Page 73 of Too Hexed to Handle

As we walk, it’s not just me struggling to keep up a pretence. Astin is limping. Badly. He hisses and winces underneath his breath, swearing whenever the path is uneven and he places too much weight on his leg, but when I offer him a large stick to lean on, he refuses to admit the injury is bothering him. He keeps side-eyeing me as though he expects me to breakdown about last night, which I won’t because everything is fine.

I offer another, bigger stick. ‘Being stabbed is bound to take its toll.’ I bounce at his side in an attempt to say, See? This is what not being injured looks like.

‘I’m fine,’ he replies through gritted teeth. This would be more believable if he didn’t have sweat gleaming on his temples and a white-knuckle grip on his wounded leg.

His I’m fine sounds an awful lot like mine.

At the edge of the settlement, we find a set of double doors, standing at least fifteen-feet tall, inset into the mountain itself. Intricate patterns and swirls are carved into the metal – I think they were once gold, but now rust stains them red.

Footprints litter the snow. There’s too many to count, like a small army has made it here before us, but the doors remain locked. A thick metal bar is clamped over the handles, with no keyhole or padlock in sight. Chains are connected to the bar, leading to scales hanging on either side of the door. A small bowl at each end awaits our offering.

If the doors have remained shut, maybe that means nobody found the right items. But that doesn’t explain –

‘There are no footsteps leading away,’ Astin finishes my thought, crouching to inspect the closest print. Futile, considering it tells him nothing and causes him to screw up his face and clutch his leg again, but whatever keeps him busy, I guess. ‘It’s like they went inside and stayed there.’

‘Well, that’s good,’ I say, suspecting it’s the opposite. It means whatever they’ve found inside hasn’t let them out yet. Or retrieving the cure isn’t as simple as picking it up and putting it in their pocket. ‘There’s still time for us to win.’

‘Hm.’ His brow furrows.

I pull the items from my pocket, and hand him the locket. The inscription, love is the key, glimmers in the light. His fingers linger on mine as he takes it from me, dragging over my skin the same way they did last night. My knees quiver as he pulls away and heads to the far scale, while I position myself next to the closer of the two. I don’t know if it’s necessary, but it feels right to place the items in unison, keeping our gazes locked the entire time.

Nothing happens at first, and I’m afraid something’s gone wrong, but then both items catch fire. The scales glow brighter and brighter, as thick streams of yellow light travel along the lifts. When it’s fully raised, the doors open to reveal a gloomy chamber lit by sconces filled with dancing flames. They flicker when the wind sweeps in from outside.

I swallow and step over the threshold.

The doors slam shut behind us. We exchange an uneasy glance, but don’t turn back. Until the cure’s in my hands, I’m not leaving.

Aside from the echo of our footsteps, the temple is deathly silent. Tables and benches are laid out in the middle of the chamber, and a cabinet containing plates and goblets resides on the far end, resting against bare stone walls. The idea of so many Souleaters in one place, eating and drinking as a community, feels almost unbelievable now.

More footprints cover the dusty floor – and again, they only go in one direction. My neck prickles, like a ghost has blown a whispered breath over my skin.

‘Come on.’ Astin places his hand across the small of my back, warm and reassuring, as we follow the footprints towards an archway on the far side. This room is smaller, cosier, a few armchairs placed atop a rug facing shelves that have been cleared out. Astin opens a chest in the far corner, and I expect that to be empty too, but it’s stuffed with an assortment of rubbish the Souleaters must have deemed unworthy of taking with them when they fled the settlement: broken toys, some faded yellow parchment, and old clothing riddled with holes. Astin is set to close it when –

‘Wait.’ I pluck out some of the papers. Just in case. This temple was last used in Ozias’s time; maybe there’ll be something here about how he made that potion. Something that can teach me how to be like the woman in the book I found in Eira’s library.

The first few I unfold are meaningless childish drawings, followed by some kind of potion inventory, the numbers depleting day by day, and never replenishing. The fifth parchment I try is a letter written in scratchy ink, like the writer was either frantic or in a rush. A familiar name jumps out at me.

To my beloved coven,

I’ve made the last of the calming tonics, but this will be my final shipment to the castle. I need to reserve my strength to do what needs to be done. I’ve already warned the king, and he has asked we hide the child, in preparation for the worst.

I’ve almost forgotten the taste of love. Clarabelle was so sweet when we met. I do not know how it came to this. But she has made it clear: she will starve all witches into submission. She will allow no humans to visit our settlement to trade their emotions. It grows harder and harder not to join the others in the city, to take whatever feelings I can get, even if they’re dark, even if they’ll make my magic dark. At least I wouldn’t be hungry any more.

Did you hear they’re calling us Souleaters now? A few attacks and they’ve forgotten all the good we’ve done for them, all the good we could still do, if only they would rescind that order. If only they would let us channel their joy once more.

I fear it is too late. You should ready yourselves to run. I will do what I can to fix this, but Clarabelle refuses to listen to reason, and she asks for the impossible.

Ozias

I’m not sure I’m breathing.

Astin hovers behind me, reading over my shoulder, chest brushing my back and palm splayed around my hip. ‘You mentioned magic channelled from positive emotions before,’ he says. ‘Was that your way of telling me you . . . have it? Can you feed on joy, like the Souleaters in this letter?’

‘No.’ I toss the letter into the chest like it’s burned me. It’s what I wanted to hear, and yet, it’s useless to me. ‘This makes it sound like people voluntarily came to the Souleaters and offered their emotions. But I don’t understand how. Nobody feels joy near a Souleater. The moment we touch someone, we make them feel worse, and I’ve no idea how to stop that happening. Which means my magic will always be terrible. I’m never going to be able to help people. I’m never –’

‘Hey.’ He spins me round, tucking his knuckles beneath my chin and tipping my face upwards. ‘If anybody could find a way, it would be you.’

I sniff, wishing I had his faith. He said I was his light, back in the cabin, but I don’t know how to shine at all. Not the way I’m supposed to. Not the way the old Souleaters – the witches, both this letter and the book in Eira’s library called them – used to. But he looks at me with such certainty, such trust, it makes me believe extraordinary things might be possible. That I can be as good as he believes me to be.