Текст книги "Bewitched"

Автор книги: Laura Thalassa

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

CHAPTER 32

I’m sitting at my desk, the two paragraphs I’ve managed to write so far on the magical differences between dried lavender versus fresh all but forgotten as I stare at my bank account.

Overdrawn.

My insides curdle at my bank account details.

Empress…

I sense Memnon a second later. I don’t know how, but I feel him moving up the stairs of my house like this place is his own, and I swear the witches in the house go quiet in his wake. Guests aren’t supposed to freely come and go in this residence hall—but he’s not exactly the sort of guy who gives a fuck about the rules.

Less than a minute later, the door opens and Memnon strides in. I try not to notice how damn enticing he looks in a simple T-shirt and jeans. But on his staggering frame, with all his olive-toned skin and elaborate tattoos peeking out, he makes the simple attire look sexy and edgy.

“Knocking would be nice,” I say, gathering my legs up on my chair.

Assuming he knows what a knock is. I bet Memnon predates the invention of manners.

“Perhaps it would be if we didn’t already have a bond,” he says. “It’s better than a knock.”

“We’re not bonded,” I say.

Memnon idly kicks my door closed with one of his boots. “We’re in denial again, I see.”

“It’s only denial if it’s true,” I say, my gaze flicking over him. “And it’s not.”

He lifts an eyebrow as he crosses the room.

“You know, stalking is a crime,” I say.

“You think that would deter me? I have already hunted you once before,” he says, a lock of his dark hair slipping over one eye. He looks to be the very definition of a villain.

I shiver.

“What happened?” I ask. “When you hunted me?”

He looks pleased that I asked.

Memnon steps in close. “I took you as my bride.” He brushes my lower lip with his thumb, just like he did when we last parted ways. He’s gazing at me like he’s remembering what it felt like to hold me.

I mean, Roxilana.

“I made you my queen, gave you riches and an ever-expanding empire.”

“Yes, yes, we’ve been over this many times,” I say. “And yet you expect me to believe Roxilana screwed you over.”

I mean, if someone volunteered to be my sugar daddy and he was this pretty, I don’t think I’d bury him alive.

Then again, Memnon is a douche.

I might bury a douche.

Maybe this Roxilana chick was on to something.

Memnon frowns, his previous good humor long gone. “You promised me answers,” he says, folding his arms over his chest. “I want them.”

Answers…it takes me a moment to remember I did agree to that and a moment longer to realize Memnon doesn’t actually know any of the details surrounding what happened last night. He just saved my ass and then patched me up.

As I gather my thoughts, the sorcerer peers beyond me at the web page open on my computer, catching an eyeful of the sorry state of my bank account.

I reach out and close my laptop.

“Money trouble?” he asks, his face unreadable.

“How do you even know about online banking?” I ask him suspiciously. “And modern currency for that matter?”

My gaze flicks over his shirt and jeans and down to his leather boots. Now I do wonder how the sorcerer is getting by.

“Do you really want to have that talk right now, est amage? I’m not sure you’d like my answers.”

I stare up at him warily. I know he can riffle through a person’s mind—I remember him doing it to my own—so I know he has ways of seeing the modern world through others’ eyes. I don’t know why that would worry me…

Before I can help it, I rub my face. “It’s fine. Everything will be fine.” It’s less an answer and more a pep talk.

Memnon doesn’t say anything to that, and somehow, his silence makes my money situation feel all the more hopeless.

“The people last night—they were going to pay me,” I say. It’s a decent enough place to start. “It was some magical gig I agreed to so I could help pay for Nero’s food.”

Memnon frowns, his attention moving to my panther, who is sprawled out on my bed. “It costs a lot to feed him,” the sorcerer agrees, approaching the bed to pet the big cat. “I remember.”

Nero leans his head into the touch, eating up Memnon’s attention.

“It’s fine,” I repeat, though my voice cracks.

It’s not fine, and I’m trying not to think about the very real possibility of being unable to feed Nero.

Memnon glances over at me, and he has a look in his eye like he’s scheming.

He moves away from my familiar. “Tell me the rest of what happened last night,” he demands. “Leave nothing out.”

