7. July 13 #2
“Well, I tried to portal myself out of here a few minutes ago,” Luna admitted. “And I got some kind of . . . I don’t know, like an error message.”
“Message?”
“Yeah. Like from a computer.” Luna paused, realizing he’d have no idea what she was talking about. “Like a, um . . . sort of a thinking machine. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“A thinking machine?” He looked completely lost. “What in God’s name is a thinking machine?”
“Never mind, not important. The point is, I could only muster about half of a portal.”
Elias was quiet, thinking. “My confusion charm was the same. It was there, but not quite there. As if something was interfering with the connection between intent and result.”
“Great,” Luna muttered. “So we’re stuck in 1977 with broken magic, in the middle of the biggest blackout in New York City history.
” She gazed at the darkened neighborhood, already mentally cataloging the challenges ahead.
No subway service until the power came back.
No streetlights, no elevators. And that was just the beginning. “This just keeps getting better.”
Around them, the sounds of the city in crisis continued. Distant shouting, the occasional crash of breaking glass, and a steady wail of sirens. But here in the park, surrounded by trees that muffled the worst of the noise, they might have been the only two people left in the world.
“We could work together,” he suggested. “Pool our resources. Figure out what’s going wrong.”
She peered at him suspiciously. “Resources? What resources do you have to offer, exactly? I’ve already saved your bacon twice tonight.”
He scoffed. “You must forgive me if I don’t feel particularly saved at this juncture . . .”
“Five minutes ago, you were telling me you didn’t need any help.”
“Five minutes ago, I wasn’t getting mugged by children while my magic hissed away like a defective sparkler.
” Elias adjusted his burgundy tie with as much dignity as he could muster.
“But surely two people with partially working magic have a better chance than one person with partially working magic.”
She hated that he had a point. “Fine. But if you call me sweetheart one more time, I’ll portal you into the middle of the Hudson River.”
“Noted. Now, can we please get out of this wretched park?”
Luna looked around at the darkened neighborhood, thinking. She knew this area reasonably well from her time with the subway coven, but that was nearly fifty years in the future. “Yeah,” she said slowly. “I might know where some . . . associates . . . used to meet. If we can find them . . .”
“Associates?”
“Twin brothers, Hector and Diego. They’re probably, what, seven or eight years old in 1977. But they’re going to grow up to be very powerful practitioners.”
“You want to ask children for help? Are there no trained seals we could consult?”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Gatsby. Do you have a better plan?
Shall we consult the nearest telegraph office?
Because, spoiler alert, there are no more telegraph offices.
Or ice deliveries, or speakeasies, or cigarette girls.
But sure, if you want to advise me on getting along in the 1970s, please let’s hear it. ”
“I have no better suggestions. Shame about the cigarette girls.”
“Then let’s find the twins. And also let’s try to survive the night without getting mugged, arrested, or killed, despite being in 1977 New York.” Luna started walking toward the street.
“Hold on.” He looked around. “We’re in New York? No, this doesn’t look anything like . . . No, this can’t be New York City, surely.”
“Welcome to the future, Shaw. You thought Prohibition-Era Chicago was tough? Buckle up.”
He followed her out of the park onto Avenue A, where the scene was equal parts chaos and carnival. Residents had spilled out of their apartments and were gathering on stoops and fire escapes with candles and flashlights.
Elias moved closer, offering his elbow with old-fashioned gallantry. She accepted his arm, telling herself it was more for navigation than kindness; after all, it was genuinely hard to see where they were going.
Still, as they walked along, she found herself oddly charmed by his old-world mannerisms. The elbow, yes, but also his insistence that he walk on the street side of the sidewalk.
The careful way he guided her around obstacles.
Not to mention the vintage outfit, a full five-piece suit with that unmissable accent piece: a necktie the color of an expensive Bordeaux.
Shaw was actually quite . . . pleasant .
. . to be around in the odd moments he wasn’t being a complete jerk.
“Earlier, you mentioned the Prohibition era,” he said as they walked down the darkened street. “Which suggests to me that the ‘era’ might have ended?”
“Oh yeah, Prohibition was repealed in the early Thirties.”
“Really?” Elias let out a surprised laugh. “Well, thank God for that, anyway.”
“Wouldn’t the repeal have been bad for your business?”
“My business?” He stopped walking so abruptly that Luna nearly tripped. “Great Scott, girl! Did you assume I was a bootlegger? How dare you! I was a con man, not a gangster.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks flushed. “Sorry, I just thought—”
“A world of difference between the two. I wasn’t some thug with a tommy gun. I was an artist.”
“An artist!? An artist of bullshit, maybe.”
He mock-gasped. “Such profanity from a lady!” But then he shrugged. “Fair, though. Still, I was never involved in any violence. Though at the moment I’d happily murder Capone himself for a decent gimlet.”
“I’m pretty confident I can scare us up a drink in the East Village.”
They made their way down the sidewalk, stepping carefully around debris and avoiding the occasional group of rowdy young people, who paused their conversation to watch them pass. Luna became acutely aware of how strange they must look together. Refugees from different centuries.
“So,” she said, glancing at his profile in the dim light, “a con man, huh? That’s what got you stuck in the Void?”
“In a sense.” Elias’s expression darkened. “Some justice needed doing, so I did it. Or tried. Didn’t quite work out.”
She was about to probe for more details when a commotion ahead caught their attention.
A crowd had gathered around something in the intersection.
As they got closer, Luna could make out what looked like a street performer in the center of the group—someone juggling what appeared to be balls of light.
But something was wrong. The lights were flickering erratically, and the performer struggled to control them.
“Looks like magic, yes?” Elias asked. “You think he’s one of my kind or one of yours?”
“Must be a magician, given how lousy that spell looks.”
“Hey!”
She winked. “I’m kidding. Seriously, though, look at the way those lights are behaving. They should be steady, controlled. Instead they’re—”
One of the lights exploded in a shower of sparks. The performer screamed and stumbled backward, clutching his burned hand. The crowd scattered, some laughing nervously, others muttering about “street theater gone wrong.”
But Luna and Elias knew better.
“Another magic malfunction,” she said as they watched the performer limp away. “Something is very off.”
Elias nodded. “We’d better find those twins of yours.”