Page 57 of The Hocus Pocus Handbook

It is, of course, the artist’s family crest, which has been stricken from all official rolls. It is illegal to recreate these lines, especially the winged pooka in the center. Though pookas can shape-shift, they rarely choose to take form as a winged horse, since it’s much easier—and requires much less magic—to fly as a raven. But that’s the point of the design, as it represents commitment to the improbable, the embodiment of seemingly unattainable dreams.

The artist last saw this standard held aloft by his elder brother, before abject failure, before the doomed rebellion met its end on a flower-filled field that provided only a feast for crows. Before dungeons and loss and execution. Before. The heraldry has been recreated from memory, so it may be inaccurate or shifted somewhat from the original depiction. But the idea survives, even in hiding.

Unrealistic dreams can come true. And bound people can be freed.

Kerboros

“Demon!” The curse rings out in thunderous tones.

I whirl as the body drops, and Taragon screams, falling to her knees. The supplies she was carrying scatter all over the ground nearby. She pulls Tempest into her lap, stroking the pale hair away from their face. Around us, the sparse crowd is multiplying, people shuffling out of cottages and alleyways to add shocked murmurs that rival Taragon’s weeping. Tears stream down her face as she tries to rouse Tempest.

“What’s wrong? Are you sick? Is that why—”

“The demon drained their life,” someone shouts.

Thea sways, her face as pale as milk beneath the usual honeyed hue of her skin. I catch her by the elbow to keep her from hitting the ground. My nerves prickle at the rising hostility all around us. The cries for help are drawing people out of their homes and businesses nearby, and instinct tells me that we don’t have long. Spectacle always provokes interest, sometimes vicarious glee at another’s misfortune, and occasionally concern, but whatever the reason, it means too much scrutiny for us to linger.

“Fetch the guards,” someone shouts.

“Leave them alone!” It’s a familiar voice, and I seek to match it among the encircling faces and pointing fingers.

Ragh, the brownie Thea befriended, is attempting to intervene on her behalf but pitted against the fury of the onlookers, with Taragon crying and his small stature, it’s unclear how much weight his support will carry. I will not risk Thea’s safety.

“Send a runner to the palace,” a pixie shrieks in the shrillest of tones. “The strange one killed Tempest. Just look at them!”

“Guards!”

Someone else takes up the cry. “Guards!”

We’re surrounded. And I make a swift decision, hauling Taragon to her feet. She seems too stunned to resist. My last transportation spell went awry, but we cannot be discovered in the Summer lands, particularly under these conditions. If we’re apprehended in Summer, especially after their delegation disappeared, we’ll be executed as spies or assassins. My familial history guarantees it. And even if Summer remands us to Winter’s custody, we can’t justify our presence here. Liskaal will have our heads as traitors; death stalks us at every turn.

I can’t let them hurt Thea. I’d rather die.

Fear makes me feral, wild as a lightning strike. I wrench on the magic with all my might, focused on crafting a portal to carry us away. In the course of my sanctioned hunts, I’ve traveled a fair bit, and I focus on a mushroom circle in the wildlands, not far from Springtide, where Macha told us to search. It’s not too late; I can make this right.

The energy crackles as the golden vortex appears, a massive undertaking, as I need to hold it steady long enough for our group to pass. I nudge Thea forward first, and she clutches Taragon, who seems stunned to the point of disorientation. When Thea moves, the crowd parts, all of them unwilling to suffer Tempest’s fate by touching her, even in an attempt to hold her back. Her face crumples, eyes huge and fevered in her pallid face. Twin roses burn in her cheeks, a riotous color gained from harm inflicted on another. Her pain is a tangible force; it hurts me to breathe, just gazing at her.

They vanish through the swirling eddies of golden energy. Zeph, Rosa, and I rush simultaneously, and as soon as my feet hit solid ground, I close the portal. Exhausted, I topple to my knees. I wasn’t ready to pull that much power, and my head feels like it’s on fire, throbbing to the point that I hear a high-pitched whistle within my skull.

I remain on my knees, uncertain whether I have the strength to stand. Since I’m trying to keep my brain from exploding, I don’t immediately realize that our situation has deteriorated. It takes Rosa’s exclamation for me to take stock of our surroundings.

Oh. Oh no.

“Macha’s tits! Where in the wilds are we?” she demands.

I’ve never been here before. But I’ve heard the stories, horrific tales meant to frighten the very young, and I recognize this place from those eerie fables.

“The In-Between,” Zeph says, before I can.

“The In-Between?” Thea repeats. Her tone makes it a question.

Rosa sighs, a supercilious expression on her tiny face. “Honestly, didn’t that hobgoblin teach you anything? Your ignorance is embarrassing.”

“Do not talk about my dad,” Thea snaps.

For the first time, I see dangerous energy swirling around her. I don’t even need to shift to another spectrum of vision; the tendrils are crimson with violence and rage, the need to hurt Rosa to stop those words from emerging.

Who is Tempest, exactly?