It doesn’t take long to tell Memnon the whole story. He leans against one of my walls, arms folded, as he listens to the entire thing, a menacing look on his face.

“…And that’s where you found me,” I finish.

It feels good to share this with him. I haven’t had a chance to tell Sybil, nor have I dared to write the event down—not when there are incriminating details and the Politia is interested in my notebooks.

A muscle in Memnon’s jaw keeps jumping.

“The spell circle,” he finally says. “It took place in this house?”

I nod. The mention of it has my pulse speeding. I remember all over again how there’s a direct tunnel into our house, one those masked witches can easily use even now.

I’m not going to think about the fact they may even be fellow coven sisters. That thought is downright chilling. As it is, I have to live with the fact Kasey was one of them.

Kasey, whom I haven’t heard from since last night.

“Take me to where the spell circle happened,” Memnon commands.

I should be bristling at the order. Instead, the sorcerer feels like a rudder keeping me on course.

I leave my room and lead Memnon through the house. Several witches see us pass, and one by one, they fall silent as they take in the man at my back. He’s huge and ferociously beautiful, and I’m sure they can sense the danger rolling off him.

I catch sight of their expressions, and while some look a little nervous, they also seem…interested?

Immediately, my hackles rise, and a little bit of my magic sifts out of me, thickening in the air.

Shit, Selene, are you getting jealous over your wicked stalker?

An arm wraps around my chest, and I’m drawn back against Memnon.

A moment later his lips are at my ear. “Possessiveness looks good on you, mate,” he says, nipping my ear.

I glare at him over my shoulder before pushing his arm away. “I’m not your mate,” I whisper under my breath. “And don’t bite my ear.”

Memnon’s eyes twinkle. “At least you’re not in denial about being possessive,” he says, those sensual lips curving into a smirk. “We can agree on that.”

I’m about to argue with him on that, but then we pass another witch who gives Memnon a moonstruck look, and I turn my glare at her.

I hear soft prideful laughter at my back.

“Shut up.”

I may be a little possessive.

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CHAPTER 33

When we get to the Ritual Room, I let Memnon in first, holding the door open before following him inside.

His boots echo against the floor as he peers around, taking in the dark walls and the rows of chairs.

I head over to the back of the room, the hairs along my arms rising as the previous night comes back to me.

“We went through this wall,” I say, touching the solid surface that glimmers faintly as the spells running along it catch the light. For a moment, I marvel that magic can make doorways appear and disappear at will.

Memnon comes over to me before stopping so close that his shoulder brushes mine.

My breath escapes me in a rush, and I feel a fevered urge to reach for him and taste him all over again. I’ve only kissed him, but I’ve dreamed of more. How would the real thing hold up against my imagination?

Memnon glances over at me, arching an eyebrow.

“What?” I say defensively.

Did he hear those thoughts?

He shakes his head and returns his attention to the wall. He runs a hand over it, and I get to appreciate the golden ring he wears and his scarred forearms—

Stop getting distracted by the pretty man, Selene.

Dropping his hand, Memnon turns, looking as though he’s going to walk away. All at once he spins back around and slams his fist into the wall.

His indigo magic explodes outward at the impact, and there’s a sound like hard candy crushing beneath a boot.

A split second later, I realize that’s the sound of the ward shattering. As soon as it’s gone, the wall disappears, revealing the opening once more.

I stare, aghast, first at the opening, then at Memnon.

“I’ve never seen someone use their power like that,” I say.

The sorcerer catches me by the chin and flashes me a soft, playful smile. “Yes, you have little witch. Long ago.”

Before I can argue with him, Memnon drops his hand from my chin and turns his attention back to the archway.

He clucks his tongue. “Someone’s been naughty, hiding a back entrance into your house.” Despite the light tone of his words, I see his eyes harden and his features grow sharp.

He crosses the threshold, heading toward the staircase.

I hesitate, fear souring the back of my throat. I don’t want to go back there.

It feels as though those witches are still lurking at the bottom of that staircase, waiting for another chance to nab me.

Memnon, on the other hand, looks as though he’d enjoy nothing more than a nice confrontation. He begins to descend, not bothering to coax me along.

