Текст книги "Bewitched"

Автор книги: Laura Thalassa

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

CHAPTER 35

I haven’t seen Kasey. Not for days.

At first, it’s a relief. Not seeing her means not having to deal with the fallout from the spell circle. But the longer I don’t see or hear from her, the more nervous I grow.

It’s not until I’m sitting out on the back patio on Thursday afternoon, drinking mint mojitos and painting my nails with Sybil that my peace is shattered.

“Evanora hasn’t heard from Kasey either,” a nearby coven sister says to her friend. “Not since Saturday.”

I glance over at the woman who spoke, startled to hear Kasey’s name on her lips. She wears her snake familiar draped around her neck like a necklace, while her friend is enchanting a broom to make it hover.

Her friend catches her broom by the handle and whispers an incantation into the wood that makes it lower itself to the ground.

She turns to the other witch. “Do you think…?”

Do you think she was murdered? I’m sure that’s what she intended to say.

My heart pounds harder, and I can hear my pulse between my ears.

Was Kasey mortally wounded that night? Or did Memnon go after her? I mentioned to him that I was worried about her.

“I don’t know,” says the witch with the serpent familiar. “I mean, it seems possible, right?”

Sybil nudges me with her shoulder. “Are you okay, Selene?” she asks, watching my face, then glancing at the witches.

I nod, then shake my head. I don’t know what I’m feeling. I still haven’t processed any of what happened to me over the weekend, and I haven’t dared to tell my friend about it. I’ve carried it all around like a dirty little secret, and I’ve shamefully hoped my magic might steal away the memories before I have to deal with them.

Abruptly, I stand, knocking over my glittery purple nail polish. “I just…don’t feel so well.” Not a lie. “I think…I think I’m going to go lie down a bit.”

Before my friend can respond, I’m capping my nail polish and grabbing my mojito and fleeing back inside our house.

Sybil calls after me, but I pretend not to hear it.

I cut through the dining room, then down the hall, then up the stairs. I’m nearly to my room when I feel the muffled buzz of my phone from the pocket of my pants.

I ignore it, knowing it must be Sybil sending me a concerned text. I’ll be fine once I have a moment to myself.

I just need a moment.

Nero is waiting for me inside my room, curled up at the foot of my bed like some mutant house cat.

After setting my nail polish and mojito on my desk, I move over to him. I wrap my arms around his neck and bury my face in his soft fur.

Beneath me, my familiar makes a put-out noise.

“I love you, you big grumpy cat. I don’t care that you’re not touchy-feely. You are the best familiar a witch could ask for.”

For a long moment, my familiar doesn’t move. When he does, however, it’s to bump his head against mine and rub his face against me.

Nero lets me hold him for several minutes longer, until the moment is broken by another buzz from my phone.

I sigh, releasing him.

I pull out my phone and see several notifications. Two are texts from Sybil, asking me what’s going on and if I’m really okay. Another text is from my mother, who shared a picture from her and my father’s extended tour of Europe. In it, the two of them are drinking beer at Oktoberfest—cute. The last notification is an email from Peel Academy.

They got back to me about my Awakening records.

I open my messages and quickly text Sybil back that I’m fine and everything is okay and nothing at all is wrong (because why would anything be wrong?) and I’m 110 percent groovy like a movie.

I bite back my hysterical laugh.

Then I open my email.

There’s a response to my earlier inquiry about my Awakening results, but I don’t even bother reading it once I see they included an attachment labeled Bowers_Selene_results. I click on the PDF file, and my official Awakening record appears.

I scroll past the information at the top, which lists my name, date of birth, and date of Awakening. My actual results are near the bottom of the page.

The notes are brief.

Awoken Supernatural Categories:

Witch

Soul Mate

OceanofPDF.com

CHAPTER 36

Three years ago, I was given a draught of bittersweet, and my powers Awoke. I only remembered one of them—that I’m a witch.

But apparently, there was a secondary one I forgot.

That I’m a soul mate.

It’s right there, typed neatly onto the document bearing Peel Academy’s seal.

Soul mate.

I can all but hear Memnon’s voice in my ear.

Mate.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I press my hand to my forehead and push my hair back.

That swamp monster I revived from undying sleep was right this whole time? Memnon is really, truly my soul mate? And I mean, okay, he’s not a swamp monster—he’s devilishly handsome, and I think I might have fallen in love with him a little after I invited him into my bed, but he also believes we were lovers two thousand years ago.

