Samhain Shenanigans

Benjamin Baxter took a deep inhalation. Even though the large starwise only parking lots were full, the distinct Samhain Festival buttered popcorn smell extended all the way out into starwise overflow parking amongst the mundanes—the magic-less.

He licked his lips, and flipped the switch to close his coverable top.

Thrilled cheers rose in the distance. A round of faint applause chased it across the parking lot. Wondering what trick had been performed, Ben turned his attention toward the lit entrance so far away beyond rows and rows of cars.

Hoping to catch some remnant of the prestige, his gaze crawled along the Ferris Wheel, the Thompson Twister, The Screaming Meemie, and the various tents that filled the span between the rides.

Nothing. He snapped his fingers at missing it. Well, they’ll be more performances. That’s for sure.

The simple red, white, and dark lights of the festival held his interest in a way that the millions of Las Vegas casino lights blinking for attention never could. Only the click, click, click of his closed convertible top gear over cranking pulled him from the momentary entrancement.

One of the largest gatherings for Samhain Shenanigans in the country, the festival pulled every student from the Vegas Valley and thousands of students from schools from nearby prefectures.

With all the practitioners here, I shouldn’t be surprised that starwise parking is stuffed. Ben took a moment to center his red Archon Private Academy tie and got out of the car. He put on his tan A. P. A. trench coat to cover the huge star belt buckle of his Meadows Towing Might-Fist belt, and buttoned it closed.

He dusted one shoulder and then the other to activate a minor prestidigitation. A swift breeze whooshed down his body as the wrinkles in his clothes flattened out.

His mind went back to the popcorn. Every year, since he had the free first-year’s serving, he wanted to get a bag, but had always opted for a hot pretzel, garlic cheese knots, or cotton candy.

Not this year.

This year he had a plan.

He’d do a few games to fill his pockets with prizes before grabbing a bag of the buttery good stuff and casually munch on it as he strolled through the festival. Then he’d return each of following nights through Halloween for more games and treats.

The keyword for this year’s festival? Moderation. Slow and steady fun. Prolong the experience. Tonight would be great. Each night would be great so long as he stuck to his plan.

An odd tingling—magic—settled across his brow. A nearly overwhelming urge to take off his tie and leave it on his windshield washed over him and faded.

Ben scanned to find the source.

Two girls in Sunrise Mountain orange blazers, white blouses, and orange-and-white plaid skirts focused on him. One, dark haired, sported long pigtails. The other, a blonde, had her hair cut short like a pixie. Later than Ben to the first-night events, they’d had to park even further out in the mundane lot.

The brunette didn’t have the thin orange tie to complete her school uniform. She locked eyes with him and moved to get closer.

Bastion—the monster locked away in Ben’s head—roared and slammed into his temples. The beast tried to force its way through the bond that linked him and the monster together. It wanted to tear the girls apart.

Ben set his will against Bastion and wondered if he had been wearing one of the red, white, and black Samhain Shenanigans-logoed armbands to partake in the evening’s school-pride scavenger hunt, would he still have been able to resist the girls’ spell?

Bastion knocked around his head.

Denying the beast’s horrible desire to materialize proved taxing. Ben gave a strained smile and frequent grimaces broke his grin. “Sorry, girls.” He patted the part of his arm where the participation band would have been if he were in play. “But I’m not in on The Shenanigans.”

The brunette gracefully slid to close on him.

Ben backed away.

She gave a momentary pout before flashing a flawless smile. “Can I have your tie anyway?”

He shrugged. “It wouldn’t be worth any points.”

Temptation dripped from her playful lips as her tongue ran between them. “Can’t you imagine me with your tie on?”

The magical tingling on his brow came back strong before fading out again.

A vision of a girl wearing his school uniform came to mind, but not the temptress in front of him. In his vision, Penelope stood in Pepperjacks with his trench coat on. A sole lower button held it closed. Besides his tie, he didn’t know what else she had on under the coat, but wanted to find out.

Bastion slammed his temples again.

Ben grimaced. He stopped nodding to his imagination and switched to shake his head. “No. No, sorry.”

This time, her pout stuck and her blonde friend pulled her away. “Let’s get to the big top.” She gave Ben a playful sneer, the kind that causes those cute little nose wrinkles. “We’re bound to find friendly casters there.”