Without thinking, I reach for Memnon’s magic, just as I did last night, needing the reassurance of his power.

It’s there, just as endless as it was last night. I don’t know how a single body can house so much magic or how much of his conscience he offered up for it all.

“I can feel myself inside you, soul mate,” Memnon calls up the bottom of the stairway, a smile in his voice. “You can draw me into you whenever you like.”

My core clenches at the offer, and my face heats. “I’m not your– That’s not why—” I draw in a deep breath, frustrated that he has me flustered. “I’m just nervous about coming back to this place.”

His footfalls pause.

“Come to me, Selene,” he says gently, his words soft and enticing.

Despite how much his orders annoy me, and despite my fear, I move toward those stairs, then down them, not stopping until I get to Memnon, who stands to the side of the staircase.

He places a hand on my cheek. “Do I terrify you, little witch?”

“Yes,” I say without hesitation.

“And how fearsome would my equal have to be?” he asks.

I shake my head, not sure how to answer. “They’d have to be very powerful and frightening to be your equal,” I finally say.

Memnon strokes my skin with his thumb. “I’m staring at her now.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he insists.

I part my mouth to protest further, but he says, “I know you are afraid, but you are underestimating your own strength, est amage. I have seen that strength many times, and you saw it yourself last night, when you were one against many. You are the frightening thing.”

He pulls me in closer. “But you can always draw on my power if it pleases you. As I said, I like being in you.”

His words should fluster me, but whatever is going on between the two of us, it leaves no room for embarrassment.

I stare into Memnon’s luminous brown eyes. “Why are you being so nice to me?” I whisper.

His eyes are soulful. “If there is one answer that should be obvious to you, it’s that one.”

I sneak a glance at his wicked mouth. As I stare, it spreads into a smile.

“Does my queen wish to kiss me?”

“Maybe,” I say honestly.

Memnon leans in close, that mouth no more than an inch from mine. “Have I told you how much I like the taste of your lips?” he says softly. “Like honeyed wine. It makes me eager to taste other parts of you. I bet they are even sweeter…”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. “God damn it, Memnon, you need to stop—” I haven’t even finished the sentence when he grabs me around my waist and lifts me into his arms.

I give a little yelp as he carries me across the room and into the adjoining hallway.

“You’re so godsdamned pretty when you’re flustered. Does my dirty talk embarrass you?” he asks, staring up at me.

Yes. “You’re still a stranger to me,” I say, as the candles around us flare to life.

“I’m not,” Memnon insists, leading us down the curving hallway. “You know I’m not. I’m your mate, and I’ve waited a very, very long time to reunite with you.”

He lowers me just enough to put my ear close to his mouth.

“I really can’t wait to taste you again, Empress,” he confesses. “I want to know if even after two thousand years, you make the same sounds when you come against my tongue. Or if you can still ride my cock better than I ride my steed.”

Maiden, Mother, and Crone.

“I am not talking about this with you.” I wiggle, trying to get out of his arms.

With a low, husky laugh, he sets me down. I back away from him, feeling all sorts of hot and bothered. But already, his eyes have moved from me to the rest of the room.

And that’s about when I realize we’re in the room where it all happened. He managed to distract me for the entire walk here, and I have no idea whether he did it deliberately to ease my fear or if he simply wanted to taunt me.

Now, as I watch Memnon, I can see his good mood drain away and the cold, merciless king he once was seep through.

He paces around the room, studying the space.

I glance around myself, my pulse climbing. The first thing I notice is that the shoes I wore are gone. First I feel annoyance—I only had a few pairs to begin with, and I have no money to replace them now—but then dread pools low in my stomach.

Witches can use a person’s belongings for all sorts of things—curses and hexes among them.

“What is it?” Memnon says, turning to me. “I can tell you’re nervous.”

I want to be indignant, but instead, curiosity gets the better of me. “How can you tell that?” I ask.

“Bonds go both ways, est amage.” Memnon flashes me a challenging look, daring me to defy his words.

I’m tired of arguing this with him, so I simply say, “I left shoes down here. They’re gone now. That’s why I’m nervous.”

