Page 10 of Too Hexed to Handle

Benedict continues to list the people I owe money to – some of the names I barely recognise, honestly, I’ve avoided their letters for so long – while Astin shifts closer to me. He has to peel back several cloaks to uncover my new hiding spot, but once he’s successful, he bends his head to ask in a low voice, ‘What did your parents say?’

I shake my head. Astin swears softly. I want to tell him I’m sorry for being such a monumental fuck up, for the fact I’m about to make him homeless, but fear catches the apology in my throat and I make a strange kind of raspy gargling noise instead.

Before Astin can have a stab at deciphering the sound, Benedict coughs for our attention. He’s finished compiling his evidence on the table, and I’m faced with several stacks of paper. They can’t all be to do with me, surely. I haven’t had that many letters.

Oh, hexes, have I? There was a flurry a few weeks ago that I simply . . . threw away.

Benedict taps the nearest pile. ‘The treasury has acquired said debts from the relevant parties, meaning the outstanding balance is now due to us, and I’m here to –’

‘Look, if she can’t pay them, then she can’t pay you,’ Astin says. ‘Give us some time, and we’ll sort something out. You have my word.’

‘I’m afraid your word means little at this point. Fortunately for you, unlike my colleagues, I might be willing to waive some of the interest in exchange for an . . . alternative method of payment.’

His smile turns cold as he unbuttons the top of his shirt. A second button. A third. At first, I don’t understand – I don’t want to contemplate – why this middle-aged man is undressing in my home, and then I understand all too well.

I suck in a breath at the same time Astin takes a step forward, his hands curling into fists.

Across Benedict’s bare chest, dark lines swirl and writhe, crawling beneath his skin, corrupted veins of magic that can only mean one thing: he’s not just some debt collector here to ruin my day.

He’s a Souleater.

4

I can’t decide if I’d prefer to run or scream. Maybe both. Both sound excellent right about now, but my feet are rooted to the floor, and although my lips part, no sound comes out. My eyes refuse to tear themselves away from the lines of dark magic on his chest.

‘Get out.’ Astin stands between us, every inch of him tense, but Benedict makes no attempt to come closer. He inhales loudly, almost greedily, and I realise he’s scenting our – or rather my – fear and relishing in it.

He does, at least, appear to be mild-mannered enough to be awaiting permission before he attacks. That has to be a good sign. And there aren’t that many lines rippling along his chest, meaning he doesn’t have a huge reserve of magic stored inside him. He isn’t going around stealing emotions and hexing people all day every day. Perhaps he doesn’t want to be like this at all.

‘This isn’t necessary,’ I say, attempting a watery smile. ‘We can find another way.’ I’m giving you a chance not to be the villain everyone thinks you are. Take it.

‘You’re welcome to pay in full, of course,’ Benedict says. His tone remains cordial, but his fingers flex as though they’re already imagining grabbing my arm. He glances around at the peeling paint on the walls, along with the bucket placed in the far corner to catch a drip, and smirks. ‘But, alas, I suspect you cannot. I’m proposing a simple trade. I’ll pay your debts in exchange for . . . oh, let’s say, one visit a month, for the next year. You’ll sit in this charming armchair here –’ his upper lip curls as he runs a finger over the faded fabric – ‘and I’ll take what I need.’

‘Never.’ My flesh crawls at the idea of him touching me, like spiders are skittering over my skin. Astin shifts to the balls of his feet, ready to spring.

‘Come on now. I promise I’ll do my best not to leave a hex behind,’ Benedict coaxes.

Someone else might believe him, but I know how hard it is to stop once you’ve started.

When I was eight, I nearly hexed my cousin because her excitement at her new doll was delicious, like sugar and sherbet. When my nails dug into her arm, her joy immediately turned to fear, the taste becoming acidic, but I didn’t stop, couldn’t stop. Mum dragged me away just in time, kicking and screaming and desperate for more, black shadows and yellow sparks spurting from my fingers, hopelessly out of control.

Once I’d calmed down, Mum rolled up my blouse, and the grey line on my stomach confirmed what I was. The magic within me. I vowed there and then I’d never touch someone again. Those accidental shadows Mum saw me conjure in the apothecary thankfully used up the small amount of magic I had, the line marking me a danger immediately disappeared, and I’ve been pretending to be safe ever since.

It didn’t stop that side of the family moving far, far away. Although they kept my secret, we’ve never seen them since. Another reason my parents can’t stand to look at me.

‘I told you to get out,’ Astin says in a low voice.

‘Of course. Hand over the twenty thousand coins you owe, and I’ll be on my way.’

A whimper escapes my throat. Twenty thousand. I haven’t spent that much. I can’t have. Selling all the furniture in the building wouldn’t amount to that.

Astin steps forward. ‘Last chance.’

His voice is deep and dangerous, like the rumble of a growl in a wolf’s throat, but it does little to dissipate my panic. What’s a gardener going to do against a Souleater – beat him over the head with a shovel? Besides, he’s not currently in possession of a shovel if he did want to do some head-hitting before Benedict –

A small ball of black flame erupts in the Souleater’s hands.

Before Benedict goes and does something like that. Heat blazes through the room. It’s a real fire for all intents and purposes, but smoke spits from the ball, leaking tendrils of shadow and dark magic, revealing its true nature. It’s corrupted and awful, just like whatever emotions he channelled to create it. One of the lines of magic on his chest fades ever so slightly as the magic depletes.