Page 41 of Impractical Magic

Zahir reached for another orange. “He’s in the walk-in.”

“He’s just . . . in the freezer? For how long?”

“What am I, your boyfriend-wrangler? I don’t know. He took a case of champagne in there to chill, and he hasn’t come out.”

Scarlett frowned. “And you didn’t think to look for him?”

Zahir grabbed more oranges and shook them at her. “Busy!”

“Right.” She hopped off the counter. “Good talk, Zahir. You’re the brother I never wanted.”

He called to her as she walked away, “Back at you!”

Grrrrrr, said the juicer.

Scarlett yanked open the heavy stainless-steel door of the walk-in and stepped inside. As the door slammed behind her, she found herself standing on a street corner in New Orleans.

The air was thick with humidity and the scent of something deliciously spicy cooking nearby. Greenery dripped off the cast-iron balconies overhead. A cacophony of musicians blocked traffic on the street while tourists gathered to listen and dance and take pictures with their phones.

Scarlett spun around—the walk-in was gone.

Well, she thought. This should be interesting.

Chapter 15: Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler

It wasn’t the first time Scarlett had stepped through a portal. After all, portals had been her father’s primary area of academic interest. But portals required a great deal of magical labor to create. They didn’t just crop up at random.

Until now, apparently.

Across the street to her left, Scarlett spotted a group of street punks pottering around outside a grocery store. They were all tattoos, piercings, and Doc Marten boots, lost in a haze of patchouli and disaffection. And there among the punks was Nate. He was sitting on a case of champagne and drinking straight from one of the bottles.

She crossed the street and plonked down on the sidewalk beside him.

Nate handed Scarlett the bottle without speaking. She took a sip and handed the bottle back.

After a while he said, “We’re in New Orleans.”

Scarlett shrugged. “Seems like.”

“I went into the walk-in . . . and now I’m here.”

“Me too.”

“Is this because of what happened at the grove last night?”

“Reckon so,” she replied. “One tree was infected, and we had a few magic problems. Now all the trees are, and—”

“And magic is now just . . .” He made an explosion-like gesture.

“In anarchy,” she said. “Yep.”

He rolled his eyes. “Cool.”

They sat in silence for a long time, just listening to the music. The band was a motley collection of beat-up trumpets and trombones, accompanied by weathered banjos, a dented tuba, and a broken accordion. Kids with washboards and spoons kept the beat, more or less. The cumulative effect was sort of Dixieland apocalypse—which, Scarlett thought, felt appropriate under the circumstances.

Apocalypse. Her mind flashed to the magic supply room in Nate’s store, and she winced. Oh no . . . all those enchanted materials . . . He’s sitting on the witchcraft equivalent of enriched uranium. “Nate? How is your store? And all that magic in the back? Is everything . . . okay?”

“It ain’t great. This morning, I heard all these banging noises coming from the back room, and then there was a sort of squelch, like if you dropped an octopus? Then I’m pretty sure I heard cats? I mean, a lot of cats. Followed by a sort of rrr, rrr, rrr-sound, like a car that can’t get into gear. After that, let’s see . . . oh yeah, after that came a screech—sort of a caaaawwww!—like an angry pterodactyl. I didn’t dare even open the door—I just locked up and walked away. I figured your mom was going to be in trouble with all the guests showing up, so I picked up this champagne from the market and took it over there. She said, take it to the walk-in, so I opened the walk-in and . . .” He finished the champagne.