Chapter 3
The journey home is a blur. Basil moves at a steady pace, tugging my cart along, his footsteps sure despite how rough the road becomes as we leave Shiverholde.
My fingers tremble around the reins, struggling to forget the hunger I felt in my parents’ shop, unable to shake the lingering scent of their worry and fear.
Unable to shake the desire to never have one of those urges again.
The scrap of paper in my pocket feels heavier than lead; a reminder of a possibility I’m too afraid to take.
I should have thrown it out.
It’s not dark yet, the sun low in the sky, but when we reach the inn, it’s to find lamplight blazing from every window.
While I’d like to pretend that light is a warm welcome home, what it really represents is a waiting inquisition, in the form of Astin, determined to learn if I succeeded in getting the money we need.
I procrastinate having that unpleasant conversation by urging Basil into the stable as quietly as possible, hoping Astin won’t notice our return, then raking straw for the sake of it, humming as I work.
Singing, much like smiling, is an excellent method of pretending all is well.
It’s enough to help me plot alternative ways to solve my money problems: we could auction off some of our belongings.
Get rid of the armchair Astin hates. Or we could sell the pastries he makes for breakfast – I’d pay good money for those.
‘Maybe I should rent you out at children’s parties,’ I suggest to Basil. ‘How do you feel about having ribbons in your tail?’
Basil huffs, the sound startlingly similar to when Astin is unimpressed about something. They must be spending too much time together. I pat his nose, thinking. I was forced to sell off the inn’s more expensive heirlooms soon after moving in, but there are some things left. I bite my lip.
Things I couldn’t bring myself to part with.
I climb the ladder to the loft, and head to the far corner to open the chest containing my great-great-granduncle Howard’s diaries – along with the knowledge that I’m not the first secret Souleater in our family.
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.
Benedict continues to list the people I owe money to – some of the names I barely recognise, honestly, I’ve avoided their letters for so long – while Astin shifts closer to me.
He has to peel back several cloaks to uncover my new hiding spot, but once he’s successful, he bends his head to ask in a low voice, ‘What did your parents say?’
I shake my head. Astin swears softly. I want to tell him I’m sorry for being such a monumental fuck up, for the fact I’m about to make him homeless, but fear catches the apology in my throat and I make a strange kind of raspy gargling noise instead.
Before Astin can have a stab at deciphering the sound, Benedict coughs for our attention. He’s finished compiling his evidence on the table, and I’m faced with several stacks of paper. They can’t all be to do with me, surely. I haven’t had that many letters.
Oh, hexes, have I? There was a flurry a few weeks ago that I simply . . . threw away.
Benedict taps the nearest pile. ‘The treasury has acquired said debts from the relevant parties, meaning the outstanding balance is now due to us, and I’m here to –’
‘Look, if she can’t pay them, then she can’t pay you,’ Astin says. ‘Give us some time, and we’ll sort something out. You have my word.’
‘I’m afraid your word means little at this point. Fortunately for you, unlike my colleagues, I might be willing to waive some of the interest in exchange for an . . . alternative method of payment.’
His smile turns cold as he unbuttons the top of his shirt. A second button. A third. At first, I don’t understand – I don’t want to contemplate – why this middle-aged man is undressing in my home, and then I understand all too well.
I suck in a breath at the same time Astin takes a step forward, his hands curling into fists.
Across Benedict’s bare chest, dark lines swirl and writhe, crawling beneath his skin, corrupted veins of magic that can only mean one thing: he’s not just some debt collector here to ruin my day.
He’s a Souleater.