Текст книги "Bewitched"

Автор книги: Laura Thalassa

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“I think it is poetically fitting that you be lost in this world,” he continues, “just as I have been lost.”

“Memnon,” I caution him.

“Gods, but how I have always enjoyed it when you turn my name into a threat,” he says. “But I don’t want your anger right now, Empress. I want your panic and your desperation. I want you to come groveling back to me. I want you to need me the way I have always needed you.” He backs up as he speaks.

“Memnon,” I say again, “give me back my notebooks.” I feel my own magic stirring to life.

“Maybe if you beg for mercy nicely,” he says, “I’ll spare you the worst of my wrath.”

“You motherfucker.”

“That’s not begging nicely,” he says, grinning, like this is all fun for him. Seven hells, I’m sure it is. Memnon is one part violence and one part vengeance. “Try again.”

“Memnon, I swear to the goddess—”

My two notebooks go up in flames. Right in the middle of my sentence, as the sorcerer’s eyes brighten with devilish delight, my notebooks go up in flames.

I suck in a breath.

My memories.

My magic lashes out of me, winding around the journals, desperate to smother the flames. I yank on my power, trying to bring them to the ground, but they continue to hover in midair, burning.

“Memnon!” I practically cry, scrambling onto my desk so I can try to snatch them out of the air myself. “I depend on those.”

“It’s a terrible thing to see your entire life’s work go up in flames, isn’t it?” As he speaks, the rows of notebooks that fill my bookshelf catch fire.

I scream, the sound mingling with his laughter.

Years of work is literally going up in smoke. But it’s not just my memories he’s burning.

“I need these notebooks for the Politia,” I say, trying another angle. “They’re my alibi.” And thus my ticket off the suspect list they have me on.

“You won’t need them once you have your memories back.”

Ignoring Memnon, I put a hand to my head as I search my mind for a spell strong enough to put out these flames. Desperation is making it hard to think.

I close my eyes and drop my hand. I don’t need a freaking spell. I have all the raw power right at my fingertips.

Memnon wraps his arms around me in some sick simulacrum of a hug, stopping my spell in its tracks. It’s not love, or care, or reassurance he has to offer.

His lips brush my ear. “Your efforts are wasted, Empress. You have felt my power. You know you will not be able to put out my fire. Not today.”

I open my eyes and turn my head to glare at him, a tear slipping out. “Fix this. Please.”

He wanted me to plead with him. I’m giving him exactly what he wants. Right now, I don’t care.

Memnon holds my gaze, his smoky amber eyes taking in my reaction. There’s a moment there where he looks almost perplexed, as though he’s not sure what he’s doing. The flames around us dim, and I think he will in fact fix this. But then his features turn resolute once more.

“No.”

Memnon releases me, moving his gaze to my bookshelf, where my life is burning away. Many of the memories in those books have already been eaten up by my magic. Those notes and drawings were all I had left of them.

Despite his words, I do try to use my power to put out the flames. Just like he warned, my magic does nothing but momentarily make the flames flicker.

The acrid smell of smoke fills the air, the plumes of it mingling with Memnon’s magic. Despite that, the fire doesn’t seem to be spreading. My shelved novels and textbooks—and hell, the shelves themselves—sit there intact. Only my precious journals burn.

I stare up at the two notebooks still in midair, watching page after page blacken and char, scorched bits flaking off and fluttering to the floor.

In the distance, I can hear another woman saying, “You smell something?”

Her companion replies, “Probably just Juliette burning another spell.”

My cheeks are wet. I didn’t even realize I was crying. “Why are you doing this?” I say to Memnon. My life was already a dumpster fire before he entered it. “Not even my queen gets away with ruining my life.”

I feel myself shaking, though everything else in me is disturbingly calm.

“I hate you,” I whisper.

I really do.

A muscle in his jaw jumps, but his eyes look confident, certain. “Only because you cannot remember that you once loved me,” he says.