And now I have to seriously entertain that idea.

Goddess, why me?

I blow out a breath. Let’s take it one step at a time, Selene.

I go to my shelf and glance down the line of magic-related books until I get to one on types of supernaturals. I pull it out and plop on my bed next to Nero, flipping to its glossary. Then I run my finger over page after page of definitions until I get to the one I’m looking for.

Soul mate

n. one of a pair or a group of amorous supernaturals who are bonded through an unbreakable magical connection

I grimace at the word amorous, and then my eyes reread the last bit of the definition.

An unbreakable magical connection.

No. No, no, no.

We’re in denial again, I see. Memnon’s earlier words float through my head like a taunt.

My panic is interrupted when my phone buzzes…then keeps buzzing.

Worst time ever for my friend to call.

I answer without looking. “Sybil, I promise you, I’m fine.”

I’m not fine at all. Not even a little bit.

A gruff voice clears their throat, and shit, this is not Sybil.

“Ms. Bowers?” a masculine voice says, one I vaguely recognize.

“Uh…yeah, sorry, hi there,” I say, trying to recover the pieces of my dignity.

“This is Officer Howahkan with the Politia. We spoke at the beginning of the week. Do you have a moment?”

My mind is screaming, I am a soul mate! I clear my throat. “Yeah, sure.” That sounded normal and not hysterical, right?

“We are trying to solidify your alibi”—that pulls me into the moment—“and I wanted to follow up with you on getting your notebooks so we can create a comprehensive timeline for you.”

This…sounds a lot like I’m a suspect.

And yet I feel a wave of relief. They want my notebooks. Even though Officer Howahkan couldn’t clear me based on what he saw in my planner, that doesn’t mean something in one of my other planners won’t cover my ass. I have two others I’m also using at the moment, and a few others might have some overlap.

As soon as the Politia gets a good look at all of them, it’ll be clear I have an ironclad alibi and a large paper trail. This is my chance to get myself off the suspect list.

“Of course,” I say, nibbling on a half-painted nail. “Anything you want to look at, you can see.” So long as it gets me cleared, I’m fine with it.

“Great,” the officer says. “Will you be home tomorrow afternoon?”

“I have class until two. But after that, I’ll be home for the rest of the day.”

“All right, then I’ll have one of my colleagues swing by sometime between then and five to collect them.”

Officer Howahkan and I end the call shortly after that, and I drop my phone and rub the heel of my hands into my eyes.

As much as I want to focus on what it means to be a suspect, my mind keeps going to that email. To the fact I really am a soul mate.

I’m going to have to save a copy of those results and write them down in a billion different places just so I don’t forget again. I should do that right now.

Instead, I roll onto my back, my shoulder bumping against Nero’s body. I place a hand over my heart and close my eyes.

The truth I’ve ignored has been right here this whole time. That magical river, the one I drew Memnon’s magic from, is still there, patiently waiting for me to notice it. It’s time I stopped denying its existence.

The moment I focus on it, really focus on it, I can sense the sorcerer’s power on the other end, along with a brief glimpse of his mood, which seems to be calm yet determined.

That little insight causes my breath to catch and warmth to bloom low in my belly. I’m literally connected to another person. I can feel him.

And for good or for ill, he may actually be my person.

I take a deep breath, remembering the trick he taught me some time ago.

Memnon? I push the word down that magical river, sending it out like a message in a bottle.

I wait, my eyes still closed.

Did it work? Did I manage to—?

Est amage, you are using our connection…

I can hear Memnon’s pleasure in his response. I can even feel warmth in his words. That warmth goes against every other aspect about him, and yet something about it makes me want him in an entirely new way, one that has nothing to do with his sex appeal.

I exhale, trying to calm the turbulent storm of my emotions. I focus on what I want to say to him and push it down our…bond.

I don’t understand any of this, but I believe you. I take another deep breath and finish the thought. You’re my soul mate, and I’m yours.

Memnon’s initial response isn’t a sentence, it’s a feeling: hope. There’s some other emotions mixed with it—triumph, and maybe a touch of regret? It all flitters by too fast for me to make sense of, especially on top of my own tangle of emotions.

Est amage, I have yearned to hear you say those words. I am coming over…

A wave of panic washes over me.

Wait.

I am still processing the fact I’m actually a soul mate at all. I’m not really ready to face Memnon or deal with the reality of what being his mate actually means. Especially considering that the last time I saw him, he had just gone down on me, and that alone has my nerves and my heart all jumbled.

