Monthly Bonus Content #1: ‘Hocus Pocus Mishap’ (James Version) (Patreon)

[Alternate Text: A header image of a cup of coffee with festive fall latte art. Within the cup of coffee, there's a ghost made out of steamed milk that seems to be wailing. The cup itself is a plain white set on a saucer while there is a bundle of autumn leaves placed to the side. 'Hocus Pocus Mishap' acts as the title in a witchy font; the 'I' is dotted with a star symbol and it appears to be drawn in white chalk. ]

"Do you want me to talk to him?"

Alina's suggestion is followed by a gentle nudge to your arm when she sets a pumpkin-shaped cookie in front of you. It's maniacally grinning face makes your own slight frown feel more apparent, so you pointedly dislocate its cookie jaw. No snap comes from Mrs. Corvin's award winning snickerdoodle recipe; it's too soft with a flavor Turn the Page customers rave about.

You brush the cinnamon sugar off your fingers before holding onto the walkie talkie yet again.

"By 'talk' I mean lovingly yell at him," Alina clarifies with a glance between you and the mangled cookie. "Sometimes he gets wrapped up in work. I thought he was getting better, but this time of year can be kind of hard for him…"

"Because of the prank calls and so-called sightings or because of what happened with—?"

"Both," Alina quickly interjects, smiling tightly to soften her tone. "It's both, but if anyone could bring him out of work-mode, it's you. I promise he doesn't mean anything by it—it's how he is…"

It's how he copes.

This is the third day in a row James hasn't said 'good morning' to you on the gang's broadcast channel. He's become your daily wakeup call, a routine that speaks to how well he knows your habits and how he wants to hear about your day ahead. Creating times to meet up is what you typically do along with his usual concerned check-in about your well-being. It's been quiet.

It's been so silent.

You hadn't realized how accustomed you are to hearing his soft-spoken voice first thing before even thinking of getting out of your bed.

"I can bring snickerdoodles to his intervention," Alina jokingly suggests, except there's a hint of seriousness to how she regards you. "Maybe he could use a much more personal delivery? I wanted to drop off something for the station anyway. You can do it for me and see James."

Before you can agree or disagree with her plan, Alina is snagging a piece of your gifted cookie and jaunting back to the kitchen to prepare.

Your eyes stray to the silent walkie talkie.

Something doesn't feel right.

. . .

. .

.

Something's wrong.

You settle on that conclusion before the door to the station can completely swing shut when confronted with a benevolent smiling face. It's etched in sunny yellow ceramic adding a pop of brightness to the drab interior, but it should not be out here. It shouldn't be anywhere near Tabitha's lips. "That's James's," you point out.

Your statement is closer to an accusation.

"—are you, [Name]? It's chilly out."

You've no idea what exactly Trent just said to you, too intent on Tabitha drinking—defiling—a cup that you have always associated with James. It's his mug from Alina, a treasured gift that you know he wouldn't risk anyone else ever using. He's deeply sentimental at heart.

"I know," she smugly replies. "I'm borrowing it."

When Tabitha completely lowers the mug from her face, you're treated to a smile that rivals the one etched into the ceramic, but this one holds a hint of maliciousness among its happiness. It only takes you a second to realize her lipstick will leave marks behind on the cup. The bold red color smears along the rim. "Did you get permission to 'borrow' his favorite cup?"

Trent glances between you and Tabitha, staying out of it for now, yet clearly unsettled.

"He poured it for me earlier, sweetie," she  reveals, taking another languid sip. "Feel free to go interrogate our busy detective since you obviously have a lot of free time on your hands." Tabitha's pointed remark is further sharpened by her collecting a stack of papers from the reception desk before she departs.

"I was surprised too," Trent meekly adds. "I saw it though. They've been making each other's drinks…"

Is that why James hasn't been around Turn the Page as much? Station coffee can't compare.

You set the overflowing cookie basket down in front of him without any comment because you're going right to the source. While the lack of walkie talkie calls and missed lunches could be negatively shading your reaction, you can't be swayed from your gut instinct. Your quick steps along the linoleum flooring only falter slightly when you see the door to his office.

The unlocked, wide open door…

Anyone who passes by would be able to catch a glimpse of James who is sitting stiffly at his desk typing away at a case report with an intense focus. The old keyboard loudly clacks with each strike from his fingers, plastic almost abused at this rate. Is a looming deadline to blame? He doesn't appear to be blinking much, eyes riveted to the screen that casts an LED glow over him that only enhances the faint pallor to his skin. It's one that comes from feeling unwell or being too overworked. It has been a while since you last saw him in person, only getting a few waves in passing while out.

