7. July 13
The portal spat them out onto damp grass. Elm trees overhead, humid, foul-smelling air all around, the steady thrum of traffic in the near distance. Luna rolled, sat up spitting dirt, and immediately turned on Elias.
“Typical. I try to help a magician, and this happens.” She pulled a stick from her hair. “One job—get us both to the twenty-first century—and you couldn’t hush long enough for me to focus.”
Elias was already on his feet, straightening his tie with wounded pride. “Yes, blame the passenger when the driver crashes the car. I suppose that’s what passes for logic in your era?”
Unbelievable, she thought. Belinda certainly hadn’t been wrong about the handsome factor, but my gods what an ungrateful prick. “Listen, Shaw—”
“No, you listen, sweetheart. Pull yourself together and open me a portal back to 1926. I have important business to attend to.”
“First of all, I’m not your damned sweetheart.
Secondly, it doesn’t work like that. I told you back in the Void that I had one trip, granted to me by the single most annoying god in the universe.
There is no ‘portal me back to 1926.’ Witches can portal across distances, not time periods.
You need special skills for time travel, and I was given just one dose.
But you had to go and ruin it, barking orders about 1926 right in the middle of my spell. ”
“Because you were taking me to the wrong damned century!” He gestured wildly. “I told you where I needed to go. Simple instructions. But I suppose following basic instructions is too much to ask of a child like you.”
“A child?! This child just got you out of an interdimensional prison that no one has ever gotten out of, ever. All the trouble I went to, just to rescue your sorry behind. And look at the mess we’re in!”
He brushed his jacket, irritated. “Typical witch. Something goes wrong, blame the magician.”
“Oh, that’s rich. I should have left you in that waiting room.”
“I don’t disagree. At least there I knew what damned century I was in!”
“You were in no century, you smug little Gatsby-wannabe. You were literally in the middle of nowhere. Now you’re somewhere, and you can’t even manage a thank you.”
“Oh my. Thank you ever so. What a tremendous help you’ve been!”
“Fine.” She turned away. “Figure it out yourself.”
“Couldn’t agree more. I’ll get by just fine, sweetheart.”
“Stop calling me—you know what, forget it.” Luna stomped away, headed anywhere far from him. “Have a nice life, Shaw. Try not to end up back in the Void.”
He called after her. “Try not to portal yourself into a volcano.”
Fury propelling her forward, Luna marched out of the park. She emerged onto a sidewalk and—
Stopped dead.
New York City’s Avenue A stretched before her, bathed in amber streetlights.
She’d spent enough time with the subway coven to recognize the East Village neighborhood immediately.
Crusty brick tenements and fire escapes lined the street.
But the buildings looked shabbier than she remembered.
And trash was piled high on the sidewalks, higher than she’d ever seen before.
A yellow cab rumbled past—one of those classic Checker cabs from old movies, with the distinctive stripe and bulbous shape.
Not the sleek Camrys and Priuses that dominated New York City streets when she’d last visited.
Thick summer air pressed against her skin, tinted with the smell of garbage and car exhaust. A kid pedaled by on a banana-seat bike, his transistor radio broadcasting muffled disco beats.
“Okay then,” she murmured, “so I’m definitely in the past.”
Across the street was a sign for Ray’s Candy Store, its glass door and small service window glowing warmly. Next door was a butcher shop with Cyrillic letters spelling out “Ки?вськ? Ковбаси.” Row upon row of sausages and smoked meats hung in the window.
People shoved past her on the sidewalk, and Luna found herself staring.
A woman strutted down the avenue in bell-bottom jeans so wide they could have doubled as parachutes, her hair feathered in perfect Farrah Fawcett wings.
A guy in a leather jacket passed by, his hair slicked back like Elvis, followed by a group of teenagers in ripped T-shirts and safety pins.
I’m in the Seventies, she marveled. Meaning I’m not even born yet. Hell, I don’t think my parents have even met each other yet.
Her gaze landed on a streetlamp on the corner, plastered with concert posters. Even from this distance, she could make out the CBGB logo at the top. She squinted, her heart leaping when she spotted familiar names: Television. Talking Heads. Blondie. The Ramones.
Holy shit! Of all the places to accidentally end up. A grin spread across her face, despite her lingering anger at Elias. Maybe I can catch Blondie before I figure out how to get home. Scarlett’s going to freak—she’ll be so jealous. Oh gods, I just hope it’s not the night of—
Every light on the street went dark at once.