I want to talk, but my head is a mess, I admit. Can you come over tomorrow instead?

I may at least have some things sorted out by then.

From Memnon’s side I sense a massive amount of emotion being tamped down.

Tomorrow then…he agrees. After a moment, he adds, Sweet dreams, little witch…

No more sex dreams! I send back down our bond.

In response, I hear an echo of his laughter, the sound of it opening an ache in me so sharp, it’s hard to breathe around.

Memnon’s presence recedes from the bond, and though I’m sure I could still pass messages to him, it’s a clear signal that he’s giving me the space I just requested, space that now feels gapingly lonely.

I rub my forehead.

Memnon and I are really soul mates.

Fuck.

The next morning, right as I’m about to leave my room and head down to breakfast, I step on an envelope someone must’ve slipped under my door.

I bend and pick it up. It smells like rosemary and lavender, and the loopy scrawl of my name is written in iridescent ink.

Pretty.

I open the envelope and read the brief message inside.

You’ve been summoned to the private chambers of the high priestess of Henbane Coven. Please forgo your scheduled classes and come at once.

This…can’t be good.

In group-led witchcraft, there’s often a priestess, a witch who leads the spellcasting. Covens too have a version of this, and the witches who lead these regional groups are known as high priestesses.

I’ve never met Henbane’s high priestess before, but I’ve caught sight of her house several times since I was accepted into the coven. It sits like a castle in the woods to the north of campus. Climbing roses and wisteria cover the sides of the pale stone walls. Birds and butterflies flitter around it. It’s the definition of enchanting, though there’s an eeriness to it because it’s too enchanting, too lovely. It mesmerizes the eyes while unsettling the heart.

Magic, no matter how benevolently used, has that effect.

I step up to the large wooden door, Nero at my side, and reach for a knocker held between the fanged teeth of some primordial goddess. Before I can touch it, the knocker cackles.

“No need for that, Selene Bowers. We’ve been waiting for you,” the knocker says around the metal in her mouth.

Goose bumps break out across my skin at the small show of magic. The hinges of the door groan, and then it swings inward of its own accord.

I don’t know what I expect when I step inside—to be honest, I don’t know why I’m here at all—but I’m surprised to see the bare stone walls and smooth floor, the only decoration another primitive goddess figurine sitting in a nearby alcove, her arms raised above her head. Most witches tend to be maximalists, cluttering their walls and spaces with every conceivable knickknack. The lack of it all is strangely unsettling.

There are arched doorways and a myriad of rooms branching from the entryway, but it’s the stairway directly in front of me, the one cut like a slash into the floor of the foyer that has my attention.

“Down here,” a woman calls from below.

The high priestess.

I can tell it’s her without even seeing her face or knowing her name. There’s power folded into her words.

I take the stairs down, Nero at my side. Despite my familiar’s soothing presence, my nerves are set on edge. Dread has long since soured my stomach. I must be in trouble. Maybe it’s the murders. Or perhaps this is about the fight in the Everwoods. Or Nero poaching on lycanthrope territory.

I honestly have a lot to account for.

But I try to push those worrying thoughts away.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and enter a subterranean room whose floors and walls are covered in the same pale stone as the rest of the house.

Directly across from me, on the other side of the room, sits the high priestess. She’s a crone, her skin wrinkled and paper-thin. Her dark brown eyes shine like gems, and there is something beautiful and strong about her—perhaps it is her power alone that makes her hard to look away from.

Magic loves old things most of all.

She wears white robes, gold clasps holding the garment together at her shoulders. Her hair lies like unspun yarn over her shoulders and down past her breasts. A white raven sits on her shoulder.

“Sit.”

I don’t think the high priestess used any compulsion on me, but I swear my ass has crossed the room and lowered itself into the seat across from her before the echo of her voice has quieted.

She folds her hands under her chin, leaving only her index fingers out to tap ponderously against her mouth.

“You don’t seem like a murderess,” she says thoughtfully, “but then again, the guilty often don’t.”

What?

“What are you talking about?”

She gives me a knowing look. “You don’t think I’m so big a fool that I’m unaware the Politia suspects your involvement in the recent murders.”

The silence that follows those words is thick and ugly.

“I didn’t kill those women,” I say softly.

She leans back in her chair, her eyes moving to Nero, who sits next to me.

