Page 60 of The Hocus Pocus Handbook

She laughs, vicious glee in her midair twirl. “Doesn’t matter that the arrows are small. The poison will do it in.”

Zeph has managed to summon more energy, and Kerboros is poised to stab the monster in the throat, but it shudders violently, insides churning through the mottled hide, and then…it just keels over. That’s my lesson from this fight: Never underestimate a pixie.

Once the bodies stop writhing, they dissipate into mist. I frown, glancing at the rest of the group. That thing knocked me down. And now it’s just…gone? I check for bruises and scrapes, and yes, I’ll have some mementos of that fight. While things can be weird in the wildlands, they’re usually not weird in this way.

“What just happened?” I ask.

“I’m not sure,” Zeph says in a thoughtful tone.

“Illusions?” Tara suggests.

Rosa shakes her head. “Poison doesn’t kill illusions, sweet cakes.”

Kerboros steps out of the water and closes the distance between us. He’s single-minded in checking me over, searching for signs of serious injury. There’s nothing subtle about his concern anymore, and I like this feeling far too much to protest. I let him hold my shoulders and study me to his heart’s content.

“You’re unscathed?” he asks in a deep voice.

“More or less.”

“Sorry to cut into your moment,” Tara says, “but I need to talk to Thea. Now.”

Right. The reckoning is at hand. We’ve just fought a monster, and it was far too much like looking in the mirror, after what I did to Tempest. Intention doesn’t mitigate injury. Tara wanted to help me, and now I’ve hurt someone she cares for.

I don’t know what to tell her, except the truth—I fear I’m changing into the monster that I have spent my life trying not to become.

28

All the Wrong Angles

This piece features triangular patterns, cast in unfamiliar angles, but it rests in the corner of the room, unfinished. Perhaps the artist couldn’t see how to complete the work. As it is, partially done, a crystalline delicacy has been imposed on an irregular slab of misty limestone. The matte surface of the stone is dusty, veiling some of the deeper etchings. The carvings are neither certain, nor precise, and it seems likely that this piece was an early effort, before the artist acquired any level of expertise. But one who has studied the artist’s works as a whole could envision two possibilities. One is an arcane tablet with mystical runes only partly imbued, an incantation to unlock untold power. The other? A relic from the mortal realm—an unfinished gravestone.

Kerboros

As Taragon pulls Thea aside, I stop myself from following.

They have much to discuss, and I have something on my mind as well. The adrenaline is still fading from the fight. I will not focus on the way my pulse echoed in my ears when the creature attacked Thea.

We’re trapped in the In-Between; it’s not the time for personal matters. In my earliest days, I heard a few stories about the place while playing with others in the Winter Court. They whispered of the swamp witch who sent bad changelings there, where they languished forever, unloved and unwanted, never to be seen again.

Now that I’ve met Macha, I wonder how many of those tales she spread personally to keep folks from pestering her with inane requests. Apart from Liskaal, I thought I had no family left. Macha would likely be horrified if I used that word to describe our connection, but I do find kinship with her. I’d spread gossip as well to protect my own solitude.

My parents had no time for such rumors, too involved in sowing the seeds for my father’s rebellion. In fairness, the obsession began and ended with my father. My mother…I can’t recall anything about her specifically. In the abstract, I’m aware that she taught me about the world and how to ignore those who said we were lackeys, or toadies, or hangers-on, clinging to the frayed remnants of past glory, unable to let that hint of distinction go when it passed to a different line.

My head feels strange. While I know we failed, I can’t remember how anymore. It’s all blurred edges and a wistful ache. But my anger at my father remains, a kernel of fury embedded deep in my soul, burning like a coal. The worst part of those allegations is that they were at least partly true. My father was fixated on besting Liskaal. But only he wanted that. Not me and my mother. And certainly not my older brother, whose name I rarely mention, the first casualty of my father’s hubris. Geraint wanted something else entirely—to free the realm from Liskaal’s tyranny and make the world better for the wild fae. That idealism did not protect him.

I shake my head at the pain crimping my chest. If it isn’t time to worry about Thea, it’s not time to dwell on the past either.

“The rest of you,” I say, “remain together. I’ll do some scouting and return.”

Rosa bristles immediately. “Who put you in charge?”

I don’t care to argue with a pixie. They’re known to be contentious, capable of feuding for ages over the most trivial matters. Skirting her question, I say, “Feel free to leave, then. If we separate completely, however, it may be difficult for us to reunite later.”

“Then what makes you special?” the pixie demands in a suspicious tone. “Why are you going if it’s not safe and you might not make it back?”

Zeph reminds her, “He’s Winter’s hound. His only work is hunting for his cousin.”

The usual sting pierces me at the accuracy of the allegation. I’m good at what I do, much as I loathe the undertakings I’m charged with. Before anyone can object, I stride away from the group. Because I have a suspicion that has been growing for a while, and I need sufficient time alone to confirm it. Ten paces out, the mist envelops me. It feels clammy on my skin, like unseen leeches prowling for a place to feed. I disregard the distraction and keep moving until I’m sure I’m out of earshot.