Dues & Don'ts of Magic

Book : The Magic Dues Trilogy

by Delemhach

Genres: Fantasy; Romantic Fantasy

Synopsis

The Spellshop meets Legends & Lattes in this new cozy romantic fantasy trilogy about magic gone wrong, by the bestselling author of The House Witch series!

Spidena Kettle runs a quiet magic shop at the edge of town, selling just enough spells and potions to keep herself afloat—and out of trouble—when Benthrop Hozel enters her shop one day. On the run from the nefarious sort, he simply wishes to be forgotten by his pursuers. In exchange, he promises a favor.

Such a deal could have dire consequences if Ben is unable to fulfill his end of the bargain. Not that the witch is overly concerned—after all, there’s no risk to her making such an arrangement with a normal human. Only…Ben may be more than he seems. With their fates forcibly intertwined for a full journey, Spidena and Ben must not only evade their enemies and use precious magical resources to get by, but confront the secrets they’ve long kept…that is, if they can manage to stop getting on each other’s last nerve for long enough to do so.

Release date: October 6, 2026

Publisher: S&S/Saga Press

Print pages: 352

Sample

Chapter 1: The Magic Shop chapter 1 The Magic Shop
The brass bell that hung over the chipping, powder-blue door to the shop, that didn’t even dignify itself with a sign, could’ve used a dollop of polish.

The floorboards that were uneven and scuffed could’ve been sanded—or at least swept.

The vines that grew outside cluttering the two tall peaked windows had trapped so many bugs and so much dust that if you swiped a finger along the glass, it’d surely come away black. The window on the left side of the room barely allowed any sunlight to drift in. The skinnier window beside the door tried valiantly to brighten the space.

The room was cramped and drafty. Shelves and cabinets lined every available space along the walls.

A long rectangular table sat nearly in the middle of the room, its right edge crowded with a brass mortar and pestle, dried rosemary tied together with some twine, and an old purple leather book that lay open to reveal pages covered in more tea stains than ink.

Tucked against the left wall of the shop was a set of stairs that led up to a small alcove with a railing that looked over the space. And behind that? Well… that room was where the owner of such an establishment would sleep, but despite loud bumps, shouts, and clinking, no one but the owner herself knew what exactly happened there.

None of the residents of the town of Gabel understood how the young woman had made the once pristine, stately place look so overgrown and filthy in a mere four seasons since moving in. They could have asked her about this. But the townspeople had learned very quickly that if you wanted to talk with the witch who ran the store, you’d best mentally prepare yourself, as she was… an unusual sort on her best days.

This was something a man by the name of Benthrop Hozel most likely would’ve appreciated knowing before he entered the shop.

But he didn’t.

And so he burst in, sending that dirty bell ringing as though it were summoning its mistress for a cheery teatime.

Benthrop, or Ben, as he told people to call him, did his best to swallow past his dry throat and mask his panting breaths. Still, the smell of incense and the chill of the dusty air made him cough.

A small fire burned behind the glass window of the woodstove, so he knew someone had to be nearby.

Wiping his sweating palms on the old tan coat that hung to his knees, he turned toward the nearest glass cabinet doors, which were part of a bank of cabinets that had a lower section of solid wood drawers topped by a countertop. Inside that particular cabinet was a basket of walnuts, a jar of rusty nails, a ball of twine, and a pair of scissors. He looked through the glass doors of the next cabinet and saw purple crystals, clear crystals, a lump of jade, and half of a ham sandwich that didn’t actually appear to be that old.

“Can I help you?”

Ben jolted, his heart slamming against his chest as he looked up toward the voice. Behind the second-floor railing stood a dark-haired woman with a wide, fleshy nose and a sharp gaze—apparently the shopkeeper, whom he’d been told after a hurried conversation with one of the locals was Spidena Kettle. She looked to be in her early twenties and wore a light-brown corset over an improperly thin white dress that she must’ve outgrown ages ago, as it fluttered by her shins above clashing knee-high black boots.

