Page 88 of Too Hexed to Handle

I try to remind myself of that as we approach the ruins. If Astin has to hurt him, he’ll deserve it.

The ruins are quiet too, which is strange. The advertised party is due to start in a few hours, and I expected to have to sneak past Damian’s staff as they decorated the castle with more candles or laid out elaborate cakes on golden tables.

Instead, the entrance hall is empty.

There is evidence of party preparation: chandeliers are screwed to the ceiling, while a portrait of Damian has replaced the previous depiction of the royal family. A banner reading All Hail the King is draped around the archway ahead.

‘Where is everyone?’ My voice echoes in the silence of the chamber.

Astin’s eyes are hard to make out in the dim light, but I can picture them well enough from the way his jaw is locked: dark and stormy and determined. The ring of steel is the clang of a warning bell as he slides the knife from his waistband. ‘Let’s find Damian.’

We check the courtyard first, to find trampled grass and bare tables. Next, we head to the room where we first met him. The double doors are closed, and trepidation churns in my stomach as Astin places his hand against the partially rotten wood.

I catch a whiff of citrus and whirl round.

‘What’s wrong?’ Astin asks.

‘I smelled –’ Panic. Not from behind the doors, but somewhere nearby. I inhale deeply, searching for the smell again, trying to pinpoint a location, but it’s gone. ‘Never mind.’

Astin pushes open the doors and leads us inside, his palm on my back.

‘Ah,’ a voice says. ‘Look who it is.’

My pulse stutters, and the pressure on my back increases.

Damian sits on the same chair, donned in another cloak. Blood red, this time. The room has had a new coating of emerald, and the ceiling groans under the weight of layer upon layer of the gem, sagging in the middle like there’s a leak above and it’s about to burst. The long table with the emerald-touched tablecloth remains, but this time it carries a small box stuffed to the brim with gold coins.

From the coldness in his eyes, I don’t expect him to share those coins with us anytime soon.

‘I see you’ve escaped,’ he says coolly. ‘And to think, I went to the effort of sending someone to retrieve you. You can imagine my delight when my spies told me they’d witnessed you clambering up to visit me instead. I’m honoured.’

‘Where are your “spies” now?’ I ask, remembering that citrus scent I caught in the hall. There’s something about the twist to his smile, the way it doesn’t meet his eyes, that I like even less than the way he toys with his gloves, as though contemplating their removal.

I whimper, and Damian cocks his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle he can’t figure out.

‘Safely locked away.’ He waves at the knife in Astin’s hand. ‘Come to kill me?’

‘We need to talk to you,’ Astin says. ‘How you respond will dictate how this encounter goes.’

Damian doesn’t take his eyes off me. ‘Is that so?’

‘First, I want to know where Eira is,’ Astin ploughs on. The knife shakes in his hand, and my heart cracks for him. ‘Is it done? Is she dead?’

That strange smile continues to play on Damian’s face. He pulls the vial from his pocket, and liquid sloshes within.

He hasn’t done it. Shit. Shit.

I whip round, expecting Eira to materialise from nowhere, arms outstretched, ready to hex me again, when I’ve no magic to fight back with. Just the smallest speck of power from Damian himself. It won’t be enough. What was he thinking? Why is he lounging there like he’s got all the time in the world? He’s advertised this party everywhere; Eira must know he’s here.

He was the one who wanted to kill her, and now he’s acting like it’s amusing we thought he’d follow through.

‘I thought, perhaps,’ Damian says, smile widening, ‘I might give this to someone else.’

His gaze locks on me.

28

‘What?’ My voice is barely above a whisper.