out,” he said, beckoning to Leopold as he bent to study a plaque at its base. Emmet could never resist a good informational plaque. “It says this guy founded Sunder. Charles Vigdor.”

  Leopold joined him at the foot of the statue. “Sunder had a founder?” He gazed up at a stocky man cast in twenty feet of bronze, clad in bronze cowboy boots, a bronze ten-gallon hat, and a giant, bronze mustache that covered half his face.

  “This says he drilled the world’s first Aether well, right here in Sunder Hill, in 1909.” Emmet began to read aloud. “ ‘Striking what’s known as The Vein, Mr. Vigdor tapped into a seemingly limitless deposit of Aether that attracted sparks from around the world to Los Angeles. Thanks to his discovery, magical technology has progressed more in the past hundred years than in the previous thousand—’ ”

  The pink clouds flickered without warning, popping on and off like a faulty bulb.

  “What the hell,” Emmet said, looking up from words he could no longer read.

  The sky went completely dark. Down the street someone shouted, “Oh, come on!”

  “Aether outage?” Leopold guessed, remembering the angry guy from the tumbleport station.

  “Whatever it is, it can’t be good,” Emmet said.

  Just then they heard the distant, eerie wail of an emergency siren.

  Twenty-Four

  The siren pitched slowly up and down. Pale moonlight shone across rooftops all along the block, but otherwise everything was enveloped in shadow and gloom. Even the streetlamps and lighted shop windows had gone dark. And then a voice rang out from every direction, issuing as if from loudspeakers. It was the same male announcer they’d heard several times before.

  “This is the emergency warning system. Please proceed to the nearest refuge point to await further instructions.”

  “Refuge point?” Emmet repeated, sounding a little worried now. He pulled out his phone to use as a light, only to be reminded it didn’t work. “Yeah, it’s definitely time to go home.”

  Leopold stayed rooted to the spot.

  His pulse was racing. There was an unease in the air—the promise of danger—and yet Leopold felt no compulsion to flee. In fact, he was experiencing an overwhelming surge of protectiveness for this absurd, magical place.

  Something was wrong, and he wanted to know what it was. More than that, he realized: He wanted to help. Life had changed irrevocably for him tonight.

  Hell, he’d done magic tonight.

  Leopold knew he couldn’t stay here forever—he knew he’d have to go home and deal with his normal life eventually—but he wanted to make sure that Sunder would still be here when he came back.

  Because he was definitely coming back.

  “Larry?”

  “Proceed directly to the nearest refuge point,” the announcement repeated. “And comply with all instructions given by paladins or peace officers.”

  At the word paladins Leopold straightened.

  “Damn,” Emmet said with a sigh. “Did he just say paladins?”

  Leopold was fighting a smile. “Yeah.”

  “We have to stay now, don’t we?”

  “I think we do, Mister Worthington.”

  “After Richter kills you, my parents are going to kill me. Double homicide.”

  “Worth it, though, right?”

  “Hell yeah,” Emmet said, almost laughing. Then he turned and shouted into the empty air, “Does anyone know the way to the refuge point?”

  “Thisaway!”

  The voice had come from the sidewalk across the street, where a group of people were moving through a shaft of moonlight. They all appeared to be heading in the same direction, though they didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry.

  Leopold and Emmet jogged over to them. Emmet asked what was going on.

  “Noxum alarm,” said an older man in a coat too heavy for the weather. “Nothing to worry about. Probably just a drill.”

  Noxum were the most feared monsters in Sunder. While they ranged widely in size and lethality—minor Noxum could usually be dispatched without calling in the paladins—major Noxum were terrifying creatures of another order altogether and, in the show, were known for murderous rampages that claimed dozens of lives before they could be put down.

  “Does this happen a lot?” asked Leopold, a thrill going down his spine.

  “Once or twice a month,” said someone whose voice they recognized. It was Jorge from 99 Spells. He turned on a flashlight and the beam bobbled ahead of them.

  “First time they’ve cut the Aether, though,” said a yawning lady. She sounded more tired than worried. “I was just about to cast myself to sleep.”

  In fact, none of them seemed worried. They had the slouching pace of high school kids during a routine fire drill.

  “Larry.” Emmet’s elbow dug into his ribs. “Look.”

  Out of the shadows came a small troop of uniformed young men and women. They strode down the middle of the street, shoulder to shoulder in tailored green paladin uniforms and tall brown boots. Bandoliers studded with vials of Aether crossed their chests, and they carried serious-looking focusers, the lenses’ thick glass glinting in the moonlight.

  “Thank you for your service,” Jorge called out.

  Leopold and Emmet had once made paladin uniforms for themselves, repurposed from old Boy Scout stuff—costumes for their homespun version of Sunderworld. Most young sparks were required to serve for a time in the Paladin Corps, widely respected as Sunder’s first and best line of defense against the Noxum. Max’s mentor had been a paladin commander, battle-scarred from the last Noxum War.

  They hadn’t yet reached the refuge point when the siren began to wind down. A new announcement echoed and their group came to a sudden halt.

  “This has been a test of the emergency warning system. You may return to your homes. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  There were murmurs of irritation, several people muttering choice words for the inconveniences they’d endured.

  “Do you think the lights will come back on?” Leopold whispered to Emmet.

  Before Emmet could respond, a pyramid of boxy televisions blared to life in the window of a nearby electronics shop, the jarring light and loud sound cracking the silence. A dozen flickering screens showed the same footage: a woman with cropped white hair and black-rimmed glasses fielding questions from a podium. A chyron across the bottom read:

  Executive Angela Ramirez’s news conference, earlier today

  Her voice boomed. Leopold winced even as he pushed closer to the screens. “I want to assure you,” the woman was saying, “that we are making every effort to ensure the Aether supply remains uninterrupted. I know these outages have been inconvenient for everyone, but the situation is temporary.”

