Page 83 of Impractical Magic

With no other choice, Scarlett swallowed her misgivings and followed. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dim interior. Vanishing Point was a small, intimate lounge with velvet booths lining the walls. Candles flicked on small round tables, and a haze of smoke hung in the air, with a hint of something herbal Scarlett couldn’t quite place. A few magicians sat at the tables, quietly talking or nursing drinks. At one table, a woman levitated a series of crystal balls, making them dance in a circle like a mystical Ferris wheel.

The bar ran along the far wall, a masterpiece of dark mahogany with rows of colorful potions and elixirs lining the shelves behind it. The bartender, a dapper gentleman with a curled mustache, was mixing drinks that sparked and fizzed with supernatural energy. Around them, the bar pulsed with magic—glasses refilled themselves, playing cards shuffled in midair, and on a small stage in the back, a jazz band’s instruments played on their own.

“You seeing this?” Scarlett nudged her sister. “I hate this.”

“Yeah,” Del muttered. “I’m currently making a list of a hundred reasons why I hate this.”

“Magicians aren’t just knucklehead performers, after all. At least some of them actually have magic.”

“Yep.”

“Which means . . .” Scarlett looked at her sister and sighed. “Luna was right.”

“That’s, like, reason number three on my list. Hey, look over there.”

Max was perched at the bar, with Quentin’s cage beside him.

“Right,” Delilah said. “So . . . um. What now?”

“What do you mean, what now?” Scarlett whispered urgently. “Back at the buffet, you were all gung ho!”

“Hey, you were, too!”

“Well, we’re doing it. So . . .” Scarlett shrugged. “Let’s . . . just . . . sit down and talk to him, I guess. Act like a magician—he won’t remember us now that he’s out of Oak Haven. Let’s just get him chatting and go from there.”

“Okay,” Delilah said reluctantly. “But I just want it on the record that you pushed me into the portal.”

“So?”

“So, you started it, Scar.”

“No, Del, you started it.”

“No, you—oh, never mind.” Del folded her arms over her chest. “I don’t like this.”

“What, you and me bickering? I love you and me bickering—I didn’t realize how much I’d missed it!”

“No, I don’t like pretending to be somebody else. I’m no good at it. I was never good at it.”

“Oh, don’t worry, you’ll be totally fine,” Scarlett assured her. On the inside, though, she was worried. Even as a kid, Delilah had been lousy at playing pretend. When they played ‘doctor’ with other kids in the neighborhood, Delilah would invariably diagnose everyone with terminal cancer. “Just follow my lead. And remember the old rule: with good improv, the response is always ‘Yes, and . . .’”

Scarlett and Delilah took a deep breath and approached the stool where Max sat. He sipped a neon blue cocktail and absentmindedly shoved carrots inside Quentin’s cage.

“Hey there,” Scarlett said, sliding onto the barstool beside Max, and Delilah hovered awkwardly behind. “Nice rabbit.”

Max glanced at her suspiciously. “Do I know you?”

“Yes, and” Delilah said confidently.

“Uh . . .” Scarlett made a face. “We’re just a couple of magicians passing through. Heard this was the place to be.” The bartender leaned over, and Scarlett indicated they’d have whatever concoction Max was having. “So, what brings you to Vegas? Do you perform here?”

“No, no. Actually . . .” Max chuckled into his drink. “Actually, the truth is, I have no idea what I’m doing here.”

“Ahh, yes.” Scarlett shook her head sympathetically. “One of those rough Vegas weekends—I know the feeling. I guess that’s why they say, whatever happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”

“This is stranger than that. Last thing I remember, I was on the East Coast. I’d been entrusted with a secret mission, you see. I went deep undercover—I used an accent and everything . . .”

“Just the one?” Delilah muttered. “I bet it wasn’t just the one.”