Page 9 of Too Hexed to Handle

Howard bought this building as a refuge, a place he could stay far away from society. A feeling I understand all too well. The building remained in the family after his death, but only became an inn when my grandma inherited it.

And then she left it to me, like she knew it would be everything I need.

Maybe these diaries are everything I need too. After the Souleater settlement was purged, Clarabelle, leader of the wardens, ordered all records of Souleaters destroyed too, as though any mention of Ozias was too much for her to bear. Rewards were offered to anybody turning in information. Centuries may have passed since that decree, but maybe the wardens would still give me something if I claimed I’d found these somehow – I’d just have to make sure nothing tied Howard back to our family, should they be read before they were burned.

Sighing, I pick up the topmost diary and flick to the first entry.

Days since Gregory left: 3842.

I’ve neglected writing. Little light remains these days, and the years grow dark and filled with hate. I hear the cheers from that blasted festival and wonder how humans can celebrate love. They will never understand its true taste. Meanwhile, I can’t look at a rose any more, for its scent reminds me of what I no longer have.

I miss it. I miss feasting on love and joy and excitement. I miss Gregory. My fault. It was my fault. I took too much, but it was all so bright, so golden, I was filled with goodness. Gregory smiled when I pulled away. I’m sure he did. At least, I think I’m sure. Everything is muddled now, but I remember that moment. I remember the way his expression changed when he saw the mark on his arm, how he wailed and screamed that I’d hexed him. I remember him running from me, how he wouldn’t let me explain. I remember the wraith I sent after him –

The writing cuts off here, one long line of ink dragged down the remainder of the page as though somebody (or, if a muddy pawprint is anything to go by, something) knocked Howard’s arm and distracted him. After that, the pages have one word on repeat: hungry, hungry, hungry.

I close the book, shaking. All this is doing is reminding me why I haven’t touched these diaries since I moved in: the less I have to do with them the better. I don’t want to know about my kind. I especially don’t want to know about the ramblings of a Souleater trying to justify their terrible deeds. Gregory wouldn’t have been feeling joy and excitement by the time Howard sunk his nails into him. Souleaters corrupt everything good. No, it would have been his fear forced to the surface that Howard found so delicious and irresistible. The only way to be filled with goodness is to not be filled with magic at all.

‘Daisy?’ Astin’s voice calls from the courtyard. Shit. Quickly, I slam the chest shut – Astin has no reason to nose in it, but I don’t fancy explaining to him that we had a Souleater in the family, in case it invites any awkward conversations about whether anybody else in our line was unfortunate enough to be born with the same power.

‘Coming!’ I call back.

I get no response, but I hurry anyway. The courtyard is bathed in pinks and yellows beneath the setting sun, the light spilling over peony-filled hanging baskets along with Astin waiting for me in the doorway, his brow furrowed and a –

I skid to a stop. ‘What happened to your face?’

A large purple bruise mars his jaw, and from the way he shakes his head at the question, I suspect the answer isn’t something simple like, I tripped and fell over my spade, especially when you add the fact that he wasn’t at breakfast this morning. It’s not like him to pass on the chance to ensure our guests pay their bill before leaving.

‘You’re late back,’ he says, scanning my face as though he expects me to be the one with bruises. ‘Is everything okay?’

Well, that depends on your definition of okay. ‘I’m not the one who looks like they’ve been attacked,’ I reply. ‘What –’

A throat clears from inside the inn. Astin and I jump in unison – me because I had no idea anyone else was here, and Astin, presumably, because he’s so busy not telling me what happened to his face that he forgot we had company.

His bruised jaw clenches. ‘You have a visitor.’

His tone suggests it’s one I won’t appreciate. I follow him indoors and hang my cloak on the stand, finding the hook out of instinct more than anything, because my focus is immediately on the man sitting beside the hearth, nursing a half-full cup of tea. His brown hair is slicked back and threaded with grey, and there’s a large satchel stationed by his feet. He appears too mild-mannered to be responsible for Astin’s jaw, but there’s something distinctly unpleasant about him. The smile he offers me is cool, not reaching his eyes.

He adjusts the sleeves of his shirt before asking, ‘Are you the owner of this establishment?’

‘I already told you she was. What do you want with her?’ Astin folds his arms, causing his jacket to tighten around the prominent bulge of his biceps. I wish he wouldn’t do that. Alongside his face, they’re another thing I have to actively avoid looking at for the sake of my sanity.

‘I’ll be asking the questions.’ Unaffected by the size of Astin’s muscles – well, good for him – the man’s attention never wavers from me, and suddenly my constant awareness of Astin’s body parts is the least of my worries. ‘Are you Miss Flowers?’

Dread slithers down my spine, and I retreat into the cloak stand as though I won’t have to acknowledge him if I’m surrounded by outerwear. ‘What do you want?’

He picks up his satchel and sets it on the table before unbuckling it. ‘My name is Benedict Southman. I’m here on behalf of Shiverholde’s treasury.’

Oh. I suppose telling me they’ve found a long-lost vault in my name is too much to hope for.

Slowly, he pulls out several sheets of paper from the satchel. ‘You’ve racked up quite the collection of debt, Miss Flowers. Butchers, grocers, tilers . . .’

At this, Astin looks at me sharply. I may or may not have told him I paid the tiler last week. It’s not like I didn’t mean to. But when more tiles fell off, I thought it would be better to . . . wait. Until he’d fixed them all.

Until I found the money to pay for the first batch.

Hexes, I wish Astin would move over to guard the bar. There’s a stack of unopened bills on the counter I’d rather Benedict didn’t see.

But as he reveals more and more paper, I suspect he may be aware of every single one. I am very, very warm. My pulse sounds too loud in my ears. I’m avoiding breathing in, because the last thing I need is to scent Benedict’s greed, lest I can’t resist it.