Page 57 of Too Hexed to Handle

Bags of flour line the walls, one of which has split, coating a table shoved into the corner with white powder. The man sweeps it away as best he can before we take a seat around it.

Once he’s disappeared into the front of the shop, I ask, ‘Do you know him?’

‘I own this place.’ Damian brushes flour from his sleeves. ‘Another perk of my . . . affliction. I own the majority of businesses across Rerta.’

The question of why forms soundlessly on my lips. Each to their own, I suppose, but I can barely handle the one inn. It seems rude to ask, but Damian must sense my wonder, because he continues, ‘My father came from money. At some point he decided gambling away our fortune was more important than caring for his family or any of the businesses he owned across the city. He lost them all in the end. I grew up with nothing, in a hovel around the corner from here. Went to school in second-hand clothing and returned home to parents who were asleep at the table, bottles in their hands. I’d hide upstairs while debt collectors hammered on our door.’

Sounds familiar. My hand twitches with the urge to take his, but I get the impression he wouldn’t accept my comfort or pity.

‘After Father’s debts and poor investments caused the closure of Rerta’s most prominent mill, the workers never forgave him for it, and I had the misfortune of looking like him. They said I’d turn out the same. Deadbeat Damian. When I was old enough, I considered leaving the city – some would say I should have left the city – but a fresh start wouldn’t take away the memories of their faces when they look at me. Wouldn’t change the way Deadbeat Damian rings in my ears when I lie in bed at night, all because they can’t forget where I came from.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. It’s another thing we have in common. Me, tainted by the deeds of Souleaters past, and him, by his family. ‘They should have seen you as your own person.’

‘Perhaps, one day, I will do something so unforgettable that they will.’ He drums his gloves on the table. ‘I thought having wealth again would finally be enough to prove them wrong. I bought half the city to prove I could. That I wasn’t some penniless drunk rolling around a gambling hall. They still turn their noses up. They’ll accept my money, and mock me a moment later. Thanks to the gloves, all they see is a pauper pretending to be something he’s not.’

‘Is that why you’re calling yourself the Emerald King? To make them believe otherwise?’

He snorts. ‘For all the good it does. Even the people at the party, those who weren’t from Rerta, are obsessed with the gloves. I’m nothing but a novelty. I have to do more. Be more.’

‘But how –’

The baker cuts me off by reappearing with a couple of cloth napkins and a tray of pastries. I take one, needing to have something to crush between my fingers more than anything. A small bite tells me it’s dry and flavourless; nothing like the flaky, buttery goodness Astin bakes at the inn.

Once the baker’s left us alone again, Damian leans back in his chair. ‘Enough history. Tell me what you said to Eira.’

I wring my hands together, focusing on the food rather than him. ‘I – accidentally – mentioned you were looking for the cure, and she wasn’t happy. But I told her you wanted to kill the Souleater who hexed you, and I think she believed me by the end. I thought that was a good thing, but now I’m wondering if she told them your plans.’

‘Oh, she wouldn’t need to do that.’ His eyes darken, locks of blonde hair falling over his forehead as he leans forward to whisper, ‘She’s the Souleater I’m going to kill.’

I freeze. ‘What?’

‘You heard me.’ He rips open a pastry and pops a piece in his mouth, his tongue flicking out to catch the crumbs, slowly running over his lower lip, as though he’s savouring my shock as much as he’s savouring the taste. ‘She’s the Souleater who hexed me. Hexed you. And I’m going to kill her for us both.’

My mind races. I was in a tent. Alone. With her. My skin prickles, like spiders are crawling over me, legs skittering over my pulsing hexmark. Poisoned mouth, poisoned dart, a poisoned kiss will stop a heart. She knew what my hex was, the night we met on the turret, the same way I knew what I’d done to that girl in the maze. It wasn’t some random Souleater skill she has. She did this to me.

She said something strange about Astin too. I rack my mind, trying to remember her riddle. Something about empty things and killing them.

Oh, hexes, Astin. I stifle a whimper. His sister’s killer was right there, and he didn’t have a clue.

I crush my napkin in my fist. ‘You should have told me.’

‘Had I known we were at risk of you telling her everything, I would have done. As it was, I didn’t think it mattered. Eira shouldn’t have been at the festival.’

But she was. And my stupid mouth has ruined everything.

All of you at once, together, together, nice and easy.

I thought she’d been rambling, but in reality, she’d been plotting to decimate everyone in the festival. She knew the statue’s location; that everyone would be too lust-addled to run in time.

I may as well have attacked them myself.

My napkin is sodden by the time I clear the tears from my face. ‘Tell me everything. From the beginning.’

At first, I think he won’t answer. He focuses on a scratch on the table, lost in thought, before finally saying, ‘We were only together briefly. I was walking home late one night, when some locals attacked me. Eira saw and dragged me away.’

‘She saved you with magic?’

He hesitates. ‘No. She wasn’t using magic back then. She told me her parents were killed when she was young, convicted of some terrible crime they’d committed while visiting Shiverholde. Eira ran home to Rerta, and she’d been hiding out ever since, terrified of discovery, of being punished for the same crime. I learned later, of course, the crime in question was being a Souleater.’