He gives me a careful nod, even as tension coils in him. Turning back around, he continues to inspect the room. There’s nothing here. The room is bare of every single item the witches down here came with. There are no bloodstains left behind from the priestess, and there’s no debris from the magical explosion I set off.

“This place has been scrubbed,” Memnon says, echoing my thoughts.

He glances down one of the hallways that branch from the room. I think he’s going to do more exploring, and I cannot help the dread I feel at moving through those tunnels all over again.

The sorcerer turns instead and comes back to me.

“I’ve seen enough,” he says quietly. “We can go back up, Empress.”

After letting out a relieved breath, I try not to hustle too quickly back to the stairs, even though I’m not fooling either of us.

“Why did you want to come down here?” I ask as I head up the spiral staircase.

“Your enemies are my own,” Memnon replies. “Some have been dealt with”—that is a terrifying thing to hear—“and some have not. Those are the ones I want to understand.”

I take a deep breath. “You keep saying I have enemies, but I’ve never done anything bad in my life.” Besides waking you up…

“Tell me, est amage, how did you learn of this spell circle?” he asks at my back.

This…this is another frightening detail I haven’t spent much time focusing on. “A coven sister let me know about it.”

“How did she let you know of it?”

I try to focus on that, and the memory feels as though it’s just within grasp, but then—

“I can’t remember. All I know is that her name is Kasey, and she lives in my house.”

“Kasey.” He tests her name on his lips. “She lives in this house?”

I swallow. “Yeah.”

There’s a long ominous silence following that. I don’t really want to know what Memnon’s thinking.

“She brought you to the spell circle?” he asks as I step off the stairs.

“Yeah,” I say again, heading back over to the Ritual Room. It looks especially dark from this angle.

“Did she bring anyone else along?” Memnon asks at my back.

I turn to him. “No.”

“So you were singled out,” he says, his expression severe. “Someone wanted you and specifically you to be at that circle last night. That means you do have enemies, Selene. You just don’t know who they are—yet. But they are clearly aware of you.”

Goose bumps burst to life along my skin.

Memnon crosses into the Ritual Room and stops at my side. “You have worried enough on this for now, little witch. Stay guarded, but let me shoulder the burden.”

That sounds…really nice.

There’s that word again. Nice. Memnon is not nice. It’s not in his nature. Especially not to me, regardless of his pretty words about being mates.

“I will find who thought to hurt you,” he continues, “and they will suffer for it.”

“Please don’t hurt anyone,” I say.

He flashes me an amused look. “Have the years softened you, my queen?”

“I’m not your queen,” I say.

He gives me another look like I’m precious, then turns his attention to the archway. “Someone thought to control who can sneak unnoticed into and out of your home. Why don’t we turn their little trick back on them?” Memnon says to me, a calculated gleam in his eye.

He holds out his hand to me, palm up. It’s an open invitation to spellcast with this man.

I’ve used his power and fought it too. I’ve never deliberately mixed mine with it. I find that more than desiring safety and revenge, I’m eager to feel Memnon’s magic meld with mine.

I take his hand, facing the opening once more. Beneath my palm, my magic stirs to life. I’m still recovering from the power drain last night, but at the press of Memnon’s hand against mine, it wakes, twining around his fingers and wrist like a lover’s caress.

The sorcerer glances at our joined hands, his features pleased. His eyes rise and lock with mine, and for a moment, I’m somewhere else, somewhere where endless blue sky meets endless fields of wheat. Memnon wears that scale armor, his hair blowing in the breeze.

Just as quickly as it appears, the image is gone.

“Est amage?” Memnon says. My queen.

Yes. His queen.

Wait, no.

“Are you ready?” he asks, furrowing his brow.

I swallow, then nod, facing the archway.

I feel Memnon’s eyes on me for a moment longer before he too turns his attention to the opening.

A second later, his magic blooms to life, the dark blue plumes of it rolling off his body.

“From the seed of the air and the womb of the earth, I call forth creation. Fashion a wall to match those that surround it,” Memnon says, reverting to his mother tongue.