Does he not see? He is standing in my room, ruining my life, and breaking my heart, and he thinks some lifetime thousands of years ago matters to me?

“Fuck the past, and fuck you.” There is so much more bottled up in me, so many emotions I can’t put words to.

Memnon must feel them churning inside me through our bond because he says, “Do you think this is the worst I can do, little witch?” His eyes are sharp as knives. “I have watered entire fields with the blood of men I’ve killed. This is the least of my vengeance.”

His eyes flick to what’s left of my two journals that hover in the air.

“Let’s see how well you fare without your precious books. You have until the Samhain Ball.”

I have until the Samhain Ball to what? Beg some more? Come groveling his way? Whatever he wants, hell will freeze over before he gets it.

“You made a mistake crossing me.” The words come from deep within me, my power swirling out of me as I speak.

The look Memnon gives me blazes with satisfaction. “There’s my queen.”

I grimace at him. “I would rather spend a thousand lifetimes forgetting my past than spend one remembering yours.”

I think I might’ve imagined it, but I swear I saw him flinch.

“You can rot, Memnon.”

He steps up to me, his eyes stormy. A muscle in his cheek clenches and unclenches. “Tough words, witch. Let’s see if you can stand by them.” He moves to the door, even as my notebooks continue to burn.

“I’ll see you at the Samhain Ball, Empress.”

And then he’s gone.

OceanofPDF.com

CHAPTER 38

It takes only a handful of minutes before the crackle of fire quiets.

Smoke drifts from the notebooks that now lie in scorched heaps on my shelves.

My levitating notebooks fall to the ground, disintegrating into ash when they hit the floorboards.

I make a small noise at the sight. I can still feel wetness on my cheeks, but I’m too determined to see what’s left of my journals to pay much attention to my emotions.

I move over to my notebooks, reaching for the more intact ones. They’re still hot to the touch, but that doesn’t stop me from examining them to see what’s left.

The photos have melted away, and the paper is too charred to make out the writing and sketches that once covered the pages.

I swallow my rising emotion.

The ones that fared the best seem to be the oldest books, the ones least relevant to my life. The only mercy Memnon gave me was that he didn’t touch my photo albums.

So I guess that’s a win.

I sit heavily on my bed and put my head in my hands.

The oak tree outside rustles. Then Nero hops back into the room, as though he can sense my sadness.

Actually, now that I understand bonds, he probably can.

Nero comes up to me, rubbing his head against my shoulder.

“Fat lot of good you did there,” I say, wiping my eyes.

He rubs the rest of his body against my side, shameless about the fact he was a total traitor.

Need to write down what I can remember.

I cross over to my desk before pulling out one of the wooden drawers along its side. In it rests a stack of notebooks.

For all my faults, I am organized. And optimistic and kind and clever.

But now I’m also determined.

After grabbing a new notebook, I pull out a pen and begin writing.

First my name, my date of birth, and my parents’ names. Important phone numbers, addresses, and so on. Anything and everything I truly could not bear for my mind to lose.

Then I write down a warning.

Do not trust Memnon the Cursed.

You woke him from eternal sleep. He believes you’re his dead wife who betrayed him. He wants to make you pay.

He is your soul mate, but he is an ASSHOLE. He burned all your previous notebooks. He will fuck you over again if he gets the chance.

You hate him with every fiber of your being.

A tear hits the page. Then another and another. I can’t decide if I’m sad or angry.

Nothing to do about it now but move forward and plot my own revenge.

I write out the days of the week on the next blank page of my notebook, penning in the Samhain Ball under Saturday’s date. I circle the event in red and write a note next to it:

MEMNON WANTS YOU TO ATTEND.

I’m still not entirely sure whether I will attend or not. I hate the idea of agreeing to his demands, but he also woke in me a thirst for revenge that I had no idea existed until now. But every second I breathe in the smell of smoke, I grow more bloodthirsty and bitter.