(Reese wanted to chase him for simply waving while the two of you were out shopping on the other side of the street; it was a 'snub' to him.)

He has yet to sense your arrival even as you edge closer into the room to stand in front of the—

"Coffee?"

His attention snaps to you so abruptly you nearly startle a half-step backwards, which would gut him. It's easier to quell your reflex than to soothe your heart beat at the soft crack that must've come from James's joints, neck more or less swiveling to face you. His typing has slowed down instead of halting.

"No, but I did bring cookies," you awkwardly reply. "Alina included oatmeal raisin too."

"No, thank you," he politely declines, voice a little flat. "It's not what I need."

Because he probably needs some holy water…

The cup, the door, the lack of greeting along with everything else all points to something being amiss; however, the sparkly pink hair tie on James's wrist compounds it all. You stare at him, while he faces you without truly seeing. It is a mercy when he rises from the desk chair, disrupting his vacant sightline and collecting a boring white cup. You're moving in front of him before you can think better of it, alarmed. This is unlike what happened out at the town line.

There's no placid quality to him or eerie calm.

There is only an absence of emotion that should be specifically reserved for you alone.

He doesn't seem bothered by your unease; it's a mild inconvenience at best. His steps come to a stop when you place a hand on his tense forearm, feeling it constrict that much more beneath your gentle touch. You should be calling the others—demanding Silas start on some research—enlisting Reese to help you hide Tabitha's body if she did this—getting Becca's opinion along with steadying support.

You just want James…

"Did something happen?" you demand, voice raised before you remember the open door. Talking to him when he's not himself is a bad idea, but you can't let him walk past you like a relative stranger. "Did something unnatural happen? Have you even seen Alina or anyone else recently? We thought you were busy, not—"

"I am busy," he stiffly interrupts you. "If you have something to report, then do so at the reception."

He won't even look you in the eye. It doesn't seem like purposeful avoidance that keeps his gaze just over your left shoulder; instead, it's fact. James shows no trace of anguish over staring out into the hallway while you're standing across from him looking stricken. People don't waffle or debate refusing to stare at the blinding sun; they know better. He's like that.

It's completely normal to treat you like this, a fact or habit. Something or someone took him.

"…Fine," you whisper, letting him go.

As soon as James walks past you without any hesitation, you're rounding his desk to steal his walkie talkie—the one that matches yours. It doesn't need to be in his hands now. Your eyes deviate to the computer screen to see that a word document is opened up, thousands of words fill its page with one thing in common:

Tabitha, Tabitha, Tabitha, Tabitha.

Through your glare, you do spy a few mistakes within the rows upon rows of Tabitha, pieces of your name that have been chopped up. Letters have been spliced into hers, overtaken in the end, but James must be fighting whatever this is. You've seen bizarre things in Fernweh by now, so a lust demon, magic potion, romantic ritual, or anything else isn't really impossible.

What may be impossible is you letting this go where Tabitha is concerned.

You leave James's office before you seek out the one responsible for this without a plan or letting the rest of the gang know what's wrong.

Laughter comes from the communal kitchen, a grating, girlish giggle, that prompts you to move faster to prevent your imagination from taking a harmful turn. Trent's kind farewell hardly registers to your ears. You're still doing rather than thinking until you're back in your car, hands clenched around the steering wheel to both steady them and to throttle something.

You can have a moment after you reach them.

"Silas," you call to him. Your voice echoes from both walkie talkies. "We've got an emergency."

"Are you okay? You sound upset?"

Of course, Becca answers instead as soon as she heard your strained tone. "No," you sigh.

"Why not?" Reese inquires. "Where are you?"

"Where's Silas?" you pose your own question.

"He is measuring my cat for a new, festive collar. Now, explain."

"I'm here," Silas chimes in after a second. "But you said an emer—?"

"Let's stop with the twenty questions," you interject. "Something's wrong with James. I'm not doing this over the broadcast. We need to meet and fix him. He's behaving all wrong."

The slight catch in your tone communicates far more than your clipped sentences, which is likely why they cede the floor to you. James treating you like a common stranger is playing on old fears about the potentially irreparable damage left behind by your absence from town. It's cutting you far more deeply than the fact that he might be infatuated with Tabitha.

"Let's meet at the B&B," you conclude. "Now."

. . .

. .

.

[Hours Later After a Research Montage…]

"If this fails, there is always True Love's Kiss."

"Or we murder her…"

Reese's light-hearted attempt at reassuring you turns grim following Alina's very serious offer.

You say nothing to either of them, pulling out your walkie talkie to address Becca. "If you keep shuffling around, he'll get suspicious," you warn her. She quickly waves her hand at you before going back to pacing by your car to appear visibly distraught. Her nerves about messing up playing bait make it believable, though Alina calling James and insisting he personally come out to help is what worked.

