Page 77 of Too Hexed to Handle

When the door finally opens, it’s Damian on the other side. His eyes go wide. ‘You’re back. Do you have it?’

‘I need to talk to Eira,’ I say dully.

He blinks. ‘Have you lost your mind?’

It’s a distinct possibility. He tugs me inside, pulling me down the corridor and leading me into the room that was locked last time. It’s a small study with books lying open on the desk – journals lifted from Eira’s library, I think, if the handwritten scrawls are anything to go by. I’m surprised she’s let him keep them. Notes in smaller, neater writing fill the margins.

‘You’re lucky Eira’s not here,’ he says. ‘What do you mean, you want to talk to her? About what – how she tried to kill you? Or have you forgotten?’ He waves a hand in front of my face. ‘Are you listening?’

Not especially. My attention drifts, almost vacantly, from the books to him. He’s in a wine-red shirt today. ‘Daisy. Answer me.’

I’m struggling to focus. The colour of his shirt reminds me of the temple. Something flickers inside me, something other than the desire to squash each and every emotion I have. People are dead because of his contest. Astin is – I clench my fists. Astin isn’t dead. Not if I have anything to say about it.

His gaze tracks lower, taking in the state I’m in, the blood on my hands, and his mouth parts, while excitement gleams in his eyes. Nice to know the thing that gets him going is the idea I’ve returned from mortal danger. ‘You retrieved it, didn’t you? Tell me you did.’

I don’t respond. Eira needs to be stopped, if I want to save the captives, but I’ve got to talk to her about Astin’s hex first, and, honestly, I’m not feeling all that helpful where Damian is concerned. I study the book closest to me, catching sight of Clarabelle’s name before the pages are snapped shut.

‘Don’t get distracted,’ Damian says. ‘The potion. Where is it?’

I swerve before he can pat me down, crossing to the other side of the room. I have no idea how I’m going to get out of here without handing the potion over, but the moment I do, the clock starts ticking. Stalling for time, I scan the shelves on this side, stuffed full with what looks like more journals, all belonging to Souleaters no doubt, tabs sticking out from every page. Honestly, he’s more obsessed than Astin.

‘Eira doesn’t mind you having these?’

‘Some things are worth the risk, and she doesn’t come in here. The room is kept locked.’ His tone is clipped. ‘Daisy. Why won’t you answer my question?’

‘You’re not afraid she’ll use magic to unlock it?’

‘She knows better than that.’ He prowls closer. ‘She would do anything to keep me happy. If I ask for my privacy, I get it. I will always find a way to get what I want, no matter the cost.’

Something about that statement makes me freeze.

No matter the cost. I go cold. That wraith, in the temple . . . I was too consumed by Astin to give it any thought. Damian told me Eira set up enchantments to stop him getting the cure, but he didn’t mention what those enchantments might do to anybody else. Realisation is a sinking stone in the pit of my belly.

The cure wasn’t warded against him. It was warded against all of us.

‘You knew,’ I whisper. ‘You knew what would happen.’

He chuckles, but there’s no humour behind it. Just a gentle kind of mockery, like he can’t believe we fell for it. That we were all running around, doing his bidding, hoping for whatever scraps of a reward he was willing to give, while he lounged around this house waiting for us to die on his behalf.

I let myself feel sorry for him because of his hex, but in reality he’s no better than the humans who don’t see Souleaters as people – worse, even, because he doesn’t care about anyone.

Anybody other than himself.

‘Has anything you’ve ever said been true? I bet Eira isn’t actually forcing you to stay here, is she? You must have loved And all the while you’ve been planning to kill her. Kill us. You sent us to our deaths.’ My voice doesn’t sound like my own. It’s high-pitched and shrill, while a buzzing sounds louder and louder in the back of my head, because here, right here, is the person responsible for Astin’s death – he’s not dead I can save him; he’s not dead I can save him – and he’s laughing about it.

My fingers twitch. I need power. Magic. And there’s a human in front of me.

If only his emotions weren’t so flat. Cold. Even the excitement at getting what he wants is subdued.

‘You’re alive, aren’t you?’ Damian says. ‘The question remains, did you succeed?’

My hand hovers over my pocket, torn between needing to protect the potion so I can use it as leverage and wanting to smash it for all the trouble it’s caused, but I’m too obvious, too agitated, and his eyes immediately follow the movement, and widen. ‘You did, didn’t you? I have to admit, I hoped you’d be the one to make it out.’

‘Because you knew only one person would? How? Why?’

‘There was no guarantee anybody would,’ he says matter-of-factly. ‘I had to hedge my bets.’ He taps one of the books, a battered red tome with the spine partially falling apart. ‘I learned of the temple in these old journals. The enchantment protecting the potion was placed years ago. The wraith is bound to the hall, so I invited as many people as possible. All I needed was for one victor to outrun it, escape before they were caught, and here you are.’

‘Lucky me,’ I say, but I think there’s more to the enchantment than Damian realises. The wraith took one look at me and disappeared. Maybe only a Souleater is allowed to touch the cure, to prevent a human forcing it upon us.