Page 65 of Too Hexed to Handle

There’s a too-long pause where I think he’s going to contradict me, but all he says is, ‘We should leave before it gets any darker.’

Some of my hope threatens to burn out as I watch him limp away, but then he stops, tilting his head enough for me to see his profile, the bridge of his nose, the angle of his jaw, before saying, voice the softest it’s ever been, ‘I could never hate you. That’s the whole problem.’

21

The rain-snow concoction doesn’t stop. Wet seeps through my cloak, my clothes, into my skin. I am confident my fingers have frostbite. The next section of the pass wraps around the edge of the mountain, the path barely wide enough for two people, with a sheer drop on one side. My heart is a permanent fixture in my throat, adrenaline the only thing keeping me going. Beside me, Astin is struggling to walk, hissing and wincing every few seconds, his hand clamped against his thigh.

‘Let me see your leg,’ I say, after a particularly loud groan, before realising the side of a mountain isn’t the best place for him to be pulling down his trousers. ‘Or . . . maybe we need to turn back? Find you some help in Rerta. You’re clearly wounded.’

He pauses, resting against the rock, panting. It’s hard to tell if it’s sweat or rain plastering his hair to his forehead. ‘You’d sacrifice the inn, just like that?’

‘Saving you is more important,’ I say quietly.

His gaze flickers. ‘Well. Regardless. We’re not leaving. The footprints on the path all lead one way, which means there’s a chance. If we can’t catch up with them, maybe we can intercept them on their return, and steal the cure for ourselves.’

‘Yes, let’s pick a fight with the people who put a hole in your leg. What an excellent idea.’

‘Won’t you be able to . . .’ He waves his arms. ‘You know.’

I give him a blank look. I have no idea what vague arm-flapping is supposed to signify, or why he thinks I would be remotely capable of stealing the cure from violent humans. He’s the one who’s dagger-happy out of the two of us.

He clears his throat. ‘Use your . . . magic.’

‘What? No.’ I can’t believe he’d ask me that, after everything. He walked away, said he couldn’t stand to be around me, and now he wants me to trot out my powers like a prize show pony. ‘If we meet them, we will ask them nicely.’

His teeth flash in what can only be described as a laugh, and when he looks at me again, he looks like Astin. Gone is the hurt from the alley, replaced with . . . well, exasperation. Which is familiar, at least, although I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve it. You’d think he’d be pleased I have no intention of using magic.

‘Okay, Dais,’ he says. ‘You invite them round for tea, and I’ll take care of the rest.’

He takes a deep breath and pushes off from the rock. I refrain from pointing out he won’t take care of anything in his current state, and our walk resumes in silence, save for the wind blustering around us. Fog swirls at our feet. The rain finally subsides, but the path remains slick, and it’s a relief when it finally veers away from the edge of the mountain and on to safer ground, with a healthy expanse of land on either side of us.

Soon, though, I have no idea what’s around us at all, because night has truly descended now, those thick clouds swallowing the stars, leaving us in total darkness. I stretch my hands out, hoping they’ll meet the salvation of brick or wooden walls, marking our arrival at the Souleater temple. Instead, I find Astin’s bicep, which I usually wouldn’t be opposed to, except Astin is notably not a building with four walls and a roof.

After I’ve stumbled over three rocks, a large branch and, finally, inexplicably, Astin’s foot, he grinds to a halt.

‘We can’t go on like this,’ he says, a bite of frustration in his voice. ‘As soon as we hit the settlement, we’ll take cover in the first building we find and wait there till daybreak. We can keep an ear out for anyone passing by, but I can’t imagine any of them will risk walking in this, even if they’ve got the cure in their hands.’

My brain keeps catching on that we he keeps using. Hope is uncontrollable now, a wildfire I can’t contain, because he says it with absolute certainty. We’re a we, despite him knowing what I am.

That fire burns in me the rest of the way, guiding me on, almost exploding when I walk straight into a large plank of wood. My face splits into a grin. I may be the first person to be delighted about whatever bruise is going to form on their nose by morning, because next to that plank of wood is another, and another, and – there.

A door.

It’s unlocked, but Astin has to shove it with his elbow to get it open. It flies back in a cloud of dust, and we enter the room coughing and spluttering. Astin fumbles around, swearing when he crashes into – well, I don’t know, because I can’t see it, but I get the impression it wasn’t something soft and cuddly. Eventually, he must luck out, because with a scratch and a hiss, a small orange light reveals a match in his hand, along with the displeasure on his face.

He waves the match around the room until he spots a tiny hearth with, thankfully, a pile of wood inside. Cupping the flame with his hand, he sets to work lighting each corner of the wood, blowing softly until the fire erupts.

It doesn’t do much for the heat situation, especially when my clothes are soaked through, but it’s enough to illuminate a room with a bed, a small seating area, and a washroom to one side. A portrait hangs above the fireplace, depicting a couple staring into each other’s eyes. Although their clothes are simple, they’re covered in skintight gold jewellery that somehow twists around their fingers and wrists. It must be some strange Souleater fashion.

After depositing my sodden cloak and scarf over a rocking chair, I cross to the counter near the bed, where a small stack of books has been left behind. I’m half hoping they were somehow missed during the raids and are filled with more Souleater history, but they’re nothing more than a collection of old recipes. I rifle through one as Astin limps around the room, checking under the furniture as though he expects a Souleater to be hiding somewhere in the dark.

A flyer flutters free from the book. I grab it before it drops to the floor to read NO MORE TRADES, BY ORDER OF THE WARDENS. Beneath the title, in smaller print, it says Punishable by Death.

‘What’s that?’ Astin asks.

‘I’m not sure.’ I frown. ‘Probably nothing.’

The Souleaters were fairly self-sufficient out here, growing their own crops and raising their own cattle, but I suppose they’d have to venture into Rerta for other supplies occasionally. It sounds like the wardens were trying to cut them off. I shudder and tuck the parchment back inside the book, before finally forcing myself to look at Astin.