Even as she was being dragged away, the brunette steepened her hands and lipped, “Please.”

Ben gave a regretful smile.

She turned and fell in stride with her friend. Their skirts swung in unison for a few seconds.

The tie and trench coat vision flashed again. It had been almost a month since his run-in with Penelope. Ever since then, the hot, raven-haired beauty from the other side had become a constant in his dreams. Except for this recent vision, the Dream-Penelope still wore burlap. The bruises and scabs were healed, but her cutting blue eyes kept their edge.

He hadn’t even notice the color of the Sunrise girl’s eyes.

Faintly, Ben registered people yelling. He almost turned, but continued to the fairgrounds. Penelope crawled back into his mind and he focused on the memory. What had she worn after changing out of the makeshift bag-dress at Pepperjacks?

Reimagining her running for her life, a scaled hand closing in on her long, dark, trailing hair. Again, her intense blue eyes stole his focus.

Bastion bounded around Ben’s head. The beast whipped the black Nilosian energy there into a whirlpool which flash-flooded the vision away.

Annoyed, Ben snapped out loud at the creature in his head, “What?”

They didn’t actually share a language. Bastion felt primal. It probably wasn’t even capable of words. The only time they had any form of communication was during the combat with the ogre magispan class="underline">,/span> when Bastion motioned to Ben before pulling him in.

Ben stiffened. Bastion only reacted to combat.

From a ways behind him, a vaguely familiar voice called, “Yeah, we’re talking to you!”

Ahead, the girls dropped their playful walk and sprinted toward the carnival entrance.

Undaunted, Ben turned. He registered three bodies in hoodies—Dunn-Blatt or Clark casters—beyond three small, snapping green energy hooks shooting at him. Each hook trailed a wisp of emerald power back to one of the three hooded casters.

He dodged one.

The green hook flew past him. The faint line of energy dissipated.

Ben twisted. Too late.

The other hooks hit him in the center of his chest.

The faint lines of energy—challenge tethers—shone brilliantly as they twisted, strengthened, and locked Ben into a magic duel.

Hooked

Ambient dimensional energy flowed into the fetters binding Ben to the challengers. Not a valid target for the night’s game, Ben didn’t struggle for the dominant caster’s advantage. Instead he focused on the subtle rush that came with being in a duel.

Just under his skin, the hook dissipated when the emerald strands solidified and thrummed as though some great entity strummed to test the sound. A heightened sense of awareness—the rush of air bringing intoxicating scents from the food court, distinct clacks of the Bull Dog speed coaster carts being tugged up toward the first summit, that vague knowledge that nearby, other wills were pitted against each other—came to him.

Ben rubbed the growing heat in his chest. The feeling spread into his hand. He stroked his neck and, like a topical cream, the warmth spread there, too.

Neither challenger noticed his lack of a participation band. The two hooded casters had turned toward one another and, in unison, said, “Let go.”

Ben had watched Jameson Brown’s exit interview when the World Dueling Federation forced him out for not having won any of his first twenty-five professional matches. When the interviewer had asked Brown why he kept competing instead of quitting from embarrassment, he bounced in place like a jacked-up aureole addict. “The better the competitor, the better the buzz.”

As though plugged into the world, Ben finally understood. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. Bastion had relaxed. Why?

The shorter one pushed the other. His voice an angry squeak. “He’s mine!”

The last thing to come to Ben through the tethers, the challengers’ intent. Ben found himself become even more nonchalant about being hooked. These two were at war with each other. Being connected to both, Ben could feel the deep-seated disdain between them.

This play for perceived power further unfurled as the taller guy pushed the smaller one back. “Let go.”

From the voice, the taller caster had been the one who called out to him. Ben shook his head. Both were so petty and desperate to scavenge for Samhain Shenanigan items.

The smaller guy pointed to the tether in his chest. It pulsed a pale, neon green. “My hook hit first!”

The taller one grabbed the other by the collar. “Let. Go.” He shook the smaller boy hard in time with each word.

Ben had been hooked for the first time three years ago when he’d just turned thirteen and had to take Adept Love’s Intro to Dueling class. Malcolm—a bully—whose birthday fell nine months earlier, had tethered him. The hook felt like a real fishhook forced into his skin. Though there wasn’t any blood, the pain burrowed cruelly up his arm before tearing to the center of his chest. Ben had dropped to a knee and struggled to keep from tearing up. Nothing would’ve been more embarrassing than crying on his first day of Dueling.