“I have long found comfort belowground,” she says, switching topics. “My own magic is particularly potent when drawn from deeper earth. Bedrock, in particular, is a very grounding, very powerful substance to draw from. Wouldn’t you agree?”

She levels those dark eyes on me, and it’s as though she can see me entering the subterranean rooms below the residence hall to join that spell circle. As though she can even see me entering Memnon’s forbidden crypt.

I twist my hands together. “I don’t think I follow…”

“Don’t play coy with me, Selene Bowers. You have lost your memory, not your wits. The oldest, most eternal parts of the universe call to you. Water, stone—even the moon.”

How does she know about my magical aptitudes? Even I can only vaguely remember them.

“Many people consider these cold, lifeless things,” the high priestess continues. She leans forward conspiratorially. “They call to me as well.”

She resettles in her seat, her white raven turning its head and inspecting me with one of its dark eyes.

“Supernaturals—even other witches—worry about those of us bewitched by such things because…well, we are more prone to dark enchantments and perverse magic.”

Ah. So that’s what this is about.

“I didn’t kill those women,” I say again, more forcefully this time. “Please, use a truth spell on me if that’s what it takes.”

“Your own mind hides itself from you, Selene. Such a spell would not fully prove your innocence. You must know this.”

I don’t know what this meeting is, but it’s clear that perhaps I now have to prove my innocence to two different institutions—the Politia and Henbane Coven.

I take a deep breath. “I spent over a year trying to get into this coven. Being here has been my dream since I Awoke as a witch. Even if you cannot trust me when I say I hold life to be sacred, you can at least trust that I would never want to jeopardize my spot here.”

The high priestess scrutinizes me, seeing entirely too much of me with those enthralling eyes of hers.

“Yes,” she agrees, “your Awakening profoundly shaped your life’s goals—just as it shapes all of us who come into our truest forms. But,” she continues, her tone changing, “you are not just a witch.”

I go still. So still.

She knows exactly what I’ve only just learned.

“You are a soul mate.” The high priestess tosses it out there as though it’s something almost mundane and not the earth-shattering revelation I find it to be.

“I wonder how that might affect your life’s goals,” she muses, “particularly depending on the soul mate…”

Where is she going with this?

Does she know about Memnon?

She stares at me for a long minute before turning her attention to papers sitting on the desk in front of her.

“The Politia officers aren’t the only ones who are interested in you. The lycanthropes have been barraging me with requests to speak with you. They say it’s urgent, but they will not tell me what it is.”

She gives me a sly look. “They forget that witches see much, and we perceive even more. They do not believe you a murderess. In fact, they seem to hold you in quite high esteem.”

For a moment, my unease and self-doubt disappears, and my worries diminish.

The high priestess holds my gaze. “Would you like to speak with the wolves?”

Do I have a choice?

“You always have a choice.”

Aw fuck, can this broad read minds?

I try to erase the rude thought, but obviously, it’s too late.

The high priestess stares at me, her face expressionless.

“Yeah.” The word comes out like a croak, so I clear my throat and try again. “I would like to speak to the wolves.”

“Very well. I will let them know, and they will contact you. You are to continue to attend classes as usual. You will be watched. I hope that the next time we meet, circumstances will be different. That is all.”

OceanofPDF.com

CHAPTER 37

When I enter my room, Memnon is already there, sprawled on my computer chair, wearing a shirt with some name-brand bourbon and too many rings to count, all while flipping through one of my notebooks.

I freeze.

“What are you doing here?” I say a little breathlessly. My stomach does a happy little flip at the sight of him, and I remember all over again just what the two of us did in this room less than a week ago.

The sorcerer glances up from my notebook, and his mouth curves into a sly, knowing smile. “I’m happy to see you too, est amage. Or would you prefer I called you mate?”

I release a shaky breath. He’s clearly already enjoying the hell out of my earlier admission. And I find I want to argue with him, even though I already conceded this point.

Nero pushes past me to rub against the sorcerer’s leg.

Memnon reaches down and gives my familiar a pet. “You asked to speak with me today,” he reminds me. “So here I am.”

Right. Right.

I close my door, then turn to face him once more. My heart beats fast as I take him in, from the top of his wavy hair to the bottom of his shit-kicking boots. Every line of him is violent and beautiful and intimidating and overbearing.

I’m bonded to that.

“Little witch,” Memnon says softly, and his eyes have gentled. “You don’t need to look so frightened.”

I exhale. He’s right. This is all going to be fi—

“I promise I only bite when you ask me to,” he adds.

