Page 87 of Too Hexed to Handle

No. ‘Of course.’

Something about . . . Oh. Right. Getting the reward. Making sure Eira’s dead. Stopping Damian hurting anyone who’s treated him poorly. My insides knot. Will the cycle of hate and revenge ever end? Where did it even begin?

As I drag myself from the bed, my gaze lands on the book I stole from Damian’s study. Astin distracted me yesterday, but now I wrap the bed sheet around my midriff and dive for it. I pull out the loose piece of parchment first, to find another letter.

This one, though, isn’t written by a Souleater. It’s from Clarabelle.

Ozias –

I didn’t want it to come to this. I just wanted things to be fair. And I thought you wanted that too. But now I think you might be the same as the rest of them, because I’ve seen no sign of that potion, and you promised me it would be ready soon.

You talk to me of love, but your kind love power more. That’s why you won’t share it. You say we’re greedy, that we ask for too many potions, too much gold, but I don’t believe that. You simply like the idea that you can pick and choose who you help. But do you know what I’ve realised? You need us as much as we need you. Look at what you’ve all become, the moment I stripped away your ability to feed. Monsters roaming my streets, searching for whatever emotions they can find with no care for the consequences.

It was so easy, to turn the humans against you all, and I won’t stop. But you could stop me. Give me what I want, and I’ll say I made a terrible mistake. I’ll remind everyone your magic can be good after all. I’ll show them the charmmark you left on me. We’ll live in harmony again. Your coven will be safe.

But let me be clear: I don’t care if it kills you. If that potion doesn’t exist soon, I will make sure the wardens hunt down every last Souleater. If we can’t benefit from your magic, why should you?

Clarabelle

‘The potion she’s talking about must be the cure,’ I say. ‘The stories always said Clarabelle made it, but this letter sounds like she was forcing Ozias to do it, all because she was jealous he had magic, and she didn’t.’

‘Well, it’s not like he was around to correct the stories.’ Astin takes the letter from me, frown deepening as he scans it. ‘I don’t care if it kills you. No wonder he didn’t want to take the cure, if it was that dangerous for him to drink it.’

‘So she killed him anyway. And allowed people to keep hating Souleaters, despite knowing she was the reason they’d lost control. But . . . some of this doesn’t make any sense. If her issue was that the Souleaters were refusing to give humans everything they wanted, why would curing Ozias help? And why offer to set the record straight after he took the cure?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Astin says. ‘What does the journal itself say? Is it hers?’

A skim through the first few pages, where the writer describes themselves as hungry every third line, tells me a desperate Souleater wrote this, not Clarabelle. I skip through until I find a small section recapping what Damian already told me about the temple’s protections. The wraith only gets a cursory mention, with no revelation as to why it never attacked me. I do learn this Souleater is responsible for stealing both the letter – it looks like Clarabelle killed Ozias before she ever sent it – along with the locket from Clarabelle’s house, to prevent her having one of the items needed to access the temple. The Souleater was contemplating taking the letter to the wardens, trying to use it to prove Clarabelle was at fault, but was fearful the wardens would claim it was forged and destroy it, and the knowledge would be lost forever.

‘Come on,’ Astin says, gently prising the book from my hands. ‘Whatever Clarabelle was up to, it’s in the past. The only thing that matters now is making sure both Damian and Eira get what they deserve.’

This does little to make me feel better, but I force myself to get dressed. Once my clothes are in place, Astin holds out a hand. ‘Ready?’

Our fingers interlink, and we leave the room side by side. The streets teem with people, and there’s a buzz of anticipation in the air, making my nostrils tingle with the scent of lightning. Astin squeezes my hand. ‘You okay?’

‘I’m fine. They’re excited about something,’ I murmur.

Nearby, a queue is forming outside a tailor’s. A girl hammers at the door, demanding they open immediately, while the man behind her says he cannot attend a party without a new hat. They’d be a lot less excited if they knew this party isn’t another excuse for them to indulge in Damian’s riches.

That if they don’t fall to their knees before him, they’ll be dead.

Astin must have the same thought, because he squeezes my hand harder. ‘Let’s find me a weapon.’

We set off down the street, but a thought has my legs quaking. ‘Astin . . . the Souleaters you killed. Were they . . . are you sure they were . . . bad?’

He said he found them trading magic for money in dodgy locations, but they’d have been forced to work in places like that to avoid the wardens. What if they were like the witches in Eira’s book? Like Ozias? Channelling good emotions to help people. Maybe they were supplying places like my parents’ shop, even.

For the first time, something that almost looks like regret crosses his face.

‘I never saw anybody leaving their hideouts without a hexmark,’ he says in a low voice. ‘I’m as sure as I can be.’

I nod, biting my lip. It’ll have to be enough. We can’t change the past, but we can work for a better future.

Except to get that future, I have to let him buy yet another weapon.

He procures one from a blacksmith, and we walk in silence to the outer edge of the city, then up the steep, winding stairs leading to the ruins. With every step, Astin’s focus grows, his shoulders squaring, his hand constantly brushing the weapon tucked into his waistband. His other hand holds mine, and I can’t tell if it’s his palm or mine that’s incredibly clammy. I suspect it’s mine.

With no competitors to join us this time, the forest is unnaturally quiet. Usually, I would take a lack of birdsong as a blessing, but there’s something eerie about the absence of them here. Damian turned these trees to emerald without a thought for the habitat he was destroying, the same way he sent us out on his quest for the cure without caring who lived to tell the tale.