Page 78 of Too Hexed to Handle

‘Not that lucky.’ Damian gestures at the blood staining my hands.

‘It’s not mine.’

‘Ah. Well.’ Another shrug. Another dismissal of the lives lost. But then his eyes soften and he says gently, ‘I meant it, you know. I am glad it was you who made it out.’

Whether that’s true, or if he’s trying to make me forgive him, I don’t particularly care. ‘People are dead, Damian. You should be ashamed of yourself.’

‘Don’t talk to me about shame.’ He closes the gap between us. ‘I have lived with shame my whole life. Why should I care about the lives of those who looked down on me? Who slammed their doors in my face and laughed at the sight of the gloves? When did they ever care about me?’

Tears trail down my face. ‘That doesn’t give you the right to –’

‘It gives me every right. You try being called Deadbeat Damian every time you leave the house. I have proven over and over again how wrong they are, and they still, they still point at me in the street. No more.’

‘Getting your revenge on Eira won’t gain their respect.’

‘You have no idea what it’ll gain me. Once I’m rid of Eira, I’ll be able to have everything I want. Everybody in this hexforsaken city will be on their knees for me. And the ones that refuse? Well. I’m sure you can imagine.’

I gape at him. ‘Have you lost your mind? You can’t . . . you can’t kill people simply because they don’t respect you. Damian, I know what it’s like to be rejected by people for what you are. But . . .’ I think of Astin, and the way he kissed the line of magic on my stomach. ‘Surround yourself with the right people, and they won’t reject you. They won’t. You could have a fresh start somewhere else. With your emeralds, you could go anywhere, reinvent yourself –’

‘I shouldn’t have to.’ He shakes his head, strands of hair drooping wildly over his forehead, the collar of his shirt askew, like the closer he gets to what he wants, the more his composure fails him. ‘I shouldn’t have to run away to be wanted. I will make them want me instead.’

I thought my heart had cracked enough in the temple with Astin, but another piece manages to splinter. I’ve ignored my lifelong loneliness by focusing on the needs of others, while Damian has allowed himself to be so consumed by his that it’s broken him; he can no longer see anything beyond his own desire to be seen, and loved, by all the wrong people.

‘How is killing Eira going to do that? Do you think they’re going to make you the next Clarabelle? That next year we’ll be purchasing Damian figures from street corners instead?’

He laughs, but there’s no humour behind it. ‘No. No, I don’t think that.’ He stretches out a hand. ‘My plans after Eira’s death aren’t your concern. Now. Hand me the potion. I won’t ask again.’

‘And if I won’t?’

He lunges. I dart out the way. He’s between me and the door, bigger and stronger than me, and if he removes his gloves . . .

I yank the bottle from my pocket and hold it in the air. ‘Come for me, and I’ll smash it.’

Given the lack of damage done when it fell from Astin’s hand in the temple, I suspect it may be indestructible, but Damian doesn’t need to know that. His jaw locks, and I can tell he’s grinding his teeth. Then his shoulders sink – but it’s not in defeat, rather in the manner of an army regrouping.

He rakes a hand through his hair, like he’s trying to return to the collected Damian I met in the ruined castle. ‘It doesn’t have to be this way. Once Eira’s gone, we can work together. What if I find a way to replicate the potion? We could stop all Souleaters. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Just give me the potion.’

A few days ago, I’d have jumped at the offer. A potion for me; a potion for them. Now though? I’m not so sure. And I certainly can’t trust Damian. Every word that drops from his mouth is designed to manipulate a situation to his advantage.

‘Unless you’re a secret alchemist, I don’t see you replicating this potion anytime soon. Which means I don’t need you. I’ll stop Eira myself.’

Another pause, another calculation of how to turn this around. ‘And how will you manage that?’

My palm wraps itself around the vial, clutching it tightly, mind racing, stalling for time. The distance between me and the exit feels gargantuan.

He swipes for the bottle. I dodge, but he comes for me again, closing in until my back is against a shelf, the cure held above my head. His body presses against mine as he stretches to take the vial from me, and I can’t let him have it, not when there’s no way he’ll let me speak to Eira about Astin’s hex, and not when he doesn’t deserve to have the things he wants, when there are dead bodies in a cold temple who’ll never have what they want because of him. His gloves graze my skin. His fingers wrap around the bottle. I’m panting, straining to raise it higher and higher, but I can’t do it, I’m going to lose everything –

I bring my knee between his legs. Hard.

He doubles over with a grunt, releasing his tenuous grip on the vial and clasping his hands to his crotch. I run for the door, but he recovers quickly, catching me by the waist and bringing me flush to his chest. I scream, kicking and flailing my legs as he lifts me in the air. The bottle escapes my hand, rolling beneath a chair, but he doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, flipping me around so I’m against the wall once more.

I can barely think, let alone smell, but that doesn’t matter; my need to survive awakens instincts I’ve long dulled. My hands wrap around his throat, fingers dipping beneath his collar, the tip of my nail piercing skin, feeling for his emotions. There’s so little there; so little to take. His gloves are a vice on my hands as he tries to claw me off. His eyes bulge. I have no idea if I’m strangling him or channelling him, the magic flowing through me utterly pathetic, and it’s not enough, it’ll never be enough.

My nails dig in harder. He chokes. Gargles. And – there.

Anger. Red-hot anger. It starts off like sludge, and then it cracks, molten lava flowing into me, fuelling me, only growing hotter as his rage increases, and I’m growing warmer with it, anger burning in my veins now too, because this is his fault, and I should take and take and take until he’s grey and withered, because he doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but getting out of this room and saving Astin.

His face is mottled purple now. Fear flares in his eyes.