Page 33 of Jingle Spells

“He’s not my historian.” Delilah focused very hard on not meeting her sister’s eyes. “He’s helping Zahir prep for tomorrow’s feast.”

“Oh, Jasper and Zahir are pals now, are they?”

Delilah shrugged. “Apparently they’ve bonded over a shared dedication to doing everything the hard way.”

“Uh-huh.” Scarlett’s knowing tone was deeply irritating. “And you left Jasper alone to chat with a guy who’s known you since you were in diapers? A guy who knows every embarrassing story about you? It’s a bold strategy, sis. Let’s see if it pays off for ya. You know, as we speak, Z’s probably telling him all about the time you accidentally turned the entire breakfast buffet into frogs.”

“Can we focus?” But Delilah could feel her cheeks warming, and not from the winter air. “The point is, Jasper and I think we know what the magicians are up to. We were on this absolutely ridiculous Christmas house tour, and⁠—”

“Hold that thought.” Scarlett grabbed Delilah’s and Nate’s arms, yanking them both to a stop. “What fresh hell is this?”

Delilah followed her sister’s gaze . . . and her heart sank. Oh fantastic. Because this day wasn’t messy enough already.

Outside the town hall, two distinct crowds had formed on either side of the entrance. On the left, a tour group milled about, gawping at the sights, their HAVEN OF HORRORS T-shirts glowing eerily in the winter twilight. On the right stood a cluster of Oak Haven’s witches, their faces set in such fierce expressions, the phrase “ready to rumble” was practically visible across their foreheads.

“Yikes,” Nate said. “This is a bit too ‘Sharks versus Jets’ for my taste.”

A man with a MAGIC IS REAL fanny pack made the questionable life choice of trying to get Louise Demain to “break character.” “C’mon, lady! Give us a smile! You can’t be grumpy all the time! I got a member of the Queen’s Guard to smile one time—surely I can get a grin out of you.”

Louise’s eyes glowed with an unsettling purple light. “Hear me, meatsack. Your doom approaches posthaste. Your last coherent thought shall be the maddening recognition of your own inconsequence in the vast and indifferent cosmos. Your death will be as unmerciful as Time itself.”

“Um.” The tourist’s smile wavered. “Just a quick selfie, then?”

Part of Delilah wanted to warn these people. Not about Louise specifically; anyone dumb enough to poke that particular bear deserved what they got. But about what was really going on here. About the damage they might be doing, treating Oak Haven like it was budget dinner theater.

Then again, they wouldn’t remember what transpired here, anyway. None of them would. Just like Jasper wouldn’t remember . . .

Nope. Not thinking about him right now.

The town hall doors burst open and Conrad Delmonico emerged, his cardigan somehow managing to radiate both authority and anxiety in equal measure.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced to the tourists, “I’m afraid town hall is closed for a private event. If you could please return to your buses, I’m sure they’ll take you back to your hotel. Or back to the airport. Or to perdition, frankly. Truth is, I don’t care where you go next. But you know what they say: you don’t have to go home but you can’t⁠—”

“But we paid for the Authentic WitchTown Experience!” a woman protested. “The hotel promised we could watch you guys perform a real town meeting!”

“I assure you,” Conrad replied with impressive patience, “that whatever the hotel promised, we are not actually a living history museum, and⁠—”

“That’s exactly what a living history museum would say!”

Delilah felt a headache building behind her eyes. Reality in Oak Haven seemed to be getting slipperier by the hour.

“You know what?” Conrad’s voice cracked slightly. “Everyone is welcome to join us! Yes, what a wonderful idea. Very authentic! Come right in!”

A cheer went up from the tourists. The witches, meanwhile, looked about ready to riot. Delilah couldn’t blame them. How exactly were they supposed to discuss fighting back against a magician mafia who didn’t technically exist, in front of people who thought they didn’t technically exist?

Delilah’s gaze drifted to the tree line, where the sun was sinking toward the horizon. In just a few hours, Saturnalia would begin. Every witch in Oak Haven would willingly give up their powers. The timing couldn’t possibly be worse.

Inside, the town hall looked exactly as it had for Delilah’s entire life, except now it was infested with tourists taking endless photos that would never come out. The wood-paneled walls still bore the scorch marks from the Great Pyromancy Debate of 1922, and the old folding chairs still creaked like they were auditioning for a horror movie.

Mama Melrose sat on the raised platform with the other elder witches, each wearing a carefully maintained expression of annoyed but dignified impatience. Delilah knew that look; she’d seen it directed at herself plenty of times.

“Young lady!” A tourist grabbed Delilah’s arm. “Where do you burn the witch?”

“We don’t,” Delilah shot back. “And we never have, by the way. There may have been witch burnings in Europe, but not in America. That’s a myth.”

The woman’s face fell. “Ah, nuts. Really? The casino told us someone would be put to the torch. I mean, we paid extra!”

Delilah grabbed the woman by the collar of her WITCHTOWN sweatshirt. “You paid extra for seats to an execution?!”