I feel our magic mixing where our hands touch. Memnon pulls on it, drawing my power into him.

I gasp at the sensation. Like he mentioned earlier, I can feel him in me, his own essence grasping mine, twisting my magic around his own. It leaves me breathless.

He continues. “Create an illusion made real to all who look upon it and all who touch it. Only we, your creators, shall hold the power to bring down such an illusion. By our command at the word reveal, you shall fall away.”

Our joined magic swirls together, making a deep purple color, one you might see at the end of sunset. It’s coalescing in front of us, fitting itself to the archway then smoothing out. The smoky appearance of our power solidifies and the color of it darkens.

“And at our command, conceal, you shall return to your false form.”

Need to write these words down—hell, I need to write this whole experience down—before I forget.

“Mask all traces of this spell so they blend in with those around us.”

The words Memnon’s using are simple enough, but the amount of power and magical precision it takes to actually execute any of this is astronomical.

As more of my magic seeps out and joins with Memnon’s, I stare in awe. Memnon is a master at what he does, as talented as he is thorough and devious.

The shimmering residue left behind in the spell’s wake takes on the same pale sheen that matches the other wards and enchantments placed around the room. If I stared really, really hard, I’d see that the edges of it are laced a dusky deep purple—because not even the best spells can completely override their innate truth.

But this one comes pretty damn close.

With Memnon’s final words, the last of our magic leaves us, and the wall solidifies. I step forward and run my hand over it. It feels and looks…exactly as it should. Solid. Mundane. Seamless. It’s just one long, uninterrupted surface.

“Reveal,” I say in Sarmatian.

The wall falls away, and my hand slips forward through empty air. I can see the spiral staircase ahead of us once more.

I step back. “Conceal.”

All at once, the open doorway becomes a wall again.

A startled little laugh escapes me because I helped make this.

I feel Memnon’s eyes on my face, and when I glance at him, his own features are full of longing.

“That laugh…” he says reverently. Then his expression grows determined.

I clear my throat, trying to break the strange moment. “What we did probably breaks a law or three,” I say. I mean, I don’t know that, but this feels naughty enough for it to be a crime.

“You have forgotten how power works, little witch. It is one of the few things time hasn’t changed.” He smirks at me, the dim light in the room exaggerating his scar. “Modern people act like they’ve evolved into something…palatable. They pretend they don’t hunger for blood and destruction, and they almost have themselves fooled.” The shadows in the room have exaggerated Memnon’s features, turning him sinister.

“But, est amage,” he continues, “there is only one law humans ever follow: might makes right. We were strong enough to take this doorway, so now it is ours.”

“That’s not how the world works,” I argue.

His smoky-brown eyes glint. “Careful now, Selene. You’re thinking like an idealist. Bad men use such thoughts for their own gain.”

Memnon closes the last of the distance between us. Even the way he moves is confident. And why wouldn’t he be confident? He is physically powerful, wickedly intelligent, and has enough magic to wipe out a city. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who possesses so much strength.

He searches my face again, then peers into my eyes.

“Strange,” he murmurs curiously.

“What is strange?” I ask, distracted by how alluring he is. Even now, heat pools in me.

“Your memory and my legacy are both gone,” he muses. “Mine has been cast from the record, but it still lingers in my mind, while yours has been cast from your mind but still lingers in the record…”

My brows pinch together as his eyes grow distant.

“Damnatio memoriae,” he says, reaching out and stroking my cheek with his knuckles. “That’s the curse you would’ve used…”

Curse?

“I’ve never cursed another person in my entire life,” I say, indignant.

“That you can remember,” he tacks on, his knuckles still warm against my skin.

I narrow my gaze at him.

“But you cannot remember,” he says again, his gaze far away.

All at once those eyes sharpen as some realization snaps into place.

His hand drops from my cheek. “The Law of Three,” he says, like it’s all so obvious. “The Witch’s Law.”

I know what he’s speaking of—every witch does. It’s our equivalent of the Golden Rule. The Law of Three is the principle that rules all spellwork. It states that any magic you perform—good or bad—will return to you threefold.

His gaze is heavy on mine. “Est amage, you cursed yourself.”

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