Before Adept Love had made it over to them, Malcolm had towered over him, mumbling insults about Ben losing his birthday gifts from the school and calling him a baby for crying, even though he had successfully held back the tears.

The taller boy jammed his knee into the smaller one’s crotch.

The smaller boy collapse, but clung to the tether.

If being hooked would always remind Ben of Malcolm, he’d have to do something extreme to change it. But what?

Ben had often wanted to get back at Malcolm, and had formed several plans, but the bully had been kicked out of the Archon Private Academy. The faculty didn’t say why, but since Malcolm often hooked sixth and seventh graders, it had to be for conduct unbecoming of an enlightened individual.

The tether from the small guy faded away.

Competition between them done, the intent of the guy with the remaining fetter came through clear. He wanted to do permanent damage and take as many scavenger hunt items as he could instead of obeying the mandatory limit of one per duel.

Though not a part of the multi-school event, Ben loathed bullies. He walked down the tether toward the hooded figure towering over the one on the ground. Closer, the purple and black of hooded zip-ups became apparent. Dunn-Blatts.

The victor flexed over the downed one and had been speaking softly. He spun to face Ben. “Give up four items, Ape, or I’ll break you and take your car.”

That snide tone. No way. Ben leaned to the side to see into the dark hood. Magical shadows kept the face in darkness. Ben’s throat constricted with growing rage. “Malcolm?”

The tall boy pulled the hood back. “Baby Ben!” The magical darkness around the face vanished. Much taller and skinnier now, that same aggravatingly smug smile still haunted Malcolm’s stupid face. “Do you still cry when hooked?” He chuckled and pointed. “Look, boys, I think I see tears starting.”

Ben’s fist balled. A primitive desire—smash that hooked nose—went through him. His muscles tightened. The direction of power through the fetter between them changed. Energy flowed in Ben’s favor. To assure every iota of his anger would be felt, he projected his menace through the tether. “We’ve a score to settle.”

That only add fuel to Malcolm’s smugness. “Oh.” Malcolm glanced to Ben’s arm, where the Samhain Shenanigan’s band should have been. “You aren’t in the hunt?”

As the one challenged, it was up to Ben if he wanted to end the duel. Adept Love had chirped endlessly about that rule and, by Ben’s count, he had three years of anger and two fonts of magic to unleash on the bully.

He held tight. “You’re not getting off that easy!”

Malcolm blew him a kiss then extended his hands palms up. As if cued to the motion, two mystic whirlwinds appeared.

One next to him.

One next to Malcolm.

The swirling vortexes siphoned power from their tether. Wind flapped loose, dull gray robes, signaling the imminent arrival of Primaries.

No! Ben opened his Argosian font to try and blast Malcolm with pure power, but his energy drained off to the forth-coming Lesser Judges without so much of a flash of color. He closed his font.

Hoods drawn, both appeared in the thick official robes of the Las Vegas Magistrates. Each teleported into being with their two feet long battle rods—the true symbol of their power—at the ready.

The tips of their batons crackled with red energy as the two dour Argosian men scanned the area for greater trouble.

A third set of robes flapped. In an instant, the wearer materialized. She wore the same dull gray uniform, but her rod hummed with orange Vibrosian energy. Without taking time to appraise the situation, she demanded, “What is going on here?”

The third Dunn-Blatt—Ben had forgotten about him—helped the one Malcolm kneed to his feet. The three of them kept silent.

Ben struggled to keep a civil tongue and found himself at a lack of words. Anything he might say would be hash and pointed at Malcolm. His personal limit met, Ben kept his mouth shut. Actions could be explained away. Words could be quoted, and if he opened his mouth, he’d only regret it when the grey-robed Magistrates reported it to the head of his school.

The vibrant orange glow on the tip of the baton dimmed. She gripped it with her free hand and looked them over. “Junior Apprentice? Bravados?”

Malcolm tried to loosen the hook.

Holding it tight, Ben rocked with the small mystic tug in his chest.

Malcolm said, “A simple misunderstanding, Primaries.” He shot Ben a be cool wink—as though things could ever be cool between them—and gave another tug. “I, along with my Junior Bravados, thought this A. P. A. student was in on The Shenanigans.”

Ben shook his head slightly and held the tether.

