Page 12 of Too Hexed to Handle

Ignoring the question, he heads to the broom cupboard and pulls out a mop and bucket. ‘We need to clean this up.’

‘No,’ I try again. ‘I need you to tell me what happened.’

‘You were in the room with me. What do you think happened?’

‘I think you killed someone, and you don’t care!’ The feeling I’ve entered some parallel dream dimension returns, along with the sensation I’m staring at a stranger. A stranger with Astin’s face, except none of the pieces fit right. The strong jawline is there, but beneath the scattering of dark stubble lies the bruise that wasn’t there yesterday. His nose is slightly crooked, and I don’t know why. Dark circles lie beneath eyes the colour of a stormy sea, because the man doesn’t sleep.

What does he do when he’s not asleep?

‘I gave him the option to leave. He didn’t take it.’ His voice is so flat. Unfeeling. I flinch. My lower lip wobbles. His face softens at the sight, but it does nothing to bridge the chasm between us that Benedict’s body represents. I can’t believe we’ve gone from arguing over whether we should give couples one key or two, to debating what constitutes a rational response to a Souleater entering your inn.

He crouches to my level and is a little gentler when he says, ‘I’ll take care of the body, okay? I can bury it out the back with the rest of them. Can you manage mopping the floor? We don’t want any surprise guests arriving and seeing . . . this.’

Guests. Guests. I like the sound of those. I’ll make everything lovely for my guests, and we can pretend none of this happened. Once I’ve wiped away the bloodstains, I’ll cover that patch of floor with a nice rug so I never have to look at it again, before finding two guests in need of love to replace the memories of today with something better.

It’s only once Astin’s hauled Benedict upright and draped him over his shoulder, a move so practised it’s like he’s performed it ten times over, that his words sink in.

‘Wait.’ My brain scrambles to make sense of what it heard. ‘You said bury him with the rest of them. Plural. Did you . . . I mean, have you . . .’

I can’t get the question out of my mouth, not with the stone sinking in my belly answering it for me.

He has.

My inn is playing host to a graveyard of – hexes, I don’t know if it’s just Souleaters or if Astin is going around burying bodies left, right and centre.

Who is this man?

He clears his throat. ‘Clean the floor, Dais. We’ll talk after.’

With that, he resumes carrying the body outside, leaving me to clear up the mess left behind, a reminder that no matter what I do or where I try to hide, death always finds a way to follow.

5

Astin is still outside when I return the now red-stained mop to the broom cupboard. Having never dug a grave myself, I’m not sure how lengthy the process is, but the longer I’m alone, the more antsy I get. I pace back and forth, wafting my arm in the air to clear the lingering smoke from my ruined chair. When that doesn’t work, I resort to rearranging doilies.

Once every table has twice the amount of table decorations it needs, I stop to admire my handiwork, but I don’t see lace and prettiness and flowers stuffed in vases. I see my inn in flames. I see Benedict bleeding on the floor. I see Astin wielding a weapon like he’s done it before.

A single moment in time that’ll stain this place forever.

I spin on my heel, worry morphing into rage as I head outside. Chickens squawk at me from their coop, but I don’t react for once, not caring about their stupid wings and stupid noises, not caring that I haven’t put on a cloak and I’ll regret it later.

There was a body on my floor.

Beyond the fence separating our yard from the expanse of the forest, Astin stands near a mound of dirt, bathed in the bloody light of the setting sun. Tree stumps and log piles are scattered around him. He stamps his shovel into the ground and leans over the handle, the sight knocking the wind of anger straight out of me. He could just as easily be taking a break after a gruelling session of wood chopping.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve watched him do that. He usually rolls up his sleeves to give me a view of his forearms, the way his muscles cord when he swings the axe into a trunk, which leads to my throat running dry.

I’m not proud of it. That’s usually the point I run away to make juice, lest he spot me ogling. Ogling your staff is probably rule number one of Things an Innkeeper Shouldn’t Do. It’s deeply unprofessional on every level.

My attention slides to the mound of dirt.

It’s worse when the person you have a minor – minor – crush on isn’t the person you thought they were. It might not be safe for me to approach him. Maybe his murderous tendencies mean he’ll elect to finish me off too.

He runs a hand through his hair, and the gesture is so achingly familiar it’s like he’s tugged on a rope I’m duty-bound to follow. This is Astin. He’ll have a good explanation. He has to.

I hop the fence and land with a splatter on the other side. Brown droplets spray over my boots, but the only indication Astin’s heard my complaints about the matter is the slight tilt to his head.

He waits until I’ve drawn closer before pushing the shovel deeper into the ground and facing me. For a moment, his gaze is as cold as Benedict’s, but then his brow relaxes from a we’re about to argue frown and into a Daisy has done something ridiculous frown. A frown in some form is, apparently, non-negotiable.