Chapter 31 What Happens in Oak Haven . . .

Abandoning their half-eaten plates and half-finished conversation, the sisters raced through the maze of hungry diners. They spotted him again outside the buffet—a tuxedoed blur against the neon lights, making his way toward the exit. Max was surprisingly nimble, considering his furry burden, navigating the maze of gaming tables with practiced ease.

In the lobby, a towering wall of sequined showgirls materialized in front of Scarlett, blocking her path. By the time she squeezed through, Max had vanished.

"He went that way." Delilah grabbed her arm and pointed, just in time to see Max's tuxedo tails flutter through a bank of revolving doors.

As they burst out of the casino, the night air hit them like a slap. "Why is it so cold?" Delilah demanded. "Isn't this the desert?"

"Yeah, that's how deserts work, Del. Day equals hot; night equals cold." Scarlett spun in a circle, trying to see which way Max went. "You really need to get out more."

She rolled her eyes. "So you keep saying."

Neon signs in a tangled jungle of garish hues bathed the Strip in an artificial twilight. Towering casinos and hotels with mirrored facades lined the street as far as the eye could see. A steady stream of honking taxis and tourist buses clogged the lanes, their headlights adding to the relentless assault on the senses. Amidst the cacophony, the rhythmic thrumming of bass music vibrated from a nearby nightclub—a low, insistent pulse.

Scarlett caught sight of Max at the far end of the casino's sweeping driveway. He'd paused to speak with a disheveled man hunched over a makeshift sandwich board. The faded cardboard was covered in bold, scrawling letters that read: "MAGIC IS REAL! ASK HOW I KNOW." Max's movements were animated and full of conviction; whatever he was saying, he meant it. The sign man pointed sharply to the left and Max took off running.

Delilah raced over, but by the time she reached the end of the driveway, Max was already gone. "Excuse me!" she called out, breathless from her run. "What did you say to that man?"

The man looked up at her with bleary eyes. He smelled strongly of cheap booze. "What man?"

"The man! Who was just here!"

He stared off into the middle distance. "Don't remember no man."

"But it was literally two seconds ago. He was wearing a tuxedo? He had a rabbit for crying out loud!"

"Didn't see no rabbit."

"But . . . I don't . . ." Delilah was utterly flummoxed. "He was just . . ."

Scarlett finally caught up, breathing hard. "You move pretty fast for a desk jockey, Del," she said between pants. "Hey, old-timer, where's the magician headed?"

"He says he didn't see anyone," Delilah said furiously.

Scarlett studied him, and he peered back at her expectantly. Then Scarlett noticed a bucket by the old man's feet. "Oh, I see. Here, take this." She tossed all the coins she'd won from SpongeBob into his bucket. And then, reconsidering, she snapped her fingers and doubled the amount.

The man grinned. "He was asking me about the Vanishing Point—it's a magician hangout. That a'way."

"What the hell!" Delilah complained.

"Information ain't free," the man said simply. "Data is king."

Scarlett just shrugged. "Vegas, baby. C'mon, Del, let's go."

"Hey!" the man called after them. "It's members only, you know! You want help getting in?"

Delilah hollered over her shoulder. "We got it, thanks."

The sisters took off running down the brightly lit boulevard. Giant billboards and neon signs for different shows and attractions assaulted their senses from all directions. Scarlett and Delilah dodged throngs of tourists as they scanned the crowds for any sign of Max. They passed a squat, nondescript building with no signage—it was like a black hole in the center of the dazzlingly lit surroundings. But there was a man standing by an unmarked door—a veritable mountain of a human, decked out in a bespoke leather jacket, enormous reflective sunglasses, and a chestful of gold chains. He leaned against the building with his arms folded.

Scarlett stopped running. "Look at him," she whispered to her sister. "Does he look like the kind of guy who stands beside any old door for no reason whatsoever?"

Delilah considered this. "Vanishing Point?"

"Vanishing Point."

The sisters confidently approached the bouncer.

"Members only," he rumbled.

Delilah tilted her head slightly, lifting two fingers to her temple. She appeared as though she was about to make an incredibly incisive point, which, in fact, she was: "We are members."

The bouncer gazed at her for a moment, then nodded. "Of course you are." He pushed open the door, and they were in.

Sotto voce, Scarlett said, "We're not the witches you're—"

" Shut up, Scar ."

The sisters made their way down a dimly lit hallway leading to a small antechamber. The walls were draped with dark velvet curtains, muffling the raucous Strip outside. A single unmarked door stood at the end of the passage.

Scarlett hesitated, nerves abruptly getting the better of her. What if these magicians despise witches as much as Max apparently does . . . but there's a lot of them? And even if we find Max, what will we do with him?

But Delilah had no such hesitation. She strode up to the blank door and, without preamble, turned the handle. It was locked.

"Open sesame?" Delilah suggested to the door, but there was no response. "Shazam, perhaps?"

"Swordfish!" Scarlett exclaimed, but to no effect. "Not Marx Brothers fans I guess."

"Oh! I know," Delilah realized. "Duh. Abracadabra!"

The door opened smoothly and Delilah disappeared inside.

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."

"Shhht!" Scarlett shushed her as subtly as she was able.

"But from the moment I arrived? I remember nothing. I don't even know if I . . . Oh, actually . . . wait . . ." Max squinted like he was trying to pass an eye test. "I was there. Yes, I do remember, just little flashes. There was an inn . . . and . . . scarecrows. Ugh, scarecrows all over the place."

Scarlett turned to face her sister, mouthing, What the fuck?!

He remembers! Delilah mouthed back.

Scarlett leaned forward, putting her elbow on the bar and fully turning her body toward Max. "So, Secret Agent Man . . . I'm not sure I'm following this story. You went on a mission to a place . . . that you don't remember . . . except you do, a little bit?"

Max smiled. "I'm afraid I can't share details, dear. It's all very high level, you understand."

"Yes, I do understand." The bartender delivered the two screaming blue martinis and Scarlett nodded her thanks. "I understand perfectly. Maximillian ."

His expression shifted from confusion to shock, his eyebrows shooting up and his mouth hanging open. "You know me? But how?"

"Your mission was in Oak Haven, correct?" Scarlett asked, her tone gentle.

Max gasped as recognition dawned. "Oh! Oh, my . . . are you my handlers?" His voice was filled with relief. "I knew I was supposed to make contact with someone once I got out, but I . . . Oh, I'm so sorry if I was rude earlier."

"Not at all, Max." The corner of her mouth twitched upward as she tried not to betray herself. "Let's move this conversation to a booth, shall we? You may consider yourself officially handled."