Page 75 of Too Hexed to Handle

And suddenly I know how these people died.

No, no, no . . .

Magic splutters from my hands, but it’s not enough. I don’t have enough power stored inside me. I can’t stop this. The hole where the wraith’s mouth should be stretches wide. The flap of its wings is a drumbeat in my skull. It flies over my head, engulfing me in shadow, and all I can do is watch as Astin tries to escape, to run, except there’s nowhere to run; this room is one big dead end, and besides, he can’t run faster than that thing can fly. It lands in front of him, and his emotions aren’t confused any more. He’s all citrus-sharp panic and pain, and I don’t know what to do, because without magic I’m just ordinary and I shouldn’t be, I don’t want to be, I can stop this. Being a Souleater would be worth it if I could stop this.

The wraith shoves Astin against the wall. His eyes go wide. My palms burn with the effort of blasting out what sparks I can. They’re useless. I’m useless.

Astin meets my gaze, and there’s an emotion there I can’t work out, don’t understand, and –

The wraith slashes its claws across his chest.

No.

My knees buckle.

Astin slides down the wall, and I realise that look on his face was because he knew this would happen, that I couldn’t stop it, that I was about to witness him die. The bottle tumbles from his hand. The wraith rears back, shrieking and shrieking, but for some reason it’s my throat that’s burning and hoarse. It’s only when Astin crumples in a heap on the floor I realise I’ve been screaming this whole time.

The room goes silent.

I’ve nothing left to give. I gasp for breath, staring and staring at his body, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. I wish it wouldn’t. I wish it wasn’t there at all, because what is the point in having a heart if all it causes you is misery?

The wraith turns round. The top of its shapeless form tilts, as though it’s cocking its head.

As though it’s looking right at me, as if to say, You’re next.

24

I close my eyes and wait for death.

It doesn’t come. A cool breeze sweeps over me, and when I force myself to look, it’s to find the wraith flying away, its wings rippling with the effort, veins of silver glowing on their underside. I let out a laugh I don’t mean. Of course Astin was hurt by a thing that flies, because every terrible thing that has ever happened to me has involved a pair of wings.

The wraith hovers near the doorway, blocking the exit. Maybe it’s not attacking because it knows it’s got all the time in the world. I’ll have to get past eventually, assuming I don’t plan to stay here and cry myself to death. The option’s not unappealing.

Then it disappears.

I wait, frozen, refusing to think about what I’ve witnessed, and when I’m sure – or as sure as I can be – it’s not about to pop out and yell, Surprise! I launch myself at Astin, dropping to the floor beside him, barely feeling the jolt when my knees slam against stone. The bottle lies undamaged at his side; the cure safely sealed within. I ignore it. It’s not important. Nothing is important. Nothing but him.

Blood seeps from his wound and his forehead is clammy. But that’s good, right? Sweat is a sign of a bodily function. Except the sweat might be old – he’s been moist all morning, given the pain in his leg. I let out a sob. I made him walk every agonising step, ignoring the truth, pretending everything was fine when in reality nothing is fine.

Nothing has been fine for a long time. Nothing is fine right now because Astin isn’t moving.

‘Astin?’ I press my trembling hands to his chest, the gesture utterly futile. They’re drenched within seconds, his blood warm and sticky and everywhere. I can’t stop it. Can’t control it. ‘Astin?’

He doesn’t respond. His mouth is ajar. And his chest – his chest, containing the heart he wouldn’t give me, couldn’t give me – is shredded beyond repair. Nothing beats beneath my palm, no matter how hard I press, and he smells . . . he smells like nothing.

Because there’s nothing left to feel.

My vision clouds with tears. The only colour beyond that veil is the bright red staining my hands. There’s a strong chance I’m hyperventilating, but what else is there to do? If he’s not breathing, I’ll breathe for us both. If he’s not feeling, I’ll feel for us both. And if his heart’s not beating, I’ll share mine. Maybe even give him the whole thing. At least then I wouldn’t have to feel the tightness building in my chest as though my ribcage is contracting, squeezing me until my whole focus is narrowed to the fact that Astin is gone, and it’s my fault.

We’d never have had to come here if I hadn’t got the inn in trouble.

‘Please,’ I whisper. I can’t remember the last thing I said to him. I hope it was something nice.

I hope he knew I would have waited forever for him to detangle his emotions. That I’d wait here forever to smell his confusion again.

If I close my eyes, I can imagine him stirring beneath me. The way his hand would find mine and squeeze. The firmness in his voice when he tells me to run. To survive. I imagine it so well that I think I feel his chest rising and falling beneath my hands.

This isn’t fair. I brush his hair from his forehead, taking in the paleness of his face, the way his brow isn’t creased for once. He looks peaceful. My chest heaves as more tears stream down my face. I’m as useless as ever, and if this is what it’s like to be ordinary, I don’t want it.