Page 83 of The Hocus Pocus Handbook

“I’ll set magical wards around the perimeter,” Kerboros says.

He slips away to do that before anyone can question him. Since I think it’s a good idea, I wouldn’t protest anyway. While I’m watching the direction he disappeared in, Rosa and Govannon also vanish, small enough to tuck themselves out of sight. Every rustle of leaf and creak of branch makes me jump; I’m nervy as heck, listening for the crunch of boots, the cold whistle of Winter magic cutting through the dark.

No, I trust Kerboros. He’ll make sure we have time to run. His traps will sound the alarm and delay our pursuers, but his absence leaves me with Olive and Zeph, who watches my sister like she’s the most wondrous being they ever beheld.

Is that how Kerboros looks at me?

My face feels hot, and I press my hands to my cheeks to cool them.

Olive turns to me, ignoring their fascination as she whispers, “I’ve extrapolated somewhat by context and active listening, but I was wondering if you’d mind sharing everyone’s pronouns?”

“Rosa and Tara use she,” I whisper back. “So do I. Govannon and Kerboros use he. And Zeph—”

“I can speak for myself,” they say silkily. “If you were interested in me, beautiful, you had only to come closer and ask.”

Olive dismisses them with a flick of her fingers. “I can hear you fine from here.”

“Well, then. Sometimes I feel he-ish and sometimes I feel she-ish. And sometimes I feel they-ish. It varies from day to day, but I generally use they for simplicity. Have you met anyone like me in the mortal realm?” Zeph asks, shifting closer. They move until they’re next to Olive, drawn to her like she’s pulling them with magical traction.

She regards them with serious eyes. “As it happens, I have. But what does my opinion matter? In this situation, only your feelings do.”

Zeph smirks. “My feelings? What if I feel that I’d rather do you?”

If they’re trying to disconcert her, it doesn’t work in the slightest. “Then I’d say you need to try harder.”

Peals of laughter ring out as the branches above us shake. “Shot down. I never thought I’d see the day.” Rosa cackles. “Serves you right!”

I get a glimpse of a bearded face peeping through the tangled foliage. “Indeed, most entertaining, a bird’s-eye view of romantic failure. I do hope I have better luck with Ragh.”

Kerboros returns, settling beside me as the others quiet. I lean against him, and he wraps his arms about me in a natural gesture.

Keeping my voice soft, I say, “I couldn’t survive any of this without you.”

I can’t be without you now. But I can’t say that part out loud.

“I can’t do anything without you,” he whispers back, creating pleasurable chills with his mouth next to my ear.

This fae warrior has changed so much. Or maybe this is who he was all along; he just couldn’t be himself while following Lord Liskaal’s orders. I raise my face and kiss his cheek, then bury my head in his chest. He doesn’t let go.

After we sleep a little, I use the foraging spell to source fresh water and make porridge. Then the alarms sound, a high-pitched wail that warns us of mortal peril.

38

Hunter’s Blind

This is a rare freestanding sculpture, one of the final works produced before the artist’s disappearance. Exquisitely carved from the bones of a massive creature native to the mortal realm, the statuette depicts a hunter lying in wait, though the prey remains hidden. The hunter is a prone figure with cross-hatch carvings to detail the leather armor he wears while his features remain smooth, lending him an eerie, faceless aspect. He is simultaneously every hunter and no one at all. That erasure of identity hints at deep, repressed pain, possibly the anguish of following wrongful orders. Note: Scrimshaw is not widely practiced here, as it carries unsavory associations in relation to humans.

Kerboros

Thea drops the cook pot, and her gaze snaps to me, as if seeking guidance.

I lift a single finger to my mouth as I silence the shrieking alarm. Wordless, I gesture for the others to take cover. Govannon and Rosa hide in the boughs above as Zeph pulls Thea and Olive into a glamour. They are truly skilled, as I know they’re there, and I still can’t distinguish where they end and the foliage begins.

It’s good that they didn’t catch us in our bedrolls. In the distance, I hear movement. One set of footfalls, and they’re not skilled with wildcraft. A stick snaps beneath feet more accustomed to palace tiles than stalking in an Autumn grove. The hunter emerges from between the trees, and I glide in the opposite direction, circling behind him.

Indeed, he wears Winter’s colors, not even trying to blend in with his surroundings. And he’s vain, sporting a cloak the color of moonless snow, edged with frost that does not melt. Such extravagance doesn’t match the setting and provides no protection whatsoever. In fact, the light shade makes it easier to track him against the scarlet and gold of the turning leaves.

A weapon hangs at his hip. Another mistake. It should already be in his hand, a curved blade forged for aesthetic appeal, not for balance. I feel insulted that Liskaal thought this incompetent buffoon could face me. Yet he has found us. So perhaps he hunts better than he prepares for battle.