Page 4 of Too Hexed to Handle

I squirm. ‘I didn’t think you’d look there.’

‘I know. That’s why I looked. How many more have you hidden?’

‘Not many! I swear.’

‘Daisy.’

‘Really, it’s not that bad.’ Another deluge of hailstones against the window reminds me I should mention the hole in the barn roof, but something tells me revealing that particular problem, while he’s holding a debt letter so garishly crimson that I’m afraid to open it, may not be the best idea. ‘I’m going into Shiverholde tomorrow to visit my parents –’

‘And how many more times are you going to ask them to bail you out before you admit you have a problem? You cannot keep bundling the few guests you have into one room and expect to keep this place afloat.’

‘I can and I will.’ I grab a cloth and scrub the bar. It doesn’t need cleaning – a slow day like this, there’s no liquid rings to wipe off or crumbs to brush away – but it’s a nice distraction from his words. We have some version of this argument every time a potential match arrives. ‘Making people happy might be a novel concept to you, but it’s important to me. I won’t stop.’

Sometimes, seeing them fall in love is the only thing that chases the nightmares away.

He regards me for a moment, and I studiously avoid making eye contact, hoping I can ignore him into silence.

It doesn’t work.

‘Then answer me this.’ He rises from the chair and snatches the cloth from my hands, holding it behind his head while I make a half-hearted attempt to jump after it. ‘If you believe there’s someone out there for everyone, why are you hiding out here in the middle of nowhere? Don’t you want to find your own perfect match? Is that not . . . important to you?’

I freeze. Of all the questions I expected, it wasn’t that. ‘I don’t see how that’s relevant.’

By some mutual, silent agreement, we’ve never told each other what awful malady our hexmarks have inflicted upon us, but his question is far too close to the truth of mine.

‘Just curious, that’s all.’ He shrugs, like his words mean nothing, like he hasn’t opened a can of worms inside my chest to watch them wriggle. ‘You love the idea of romance, but you don’t seem to want it for yourself.’

Tears prick the corners of my eyes. He has no idea what I want. How sometimes I lie awake at night and it’s hard to breathe because the yearning hurts so much; how there’s an ache in my chest I will never ease because there’s no way the void can be filled.

I can’t have the things I want, but I can help others avoid the same fate. If I can spread enough happiness, maybe it’ll make up for everything that I am.

Astin wants to know why I’m not searching for my perfect match?

I already found him.

And then I killed him.

2

As a general rule, I prefer to visit Shiverholde as little as possible.

I prefer visiting the graveyard even less. But Astin’s sudden – and inconvenient – interest in my romantic entanglements has me making a detour to the outskirts of town before I embark on the painful process of begging my parents for help. Again.

Gravel crunches beneath my boots as I head towards Michael’s grave. Although the sun has made an appearance today, trees cast shadows over both the path and the tombstones. Overhead, birds rustle in their branches, making me flinch.

Michael’s grave is newer and less moss-covered than the majority; the marble white among ruins of crumbling grey. The inscription is simple: Beloved brother, beloved son, taken too young.

They omitted the part about him dropping down dead in front of his girlfriend. That they were comforting each other, shaking and terrified, only a few minutes after that Souleater attacked the Laevothe festival and disappeared into the night. That his hex had manifested in the form of wings; beautiful feathered things that were barely a hex at all, if you discounted the fact he suffered from a fear of heights. His girlfriend wasn’t showing signs of being hexed. They wondered if, perhaps, she’d got away with it.

I hadn’t got away with anything.

I sink to my knees and press my fingers into the dirt. Mud cakes beneath my nails. One kiss was all it took. One kiss and his lips turned purple, and he gaped at me in horror before dropping to the ground, while his wings, his fresh, magnificent wings, beat and beat and beat as his heart frantically pounded for life.

Another second later, it stopped beating altogether.

And in that moment, I knew I’d never be able to kiss anyone again, let alone Michael.

I take a shuddering breath. His parents must have visited recently, because a bouquet of yellow roses has been left to the side of the grave. They’re untouched by the shade cast by the trees; their colour blazing against the encroaching dark. I stroke the petals and force myself to smile. No matter how false the expression is, it’s enough to trick my body into believing everything’s okay. Upsides can always be found if you search hard enough.