Page 70 of The Hocus Pocus Handbook

“Taragon? Rosa? Govannon?” Finally, I’m desperate enough to shout, “Zeph!” even if I did nearly stab that bastard.

No replies. The silence holds a smothering weight, and fear chews at the corners of my mind with pointy rat teeth. Perhaps the In-Between is more than a liminal space; this feels akin to the torments of the afterlife that mortals write about, sometimes in terms of deeds that will result in eternal damnation. I cannot imagine a more powerful punishment than being trapped with myself for time unbounded.

Something flashes in the distance, and then I’m somewhere else. Still alone, but this—the scene that resolves before me—isn’t possible. First, because there are no green meadows anywhere in this dreadful realm, and second, because my brother died long ago. And yet he’s here with me. Even knowing that this is some wicked snare and that I’ll likely be devoured by whatever evil creature has donned his skin, I still stride toward Geraint, who clutches me close and pounds my back. Then he steps away to look at me, a ready smile on his face. Tall and thin, dappled with cinnamon freckles, and hair as red as—who? Who had the red hair?

The question tickles at the back of my head, making my mind feel itchy. Conviction grows that I’ve forgotten something incredibly important, but Geraint allows me no time to process that flickering awareness. He slings an arm around my shoulders and beams, all light and joy. He’s just as he was, while I’m no longer a child. It’s unusual for a fae couple to produce more than one scion, but my father was obsessed with the family line. With legacy and proving our rightness to rule.

“Just look at you! It’s been an age, hasn’t it? Are you ready?” he asks.

For a moment, I can’t speak.

“For what?” I finally manage to reply.

“I promised to train you! I’ve been putting it off because I didn’t like the thought of teaching you such skills when it’s so obvious that your talents lie elsewhere.”

Now I remember; it’s been so long. Geraint was the one who first showed me how to handle a blade—reluctantly, I must concede. This specter isn’t lying. Our sire insisted that I be made useful to his planned rebellion. He had no use for art, either before or after his determined return to contention for the lord’s laurels.

There is still mist, but it’s gentle, dew clinging to the greenery beneath my feet. I remember that it was early when this happened the first time. Though I don’t register Geraint drawing his weapon, suddenly he brandishes a dull practice sword, carved from fallen wood. He stands with his shoulders straight, toes angling outward. I mirror his stance, but unlike the first occasion, I notice that his feet aren’t properly set. My years as Winter’s hound have taught me more about matching blades than my brother ever knew.

“Loosen your shoulders,” Geraint tells me. “You’re too stiff.”

I’m stiff with shock. Disbelief. He demonstrates a smooth swoop with artful flair. And I smile as I realize my beloved elder brother wasn’t particularly skilled with a sword. Those fancy flourishes won’t serve when one is locked in vicious combat. My smile fades. Perhaps that’s why he died. He believed in a better world, but he lacked the ability to carry his vision to fruition. A dreamer, our Geraint, not a doer.

Geraint launches a controlled attack, and I parry. My blade is everywhere as he searches for a gap in my defenses. But there isn’t one, at least not that such a shadow can discern. I go on the offensive, a flash of feints, and Geraint stumbles, breathing hard. He can’t block my blade work, and I clip his shoulder, hard enough to sting.

“I don’t think you have anything to teach me,” I say then.

My “brother” sneers. “You would think that, hound.”

The mist surges, and my brother’s form morphs into Lord Liskaal, the person I loathe most. The practice sword has become a deadly weapon, a real sword with a razor’s edge. I need no invitation to attack, even though this will mean my death if this is truly his avatar, if he’s run me to ground in this wretched place. Hate boils up in a red-hot wave, spilling over into the violence I imbue in each slice into his defenses. He has sparred with me before, but I’ve always been careful to conceal my true skill and to let him win for the sake of his overweening pride.

Not this time. Even if it’s just an echo, I’ll kill him if I can.

Shadow Liskaal gets his blade up in time, resulting in a jolt up my arm that feels fearsomely real. Our swords scrape and shing, sharp metallic sounds as I adjust my stance. His next strike comes fast as fate, inches from my throat. I dodge. And fury floods me—cold, precise, and unrelenting. He cannot predict my movements because he’s never viewed me as a worthy foe, whereas I have observed his fighting style at length.

That lends me a crucial edge. I press the attack, varying high attacks and low feints to the point that he can’t anticipate where my sword will be. The world narrows to blade and breath, advancing toward the moment when I annihilate him. Emulating my style, he bluffs left, then lunges right, nicking my side.

“First blood,” he taunts. “If you surrender, I may be merciful.”

Surrender? No. Never again.

While I may have set aside my plan to disappear, I will never return to his service. Ignoring the pain, I angle my sword and slam the pommel into his jaw. As his head snaps back, I whirl alongside him, slashing his hamstring, and his leg buckles. Shadow Liskaal dips to one knee, forced to acknowledge my victory, but his eyes seethe with hate.

“I have bested you.”

“You lack the courage to finish me, spineless cur made in your father’s image.”

Without the slightest hesitation, I run him through. My blade pierces his chest, and it’s only after I’ve done it that fear takes hold. What if I’ve been fighting one of my own group? What if I’ve just murdered Zeph or—my sword drops from my numb fingers—Thea? There’s no corpse, however, and relief nearly takes me out at the knees, just like Shadow Liskaal.

Thea’s safe. She’s whole. She has to be.

I don’t think I can live in a world where she doesn’t exist.

Instead of a body, the changeable enemy shifts for the third time, this change spinning in a swirl of formless energy, shimmering gold and then orange and then red, all wild magic and unharnessed chaos. Not an enemy at all? Just…magic, born from my own brain? That creates questions about the monsters we fought earlier, but I can’t linger on them with the smoky tendrils creeping over me again.

When the murky mist subsides, I find myself in the desolate clearing as if I never left. The others stand frozen in awkward positions. Rosa hovers with her mouth open, as if she was about to speak, but her wings aren’t moving. Taragon is half bent over, while Govannon is caught midstride, like he intended to leave our company entirely. Zeph and Thea remain on the other side of the rock; her arms are akimbo, her face tight with displeasure, and as for Zeph, they are in the process of turning their back on her.

I’m the only one who can move, I think. I walk among them, tapping, touching gently, shaking, and in some cases, slapping. Not too hard. Zeph had it coming in my opinion. Nothing rouses them.