Malcolm tugged again and narrowed his eyes. “It’s become obvious. He isn’t.”

“You do not have an armband, Junior Apprentice.” The Vibrosian Primary pointed her battle rod at Ben. “Release the Dunn-Blatt or risk censure.”

Wishing the fetter would whip to slap Malcolm across the face, Ben relaxed his will and muscles. The hook came free. Without flair, the tether between them dissipated.

Malcolm’s hand stashed something into his pocket. Probably his tether totem.

Ben’s jaw tightened. Was the totem still the same rusty nail Malcolm had used to hook him years ago?

Smiling at Ben’s building anger, Malcolm rubbed his hair opposite the Magistrates with his fingers crossed. He gave a small laugh. “Sorry about that, friend.”

The energy faded from the Primaries’ battle rods. The two Argosian Primaries spun a quick circle. Air sucked from where they were headed, their gray robes flapped a cotton candy smell before they teleported. Small pink and pale emerald dust devils swirled together in the lot where they once stood.

The Vibrosian Primary turned to Malcolm. “Be careful where you throw your hook, Bravado.”

“Yeah.” Ben did not want to say anything, but found his mouth echoing the Magistrate as he continued to stare at Malcolm. “Be careful.”

She pointed her rod at Ben as an unspoken warning. Behave, it said.

He continued to stare at Malcolm and a light thumping in his head—Bastion—urged him on.

The Magistrate angled her wrist back and directed it at Ben a second time. Another unspoken warning. You are not behaving. An orange glyph lit the tip. “Look elsewhere, Junior Apprentice.”

Ben looked up into the night sky. The light pollution from the casinos stole the grandeur. He focused on the North Star, wishing he could call it down to slam Malcolm deep into the earth.

She said, “Now, to the fairgrounds, you three. Be vigilant. Have fun.”

Holding his position, Ben felt them walk past.

The first one, the tallest—Malcolm—bumped his shoulder as he passed, whispering something too low for him to catch, but what Ben thought had been said—lucky baby—burned in his ears and sent Bastion tromping its rage through his head. Ben struggled to find his center.

As much as he wanted to go at Malcolm, he had to keep his cool lest the Primary ban him from this season’s festival. Still, his rage continued to build...

Useless Words

A distant roar of excitement rolled from the fairgrounds. Though curious, Ben ignored it and let his eyes wander from the North Star through the rest of the Little Dipper. Having birthmarks in a similar pattern on his face, spanning from one cheek to the other, Ben always thought of it has his constellation. The fading smell of cotton candy piqued his desire to get onto the fairgrounds again, but he had to wait for the—high and mighty, power-tripping—Magistrate to excuse him.

She finally snapped her fingers for his attention.

As he supposed, unless he wanted to be booted and be in trouble when the next school eighth began, Ben faced her and granted immediate eye contact.

Vibrosian energy flooded her eyes.

Ben looked into her orange orbs. He’d only seen one other caster—Ur-Krurk—do this when the ogre magi wanted to blast him to bits. Could this protector, one of Las Vegas’s regulators, be thinking of doing the same to him?

The magic drained from her eyes revealing brown irises. She asked, nearly demanded, “What were you thinking, Junior Apprentice?”

Filling his mind with the void between stars, Ben blanked his thoughts to block having them read. Before learning about mind reading a month ago, he had always thought the reactions of others coinciding with his thoughts intriguing. Now—like G. I. Joe would say—knowing is half the battle.

She inched forward, paused, and looked deep into his eyes. Concern eased into her voice. “Were you thinking?”

She didn’t insist on him answering the first question. Keeping his block in place, Ben nodded.

Her fists knuckled her hips. Indignant, she asked, “How did you think you would fare against three Dunn-Blatts, here, in the parking lot?”

Ben continued looking into her eyes. In a blink, he steeled his thoughts.

The Magistrate’s lips parted, and she failed to fully suppress a startled gasp.

“No offence meant, Primary, but my personal trials and battles are mine alone.” Bringing his Courtmanship studies into play, Ben bowed fifteen degrees. The perfect angle to ask for permission from any caster not directly over him. “By your leave, Ma’am.”

With annoyed wrist flicks, she waved her baton under his face to dismiss him.

He turned and walked toward the festival.

Flapping cloth—her teleporting away—sounded behind him.

