“Magic blocking is tough enough. No sense doing it for a type of magic that no one there will ever use.”

“Hmmm. I’d rather have my sorcerer spells, but witch magic is better than nothing. Now, I guess it doesn’t matter what supernatural race these other killers are, if they’re power-free, but I should ask anyway.”

The Fate rattled off the various races in this particular supernatural serial-killers hell. Mostly half-demons, with one necromancer and one werewolf. No sorcerers, which was all I really cared about, in case they were still able to recognize a witch. Bad enough I might have to deal with that problem with Dachev.

Next, the Fates explained how I’d get out of the hell. I couldn’t just walk out or recite a teleport code—it was locked too tight for that. Instead, they’d give me a hellsbane potion. Swallow it, and I’ll be hell-free.

Finally, the Fates wanted me to do some practice runs with the sincerity-testing spell. As anxious as I was to get moving, I knew time in the throne room areas was slowed to a crawl. An hour spent testing the spell could save me a lot of grief later, and it would only take seconds of “real-world” time.

“Give me the spell and I’ll get testing.” I glanced over my shoulder at Kristof. “I could use a partner for that.”

He smiled. “But of course. A magical lie detector. Just what every good relationship needs.”

Chapter 40

40

DESPITE KRIS’S JOKE, I DIDN’T USE THE SPELL FOR REVEALING his deepest, darkest secrets. What would be the point? I knew them already.

Without the obvious ways to test the spell, I had to get inventive.

“Ginger or Mary Ann?” I asked.

He pulled a face. “Neither.”

His eyes stayed blue, which meant he was telling the truth. If he’d lied, they go black. A growing nose would have been more fun, but apparently the spell’s creator hadn’t been properly schooled in fairy tales.

I recast the spell.

“The Rolling Stones or the Beatles?” I asked.

“The Stones, which I’m sure you could have guessed, if you didn’t already know.” He uncrossed his legs, stretched them out, and leaned back against the wall. “See, that’s the problem. If you know the answer, then you’ll know if I lie, even without the spell.”

“Ah, I’ve got one. Would you rather be smart or good-looking?”

He rolled his eyes, but I held up my hand to cut off his answer.

“Hold on,” I said. “There’s a codicil. If you pick smart, you can’t be good-looking. And vice versa.”

He pursed his lips. “Define ‘not good-looking.’”

“Triple paper-bag ugly. But Nobel Prize–winner brilliant. And dumb as a stump, but drop-dead gorgeous.”

He laughed. “You first.”

“Option B. Gorgeous and stupid.”

“Oh, now, that’d fail the test.”

“Try it and see.”