He will pay for this.

That promise is the only thing warming my cold, dejected heart.

I’m still writing when there’s a knock on the door.

“Yeah?” I call out, cringing when I hear the waver in my voice.

“Selene,” a witch says on the other side of the door, “there’s an officer at the front door who’s asking for you.”

I take a deep breath, a queasy wave of dread unsettling my stomach.

Goddess, it’s time to face the fallout of what just happened.

I stand inside my room, Nero at my side, while Officer Howahkan and his partner, Officer Mwangi, take in the smoldering remains of my notebooks.

Officer Howahkan is the first to speak. “Are those your…?”

“Yeah,” I say hoarsely.

It’s quiet for several seconds.

He lets out a heavy sigh. “You burned your journals?” He asks it like he’s not truly surprised, just disappointed. “You realize how this looks.”

Yeah, it looks like I’m fucking guilty.

“I didn’t burn them,” I snap.

The officer’s face remains impassive. “Who did?”

“Memnon.”

I see a flicker of recognition from Officer Mwangi. “Memnon—is that the same man who broke into this bedroom a few weeks ago?” she asks.

I nod.

“And he was here again?”

Another nod.

“How did he get in?” she asks. Because according to official records, last time this happened, he broke in through a window.

“I don’t know—with magic, I suspect. He was in my room when I got here.”

“And he’s the one who burned your books?” Officer Mwangi asks.

“Yes,” I say softly.

“Why would he do that?”

I hug my arms. “To be cruel.”

“And why would he want to be cruel?” Officer Mwangi asks. I can’t tell if she’s concerned or skeptical.

“Memnon is under the delusion that I betrayed him, and he wants revenge.”

Officer Howahkan pulls out a notepad and a pen and jots something down.

“Do you have his number? Or his address?” he asks, his dark eyes penetrating. “Some way for us to contact him and follow up on this?”

My throat tightens. “No.”

Officer Howahkan presses his lips together. “Do you have a last name at least?”

“No,” I say softly.

“Ah.”

I’m suddenly tired, so tired. I know how this looks.

I rub my eyes as Nero leans his body against my leg. “Is there any way to fix my notebooks? Some spell that can return them to the way they were?” I ask.

The moment I voice the question, my hope flares to life.

A spell, of course.

Officer Howahkan gives me an inscrutable look. “Maybe,” he says, watching me carefully. “Magic is capable of lots of things.”

I exhale my relief.

“You can check my phone,” I say, eager to give these officers something. I grab it and hand it to the officer. “I use it for notes and scheduling all the time.” It’s just not the main thing I use.

“We have checked your phone,” Officer Howahkan says.

Oh.

He looks almost sorry as he adds, “If we’d found evidence on it that proved your innocence, we wouldn’t be sitting here now, having this conversation.”

“Are you planning on arresting me?” I say quietly.

The officer shares a look with his partner. “No,” he finally says. “Not today, Selene.”

OceanofPDF.com

CHAPTER 39

I don’t spook easily, but I nearly shit my pants after the officers’ visit.

Surely I can be placed somewhere away from the crimes during the time they were committed? I mean, I live in a house with a hundred other women. Someone somewhere should be able to vouch for me.

Officer Mwangi calls in a team to collect what they can of my notebooks’ delicate remains, and once they arrive, I leave the room so they can do their thing.

I have to believe they’ll be able to reverse the damage Memnon inflicted on them.

I descend the stairs to Sybil’s room, Nero following in my wake. I notice a few side-eyed glances from other witches in the halls, and I get the impression word has spread that I am a suspect in the recent string of murders.

The thought of my coven sisters turning on me is terrifying. If any group is good at refusing to persecute others, it’s witches. We’ve been on the receiving end of it too often. But even we witches have our limits. I wonder how close this coven is to reaching theirs.

There’s also the nagging possibility that some of the witches I live alongside could’ve participated in that spell circle. Another terrifying thought.