The long walk ahead of him, Ben’s mind kept going back to her baton waving before his eyes.

Ben’s parents forbade him from dueling. Heck, they had objected so strongly—to his great embarrassment—at the Arcane Private Academy, where he went to learn magic, that the school excused him from their minimum dueling requirements.

As such, he had only witnessed the baton—a widely accepted symbol of social standing, enforcement, and personal power—from a distance. This close to one, he became certain he’d seen a similar rod fairly recently, but it hadn’t been in a Primary’s possession...

A replay of the Magistrate’s baton waved before his mind’s eye. He stroked his chin, murmuring thoughtfully to himself. “Where’ve I seen one of those before?”

Mundane Problems

His absent gaze only a few feet ahead of his black dress shoes, Ben made sure to keep them clean by avoiding the hastily lain chalk lines in the mundane overflow lot. His thoughts bounced between jerk-faced Malcolm, the hot Sunrise Mountain girls, and the misplaced memory of a Magistrate’s battle baton.

The rough gravel lot gave way to smooth blacktop with uniformly spaced parking spots separated by paint instead of chalk. The swells of thrilled crowds grew steadily louder as he closed on the fairgrounds from the mundane overflow lot, to regular mundane parking, and now, closer still.

Absentmindedly, his hand played across the thick bundle of Magic Fair winnings in his pocket.

A proud smile formed on his face.

He gave the wad a conscious squeeze.

Placing in the Junior Apprentice/Apprentice group brought five times the reward as the Initiate level, and had netted him more tickets than his prior six years of prizes combined.

He had earned seventy-two tickets. Two for participating, twenty-five for Grand Prize in Efficient Construction, another twenty-five for Grand Prize in Circuitry, ten for second place in Spell Programming, and a bonus ten had been bestowed upon him for taking the fair’s Outstanding Ingenuity award.

The judges had gawked over the circuit board in his spellcards. They couldn’t seem to get over the overwhelming simplicity of him having moved the arcane resistors closer to the thin obdurium strip. Between that and working the path of his printed circuits from the obdurium he had made the card need less arcane wattage to activate.

About to envision what the large Junior Apprentice prize plaques would look like above his smaller Initiates awards, voices—either unhappy or pissed—rose from the joyous background buzz.

Ben lifted his gaze from where the white parking lines ended, and froze.

The Shame on Sam Hain protesters were back this year. He counted the twenty of them. Their numbers would swell over the next two days.

These people were why Ben came before Halloween. Anyone coming too late on the actual All Saints Day would find this group impossible to wade through. Worse yet, the mystique—the buffer that kept most of the mundanes from seeing magic and magical beings—would be stretched so thin that they’d be able to see any nearby caster.

Ben waited.

A few of them looked around, scanning over where he stood.

As long as he remained still, or only moved when they weren’t looking his direction—perhaps if I creep very slowly...—he’d go undetected.

Most were in idle conversation. All of them held large signs usurping the glory of the spindly iron wrought Samhain Festival entry arch. They protested the festival with Bring Back Orange And Black and This Halloween is Not What it Seems. They also railed against its main organizer, Sam Hain, with Shame on Hain and Hain is Insane.

Three years ago, as the new President of Koffman’s Clockworks, Hain took control of the festival. His change in theme colors from brown and orange to traditional red, white, and black—for blood, bone, and ash—brought more magic-users to what had become, arguably, the best Samhain festival in the country.

Ben looked back over the chocked-full parking lot. Cars whizzed down Sunset Drive. Several sets of headlights moved through the overflow lot to find a spot, but no one walked toward the entrance. I really should’ve come earlier. Ben pressed his lips together, took a deep breath of the popcorn-laced air, and mentally prepared to interact with the Mundanes.

Ready to trudge through, he took one step.

“Don’t go in, son!” A rotund man in a loud, orange, Halloween-themed button-up shirt locked eyes on Ben, and waved a Red, White & Black Is An Attack sign at him. His voice deep and serious, the man continued, “The Koffman Corp is slowly turning this festival into Devil worship.”

Ben entertained a whim about sharing the true origins of the Pagan holiday. How much would this guy freak out if I went into the details covered in Adept Roman’s two Hidden History courses?

Neither of the classes had a lick of magic. Ben had wanted to skip them, but he fell into the three percent of students attending the Archon Private Academy who didn’t come from Pagan families, which made taking both mandatory. Like Spell Programming, Hidden History had ten levels that spanned multiple school eighths, but he didn’t know anyone going that route.

