Page 29 of Too Hexed to Handle

When she’s decided I’ve gawked enough, Nuri nudges me over the bridge. A river rushes far, far below, and my stomach swoops when I make the mistake of glancing down. I revert my focus to the ruins, and as we draw closer, it’s easier to spot further signs of damage to the original building: the glass has blown from most of the windows, while the flag of Rerta droops, partially ripped in two, over an entrance with both doors missing. A yawning mouth of green awaits beyond, like a snake’s head preparing to swallow us whole, its fangs formed from the remnants of a portcullis poking from the ceiling.

Inside, a set of stairs remain grey and covered in dust. A painting presumably depicting the old royal family hangs on the far wall – the king, crown nested between white curls, with his arms around the queen in all her finery. A fair-haired child sits at their feet, beaming up at them.

Voices echo beyond an archway ahead, and we follow the sound to find a queue winding down a narrow corridor.

‘What’s this?’ Nuri asks the girl at the end of the line.

‘We have to meet the Emerald King before the party,’ she tells us. ‘He wants to greet every applicant individually.’

Oh no. Oh no. What if he’s checking for Souleaters infiltrating the contest? What if he’s got wardens on standby, ready to inspect us for signs of magic? Sweat beads on the back of my neck. I’m as confident as I can be that I’ve no magic left, but sometimes I worry I’ve missed something, that one day I’ll discover a magical swirl on my body and realise I was marked a monster all along.

Nuri’s also less than enthused by the idea. She tugs on the cuffs of her sleeves, a gesture so reminiscent of my attempts at hiding my hexmark, I wonder if she’s got one too. ‘Hardly seems necessary,’ she says.

‘Finally, something we agree on,’ Astin mutters. ‘I don’t like this, Dais. I don’t want you going in there on your own.’

Neither do I, but we don’t have a choice if we want to be accepted into the competition.As the queue shuffles on, there’s a sense of anticipation in the air. The desperation and frantic energy from the woods has been replaced with an excitement of the unknown, of meeting this mysterious stranger who’s promising us gold, and it’s addictive. Exhilarating. It makes me think anything is possible if I try hard enough.

Someone has to win. Why can’t it be me?

Nerves return when we edge to the front of the queue. The door ahead is closed, and even when it opens to admit the next person, it’s hard to tell what’s beyond besides more emerald walls. Nobody comes out the same way they go in.

When it’s our turn, Cale enters first, then Nuri. Astin tries to persuade me to let him go next, but now the queue is smaller – we really were some of the last to arrive, with only a few stragglers behind us – the smells emboldening me have dwindled to nothing. I need to go in now before I lose confidence.

When a smooth voice calls, ‘Next,’ I take a deep breath and enter.

Emerald drenches the room. Both the walls and floor gleam, slick and smooth, with it, while a mural painted across the ceiling is so coated that the original picture is barely distinguishable. Ahead, emerald twists around two pillars flanking a high-backed chair at the far end, on which sits a man – the Emerald King, I presume. To my right a lone wooden bowl sits on a long table draped with lace, and next to that is a door which, hopefully, is where the other contestants have gone, safe and sound.

The man doesn’t speak, and I edge forward slowly, my steps echoing as I take him in. He’s younger than I expected; probably around Astin’s age. Everything about him is unfairly perfect, from the chiselled cheekbones to the smooth skin to the way his clothes don’t have a single wrinkle. His white-blonde hair is slicked back and sleek, while his eyes are piercing, the pale blue of glacier ice, the same shade as the cloak he wears. It’s thick and heavy, with a fur-lined collar and stars stitched into the fabric. A pair of silken, dark green gloves cover his hands.

Finally, when he’s deemed me close enough, he says, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Daisy.’

‘Welcome, Daisy. I’m Damian,’ he tells me. While Astin’s voice always has an undercurrent of gravel, Damian’s is polished marble. He cocks his head, assessing. ‘I’ve just heard the most interesting story about you.’

I hesitate. Nuri or Cale must have told him what they saw in the forest.

‘No need to be nervous.’ He rises from his chair, causing the ends of his cloak to drag over the floor. I’ve never seen anybody in Shiverholde wear anything this extravagant – either fashion in Rerta is very different to what I’m used to, or he’s taking the role of pretending to be a king seriously. Beneath it, his garb is simple but elegant, a navy shirt paired with dark trousers. ‘It’s an admirable quality, being willing to do anything to survive. I’m intrigued how you did it though. How did you kill a man twice your size with a kiss?’

My fingers play with the hem of my sleeve. If this meeting is to find Souleaters – risky, if so, given he doesn’t seem to have any protections in place – showing him my hexmark might be enough to dissuade him from the idea I could be one.

Sighing, I roll up my sleeve. Damian sucks in a breath and crosses the space between us. His emotions are like calm water, unable to offer me any clues as to what he’s feeling, but something about that stillness is almost soothing. My shoulders sink. Unlike with Astin, there’s no surge of anger when Damian takes in the sight of my mark, no threat of being caught in the blast.

Damian’s voice is soft when he says, ‘I’m sorry. How did it happen?’

‘A Souleater attacked the Laevothe festival in Shiverholde two years ago. I got hexed, and now I kill anyone I kiss. What happened today was an accident, but Brandon attacked me first and . . .’

‘You weren’t the only one, by all accounts.’ He sighs, raking a glove through his hair. ‘I confess, when it came to the reward, I hadn’t anticipated how ruthless people would be. Now, instead of finalising party preparations, I’m inviting them in here to warn them not to kill one another.’ His gaze glides over me. ‘But I don’t need to warn you, do I? You’re shaking at the very thought.’

He’s right. My teeth are chattering, like the warmth has been sucked from the room, and my legs are struggling to remain upright. I killed someone today. Self-defence isn’t enough to absolve me. I’m a Souleater. Darkness is part of my nature.

Damian steps closer, and I’m forced to tilt my chin to meet his stare.

‘If I can give you a piece of advice,’ he says, ‘it would be to find the upside.’

‘What do you mean?’ Surely, there is no upside to this.

He bites the inside of his cheek before, slowly, pulling off one of his gloves, a finger at a time. A muscle in his jaw twitches with every newly exposed digit. There’s nothing remarkable about them, skin as pale as the rest of him, but his behaviour makes the moment feel significant.