When I reach Sybil’s door, I can hear her on the other side of it, murmuring.

I knock. When she doesn’t answer, I grab the doorknob and push it open.

I mean, technically, it’s rude to barge into someone’s room, but also technically, Sybil does it to me all the time.

Also, the last time she saw me, I was fleeing her with a mojito in hand, trying to keep all my secrets to myself.

I can’t do it anymore.

When I step into her room, I see Sybil sitting inside a chalk circle she’s made, the soft lilac plumes of her magic swirling around her as she continues incanting a spell in low tones. Nestled along the edge of the circle are lit candles, their flames flickering in time to the rise and fall of Sybil’s voice.

The sight of it reminds me all over again of my burning books and Memnon’s glee. I draw in a deep breath, forcing myself to keep it together.

On the opposite side of the room, Sybil’s owl, Merlin, sits perched on a bust of the veiled maiden that’s nearly been overtaken by the vines growing rampant in her room.

I sit on her bed as Nero sniffs the air in the direction of her familiar.

“Don’t even think about it,” I whisper to him. “I will turn you into a newt if you do more than lick your lips in Merlin’s direction.”

Nero gives me a grumpy look but settles for flopping on the floor.

Not even that alarming exchange causes my friend to open her eyes. She spellcasts for several more minutes, while Nero and I and my anxiety all hang in her room. I move near her bookshelf, ignoring a Venus flytrap that literally snaps in my direction as I reach for a book.

“Don’t be naughty,” I say, tapping it on its head.

I grab a book on herbalism and flip through it while I wait, though I’m not really seeing anything when I look at the pages.

You’re in deep this time, Selene.

Memnon wanted me desperate, and already I’m feeling the first tendrils of that desperation.

Sybil’s magic thickens as she finishes her spell, the plumes of it nearly concealing her. I feel the energy in the room shift, and the candles go out all at once.

I hear her deep exhale as her power clears.

“Fuck, I love magic,” she says, opening her eyes.

She rubs out part of the chalk circle and begins to pick up the items she had spread out.

I close the book on herbalism. “What was that spell for?”

“I rolled my ankle this morning walking down the steps of Morgana Hall.”

I wince. “Did you have to walk all the way back here on it?”

“Actually, I borrowed a witch’s broom and flew back here, and honestly, Selene, we’ve got to do this together…” She takes me in. “What happened to you?”

“Is it really that obvious?” I say, touching my cheek. But it must be—even I can hear the broken notes of my voice.

“What’s wrong?” she says instead, her voice growing alarmed. “I can smell smoke on you.”

I reach a hand down for Nero, grounding myself with his presence. “There’s a lot I haven’t told you,” I admit. I take a deep breath. “What I’m about to tell you is for your ears only.”

Sybil frowns. “Okay, now I’m really worried, Selene. What haven’t you told me?”

I share it all—everything from the spell circle gone awry to Memnon saving me. I tell her about him helping seal off the tunnel entrance—

“I didn’t even know there were tunnels,” she cuts in.

“I’ll show you it sometime,” I say softly before continuing.

I tell her about how I found out I was a soul mate. A tear drips down my cheek when I admit exactly who I’m bonded to.

“What!” Merlin flaps his wings at Sybil’s outburst, then flashes me an owlish glare, like it’s my fault I upset his witch.

I press on, mentioning how Memnon turned on me and burned my books, and I finish with my meeting with the high priestess and being on the Politia’s suspect list.

By the time I’m done, my cheeks are wet again.

For a long moment, Sybil is silent. Finally, she whispers, “I am so sorry, Selene.”

She pulls me into a hug then, and I lean into her, crying into her shoulder as she rubs my back.

“And to think my day sucked because I have a sprained ankle.”

“I’m sure the sprained ankle sucked,” I say, sniffling a little.

My friend laughs. “It did hurt like a bitch,” she says as she continues rubbing my back. “But then I got to ride a broomstick—I even cackled for the sheer hell of it.”