She stared at him impatiently, as though he were distracting her from something important.

“I need a spell.” Ben wondered if this sounded too demanding, given that he hadn’t even introduced himself.

Luckily for him, the woman didn’t seem to mind. She leaned her forearms on the railing. “Mind being more specific?”

“I need a-a-a spell to make people forget who I am.”

Spidena took a very deep, long-suffering breath and continued to stare at him. “Again. Mind being more specific?”

“About ten, no, twenty men need to forget who I am.”

Spidena lowered her head to her hand and rubbed her brow with the same exasperation she might have given him if he were mimicking the sound of frog farts.

“Let’s try this again,” she drawled as she pushed herself off the railing and started down the stairs, which creaked and squeaked under her heels. “I need details like the height and weight of these men. How well do they know you? Do you want them to forget years? Days? Hours? Do they have any allergies that could kill them? Will you accept the consequences if you give me the wrong information? It’s on the sign there.” Spidena jerked her chin toward a wooden sign hung beside the door, which was easy to miss amid the general chaos of the room: IF ANYONE DIES AS A RESULT OF A MAGIC DEAL CONDUCTED HERE, YOU ACCEPT FULL RESPONSIBILITY.

“I don’t need them dead! I just need them to not know who I am anymore! They… They are all large. I don’t know their heights exactly, but they’re at least half a foot taller than me, and if they could forget the past three years, that would be best.”

Spidena stopped on the landing two steps off the ground and sucked on her right molars as she thought about his order. Ben observed she had a faded sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of her nose.

“All twenty men are half a foot taller than yourself?”

“Er, I—I don’t know.”

“You’re willing to accept the penalty if they die, and you are aware that because you are making this purchase, in bulk, I might add, I will have to alert the local authorities?

“Though I won’t be doing that until tomorrow,” she noted to herself in a disapproving grumble while finishing her descent of the stairs and ambling over to her worktable. “It’s Earthsday, after all. Gods know, they probably only have Harvey Minkup working…” If she noticed her customer looking out the window nervously, she didn’t seem to care.

“Yes! I—I agree to the terms! I’m leaving town anyway!”

“You are also aware you will have to make them drink the potion I brew, correct?”

“What?”

“It’ll cost extra if you want this order in a purely incantation form, and, uh… Pardon me, but I’m pretty doubtful you can even pay for the potion version, let alone the big-magic, pure incantation.”

Ben raised his hands and clutched his short, curly black hair. “Godsdammit… I have enough gold. But you would have to get it yourself. I can’t leave this shop right now.”

Spidena idly rubbed the side of her nose with the tip of her index finger as she considered his offer. “Hm.” She looked neither impressed nor interested.

“It’s a lot of gold!” Ben insisted, his voice desperate.

Spidena rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and began speaking in a high-pitched voice, as if impersonating someone else: “You’ll help people. It’ll be fulfilling. It’ll pass the time! Open a shop!” She turned toward her stove and lifted a kettle down from a nearby hook and put it over the streams of heat that wavered bravely off the burner against the cold air. Still ignoring Ben, she went over to the water pump in her wall, where a bucket sat waiting, and levered some gushing water in, sloshing a good portion over the sides.

“Thank you so much for helping me,” Ben said, taking a breath while bending over and setting his hands on his knees. He was feeling a tiny bit calmer now that there was a sliver of hope.

“I haven’t made up my mind to do this yet. I’m just making a cup of tea while I consider it.”

Ben stiffened as a trickle of tepid sweat dripped down his spine. “Please. I really can pay.”

“But is your gold worth the possible problems you bring me? That’s the question I’m answering. Don’t rush me,” Spidena chided while hefting the bucket to the kettle and carefully pouring in the water—though a few droplets fell onto the stove’s hot surface and sizzled.

“You can’t have that many customers! Witches and magic weren’t even legal until five years ago!”

Spidena turned and fixed a flat stare on him. “Yes. It’s only been five years, but I don’t need to live anywhere that can be found by seebs, so if I don’t make money, I’ll move.”

