Page 19 of Too Hexed to Handle

Not to be deterred, I say, ‘Before . . . everything happened, and you came to live with me. Did you always want to be a gardener-slash-handyman-slash . . .’ Whatever you are to me. ‘Why did you come to the inn? Was it because you liked the look of my backyard? You thought to yourself, I know a great place to bury a body or two –’

He stops mid-stride and I nearly bump into him. He pinches the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply as though my questions have suffocated him in some way. ‘Are you going to talk the whole trip?’

‘No. If you talked back, I’d temporarily be quiet.’

It’s hard to tell if the huff that escapes his lips is a laugh or a sigh of deep, deep irritation, but I am choosing to believe it’s the former. Shaking his head, he says, ‘Nobody gets the things they want. It’s pointless asking.’

‘Well, that’s not –’

A hoarse cry in the distance interrupts my protest.

Astin’s head swivels in the direction of the sound. ‘Did you hear that?’

I nod, slowly. Whoever – whatever – made that noise, sounded pained, almost struggling with the effort of calling out at all. My pulse speeds. If they’re hurt, what if whatever’s hurt them is still there?

Perhaps now is the time to confess I cannot climb trees.

‘Keep close,’ Astin says, striding off the path before I can suggest heading towards a potential predator is exactly the kind of thing we shouldn’t be doing.

But the cry sounds again, and I’m rushing alongside him, because if there’s one thing stronger than my cowardice, it’s my need to prove I can be good. If I can help this person, I will.

My hands are scratched to pieces by the time we reach a section of woods where the trees are sparser, allowing smaller bushes with pink roses to thrive. I pick a few as we pass, stuffing them in my pockets.

The cries for help are closer now, low in pitch, more of a moan than anything. Astin, oblivious to my dilly-dallying with flowers, is further ahead, his neck craning left to right, waiting for another indication of where the person is located.

I hurry to catch up, but my cloak snags on brambles. Cursing, I pull myself free, stumbling as the fabric comes loose, my boots landing in something wet and sticky and –

I slip.

My ankle twists, the pain immediate and sharp, and I shriek as my legs fly out from under me, my arms flailing through the air as I fall, colliding with Astin – he must have dashed to catch me, but failed miserably – and the impact makes him fall too.

Astin lets out several expletives when his head thumps against the ground. Something in his pack crunches as I land on top of him, freshly picked roses spilling from my pockets and scattering around us like confetti.

My heart hammers a heavy rhythm as I lie there, too startled to move, my ankle throbbing in a way that suggests standing will be unpleasant. I take a deep breath, and all I can smell is the scent of those roses, like the wind has placed their petals directly beneath my nostrils. Astin’s hand finds my waist, the gesture so slight it should be imperceptible, but of course this is Astin, so I notice everything, from the way his palm is wide enough to splay across my entire hip, to the way his whole body is tense beneath mine, like he’s doing everything in his power not to throw me off, right here, right now.

‘Could you watch where you’re walking from now on?’

‘Sorry,’ I squeak. ‘I should get you off – I mean, get off you.’

I push myself up, but stop when I catch sight of strange track marks near Astin’s head. We were so busy looking for an actual person, we’d missed them. Two deep lines are etched into the dirt and, further along, a handprint is splatted in the mud right where the lines disappear behind a thick patch of undergrowth.

‘Look.’ I stand, but the moment I put weight on my foot, a blinding pain shoots through me, flooding my vision white. I bite my lip to stop from screaming. Sweat slides down my neck as I try to breathe through the agony. Hexes, if I can’t walk, how am I going to reach the cure?

Astin climbs to his feet, eyes assessing me, and I do my best to appear as though I’m favouring one side out of choice, not necessity. I can’t let him send me home.

‘You’re hurt,’ he says. ‘I –’

He cuts off at the sound of another moan. Closer again. We follow – or Astin follows, while I do my best to hop behind him – those strange lines, dread curdling deep in my belly as they get deeper into the dirt, like someone dug their fingers into every inch of mud available in order to drag themselves along.

Until that wasn’t enough.

I gasp as Astin pushes aside another branch to reveal a body collapsed on the ground, face first in the dirt. Astin drops to his knees, rolling the body over to reveal a man dressed in loose-fitting brown clothing. His shock of red hair is in stark contrast to the paleness of his skin, almost grey in colour. Chapped lips mumble words I don’t understand.

‘What happened to him?’ I hobble closer, searching for signs he’s been torn apart by a wolf, or broken his leg during a fall. There’s nothing. Just grey, grey skin that I’m sure I recognise from somewhere.

Astin rolls his wrist over, and I barely feel the fresh flare of pain in my ankle as I take an immediate step back.

He’s hexed.