Ben nodded and arced to walk around.

The man pressed closer. He smelled like pastrami.

Ben began to arc wider.

Turning the sign around, the man waved a red, white and black Hain Is Heinous at him. “Don’t you see?” The man’s hot breath reeked of coffee. “Hain is trying to shape the holiday into something wicked.”

Ben kept arcing to the edge of the entrance like a slow-motion soccer ball hooking toward the goal pole. Hope I hit the net. “Sorry sir, but I won tickets—”

“I’ll buy them from you!” The closer they go to the white chalk line marking private property, the faster and louder the man spoke, “Just don’t go in!” They reached the white chalk line marking the threshold to private property. “How much you want for them?”

Noticing his angle would be off from making it across at the entrance, Ben stopped.

The man did, too. He thumbed through a wad of mainly black and green ink on gray paper; mundane money.

Scanning the substantial number of—they’re called dollars? Yeah, dollars—for the red on white forge-strong notes backed by the Anvilsmith Dwarves, or the orange on pink monetary units issued by the Sunrise Mountain Sisterhood, Ben saw none.

Having been raised as a Mundane until the age of ten, Ben had nearly forgotten just how much it would take to turn dollar bills into real currency. A term—pennies on the dollar—came to mind. What were pennies again? The exact meaning lay lost in his childhood memories, though he figured the exchange rate would be similar. Suddenly, he grasped that the man thought he would be purchasing regular ride tickets. Embarrassed at his own belated realization, Ben’s cheeks began to warm and he grinned at how dim he felt. Why would a mundane think of anything besides mundane attractions?

Ben took a quick step to cross the thick line.

Trying to keep pace, the man moved, too. Some of his money threatened to come loose and the man paused to pinch the bills.

Just enough hesitation for Ben to take the final two steps across the line. “Sorry, sir.” He turned and bowed a small courtly apology before walking backward. “But I really need to win some goldfish.”

Conjurer’s Course

Cheers rolled from the opposite end of the midway games, near the entrance. The air positively brimmed with excitement. Ben had been hoping the attendant with Cody on his badge at the Conjurer’s Course would share some of the fragrant spiced apple cider on a slow simmer in the booth, but he hadn’t. Still trying to warm the guy up, Ben smiled with an appreciative nod at the Devils & Dragons midway worker as the employee deposited another four goldfish SD cards into his second bulging bag with an amazing lack of enthusiasm.

The attendant—brain-dead on his feet—only came alive when cheers rose in the distance and he searched for what had happened.

Ben wanted to think of the guy as more than just The Attendant, but Cody hadn’t performed anything that could possibly pass for the customary introduction. He took out his last ticket. Crap, I totally blew my plan to only play a little each day.

If the usual attendant, Gary, had been here, Ben would’ve shared his plan with him and Gary would’ve made sure he stuck to it. The only game Ben ever played, he had gotten to know Gary over the years and—more so now than ever—truly appreciated the man’s passion for the game.

Ben shrugged at the slightly older teen with long oily hair and a scant beard that looked like he suffered from mange. Gary had kept his red, white, and black harlequin vest clean and pressed. This guy, from the looks of various stains, seemed to mainly put his uniform on when he ate.

Wishing he’d stuck to his plan, Ben extended his last ticket. “I don’t understand why more people don’t play this game.”

“Because this game sucks.” The Attendant’s voice came out in harsh wheezes. As though it were Ben’s fault he had the crap-job, the Attendant snatched the ticket and gave it a vicious rip. The usual red, white, and black sparkles flew from the tear. He folded a ripped half and let the other go. Like flash paper, it disappeared into a falling cascade of lights. The Attendant leaned back against the wall and used the other half of the voided coupon to scoop dark gunk from under his nails. “You’re the only guy dumb—” He bit off the rest of his wheeze and peered at Ben through his oily bangs with raised eyebrows.

Ben’s eyes narrowed. They both knew what the rest of the sentence would’ve been. His neck craned back and Ben forced his lips into a grim line. “Dumb enough to play?”

“Look,” The Attendant motioned down the row, trying to make his point. “This game is at the end of a long row of much better games.”

