Page 82 of Too Hexed to Handle

‘Because –’ This might not be best moment to bring up Eira’s rhyme. Mentioning Souleater riddles I’ve kept secret might send him running in the opposite direction. I settle for a new, more horrifying theory. ‘Are you a ghost?’

He snorts. ‘No, Daisy, I’m not a ghost.’

He’s pale enough. His golden tan has been replaced by a sickly sheen. Red stains his shirt like a crest. He’s partially slumped in the doorway like the timber frame is the only thing keeping him upright. I creep forward further, feeling delirious.

‘A reanimated corpse then. A Souleater resurrected you and you’ve come to do their bidding.’ I frown. ‘Why have they bid you come to me?’

The laughter that escapes his mouth is the greatest symphony I’ve ever heard. So of course my natural reaction to hearing it is to burst into tears.

‘Hey,’ he says again, softer than before, and then he’s moving–well, limping – towards me, wrapping his arms around my waist, and this – this – the smell of pine and the warmth of his body against mine, is better than any love confession. I don’t care if he never admits what he truly feels for me, so long as he’s alive. ‘You’re freezing.’

His hands tangle in my hair. The waves are especially wild, knotted together by wind and snow and possibly blood, in what I suspect resembles a bird’s nest. His lips press against the side of my head.

‘Let’s get you warm.’ He releases me to tend the fire. This is a shame, partly because as a general rule I would prefer he be the one to do any warming, but especially because right now, when he’s here and I can’t quite believe it, all I want to do is keep my hands on him, terrified he might disappear if I let go.

I resort to hovering nearby, relishing in the casual brush of his arm, his huffs of disapproval when I’m in the way, the slight tilt of his mouth that says he doesn’t mind.

It has to be too good to be true. ‘Am I hallucinating?’

‘How many more guesses are you going to make before you accept I’m real?’

I swat his arm. ‘You were dead,’ I say. ‘I watched it – that thing – slash holes across your chest.’

‘It was just a scratch.’ He winces, rubbing the back of his head. ‘I hit my head pretty hard when I fell though. Knocked me out.’

‘You weren’t breathing!’

‘Did you check properly?’

I hesitate. Granted, I was a tad distracted by my own hysterics, the pending death in the form of a wraith, and the blood leaking from the wound. I was probably shaking too badly to notice whatever shallow movements his chest made. But – ‘Your heart wasn’t beating. I’m sure of it. I would have . . . My hands were right there!’

A muscle ticks in his cheek as he studies the flames. Eventually, with a heavy sigh, he takes my hand in his and places it to his chest. I flinch when I come into contact with the sticky patch of blood, before going still. Very still.

As still as his heart. Because, just like in the temple, there’s nothing to be found. Nothing at all. I smooth my hand over his chest, feeling for any sign of life, moving along to his neck to search for a pulse, but there’s nothing, nothing, nothing.

Oh no. I’m in love with a corpse.

‘It’s my hex,’ he says in a low voice. ‘I lost my heart. The wraith clawed through skin, but that’s it.’

‘But –’ My fingers press harder against the side of his throat. ‘I don’t . . . How didn’t you die the moment you were hexed? How do you bleed? How do you do anything?’

Astin shrugs. ‘Magic, I guess.’

I let out a slightly incredulous laugh, running my fingers over his body as though I’ll find his heart tucked away somewhere it shouldn’t be – and, okay, partly because I enjoy touching Astin, and it’s not like he’s complaining. Perhaps an extremely thorough search is in order.

‘I have so many questions. About this, about today. How did you –’ I gasp. ‘I left you behind. I left you behind and you weren’t dead. Astin, I’m –’

‘You didn’t know,’ he interrupts me. ‘It’s fine. I came after you as soon as I woke; I figured I’d try Rerta first, and if I couldn’t find you, I’d return to the inn and wait for you there. Where’s the cure? Did you take it to Damian already? Or did you . . .’

My bubble of joy pops. ‘Damian has it. I didn’t . . . I didn’t drink it. I’m still . . .’

‘Okay,’ he says, utterly casual, like whether or not I’ve changed the nature of my being is of no consequence to him. He looks around the room, frowning. ‘Then where’s the reward?’

‘Oh. Um. Well. I was a little upset. About you being dead.’ I rehash my fight with Damian, but as the story tumbles out of me, I realise I’m going to have to tell him everything.

He goes utterly rigid when I confess Eira’s the one who hexed us.

‘I didn’t know at first, I swear,’ I babble. ‘I found out after the maze. And I was afraid if I told you on the mountain, you’d abandon me to go after her.’ I wring my hands together.