Page 79 of Impractical Magic

“How did he do it, Del? He’s just a moronic stage magician, right? Magicians have no powers of their own—isn’t that what we keep saying?”

“Well . . .”

“And what about the dragonflies? Violet is a kid! Yes, she’s a witch, but do you really think she conjured a biblical-level spell alone? That’s a group spell—it has to be.”

“You think there’s more witches involved?”

“No, Del, I think . . . I think maybe Luna might be right about magicians.”

“Ugh.” Del looked nauseous. “Don’t even go there.”

To terminate the discussion, she pushed open the door and the sisters were slammed by a wall of noise—a sensory onslaught that hit them like a physical blow. A relentless soundtrack of electronic beeps, robotic jackpot announcements, and the clanging cascade of coins battered their ears. Mirrored tiles and pulsing strobe lights refracted the images of people, drinks, and flashing game boards into a disorienting montage. The air hung heavy with perfume, alcohol, and the adrenaline-laced sweat of desperate gamblers.

Delilah clutched at her sister’s arm, her eyes darting wildly. “This is like stepping inside a concussion!”

Scarlett led her shell-shocked sister through the maze of slot machines, their progress punctuated by ringing bells and electronic whoooop whooops. A sense of reckless abandon bubbled up within her. When they approached a slot machine with a giant glowing pineapple on top, Scarlett couldn’t help herself.

“A SpongeBob SquarePants slot machine!” she shouted. “This here is my destiny.”

Delilah frowned. “There’s no time. We’re supposed to be chasing Max, remember?”

“Bah, we’ll toss out a little locator spell and find him in two seconds. C’mon, Del, live a little.” Humming the theme song under her breath, Scarlett dropped a quarter into the slot. With a dramatic flourish, she smashed a big yellow button in the middle of the machine, sending SpongeBob’s eyes spinning. Lights flashed, and suddenly, a torrent of coins cascaded into the tray. A giant digital dollar sign flashed, the jackpot total ticking steadily upwards.

“Woo hoo!” Scarlett cried. “We did it!”

“Did what?” asked Delilah. “I don’t even know what’s going on!”

“Beginner’s luck,” Scarlett said with a wink, scooping up her winnings. “I guess drinks are on me.”

They navigated past rows and rows of slot machines, the incessant din punctuated by the occasional frustrated groan or joyous shout. Scarlett paused near a large, green-felt blackjack table, its surface littered with chips and cards. Gamblers perched on their chairs, their faces lit with hope and grim determination in varying degrees. A burly man in a Hawaiian shirt perched on a stool, staring intently at the two cards before him—a nine and a four. He hesitated, muttering, “Vegas baby, it’s Vegas baby, it’s Vegas . . .” like a secret prayer.

The sisters watched from off to the side, mesmerized by the unfolding drama. Scarlett recognized the adrenaline cloud hanging over the table—a thrilling dance on a knife-edge between recklessness and strategy. It was precisely how she’d felt as a kid, every time she’d attempted a spell that she wasn’t supposed to.

Her sister—who had never in her life attempted a spell she wasn’t supposed to—shifted uncomfortably. “All that stress over a game of cards,” she muttered.

Finally, the man tapped the green felt. “Hit me,” he rasped.

The dealer, a woman with a bored expression and expertly painted red nails, flicked a card across the table: an eight. The man threw his arms in the air and roared. “YEAAAAAAHHHH! VEGAS BABY! IT’S VEGAS!”

People around him cheered—even Delilah couldn’t help but smile. Suddenly, she grabbed Scarlett’s head and turned it sharply to the left. There was Max, striding toward the buffet line.

Scarlett had to laugh. “Guess we hit the jackpot again.”

The massive double doors of the buffet whooshed open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing a spectacle that rivaled the casino floor in terms of sensory overload. Mountains of golden brown fried chicken glistened under heat lamps, mashed potatoes and meatballs and shrimp scampi piled high in stainless steel pans, and an entire wall displayed a dizzying array of desserts. The air hung heavy with the combined aromas of roasted meats, buttered vegetables, and sugary pastries, and the clatter of plates and chatter of customers.

A hostess appeared, clipboard in hand: “Name, please?” she enquired with a bored smile.

“Uh . . . Melrose,” Delilah hesitated, glancing at Scarlett.

The hostess scanned her list with pursed lips. “No Melrose on the guest list, sorry. Buffet is full up.”

Scarlett glanced at her sister, who gave her an almost imperceptible nod. A mischievous glint flashed in her sister’s eyes.

Delilah cleared her throat, taking a step closer to the hostess. Her voice was a soft, measured whisper—barely audible over the din of the buffet. She raised one hand, index finger slightly extended, like she was hailing the most mellow taxi in the universe. “Actually,” she said calmly, “I’m sure you’ll find us on your list. Look again.”

The hostess frowned slightly, her fingers tapping nervously against the clipboard as she studied the names once more.

“Huh,” she murmured. “Well, you were right. Melrose party, table for two. My apologies.”