Ben didn’t turn to see. He didn’t have to. He had to work his way through the throngs watching people at the seven Wrath of the Evoker booths—one more than last year—and the mass of people trying their luck at the Illusionist Shooting Galleys. Each booth on the way to the Conjurer’s Course had a dwindling number of people waiting to play. With tickets in hand, a couple of younger kids had followed Ben this far only to turn back with dissatisfied groans that their curiosity hadn’t paid off.

The Attendant unfolded his arm to full extension, leaned, and pointed with the ticket. “Win three times at Wrath and you get a Fireball.” The Attendant spread his fingers wide. Released, the spent marker flashed away. “A flipping Fireball!” Alive for a moment, an unimpressed sneer twisted the Attendant’s lips as he flopped against the wall again. “Compare that to this...” He used a limp wrist to roll his finger up the prize hierarchy in his booth. “One, goldfish. Three, cat. Nine, wolf. Twenty-seven, tuzvul. Eighty-one, treant.”

As though pointing out lameness sapped his energy, the Attendant’s arm went limp at his side. He motioned with his nose, barely raising his chin, as he continued. “Almost two-fifty for a minotaur and thrice that for a dragon.” He then flicked Ben’s first bags, brimming with goldfish spellcards. “You’re good at this, man, but the best you can do is win a second treant.”

Seeing the Attendant in a new light, Ben leaned away. He understood where he and the Attendant had a serious disconnect.

Since the guy worked the booth, Ben had thought they were alike. Now, he pegged this guy as exactly the type of caster he—because of Gary’s annual there’s more to magic than flash-bang lessons—despised. If he’d had this guy’s narrow view of magic only being useful for combat, he wouldn’t have survived his encounters at Meadows Towing.

Ben asked, “Mind telling me if you went to school around here?”

Fully materialized, the conjured frog croaked a ribbit to remind the player—him—that the game stood ready.

“Yeah.” The Attendant leaned against the wall and watched the frog. “I did.”

Ben extended his hands. Mystic reins to control the frog rose to his palms. Ben grabbed onto the invisible, leather-like strands, and he started the course. He directed the frog to make it hop only on the few yellow saucers polka dotted amongst a long field of large white plates. “Have you ever won three on Wrath?”

“Uh, yeah.” The worker wheezed and chuckled as though Ben had made the understatement of the century. “More times than you could dream.”

To advance, Ben released the controls when the frog landed on a small yellow plate, ending the first leg. The formerly invisible controls shimmered green when the frog vanished. Ben bent at the knees and caught the falling reins to stay in play.

A well-mannered spider monkey appeared on the left side of the game field. Ben directed the monkey to pick up darts, aim, and pitch them at a column of lavender balloons. One by one, they popped in succession up toward the violet one set at the top. Ben asked, “You ever cast a tuzvul?”

He caught a glimpse of the Attendant rolling his eyes. “More times than I care to remember.”

Ben had a hard time believing that, but let it go. After all, the guy did work at a place that gave prizes away for every type of caster in the Las Vegas Valley. He could’ve come across one and stolen it.

With the two spare darts unused, the top balloon popped. The monkey vanished. Ben again leaned down to snatch the glimmering green controls which turned invisible in his hands.

A small air elemental pushed the pinned flaps of the top two balloons around.

Ben had the elemental form a tornado. He dipped the bottom it in the bowl of water to suck up some of the contents.

“And?” The attendant prompted.

Ben focused on the elemental. Like all conjurations, it excelled at repeating tasks. The trick? Showing it how to do it right the first time. Ben had it raise the water in the tornado, move to hover over an empty bowl and release. Guiding the tiny tornado back over to the bowl of water, he asked, “Ever cast a goldfish?”

A hard tilt bent the Attendant’s neck. If his hair had been made of liquid, his bangs would have run down the side of his face. His upper lip rose and his jaw loosened, adding an exclamation point to his confusion. “Huh?”

Ben nodded at the elemental and released the reins. The controls flashed green until they hit the counter and faded. If he needed to make any changes to the commands, he’d be out of luck, but the tornado continued moving the water without further instruction.

Rummaging for the last of the red ones, Ben dug through the prize box of dusty goldfish spellcards and said, “No one ever casts goldfish.”

Ben could feel the Attendant’s bewilderment increase. Casters who think of magic the way the Attendant did could never see the use of casting a goldfish, and thus would never consider the container the conjuration came in as anything of value.