  “They’re showing this again?” Jorge complained.

  The woman in the bathrobe shushed him.

  Executive was an honorific reserved for the elected leader of Sunder, the head of its small but powerful governing body. In Sunderworld the Executive had been portrayed by an older male actor who’d given the character a sarcastic edge and a quick temper.

  As he watched the genuine article speak, Leopold had a dreamlike moment. He was both exhausted and exhilarated, his mind running on fumes and adrenaline. The garish blue glare of the TVs contrasted against the dark around him, making the cold night feel milky and soft. After so many years of telling himself Sunder was fake, now he had to keep reminding himself it was real—that right now, he was standing in the middle of a Sunder street watching the Sunder Executive field questions.

  It was not only real, but surreal.

  “Bro,” said Emmet quietly.

  Leopold smiled. “I know.”

  Off-screen a reporter asked, “Executive, is there any connection between the Aether shortages and the recent uptick in Noxum attacks?”

  “None at all,” she said firmly. “The shortages are due to unusually extreme seasonal fluctuations in our Aether wells and should resolve themselves before long. The attacks were isolated incidents and nothing our brave paladins couldn’t handle. Even so, I would like to remind everyone to take basic anti-Noxum precautions, and to conserve Aether whenever possible.”

  Another reporter: “And what about the search for a channeler? Couldn’t that offer relief on both fronts?”

  Leopold felt a sudden shock at the word channeler, a wire pulling taut within him.

  Chan·nel·er | ˈChan(ə)l ər | noun: the most powerful magical being on the planet

  More specifically: an extremely rare spark that came along only once a generation or so, who could kill Noxum with little effort and summon vast amounts of Aether from the air, enabling them to cast substantial spells without a focuser. On the show, Max had discovered he was a channeler and spent much of the first season honing his untapped abilities.

  “Are you hearing this?” Emmet hissed.

  Leopold nodded numbly.

  Emmet hit him in the arm. “That’s gotta be you.”

  Leopold tensed, apprehension radiating through him. He turned sharply to Emmet. “Don’t even joke about that.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Will you two hush?” said Bathrobe Lady.

  Several reporters were asking about the channeler search now, all talking over one another, and Executive Ramirez had to raise her hand for quiet. She adjusted her glasses and continued. “The search is ongoing,” she said with a brittle smile. “That’s all I have time for today. Thank you.” With a respectful nod she turned and walked away while the camera held on the empty podium.

  The sky came alight with pink clouds again, though dimmer than before, and the streetlights with it, jolts of static crackling the air as they snapped on. The process was staggered so that the lamps and neon signs at the end of the block lit up first, then rolled toward them until they were awash in color. A billboard advertising the services of a magical injury lawyer flickered on across the street, and the group of irritable stragglers slowly dispersed, leaving Emmet and Leopold alone.

  The pair stood frozen, still watching the blaring televisions, as if hypnotized.

  “That was Executive Angela Ramirez, earlier today.” On the dozen screens, the camera had cut to a pair of news anchors inside a studio. “As always, if you think you know someone who might be a channeler, contact the Department right away.”

  A phone number flashed across the screen.

  They both stared at it.

  “Larry,” Emmet whispered.

  Leopold couldn’t move.

  “Mister Berry.” Emmet turned to face him. “We need to find a phone.”

  “No,” Leopold said sharply.

  There was a sudden electrical pop from the street behind them. Emmet turned to look. When he turned back, he grasped Leopold by the shoulders and spun him around.

  Across the street, lit from the inside and shining brightly, was a phone booth.

  Twenty-Five

  Leopold and Emmet crammed into the small booth, Leopold wrestling the rusted accordion door shut behind them. Ivy had snaked its way inside the poorly sealed space, the interior half-devoured by vines that Emmet forcibly tore away from the heavy black receiver. Finally, he lifted the phone from its cradle, pressing it into Leopold’s hands as if it were his firstborn child.

  “Call.”

  “This is crazy.” Leopold gazed at the scuffed phone, shaking his head. A dial tone buzzed insistently. “I can’t be the channeler.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Are you kidding? Maybe because I’ve only ever cast one spell, like, twenty minutes ago—”

  “So what?” Emmet countered. “Did Max start off casting tons of spells right away? That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “If I’m the channeler, why was it so hard to get here? And why’d it take so long to get my token? And—”

  “Who knows? You probably weren’t ready yet.” Emmet tried to gesture out the window, and in the process nearly slapped Leopold in the face. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  Leopold flinched. “Isn’t what obvious?”

  “All of it. The tapes, the show. The last six years of your life. There’s a reason you were obsessed with Sunderworld. There’s a reason you kept Seeing into Sunder. It wasn’t random, and it wasn’t just because your mom died. You found those tapes because you were supposed to.” Emmet pointed toward the pyramid of TVs across the street, and this time he really did hit Leopold in the face.

  “Ow,” muttered Leopold. “What the hell!”

  “Pay attention. They’re running out of Aether. The Noxum situation is worse than they want to admit. They’re overdue for a channeler.” Emmet looked at him seriously. “What are the odds that everything you’ve been through—all these years—was some big coincidence?”

  Leopold tensed. He’d always felt, deep down, that there had been more at work behind the scenes of his life than chance and randomness. That there had to be some meaning, some purpose in all he’d experienced. Emmet was only saying something he’d thought himself a thousand times.