Mom steps right in front of her. “Where are we, exactly?”
“Nowhere. At least not on any map you may recognize.” Agent Horowitz turns to me with a kind smile. If she’s planning on murdering us and dumping our bodies afterward, at least she’s being nice about it. “Have you heard of the Other Place Charm?”
I gasp so, so loud. Oh. My. God. This is an Other Place. I, Lana Aurelia Torres, am actually for real in an Other Place right now!
“Yes,” I say. “It’s a spell that creates a location that can’t be found. Not even by other witches and wizards. It’s like a secret hideout or a private haven. They call it their Other Place. You can only access it if the witch or wizard owner invites you in.” I tap the wall to my left. Sure enough, it feels sturdy and real, but it’s not real at all. It’s a figment of someone’s imagination. This is one hell of a spell. “Is this your Other Place?” I ask Agent Horowitz.
“No.” She sidesteps Mom. “The owner is behind that door. He’s very excited to meet you both.” She continues down the hall as if she’s used to its every golden nook and cranny.
Mom snatches my hand as we reach the door. The steel knocker is a gleaming crescent moon coated in gold. A tiny, star-shaped viewer hangs above it. Instead of knocking, Agent Horowitz twists the huge knob. There’s a soft click, then the door swings inward. There it is again—vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, and a little bit of red apple. Agent Horowitz makes her way into the brightly lit room, where gold walls and chandeliers appear once more. There’s furniture inside, all darker than coal. Black-velvet chaise lounges. Black-velvet three-seater, demilune sofas. Even the coffee table in the center of the room is dark stained wood.
Three men sit in front of an unlit fireplace. I can’t see their faces, so I keep moving forward, dragging Mom with me. Two of the men shoot off the sofa. The third stands up at a much slower pace, sipping something from a glass. Agent Horowitz stands beside the white man wearing a gray tweed suit and red tie. He’s middle-aged and a bit plump, with graying black hair, blue-green eyes, and a smile large enough to restore anyone’s faith in humanity.
My eyes bulge out of their sockets. This is the same man who unveils the Blazewrath World Cup during the opening ceremonies. The same man who carries the Cup toward the winning team at the end. Papi and I have seen him in countless press conferences, interviews, and even one baking reality show as guest judge. He said he’d eat anything with vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry on it. And he enjoys a red apple every morning.
President Russell Turner, the most powerful man in the International Blazewrath Federation, is smiling at me like we’re old friends.
“Welcome!” he says in his British accent. “Make yourselves at home in my Other Place!”
I can’t speak. Mom’s grip on me tightens, but instead of reassuring her that this man isn’t a serial killer from Leeds, England, I’m drawing a blank as to how to behave in his presence. And, most important, what I’m doing in his presence at all.
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re the shy type! I refuse to believe it.” President Turner walks up to me, his hand outstretched. “Not after what I saw you do back there at Waxbyrne, Ms. Torres.”
I stare at him, unblinking, still processing that he is, in fact, real.
“Excuse me, but who are you?” Mom has the ovaries to ask him.
“Mom,” I finally speak in my fiercest whisper. “Not cool.”
President Turner laughs. He shifts his hand over to Mom instead. “Russell Turner, madam. I’m the president of the International Blazewrath Federation. Lovely to meet you.”
Mom ignores President Turner’s hand. “Blazewrath?” She makes it sound like it’s filthier than any swear word. “If you don’t work for the bureau, what are you doing here?”
“I’ve invited President Turner to join us,” says the second man, who gets off of the sofa quickly. I can tell he’s Indian from his accent, but I don’t know which part of the country he’s from. His skin is a lighter brown than mine, with brown hair that’s been parted in the middle. He adjusts his navy blue suit jacket as he walks over to Mom. He seems ten years younger than President Turner, but he’s far more regal in posture and stride. “My name is Nirek Sandhar. I’m director of the Department of Magical Investigations at the bureau. Pleased to meet you both.”
Mom squints at President Turner. She finally shakes his hand. “Leslie Wells.”
“Delighted, Ms. Wells. You’ve raised a splendid young lady, I must say. Such a brave soul.” President Turner turns to me again. “Would you like to sit down for a bit, Ms. Torres?”
I nod over and over.
President Turner waves me over to the sofa. “Right this way!”
Mom releases me, thankfully. I match President Turner’s steps as he makes his way back to Agent Horowitz, Director Sandhar, and the third man, whose face is now crystal clear.
I gasp the loudest I’ve ever gasped.
“What? You’ve never seen whiskey before?” The third man takes a sip from his glass again, this time slower. When he’s done, he says, “Tastes like chicken.”
President Turner chuckles, but I can’t move a single muscle.
The third man, this tan-skinned giant at six foot five, with salt-and-pepper hair, a peach button-down shirt, baggy jeans, and dark circles under his even darker eyes, is none other than Manny Delgado, Team Puerto Rico’s manager. The man who flips the bird at paparazzi like it’s the reason he was born, skips press conferences to have longer naps instead, and has publicly sworn to only drink coffee brewed in his hometown of Ciales. I close my eyes and open them again. He’s still here. I’m somehow in a room with Manny Delgado and President Turner, and I didn’t even make it to Blazewrath tryouts. Not even my wildest dreams are this wild.
“Please excuse Mr. Delgado’s sense of humor,” Director Sandhar says, indignant. “He’s only slept three hours, from what I gather.”
“Two and a half.” Manny plops back down on the sofa, his back to me.
“And does Mr. Delgado work for the bureau, too?” Mom asks.
“No, Ms. Wells, I’m very happy to say he does not,” says Director Sandhar. “Mr. Delgado is the manager for the Puerto Rican Blazewrath team. He’s in the States on official Blazewrath business, but he’s been invited to this interrogation at President Turner’s insistent request.”
Mom’s lips part, but nothing comes out. The last person she ever wants to meet is the man responsible for bringing the Puerto Rican flag to the Blazewrath field. “I see.”
Manny puts his glass on the coffee table, then leans back on the sofa. “Can we get on with this thing already? I have to get to the hotel in time for my Monday shows.”
“Always so patient …” Agent Horowitz puts a gentle hand on my back, leading me to the black-silk chaise to the left side of the room. We sit down together. Director Sandhar claims the matching chaise directly across from mine. President Turner and Manny Delgado sit shoulder to shoulder on the sofa, with Mom joining them at a snail’s pace. She’s studying everyone and everything like the whole room will explode at any moment.