A small semihysterical sound slips from my lips, and I take a step back.

I’m not ready for this conversation. I thought I might be, but I think I need more time.

Memnon puts up a hand. “Wait, Selene, fight me, curse me—well, maybe not that one—just please don’t run.”

I hesitate, unused to this side of Memnon. He’s being raw and vulnerable with me. I drop my book bag then and scrub my face with my hands.

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“Do what, Amage?”

I drop my hands and look at him. “Be a soul mate. Come to terms with the fact you’re it for me.”

Memnon sets my notebook aside. “You say that like this is a burden.” He shakes his head and stands, closing in on me. “This is what men kill and die for. What no amount of wealth can buy. Love. One that could set whole nations on fire.” He takes my chin then, giving me a look that’s as close to adoration as one can get. “You cannot fathom it, little witch, only because you cannot remember that you once had it. But I remember.”

This close to me, Memnon is hypnotic, compelling.

“It didn’t end well for you though,” I say.

“End…” he muses, dragging the word out on his lips. “An era ended. We did not.”

He’s looking at my lips now, and an ache starts up within me, one that only he can soothe.

“You threatened me,” I say. “And I know you must still be angry with me.”

“Oh, I am,” he agrees. “But I grow eager for my vengeance to be sated and for this era to end too. You and I, Empress, we are eternal.”

My magic is seeping out from my skin, as is his. The two twist and cur around us, the colors blending until a dusky purple remains.

I want to kiss him again—hell, I always want to kiss the man—but this feels too much like throwing myself off a cliff. I don’t know where I’m going to land or if I’m going to like it at all.

I pull away from Memnon, forcing my magic back inside me.

Memnon’s gaze moves over me, and he looks a little sad, but there’s also a lot of understanding in his eyes. “I keep forgetting how skittish you are in the beginning,” he murmurs.

My brows draw together.

“When I found you in Rome,” he continues, “you were nervous around me too. But that changed, and it will again. Once you remember.”

“Remember?” I echo.

“Our past,” he says, backing away from me.

You give an ancient sorcerer a single crumb of hope, and he starts asking for the whole damn feast.

“That’s not possible,” I say.

“It’s not possible?” he repeats, lifting his brows. “If it weren’t possible, you wouldn’t be able to speak Latin or Sarmatian. You wouldn’t be able to read Greek or Aramaic or Demotic.”

What the hell is Demotic?

Memnon grabs my journal from my desk, and immediately, I tense. My mind and life are laid bare in those pages.

He flips to a particular page and turns the notebook to me. It’s full of writing crammed together in various colors, some of the text highlighted, some crossed out.

He points to a doodle I scribbled in the corner. “Do you see this?” he asks me.

What he’s referring to looks like nothing more than the crests of a wave, except on top of each crest blooms a three-petaled flower. It’s a strange design, clearly something I drew while I was zoning out.

Memnon lifts the sleeve of his shirt and points to one of his tattoos. “Those are the horns of a saiga on my arm.”

I take a step forward, momentarily transfixed. My drawing does look eerily similar to the artwork on his arm.

“This page is from three months ago,” he says. “You drew this before you ever saw me.”

My heart seems to stop at that. I can deny Memnon’s ravings but not my own records.

Could I really be this other woman?

Roxilana?

“I can show you more examples from your books if you’d like more proof,” he adds.

I narrow my gaze at him. “Just how many of my journals have you gone through?”

Those are private.

“You’re trying to change the subject, Roxi,” he says, snapping the notebook shut. “What I am telling you is that your memories have not been destroyed. They still exis;, they’re simply locked away. But, if you had the key to that lock, you could retrieve them all.”

My blood pounds between my ears.

Memnon glances at the journal he holds again. “These notebooks are so meticulous, so thorough. How important they must be,” he says, running his thumb over the dark blue cover, where I scribbled in gold Sharpie the dates when I used this journal. This one is from June and July of this year.

The sorcerer’s eyes flick to the book bag at my feet, and the air thickens with his magic. The flap of my satchel flicks open, and my latest notebook slides out, lifting into the air.

“What are you doing?” I grab for it, but it slips like butter through my fingers.

Memnon catches my planner in his free hand, and now panic rises in me.

“Seriously, Memnon, I need that back.” The Politia’s coming later today to look at these very journals.

I don’t want anyone pawing at them in the meantime—especially not Memnon.

Ignoring me, he sets my journal from the summer on my desk and opens my latest notebook before flipping through it.