Seebs. That was what witches called the people who had no trace of magic in them.

No one knew exactly where it started—that spark of magic that lingered and pulsed in the blood of witches. For many years, witches were thought to be nothing more than myths—exactly as the former monarchy had wanted everyone to believe. The truth wasn’t revealed until the last king of Mozair had died and his son allowed a government of nobles to take over rule of the kingdom.

Previously, some witches had been forced to work for the Crown in secret. Some had lived in hiding. Some had simply ignored their magic and lived as seebs, hoping their children wouldn’t have to struggle against their ancient calling.

If witches ignored their magic for long enough, it withered and died like an atrophied muscle, and if that happened? Well, the odds of having a son or daughter with magical abilities dwindled. Or worse, witches passed on the faintest of inklings of the great power they once carried, but their children lacked the actual power to stop the itching of those instincts. Those poor children were called dodders. Usually, the residual magic didn’t prove a problem, unless the dodder tried to cast something more powerful than they were capable of wielding, or they tried to summon something. Fortunately, most people knew that dodders could either work on simple household spells to gradually build back up the power of their lineage or continue to ignore it until it disappeared entirely.

Spidena turned to a cabinet topped with plates and teacups, opening drawer after drawer and rummaging around, then plucked out a few jars and gave their contents a sniff.

Ben realized she was trying to pick what kind of tea she felt like having, and his desperation surged. “I’m begging you. Anything to help me get out of this town.”

Spidena was in the middle of smelling one of the jars when her nose wrinkled. “How did the spider legs get in here?”

Ben stepped closer. “If you don’t want gold, I can do you a favor!”

Spidena stopped her quest for the perfect tea and slowly turned to face her customer. Her eyes flashed to reveal ethereal light-green streaks. “Favors are dangerous things. Are you sure you want to be promising that?”

A bird flew by the window to Ben’s left, its shadow rushing along the side of his face, making him flinch. Later, he realized he should have recognized this as a sign. In that moment, however, he ignored it and said, “If you help me. Yes, I’m sure.”

“What if my favor is for you to hand over all of that nice gold you’ve accumulated?”

“A favor shouldn’t destroy a person!”

“Losing all your gold wouldn’t destroy you,” Spidena scoffed. “Are you really as certain about this deal as you think you are?”

Ben swallowed. “You can ask for almost anything. Just please don’t take all of my gold. Or anything that requires a lot of my time. I need to… to do something.”

Spidena arched an eyebrow, her gaze hungry in an unnerving way. “And I’ll be getting this favor from whom, exactly…?”

“I’m Ben. Benthrop Hozel,” Ben informed her tightly, his patience for her cavalier attitude thinning faster than a stressed man’s hairline. He wondered if she was about to laugh in his face, satisfied with toying with him and having wasted his time.

But then she stuck out her hand.

Yellow stained her fingertips and nails, as though she had been grating turmeric. But otherwise, her fingers were long and pale and looked quite soft.

Ben seized her hand with his sweating palm and shook it. Instantly he felt a shock rush up his arm and into his heart, making him grunt with a wince.

“Good. I don’t know if you know this, but if someone offering a favor to a witch wasn’t capable of delivering it, they would’ve gone unconscious. Possibly even dropped dead.”

“I know.”

Spidena’s eyes glittered as she smiled and tilted her head. “Not your first time dealing with a witch? How interesting.”

Ben didn’t answer and instead worked on rubbing the unpleasant feeling from his chest.

“Well then. Shall we start helping those thugs outside forget who you are?” Spidena clapped her hands, and flames suddenly ignited in the innocuous black chandelier above them and several other candles positioned around the room.

She pointed to a shelf on the wall by the stairs and beckoned something closer with a finger.

A bottle with clear liquid rushed forward, making Ben leap back out of the way.

Behind the witch, the kettle whistled as Spidena’s right hand wrapped around the bottle midair.

She smiled at Ben, who began to feel a different kind of panic set in. “Care for a cup of tea, dear customer?”