I let out a sad little laugh at that. “I’m pretty sure you have to cackle when you’re flying on a broomstick,” I say, pulling away to wipe at my tears. “It’s part of the rules.”

Sybil smiles at that, but it quickly disappears. “Honestly, Selene, I don’t even know where to start with this one, except that, babe, that was a crap ton of secrets.”

I laugh again, even though I know she’s saying this just to lighten the moment.

She reaches out and tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear. “I know you’re innocent.”

I pull away to look miserably at her. “I don’t think I can prove it,” I admit.

“I’ll help you,” she says. “I’ll ask the other coven sisters if they saw you at the times in question. We’ll make a new notebook for you and create a timeline, one that I am sure will clear your name.”

“You’d do that?” I’m so used to winging it on my own that I forgot I have people in my life willing to help me.

“You’re my best friend, Selene. Of course I will. Now,” she says, her tone changing, “forget about the Politia and that case for a minute. I want to chat about Memnon.” She says his name menacingly.

“Ugh.” I place my face in my hands, trying to wish away my life.

What hurts the most is that before he burned my notebooks, I had actually started to fall for him. I caught glimpses of what it would be to care and be cared for by a man like Memnon.

You and I, Empress, we are eternal.

But then he wanted me to hurt like him, to be lost and confused in this modern world just like him. His vengeance eclipsed whatever feelings he has for me.

Sybil rubs my back. “So you’re bonded to a fucking loser. If he wants to be enemies, let’s make him pay.”

I lift my head from my hands, my magic rising.

Yes.

“Listen,” she says, seeing my interest, “this bastard is your soul mate. He may be the dirtiest rim job out there, but he is fated to you, which means the guy is basically walking around with a hard-on every time he sees you.

“So you and I are going to find some killer dresses, we’re going to go to the ball, and you’re going to enjoy the fuck out of yourself in front of that bastard. Bonus points for flirting and dancing with every mage who’s up for it.

“He’ll see what he’s missing, and it will be him who comes groveling back to you.”

I stare at her.

And then I smile.

OceanofPDF.com

CHAPTER 40

Let’s make him pay.

That thought sticks to me like a barb through the weekend and into the following week.

It’s there when I forget I have a coffee date with one of the witches in my wards class, and it’s there when I miss turning in an assignment for spellcasting. I cling to the promise of vengeance every time I see Politia officers on campus, interviewing witches or examining cordoned-off sections of the woods. I reassure myself of it after each weird look a coven sister casts my way, and I bask in the thought of it when Sybil and I go shopping for dresses in San Francisco.

The problem is, the longer I muse on Sybil’s plan, the more I realize…it’s not settling my demons.

Not by half.

I think of all the burned books—years of life and work meticulously documented—and how the sorcerer relished destroying them. Then I think of how he attacked Kane in my room and how he’s repeatedly threatened me.

Despite Memnon’s wicked tongue and the budding thing we had between us, he has made it clear since the beginning that we are enemies. And what have I done to stop him?

Nothing.

And now my revenge is supposed to be wearing a sexy dress and giving other men attention in some bid to make Memnon jealous? It’s laughably pathetic, and I’m far too bloodthirsty to settle for that.

I need to make the man truly pay. But how?

Wednesday evening, I sit sprawled out in one of the wingback chairs in my house’s library, Nero at my feet, as I rub my lower lip and muse over my situation.

Right over my heart, I can sense my devilish bond thrum with life. Unfortunately, I’ve been noticing this bond more and more since I accepted that I’m Memnon’s soul mate. Just giving it this small amount of attention is enough for me to feel the sorcerer on the other side of it.

Whatever he’s doing, he’s some combination of pleased and impatient.

Smug bastard.

Little witch, are you poking around my mind? Memnon’s voice is soft like velvet in my head.

Crap, I forgot that he can sense me too.

I ignore him and the way his words stroke me from the inside out.

