Page 67 of The Hocus Pocus Handbook

She prowls toward them, and Taragon grabs her wrist as she winds up to slap Zeph. The hobgoblin wears a thunderous scowl, matching Thea’s expression. “Let’s talk first. If we don’t like what they have to say, we can rough them up later.”

Zeph staggers back, pretending to be hurt. “How brutish. And here I thought not all hobgoblins are thugs.”

“They’re being offensive about you and my dad. I need to hit them,” Thea grits out through clenched teeth. “Just a little.”

“I wouldn’t stop you,” Rosa says, surprising all of us.

Especially Zeph, if their expression is any hint how they’re feeling. “You too, Rosa? But you knew—”

“Not that we’d get stuck in a place like this!” she screeches.

I couldn’t agree more. “Explain yourself.”

“You owe us that much,” Taragon adds in a thick voice. “And tell the truth. Remember that the beating is still on the table.”

Thea has one hand curled into a fist, and she eyes their jaw. “Zeph wouldn’t know the truth if it slugged them.”

Govannon sighs. “I have no idea what’s going on. I’d forgotten other people can be so exhausting and complicated.”

“How can you be so relentlessly awful? I only asked for some honesty!” Taragon is clearly hurt, not just by the lies but the prejudiced remark as well.

She’s wrapped her arms around her body, bracing herself against the injury inflicted by those careless words. Immediately Thea’s anger fades when she realizes how Taragon is feeling, and Thea wraps both arms around her friend, wrath abandoned for consolation. They lean together, until Taragon pulls back.

Then Thea whirls on Zeph. “Apologize to her! Right now. For what you said and what you did. She’s worried sick about Tempest, and she can’t even find out how they are.”

She cares enough about Taragon to feel her pain, and that is reason enough for me to slice Zeph to ribbons, burn their bits to ash, and then bury the char at a crossroads. I’m holding the leash on my temper only with great restraint. They had best watch their behavior—and their tone from this point on.

“I’m sorry,” Zeph finally says.

I can’t tell if they mean it.

Thea glares at them, one arm still around Taragon. “Who the hell are you anyway? What do you get from screwing us over?”

“Time,” Zeph replies.

Thea and Taragon swap a look while Govannon drinks the last of his tea, allowing our complications to slide right off him. Then Taragon says, “Can you clarify?”

“Macha’s tits, big folk are slow,” Rosa complains.

Zeph chides, “Don’t be cruel, my friend. The answer is obvious if you think about it. I’ve been wasting your time, not allowing you to complete your quest. But now I’m caught, and you have completed your quest.” They bow in a ridiculously courtly gesture, full of sweeping arm movements that make them look curiously boneless. “Devan J. Fenelon, at your service. The J is for Jozeph but—”

“You go by Zeph,” Thea finishes.

The truth sinks in. It explains the odd atmosphere and the antipathy I sensed now and then. We’ve been traveling with Thea’s contracted spouse for a while now, and they’ve witnessed everything. Everything about us. Everything between us.

I strangle the urge to curse like a pixie.

31

A Spell for Discord and Dishonesty

While I do strive to calm troubled waters, conflict isn’t always bad, my jewel. When stress and tension build, sometimes there’s nothing for it but to vent it. All the harsh words and recriminations need to be spoken and acknowledged before healing can begin. When you pass the point of no return, there’s no remedy better than a proper row, a dustup to end all dusting. Air those grievances. Don’t let them fester.

This also works if you have dear ones being stubborn, keeping feelings repressed. This magic solicits the truth, regardless of how willing the speaker is to share their thoughts. There’s an element of coercion to this charm, so don’t use it lightly. Best be sure you’re ready to hear those home truths before you unleash them on the world.

Cast this spell at the hour of your greatest need, and leave no doubts in your spell work. You’ll require:

Iolite