Page 2 of Too Hexed to Handle

‘We were hoping for two rooms,’ the man says. ‘We weren’t planning to stop this soon, but the storm hit earlier than expected.’

Two rooms? Please. They exchange a glance and that spicy aroma intensifies, musky and hot, chilli peppers invading my nostrils.

Sometimes I find it hard to believe I’m the only one who can smell these things. They’re so obvious. My mouth waters and sweat beads on my brow. I press my fingers into the counter and take a deep breath, shaking off their scent.

‘Of course. Let me check what we have.’ Rather than opening the empty diary, I nudge a vase of roses to the centre of the counter. The petals are lightly dusted with lust powder. I have to be careful lest I succumb to it myself, but a combination of small doses and frequent proximity means I’m unaffected these days, whereas for my patrons . . . let’s say it loosens their inhibitions. Just enough to make them more likely to act on something that’s already there – something their scent tells me is definitely there.

The woman gasps.

Oh, shit. I freeze. My arm is outstretched, the cuffs of my blouse rolled up to reveal a black x staining the inside of my wrist. Two tiny lines crossed over the other, no bigger than a coin and smooth to the touch, like ink saturating skin, poisoning me with the curse I’ll be stuck with for the rest of my life.

‘Is that –’

‘Yes.’ I roll down my sleeve in a gesture that I hope says the topic is off limits. ‘It’s a hexmark.’

The woman’s arm hovers in mid-air, as though she’d love to examine the mark more thoroughly, before thinking better of it and dropping her hand to her side. A pity she doesn’t think better of asking questions at all, but alas she continues with, ‘When did –’

‘The Laevothe festival. Two years ago.’ My tone is clipped, which I hate. I’m supposed to be warm and welcoming, but it’s difficult when I’m being reminded of that night.

The woman pales. ‘I was there,’ she whispers. ‘It’s why I like to leave Shiverholde this time of year. The bonfire brings the memories flooding back. The screams. The Souleater walking through the park. That horrid veil covering their face and body. And those . . . those things, those shadows, they sent after us.’

I tremble. ‘Wraiths. They’re called wraiths.’

One of the ways a Souleater’s magic can manifest: as wispy, vaguely human-shaped shadows that have the strength to pin people down on their behalf.

To pin me down on their behalf.

My fingers press harder into the counter. Happy thoughts, Daisy. I can’t show my guests a good time if I burst into tears over a bad memory. A change in conversation would help, but for someone who claims to be traumatised over that night, this lady sure likes talking about it.

‘One of the wraiths nearly caught me. But there was this . . . glimmer of green, in the corner of the park. The wraith stopped moving. The Souleater stopped moving. So I ran. Escaped through a side gate before they renewed their attack.’

Wonderful. I hope she’s not expecting some kind of congratulations. The man rubs her back, and while it’s nice he’s comforting her, it’s hard to ignore the jealous beast roaring in my head. Not only did I fail to evade anything, I also don’t have anyone to rub me better.

Some people have all the luck.

‘Well, I’m pleased for you,’ I say. My smile is so tight I fear my face might crack.

‘And I’m sorry for you.’ Her focus hasn’t left my arm. Ugh. Don’t say it. Don’t ask me. Please, please, don’t – ‘What does it do?’

For fuck’s sake. Nobody would ask someone about their grey hair or a pimple on their nose, so why is it acceptable to say, Hey, what terrible magic does that thing on your wrist contain?

That’s the other fun fact about Souleaters: once they’re channelling your worst emotion until it’s the only thing you can feel – in my case it was terror, surging and surging through my veins until I was paralysed – eventually, they have to channel some of the magic back. A fair trade that isn’t fair at all, because all they have to give in return is a slither of dark magic in the form of a hex, a terrible curse individual to each victim.

I touch my arm. I suppose I should be grateful. If they don’t stop after the hexmark has appeared, if they take and take until your body can’t endure any more, you’ll end up dead. A withered husk of nothing.

That’s what happened to Astin’s sister.

Whatever expression is on my face is enough to make the man nudge his companion. ‘We should just be grateful not to have hexmarks of our own.’ To me, he adds, ‘The rooms?’

‘Right. Yes.’ I force myself to perk up. I can’t change the past, but I can improve the present, in the only way I know how: spreading joy. And the best way to do that, I find, is by helping people achieve their full romantic potential. I flick the diary open in the pretence of checking the calendar. ‘I’m sorry. We only have one room available.’ For good measure, I add, ‘It only has one bed.’

‘Oh.’ The woman’s gaze slides to her partner, pink flooding her face.

The man, meanwhile, has suddenly found a groove in the bar top very interesting. ‘We’re, um, not together. I mean, we’re travelling together, obviously, but we’re not . . .’

Not yet.

My grin returns, my cheeks lifting higher and higher, pushing any thoughts of hexes and Souleaters up, up and away. This, this right here, is far more important. It’s much easier to pretend bad things don’t exist when love is blossoming before me.