I can taste your frustration, he says. Are you desperate yet?

Screw you. I shove the words down our bond.

Is that a legitimate offer? Because if it is, I’ll have to think about it.

Goddess, but I hate him.

I feel his amusement as his presence retreats from our bond, and I’m alone once more—or as alone as I can be now that I’m connected to another.

That’s the heart of the issue—being bonded to him.

Being bonded…

Can…soul mate bonds be broken?

The thought makes my breath catch.

Has anyone ever tried?

Before another thought has fully formed, I’m rising from my chair, then giving my familiar an idle pet as I leave my spot and head for the back of the library.

Nero is up and at my heels as though he weren’t busy sleeping a minute ago.

This early in the evening, the library is filled with several witches doing homework or reading various tomes. A few of them glance up at me, including one witch I think is friends with the still-missing Kasey, whose disappearance is now being investigated by the Politia. Kasey’s friend grimaces at me, then goes back to reading her book.

One nasty look isn’t nearly enough to distract myself from the fierce purpose riding me.

I haven’t visited the grimoire room since my first night here, but I’ll need them now for what I have in mind.

I pass the ornate stone fireplace and reach the door to the sealed room. When I open it, I wince at the clashing magic that fills the air, and Nero’s ears go back.

It’s only then that I hesitate.

What am I doing?

This idea that’s gripped me, it fills all the dangerous, wrathful spaces in my soul, but is it what I really want? Every source I’ve read on soul mates speaks of the deliberate nature of them. They’re each other’s perfect other half.

I don’t know what it means that Memnon and I don’t feel perfect. We feel like two misaligned puzzle pieces being forced together.

I take a deep breath, moving my eyes to the lantern lamp that sits there waiting for me.

Maybe the books got it wrong. Or maybe Memnon and I are perfectly awful on our own and even worse together.

Either way, it seems like a good idea to end this now—if I can.

I pick up the lantern. Waving my hand over it, I murmur, “With a flicker and a spark, light this candle in the dark.” A tiny flame flickers to life, and I note with relief that this time, the flame doesn’t look demonic.

I step fully inside the room, Nero slipping in after me, and I close the door behind us.

Already, my head is pounding from the conflicting magic in the air.

I set the lantern on the table in the middle of the room, and I close my eyes to better focus my senses.

Now that I’m not looking with my eyes, I swear I feel the prickling awareness of all these spellbooks. Magic is semi-sentient; these grimoires may not have lungs or hearts or brains, but in some innate way, they are alive. And right now, they’re observing me.

With my eyes still closed, I place my hands on the wooden table. “I would like to sever a soul mate bond.” The words feel forbidden. Taboo. “If any of you contain such a spell, I would ask to see it. Please.”

For several long seconds, I hear nothing.

My heart sinks, even as a sliver of relief threads through my system. If it cannot be done, then it absolves me from acting—

I hear the soft scrape of a book sliding out.

I open my eyes in time to see a thin black tome leave one of the shelves high above my head. It flutters down to the table like a falling leaf before landing gently right in front of me.

I barely have time to look at the image stamped on its black cloth cover before it opens itself. The grimoire’s pages flick by, like some phantom hand is thumbing through them. Near the back of the book, it finally stops on a page. There’s an inked drawing of a heart and a handwritten spell penned in German.

I place my hand over the text, taking a moment to compose an incantation.

“Translate to English this spell for me. Make its meaning clear to see.”

The letters jiggle, then morph, and suddenly, I can read it all. A Spell for Severing Amorous Bonds.

I swallow. This may be a mistake.

What may be a mistake, Empress…? Memnon’s voice echoes in my head.

I scowl at the intimate feel of this man inside me. Why don’t you mind your own fucking business? I snap back at him.

On the other end of our bond, the sorcerer seems quiet, pensive. It’s better than the cavalier amusement I felt from him earlier.

There’s a flicker of something on his end of our connection, and then he withdraws completely.

