Page 14 of Too Hexed to Handle

I don’t recoil when he reaches for me, but it’s close. Nor do I move when he takes hold of my arm, his fingers skimming beneath the hem of my sleeve before rolling it up, inch by painstaking inch until my hexmark is exposed. He traces the shape of it with his thumb, his touch surprisingly gentle, so at odds with the side of him I saw earlier. I shudder as the callouses on his hand brush my skin, but now I can’t help but wonder where they came from – wielding a garden implement, or something worse?

He glowers at my mark before dropping my arm like it’s burned him. ‘How can you say it’s not my responsibility after what happened? After what one of them did? Why shouldn’t I kill every last one of them for it?’

‘Because not every Souleater did this to us. You don’t need to –’

‘Why don’t I?’ His fury blazes, palpable and hot. My nostrils burn with the intensity of it. ‘They killed my sister.’

And with those three words, his fire dies, washed away by a wave of sadness that tastes not of the salt of tears or seawater, but the sharp, biting cold of a glacier melting into my mouth and slamming into my lungs, too sharp, too icy for me to breathe.

Maybe it’s because his emotions are usually hard to read, but when I can discern one from the usual faded jumble, it’s ten times more overwhelming than the average person’s. Like when he does feel something, it utterly consumes him the way his scent consumes me now.

I choke, trying to disguise it as a cough, latching on to the one thought that’s stronger than the pain: He can’t know what I am.

My fingers burrow into the log, not caring about the splinters threatening to work their way beneath my nails. It’s a welcome distraction from the urge to burrow my nails into him instead.

My memories of the Souleater attack on Shiverholde are blurry. I knew Astin’s sister Olivia from school – Astin was a few years older than us – and we exchanged hellos when we crossed paths in the crowded park, me heading towards a stall selling caramel apples, her towards the bonfire.

The next time I saw her, she was dead. Astin cradling her body, her skin grey and withered, the remnants of a hexmark on her arm – one that had spread and spread until it wasn’t a small x like ours but an exploded star, because the Souleater hadn’t stopped when the hex appeared, had channelled more and more dark magic through Olivia until her body gave out.

‘Astin,’ I say, when his sadness has settled enough that I no longer feel like I’m about to drown. ‘I know. I know, okay? But you don’t need to kill every Souleater for the crimes of one. Leave them for the wardens.’

‘If the wardens were better at their job, maybe I could,’ he huffs. ‘You don’t get it, do you? I’m doing everyone a favour.’

I chew my lower lip. Clearly leave it to the authorities isn’t going to be a winning argument. ‘But what if you accidentally kill a good one?’

‘There’s no such thing as a good one.’

I stiffen. I’d love to scream I’m proof he’s wrong, but aside from the fear he won’t believe me, that he’d try to kill me the moment the confession left my mouth, there’s also the fact that I’m not sure I believe me.

No matter how much good I do, how many people I help fall in love, how many times I prove the theme of the festival wrong – love doesn’t drive a Souleater away, not if we cling to it hard enough – I don’t know if it’ll make up for the fact I’m sat here trying to resist how good Astin smells when he’s sad.

Night is upon us now, the sky above turning navy as the moon shines streaks of silver through his hair. In this light, he’s the one who looks like he should have powers, like magic dusts his skin to make it shimmer.

It’s a reminder beauty can be found in darkness.

It makes me wish Howard’s rambling diary entry was true. That he somehow had fed on Gregory’s joy rather than his pain. That Gregory had just been confused, and the mark on his arm was dirt not a hex.

‘What if there was such a thing?’ I ask, a little desperately. ‘What if a Souleater managed to channel a positive emotion instead, and didn’t hurt anyone?’

‘Sure,’ he scoffs. ‘Because some people feel deliriously happy when a Souleater is attacking them.’

My shoulders sink. He’s right. I hate that he’s right. But no matter how right he is, it doesn’t change the fact I have to stop him hunting, for my sake if nothing else. There has to be an argument that’ll convince him.

I shimmy closer, and he eyes me warily. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I want you to listen to me.’ For good measure, I take his hand and squeeze. His emotions are unsettled now, too tumultuous for me to catch what they are, which makes controlling myself much easier. ‘If all Souleaters are awful and will only channel a person’s darkest feelings, then don’t you see that’s what you’re doing too? Seeking revenge because hate is easier to hold on to than hope –’

He opens his mouth to object, and I silence him with a fresh squeeze. ‘I don’t want you to become like them. And I doubt you do either. But you can only get so much blood on your hands before the stain won’t wash off.’

A muscle in his cheek twitches. In Astin-speak, this means he’s contemplating the best way to get me to stop talking.

‘Please. This inn is supposed to be a happy place, and I can’t have you wandering around at night, dragging bodies into my backyard.’ For good measure I add, ‘And I don’t want you leaving them somewhere else either. I don’t want you killing people at all.’

An emotion flickers, something sweet, but it’s gone before I can truly taste it on the air.

‘They’re not people,’ he mutters, but there’s less fight behind the words, possibly because he’s busy trying to pull his hand from mine. I hold on tight, like I can convince him to listen to me through sheer force of will. This results in us engaging in a staring contest where I project don’t commit murder with my eyes.

My power might actually come in useful if I had the ability to order people around.