“Oh, there’s a Samhain Witch’s Ball happening at the end of the week.” He reads the reminder like it’s a diary entry. “Sounds like fun.”

I fold my arms and force myself to chill out. “Are you done?” I ask. Whatever rise he wants to get out of me, he won’t get it.

“I can give you your memory back,” he says, not looking up from my notebook.

My breath catches at his words. It’s one thing to tell me that my lost memories exist; it’s another to tell me I can retrieve them.

“No one can give me that,” I finally say. I don’t even let myself ponder what life would be like with them back.

Now Memnon looks up from my journal, his smoky-amber eyes glinting. “My queen, I can.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“But don’t you? Aren’t you tired of not remembering? How much easier would life be if you didn’t always forget?”

He’s the devil in my ear, offering me the one thing I’m supposed to want. The thing I used to have, before my magic Awoke.

My memory.

I shake my head. “What you’re saying is impossible.”

“It’s actually quite simple. Your power is bound up in a curse—the one you placed on us both when you locked me in that tomb.”

I frown at him, not liking where this conversation is going. Nero must not either because he slinks over to the window and leaps out onto the bough of the tree outside, then prowls out of sight.

Memnon continues. “The Romans called it damnatio memoriae—to condemn from memory. To cast into oblivion. It was one of the worst fates you could inflict on a person of power.”

And this is where Memnon’s true purpose is coming into focus.

“If the curse is lifted, it’s not just my memory that returns, is it? You’ll be remembered too, won’t you?”

His eyes are alight with the first true stirrings of his power. “Yes,” he agrees. “My name and my kingdom will return to the historical record. I want the world to remember me. But”—and now he switches into Sarmatian—“my queen, more than even that, I want you to remember me. To remember us and our life. I cannot be the sole bearer of our past. That is…” He shakes his head slowly, his smoky eyes burning. “Unendurable.”

My heart aches at what he’s saying.

Assuming I am, by some strange magic and twist of fate, this Roxilana, then—

“Have you ever considered that I may better off not knowing the past?” I ask. “Perhaps some things are best left buried.”

Memnon holds my gaze, his own still glowing with his power. “I told you, Selene. Whatever made you curse me, we can work it out. We will work it out.”

I shake my head. “You say that like I’ve agreed to any of this.”

“You are under a curse, mate. One made by your own hand. Of course we will remove it—for my sake and yours. And then you will get your memories back, and we can resolve whatever came between us.”

I feel my ire stir, and for some reason, tears prick at my eyes. Why must everything come back to my memory loss? Why must others think fixing it is what I want most? Or that the loss of my memories is the sum of my identity? Why must they make me feel as though I am not enough as I am? Why can’t they see that my ambition, my heart, my fucking optimism—all the best parts of me—have been borne and shaped by my memory loss?

And I know Memnon doesn’t exactly hold those views—he’s made it clear he’s really only interested in the memories from our deep past—but he’s still willing to cleave away this part of me.

The truth is that I have never been more powerful than I am now. I am kinder, cleverer, and more authentic because of my memory loss. Not despite it.

I stare at Memnon for a long time.

“No,” I finally say.

Goddess, but that felt good. Cathartic, even.

He raises an eyebrow, watching me carefully with those simmering eyes of his.

I don’t bend.

I am a witch, descended from a line of witches who were persecuted for things others couldn’t understand. I am their legacy, and I will make them proud.

“No,” I say again, louder this time. “I don’t want my memories—I don’t want any of it.”

Memnon narrows his eyes. “You misunderstand, est amage. I’m not here to bargain with you. I’m not even here to demand something of you. Not yet.”

Memnon sets my notebook atop the other one already on my desk; then he straightens. At his full height, he dwarfs me and the rest of the room.

He steps up to me and takes my chin, tilting it toward him. His eyes have stopped glowing, but they are no less intense when he leans forward and kisses me, the action unspeakably gentle.

When he pulls away, there’s something like regret in his eyes. “How intriguing you are like this. There is something disarming and downright appealing to this side of you. But you are as much a panther as I am. It is time you remembered.”

My own power sparks to life at those last words. “Memnon,” I say in warning, “don’t make me your enemy in earnest.”

“Oh, it is too late for that, little witch. Much too late.” He leans in again and whispers, “I still have not had my vengeance. Not until now.”

I don’t know what he’s talking about, not until the two notebooks on my desk lift into the air, his indigo magic twisting around them. Then I start to have an idea.