I exhale, and my eyes move over the page in front of me. The bloodthirsty, vicious side of me gets a perverse little thrill at the sight of it.

I tap the spell.

I’m going to do it.

The wind howls as I stand in the spellcasting kitchen deep into the night, my cauldron bubbling.

It took me hours to hunt down the ingredients for this spell, including seawater, roses that bloomed under a full moon, tears from a broken heart (using mine—hope they work), and then some mundane herbs. And to be honest, I didn’t find all the ingredients. But I think I can still make it work.

Using a mortar and pestle, I crush the dried rose petals, then throw them in. The next part is going to be tricky—the recipe called for a dead man’s dreams, but I couldn’t find any of those, so I went to Olga and got the last words of a life cut short.

I bite my lower lip as I stare at the words I copied.

Sounds good. Love you—see you soon.

I try not to shiver at how mundane these last words were. It makes death seem all the more grotesque, to rob someone of their life right in the middle of a perfectly average day.

Instead, I focus on the ingredient itself—should I throw the note into the cauldron or whisper the words over it?

Before I can decide, the front door crashes open, wood splintering as it rips off its hinges. I expect to hear a chorus of screams, but most of, if not all, my sisters have gone to bed, save for a group that left an hour ago for some outdoor spellcasting.

Familiar heavy footfalls stride across the foyer, and my stomach fills with dread.

Memnon fills the doorway, his eyes blazing. They move from my face to the wooden spoon I have in my hand, then the cauldron in front of me.

I move in front of the cauldron, ready to defend my spell. “You do not get to just—”

I yelp as he picks me up and sets me on the island behind me.

He puts a finger up to my face. “Stay,” he growls, his magic coiling around me.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a dog,” I snap back at him.

I try to hop off the counter, but damn it, he spelled my ass—literally. I can’t get up.

I watch on helplessly as Memnon stalks toward my cauldron and grabs it with his bare hands.

“Memnon, no—”

Before I can even finish my plea, he overturns the thing, dumping its contents out onto the open fire beneath it, dousing the flame and ruining my concoction.

I make a horrified sound and stare aghast at the ruins of my spell.

Memnon turns back to me, his chest heaving and his palms blistered from where he held the cauldron. “You were trying to break our bond!” he roars.

Upstairs, I hear someone yell, “Shut up!”

“Goddess above, lower your voice,” I whisper. “You’re going to wake up the whole coven.” I’m skating on thin enough ice as it is.

“Even after enduring your betrayal and your desertion, est amage, I would never dare to break what is ours and ours alone!” His voice rises until he is bellowing the words.

“Maybe if you had spent the past several weeks trying to be my friend instead of making my life miserable, I wouldn’t be attempting to break our bond.”

His expression flickers, like he may feel regret or shame, but I’m not done.

“I swear to the goddess,” I continue, “the moment you leave my sight, I will start the process all over again.”

It seems like Memnon grows taller, wider. He steps between my legs, looking menacing, lethal.

“No,” he says softly, “you won’t.” The sorcerer places his hands on either side of my head, his eyes flinty.

I jerk against his touch. “Let me go.”

“Your mind isn’t the only one that can steal memories,” he says, those smoky eyes piercing.

I go still at what he’s hinting at. “You wouldn’t,” I breathe.

He smiles. “Of course I would. I already have.”

“You’ve taken my memories?” My voice is unnaturally quiet as I speak. Dark, roiling fury builds beneath my veins.

“Your heart isn’t the only thing I own.” It’s as much a confession as anything else.

I don’t think—I launch myself at him. Memnon’s magic still holds my legs fast to the table, but I manage to claw at his eyes and tear that self-satisfied smirk from his face.

“Fuck,” he curses in Sarmatian, staggering out of my reach. Then he laughs. Laughs!

“Ah, est amage, I’ve missed your fiery side,” he says, stepping back into my space and catching one of my wrists.