Accidentally 'hitting' a deer has left your friend in shambles, enough that she contacted Alina by walkie talkie who then naturally called her big brother.

Reese came up with the cover story that would break through to James. Silas used your grandfather's books along with your account of James's behavior and what Trent told Alina about a creepy house he and Tabitha recently patrolled to narrow things down. (She must have found something arcane there… Or she's a literal evil witch. Either option seems plausible to you at this point while outraged.) Becca took the dagger away from you and is volunteering as a lure.

So, what're you doing?

Brooding.

Brooding without your dagger that you were using to cut down any wildflowers while waiting, especially the yellow and pink ones.

"[Surname], you do that remarkably well from spending time with him," Reese observes. He shuffles closer to your spot in the tall grass, though it hardly earns a second glance. "I am certain Silas researched this correctly. Love potion antidotes would be in high demand back then and even now. 'No' can be a very hard concept for some people to grasp—to understand."

"It was closer to obsession, not love," you reply.

"James has always loved you, okay?" Alina reveals with conviction. "Maybe not in the exact same way as right now, but"—she pauses to cover your hand with hers—"he does. So, I really wouldn't worry about Tabitha, just him."

You're unable to muster up a response to that revelation which should be coming from James when headlights splice through the evening gloom. His truck's high beams instantly flick off once Becca is illuminated; hopefully, he didn't notice Silas scrunched down in the backseat to help if more antidote is needed. The truck comes to a stop, door slamming shut in a way that does cause Becca to jump a little as James efficiently strides over, too brisk with a single-minded goal.

"…the problem?"

"It was a total accident! I'm so…"

"…calm down…"

You can't completely make out what they're saying aside from Becca frantically gesturing at the woods, except James isn't following her outstretched hand. Instead, he is inspecting the front of your undamaged car. His focus has yet to rise from the grill that isn't going to have any clusters of fur or blood streaks. He's supposed to glance away so Becca can use the powder Silas ground up moments earlier.

Your element of surprise is gradually slipping away; James just stepped back, likely cautious.

"He knows," you whisper.

"What?" Alina asks. "How could he—?"

"James!"

Your sudden yell draws all of the attention to you—even Becca's before she reacts, pulling the plastic bag from her hoodie pocket. From this distance, you can see the glinting dust that resembles crushed rubies, each shiny granule gleaming in the headlights. It billows, aided by how Becca both blew and threw it at James.

(She really committed to that.)

Silas quietly exiting your car can't compare to the thudding impact of James's hand coming down on the hood, palm smacking into the sheet metal with force as he coughs. It's an actual coughing fit, hoarse and abrupt. His other hand weakly bats at the air that's free of the powder he already inhaled. As you hurry closer, you can see a shimmer of red across his white buttoned down shirt. He's no longer trying to clear the air, both hands now pressed against the hood to keep himself upright.

James is staring down at it, shuddering faintly while fighting to stay alert with each breath.

"Gosh, what if I kill him?" Becca frets.

"He is much too strong for that," Reese instantly disagrees, but he's clearly concerned about that outcome. "Detective, walk it off."

Silas has to catch Alina's wrist before she goes right to her brother, holding her back, but one warning look from you has him relenting.

"Give him space," Silas calmly replies. "He's still armed…"

While that advice is incredibly practical, all it takes is James folding inwards with his elbows now flush against the car's bonnet for you to bypass the others. He can barely hold himself up. It's all wrong to see someone who exudes a certain quiet strength caving like this, but more importantly, you need to be there for him. Alina looks ready to knee Silas, so you take the step for the both of you, implicitly asking her to wait.

If James hurt his sister, it would destroy him.

He's no longer gasping for air, just taking slow breaths that appear vaguely pained from this angle like the powdery substance coated his lungs. It did resemble crushed up gems. Your inability to see his face—to catch his expression—is why you hesitantly rest a hand on the hood instead of on his tense shoulder.

"Ja—?"

His hand completely covers yours in a split second, flattening out until they're aligned—until he's gently holding yours like always.

When James tentatively peers over at you, you've got to take a calming breath to control your reaction because he looks so regretful, possibly even ashamed. The antidote is only one reason why he was quaking. "Don't," you implore him, tone insistent. "Don't blame yourself for this, and I don't want an apology."

James doesn't have a chance to say anything about it once you wrap him up in a hug, letting him lean on you in addition to your car. He returns your embrace, almost latching on so you're completely in his arms. He's still shaking slightly, breath catching when he murmurs he loves you. This isn't how you wanted to hear it.

You'll be making Tabitha sorry.