Page 80 of Too Hexed to Handle

Scratch that, he owes me two.

I want those captives happy, healthy and free, with everything they need to recover from what Eira did to them.

And I want my reward. I want my inn.

I tug my arms again. My wrists are bound by something sharp, yet twisted – what used to be a rope, I think, now covered in emerald, tied to the ceiling. It digs into my skin as I yank in every direction to no avail. I huff. Tying me up was needlessly dramatic. How long did he plan to leave me for? Until Eira was dead, purely out of spite, so I couldn’t have the conversation I requested, or forever?

I yank the crystalline rope harder, barely feeling the way a jagged piece of emerald slices into me. Nothing matters but escaping this cellar.

And not just to help the captives. Flashes of our argument come back to me in fragments. The whole of Rerta is at risk, if what he said was true. I have no idea how he thinks Eira’s death is suddenly going to win their hearts, but when he realises it hasn’t . . .

I don’t know what he’ll do.

Forget dramatic. He’s unstable. Worse than a Souleater, because at least the majority of us have accepted our persecution, rather than plotting revenge on anybody who’s ever wronged us. Maybe my kind have more goodness inside them than I possibly imagined.

Which makes it all the more obvious there’s none in him.

My magic reawakens, all that anger I channelled from Damian, stirring to the surface.

Power surges and my bindings shatter, exploding in a spray of miniscule green shards that clatter to the floor like shimmering raindrops. Proof he isn’t as unbreakable as he thinks.

My arms fall to my sides, and my muscles sigh in relief. I examine my wrists to find the skin is red and raw, bleeding in places, but I don’t care. I’m free. Most of the emeralds have crumbled to nothing but dust, but two are large enough that they might come in useful, so I scoop them up and into my pocket. My legs shake as I teeter to the exit, a small hatch situated at the top of three stone steps. I poke my head through and survey what appears to be the garden at the back of Eira’s house. Weeds grow through the gaps between uneven stone slabs.

The house itself is quiet, the windows dark. I have no idea how long I’ve been unconscious. If Eira’s already dead, Damian may well have abandoned this place and the memories it contains.

I can’t leave without checking the basement first.

I approach as silently as I’m able, heading to the side door I escaped through after my previous visit, standing in the frame and listening for signs Damian might be there. There’s nothing.

And when I enter the basement, there’s nothing there either.

The cell is wide open. This should be a cause for celebration – I don’t know yet if Damian helped them in any way other than unlocking the door, but at least this means they’re free – except there’s a lingering scent in the air, nothing but citrus and rot and stale vomit, that makes me uneasy.

I creep upstairs, following the smell. Dirty footprints mark the steps in places. A bloody handprint is smeared across the wall. The scent dissipates once I’m in the wider space of the hallway, but there’s a nagging feeling in my gut that tells me however they vacated their cell, it wasn’t without pain.

They also left in a hurry, because Damian hasn’t secured his study. I suppose there’s no need for him to hide his research now he’s got the cure in his hands. Eira won’t be alive to find it. I nudge the door and peer inside. The room is a mess, with books scattered over every surface and a brown liquid dripping down one wall, shattered glass on the floor, as though Damian threw a bottle in rage.

The red book Damian indicated earlier, the one he said gave him the information about the temple, still lies on the desk. With trembling fingers, I pick it up. If whoever wrote this knew about the temple, they might also know how to channel emotion like the witches – and how to keep their magic uncorrupted.

Maybe then I’d have the power I need to fix this. To bring Astin back. To stop Damian before he hurts anybody else, without succumbing to darkness myself.

There’s an extra piece of parchment wedged between the thick pages of the book, but before I can pull it free, metal clangs outside.

I go utterly, utterly still. Outwardly, at least. Inwardly, my belly is a mess of panic, while my heart is a warning bell ramming itself against my chest.

It could be nothing. It could be the gate swinging in the wind.

But I can’t risk staying here. I pad out of the room, the journal clutched tightly to my chest, and give the library a wistful glance. I have no idea if this one book has the answers I need – if any book will – and there’s a part of me itching to steal more on my way out, but another clang of metal has me jogging to the side door, whipping it open and poking my head outside.

Once I’ve deemed the area clear of Damian, Souleaters, or anybody else who might want to murder me today, I leave the grounds. I need to find somewhere secure to plan my next steps and read what I’ve found, but I’ve no idea where to go.

As I walk aimlessly through the streets of Rerta, I feel like I’ve failed before I’ve started. Grief is a constant throb, a stone in my shoe I can’t shake, one that gets more painful with every step. Around me, people are whispering about a final Laevothe celebration tomorrow night, an invitation that’s been placed through letterboxes asking them to attend a party to end all parties out in the ruins. I know exactly who the host will be. My grip tightens around the book.

For some of them, it might be the final party they attend.

I have to find a way to stop this. But I need magic, I need help, I need Astin. I look around as though I expect the answer to materialise – hexes, I’d take a Nuri sighting at this point. Anything so I’m not standing alone on a street corner holding a journal that may offer me no aid whatsoever.

Ahead, an inn sign swings in the light breeze, and my resolve slips. I don’t want to be plotting how to ruin a party. I want to go home, to my inn. I want someone to bump their hip against mine when we’re vying for space in the kitchen, to mutter that nobody in their right mind would shape their pastries like hearts.