Page 7 of Too Hexed to Handle

‘The what in the what now?’

‘You need to read the news more.’ Sighing, she rummages behind the counter before producing a copy of the Shiverholde Gazette and sliding it towards me. ‘Page thirteen. Go on. Thank me later. This is what happens when you run away to a hex-ridden inn –’

‘I didn’t run away,’ I protest as I flick through the pages.

‘And it’s not hex-ridden. It’s just old and full of holes.’

She clucks her tongue. I’m not sure if the sound represents disbelief or impatience at my page-turning speed. Perhaps if she hadn’t dribbled something sticky – and, ow, slightly acidic – over half the pages I’d get there faster. Finally, I unglue page eleven and turn to the next, to find bold ink covering the top half of the page: Attention Cure Seekers.

Beneath, it says:

The Emerald King has discovered the location of the lost cure of Clarabelle, Slayer of Souleaters, and now seeks the most daring of souls to help him retrieve it. Join him at a gathering in the ruins of Rerta’s castle on the first night of the Laevothe festival, where he will provide further instructions.

The one who succeeds will be rewarded with endless riches.

I read the words.

I read them again.

The Emerald King has discovered the location of the lost cure.

The one who succeeds will be rewarded with endless riches.

Most people search for the cure simply for the glory of finding it, but for me, if it exists, it would change everything. And with a reward on top . . .

My hands tremble. The two things I need most in the world, laid out in black and white. Excitement ignites in my belly like a candle bursting into flame, infusing me with a golden glow, and I have to force myself not to get carried away by idle daydreams. It’s too perfect.

‘Well, unless you’re going to tell me I missed the wardens being overthrown, we don’t have a king, let alone an emerald one.’ The last monarch we had, in fact, was forcibly removed from his castle soon after Ozias’s death, for being a Souleater sympathiser. For trying to broker peace between our two kinds. The humans decided death was a more suitable solution for them both.

Sometimes I wonder how different my life would be if he had succeeded.

‘Doesn’t mean the offer isn’t real,’ Mum says. ‘Lots of people think it is. Been rumours for a while about strange happenings near those ruins. Someone said there’s a forest made of emeralds out there. The whole town’s in a tizz over it.’

‘Well, they shouldn’t be.’ I shake my head. ‘It won’t be real.’

‘But what if it is?’

‘It won’t be,’ I repeat, unsure if I’m trying to convince her or myself. Hope is a treacherous weapon; hold it the wrong way and you’ll be nicked by the edge of the blade.

If Astin were here, he would encourage me to be realistic. He’d tell me strangers don’t put adverts in the paper announcing they’ve found a cure nobody is sure exists. And if it was real, it would beg the question of why this Emerald King doesn’t retrieve it himself. Finding the cure would only be worth it if I’m alive at the end of the mission, and I’m not convinced something requiring me to be a daring soul won’t end in a painful demise. ‘Besides, if the offer’s real – which it’s not – it sounds dangerous. I can’t risk it.’

‘Well, it’s not like you couldn’t handle a bit of danger. I remember when you were eight years old and you sat in that corner shooting shadows around. Cleaned my cobwebs, I suppose, but –’

‘Mum.’ I leap several inches into the air, heart pounding so hard it might fly out of my chest, and run around to check nobody’s at the front of the store, lurking between the shelves, listening to her reveal – I can’t even think it. Thinking about it would mean admitting to it. ‘You can’t say things like that. People could hear. They’ll talk. They’ll know.’

It’s too late. My breaths are unsteady; my thoughts too loud. I can’t fake a smile to dim the noise.

‘Daisy’s right,’ Dad says. ‘Shouldn’t talk about that here. If anybody finds out what she can do –’

‘There’s nothing to find out,’ I snap. ‘I can’t do anything. I’m not sure I ever could. You probably imagined the whole thing.’

Their concern smells like sweet tea that’s stewed for too long and turned bitter. My fingers flex. I want to take it, to sink my nails into their skin and channel the magic within them. Every part of me trembles with the effort of resisting. My eyes well with tears, because it’s been so long since I felt this way, so long since I had an urge this bad. I’ve become such an expert at pretending I’m normal I’d almost convinced myself I was.

And the moment I’m reminded I’m not, this happens.

Because I’m not normal. I’ve never been normal. Michael should never have been anywhere near me, because even without being hexed, I’d have found a way to hurt him.

I can deny it all I want, but I am a Souleater.