It was a question worth answering. Why would somebody lie to magic?
The Hope in the Lie
ALEX listened gratefully to the morning chatter at the table, taking small bites of Bartholomew’s outrageously decadent cinnamon roll in order to savor it. The hubbub died down a little as everybody else did the same, and—as usually happened when the lot of them ate together—what started out as little more than people eating food in the same place became a quiet ritual of sharing and comfort.
Alex couldn’t believe it had taken them so long to figure out that Bartholomew was their second-strongest witch, because this magic happened two places in their lives: Jordan’s adventures and Bartholomew’s table. Human magic was so underestimated.
“You look awfully comfortable for someone going to work with his boss,” Kate said on a yawn.
Alex glanced up from a pillowy soft bite of cinnamon, butter, and sugar and swallowed—not too quickly. That was sacrilege.
“My boss gave me the morning off,” he said. “Which was kind of him. Apparently I looked like I couldn’t do the maths today. Untrue, but I’ll take it.”
“Oh no—not the dreaded maths!” Josh chided with a shudder. “There was a reason I majored in history, my man.”
Simon laughed, along with the rest of the table. “I was going to major in art history,” he said, and Alex turned to him sharply.
“But you’re sort of brilliant as an accountant,” he said, surprised.
Simon shrugged. “Well, yeah. So all my test scores said.” He lifted a shoulder. “I go to museums in my spare time.”
“Ever paint anything?” Jordan asked curiously.
Simon took a measured sip of coffee and shook his head. “No,” he said, so evenly that Alex felt an unpleasant jolt hit him right between his shoulder blades.
He frowned and saw Jordan and Bartholomew frown too.
“Say that again,” Jordan said, with deceptive mildness.
“Say what?” Simon blinked, surprised.
“That you don’t paint.”
This time, Simon’s swallow had nothing to do with coffee or pastry. “I, uh, don’t paint.”
And now Kate, Lachlan, and Josh sat up straight, frowning.
“Oh my God,” Kate said. “Like a zap of static electricity. You guys?”
“Like biting down on a battery,” Josh confirmed.
“Grabbing a live wire,” Lachlan said. “Wow. That was fun. Tell us another one, Simon.”
Simon frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, face set stoically.
“Ouch!” Bartholomew cried out. “That was—wow. That was amazing. Does it only work with him?”
Kate arched both her eyebrows. “Let’s see. Josh, did you eat that sugar cookie I saved from Bartholomew’s last batch?”
Josh gazed squarely into his girlfriend’s eyes, manfully trying to keep his face straight. “No.”
And this time, Simon flinched. “Oh my God,” he said. “That’s unpleasant.”
Jordan looked around at the seven of them seated at the table. “Lachlan,” he said, his voice mild. “Did Bartholomew help you make this table?”
“No…,” Lachlan said. “But I can tell you what I was thinking as I was making it.”
“What?” Bartholomew asked.
“I was irritated because you couldn’t come over those nights because of the sunset ritual, and I was thinking that if you and the others had just been able to be honest with each other, we wouldn’t be in the mess we are now.”
Alex smoothed his hands appreciatively over the stained wood and tried not to take Lachlan’s words personally. He was right—100 percent right. “Nice job, son. You’ve managed to cast your first spell. And apparently make a big lie detector to boot.”
Lachlan gave a John Wayne grin. “Just doin’ my job, pardnuh.”
Alex watched Simon’s eyebrows rise. “So this table is a lie detector?”
“Apparently so,” Jordan said, looking thoughtful. “We have to be very careful when we sit here. This is sort of a power. We don’t want to abuse it.”
They all nodded, and Alex had a sudden thought of all those times when telling a kind lie was the one thing that kept a friendship humming along.
“And we need an out,” he said. “Because sometimes the truth is unkind and subjective, and you don’t want to hurt someone’s feelings.”
Of all of them, Josh was the first person to get this. His eyes widened, and he nodded enthusiastically, and Kate regarded him with deep suspicion.
“What kind of lie are you thinking about?” she asked, eyes narrowed.
Josh let out a sigh. “Ask me what I think about your work clothes.”
She was, in fact, wearing a classic female business suit—chocolate- brown slacks and jacket with a white collared shirt.
“O-kay…. Josh, do you like what I’m wearing now?”
“Yes, honey. You look great.”
Everybody flinched, and the static charge was so big it actually sparked.
“But… but these are my work clothes!” she protested, obviously hurt.
Josh sighed. “Hon, you look good in dresses. Those long, flowy ones. Or skirts, with a… a… whatsit. A turmeric on top.”
“Tunic,” she corrected automatically.
“Yeah, one of those. Or even a long flowy skirt with one of those jackets. But the slacks? Not your best. I love your hips, baby, but—”
She held out a hand. “I understand. But why wouldn’t you say something?”
He regarded her unhappily. “Because your office practically has a dress code. You wear that other stuff when you have an option. At work you have no choice, you’re trying to fit in, and why add one more thing to it? My opinion here is pretty much the last thing you should be worrying about, so, uhm, you look great, honey! I really like the way you’re doing your eye makeup, and I think when you pull your hair back in clips like that it makes you look very open and accessible.”
Nothing. No flinch. No nothing.
Alex realized he was looking at Josh, self-proclaimed meatloaf, with some serious respect.
“Well done, Josh,” Jordan said, blue eyes also wide. “I’m taking notes.”
“Right?” Lachlan said. He blew out a breath. “In fact we all should—because, uh, you know, if you keep using this table for coven meetings, being able to tell the truth without being brutal about it is going to have to become a skill.”
“You’re wrong,” Bartholomew said, but not to Lachlan. “Alex, I mean. Lachlan, you’re totally right. We need to speak frankly to each other or we won’t make very good witches—or very good friends. But, Alex, it’s not the first time he’s made a spell.”
Lachlan raised his eyebrows, and Bartholomew fingered the pendant at his throat—and nodded to the matching one that Lachlan wore. The pendant was much like Alex’s, but instead of a wooden medallion topped with a silver charm, both were made of silver, including the liquid-looking chain that bound them.
“I didn’t do that, love,” he said. “I made the wooden component and marked it with the runes, but you put together the safety spell and the potions and—”