Streetlamps, apartment windows, neon signs . . . all went out at the same time. Absolute darkness. Luna could hear shouts of confusion, the squealing of brakes, and a car smashing into a line of garbage cans. Someone screamed.
“Come on,” Luna groaned into the enveloping darkness. “Why’d I have to land on blackout night?”
She stood frozen on the sidewalk, listening to a city plunged into chaos.
The sirens were already starting up; fire trucks and ambulances were heading out for what Luna knew would be a very long night.
Her old friends Hector and Diego had told her stories about this night: July 13th, 1977.
How their older siblings had carried them through the darkened streets, how the power stayed out for twenty-five hours.
A thousand fires and thousands of arrests citywide.
Those first responders had no clue what they were in for.
At least she’d landed in the East Village.
From what the twins had told her, the neighborhood greeted the blackout with a sort of street-party aplomb, rather than with looting and violence.
Hector and Diego fondly recalled eating themselves into stomach aches due to all the free ice cream handed out by bodega owners.
Excellent. Stranded in the middle of history’s least convenient blackout. Clearly not my idea of a good time.
Okay, think. I need to get out of here. Maybe portal to Oak Haven? No chance of bumping into myself, as I haven’t been born yet . . . But Louise is eternal; she’ll probably be around. If anybody can get me back to the twenty-first century, it’s got to be the time witch.
She closed her eyes and began to focus on the familiar image of Louise Demain’s clock shop.
She began the portal incantation, weaving together the combination of intent and will that had carried her across continents with ease, hundreds of times before.
But casting a spell felt like trying to run through honey.
Instead of a nice crisp portal, words appeared in the air, glowing neon against the darkness:
BAD REQUEST—MAGIC ANOMALY DETECTED—PLEASE STAND BY
The half-formed portal collapsed, leaving her alone on the dark street.
“What the hell?” In all her years of traveling, Luna never seen anything like that. Magic didn’t leave error messages.
Sudden shouts erupted from back inside Tompkins Square Park. This wasn’t the general chaos of a blackout; this was something more urgent. A familiar voice.
“What the Sam Hill . . . ?! Unhand me, you ruffians!”
Luna sighed. Oh for crying out loud, Shaw . . .
Her eyes had adjusted enough to the darkness that she could make out shapes moving not far away. Three figures had cornered a fourth against a sizeable oak tree. Even in the dim light, she could see the victim’s wool suit.
She’d traveled halfway around the world to rescue this ridiculous character from an interdimensional prison, and now he was getting mugged by a couple of kids?
Her first instinct was to let him handle it himself.
After all, wasn’t he supposed to be some kind of powerful magician? Some Roaring Twenties tough guy?
But even as she had the thought, her feet were already moving to his aid.
The park was a patchwork of shadows and dim shapes. The air smelled of damp earth and something less pleasant—probably from the overflowing trash cans that hadn’t been emptied in far too long.
“Look, gentlemen,” she heard Elias saying in that smooth, confident voice of his, “I’m sure we can reach some sort of arrangement—”
“Shut up and hand it over!”
One of the muggers shoved Elias hard against the tree trunk, and Luna heard him grunt in pain. That decided it.
She’d learned a particular illusion from a group of Māori witches in New Zealand—a technique for creating phantom sounds and lights. Luna began the spell, and her illusion materialized about half a block away—the sound of a police siren growing rapidly closer, accompanied by strobing red and blue.
“Shit!” one of the muggers yelped. “Cops!”
“How are there cops here already?”
“Who cares, man, let’s go!”
Luna heard the sound of sneakers pounding across the grass as the teenagers fled. She let the illusion continue for another few seconds, then allowed it to fade. The park fell back into darkness.
She found Elias pacing around the tree, one hand pressed to his ribs.
“Well,” she said, stepping out of the shadows, “that was pathetic.”
Elias straightened up, trying to regain his composure. “I had everything under control.”
“Oh, sure. You wanted to get shaken down by a bunch of kids.”
“They caught me flat-footed, is all. I was attempting to cast a simple confusion charm when . . .” He paused, frowning.
“My magic isn’t working. It felt like I was grabbing at smoke.
” He looked at her with new interest. “That was you with the police car, wasn’t it?
Clever. Though I’d have preferred you to portal them away to somewhere unpleasant. ”