Page 26 of Too Hexed to Handle

We both freeze.

They shake again, the clatter of emerald leaf against emerald leaf like ornaments shoved in a crate with nothing to cushion them. My pulse speeds. It could be another competitor, waiting to eliminate their opponents. It could be the Souleater who killed the man in the woods, come to hex us too.

Or – I gulp, searching the trees – it could be . . .

‘Astin,’ I whisper. ‘Do you think there are birds here?’

He’s so busy giving me an incredulous glare that he misses when the bushes finally part to reveal – shit.

Another familiar face from the inn. One I hoped I’d never see again.

The man with the knife.

He’s ditched his companions – or they’ve ditched him thanks to his unpleasant personality – and his gait is idle as he approaches us, hands in his pockets, arm brushing the knife tucked into his belt. The darkness in his eyes tells me the smile on his face is entirely false, without having to scent him at all.

‘Here for the contest?’ he asks.

‘Why else would we be here?’ Astin’s fists are already clenched, his back tense and feet arched, ready to spring. It’s one of those rare moments where his feelings are clear: steel and iron and determination. He’s already decided the man’s a threat. Already made the same decision he made when he faced Benedict.

I graze his hand in an attempt to tell him to calm down. Futile, of course, when he never listens to me, and especially when he’s right to not feel calm. The man taps the handle of his knife, smirking at me, like he knows full well this encounter is going to end in violence, and he can’t wait for the finale.

If I screamed, would Elbows – would anyone – come to our aid, or would they be delighted at the idea of one less rival for the prize?

People say Souleaters are monsters, and yet here are humans, happy to kill one another not for magic, but coin.

‘Let us pass,’ I say. ‘We have no quarrel with you.’

‘Ah, but I have one with you,’ the man says. ‘Unless, of course, you want to walk away. Go home now and nobody needs to get hurt.’

He takes another step, and immediately I’m engulfed in copper and bloodlust, so rich it makes me giddy. Sweat trails down the back of my neck. I clutch Astin’s arm for support.

Oh no. Not now. I can’t lose control now, not with Astin here. Don’t breathe in, don’t smell him, don’t touch him, don’t –

The man slides his knife from its hilt. ‘Last chance. Go home, little girl.’

My mouth pools with saliva. My fingers dig into Astin and, shit, I can’t do that either, not when I’m like this – static fills my ears, because nowhere and nothing is safe. I drop Astin’s arm. My Souleater side stirs, clamouring for me to feed. It would be easy. A few crumbs of Astin’s determination and I’d have the magic I need to overpower this man, and then I’d sink my nails into his flesh instead.

I sway on the spot. His brutality would be delicious indeed, and as he moves closer, bringing that aroma of death with him, it’s all I can do to stay upright. I want it. Badly. But I can’t, I mustn’t –

‘Daisy, run!’ Astin braces for impact as the man charges.

I try to run. I do. But I’m barely looking where I’m going, stumbling like a deer finding its first footing, my nostrils full of both their scents and my fingers reaching out for something, anything, to satisfy my cravings. I suspect when Astin told me to run he meant in the opposite direction, but instead I perform some sort of strange zigzag, torn between the Daisy-urge to get the hell away and the Souleater-urge to get closer, my two halves at war.

The man changes direction, lunging for me instead of Astin. His hand latches around my wrist, and I scream, trying to tug myself free. Instead, I’m spun round. Slammed against a tree. My head cracks against emerald, jarring me into focus.

The knife is held to my throat.

‘Please,’ I whisper.

The blade presses closer. Cold. Sharp. Astin is moving towards us, fury in his eyes, and although his steps are light, the man must sense him approach, because without glancing around he says, ‘Come any closer, and I’ll slit her throat faster than you can blink.’

Astin halts. His fury fades to dread, and I remember what he said about Olivia and his mother. I was powerless to save her and I hated it.

My fingers flex. I hate that Astin’s in this position again. The man smirks, and I can tell he means every word of his threat from the way his coppery smell intensifies.

‘Doesn’t have to be this way,’ he says. ‘Let me walk you away from these woods, and we’ll pretend this never happened.’

Lies may not be an emotion, but I can sense his all the same.