Текст книги "Bewitched"

Автор книги: Laura Thalassa

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“I will gut you for taking my memories, you asshole!” I manage to drag my nails down the other side of Memnon’s face before he’s able to capture my other wrist.

He grins wickedly. “I thought you didn’t mind losing them? You fought for your curse so passionately a week ago.”

“You had no right to take them,” I say vehemently.

Memnon ignores my words, his gaze moving to the open grimoire next to me. “Ah, is this the hateful spell?” He moves my wrists into one of his hands so he can place his palm on the book.

Beneath his hand, the page curls and blackens, and a wisp of smoke rises from the book.

I jerk fruitlessly against his grip, my mood darkening with every passing second. This spell was supposed to placate my rage, not enflame it. But it’s as though I’m reliving the book burning in my room all over again.

“You think you can break our bond and dispose of me as you did two thousand years ago?”

I sense his own rage rising, and his eyes illuminate with his power. I’m reminded all over again that a sorcerer’s magic draws from their conscience; as they grow stronger, their empathy grows weaker. I’m sensing that Memnon lost most of his back in antiquity.

“You will never be free of me, little witch. Never.”

I stare at the magic sparking in his eyes. I’m coming to find that there is nothing nearly so dangerous as a wronged sorcerer.

Memnon’s hand comes up, wrapping around my throat in the most featherlight grip. But between his spell nailing me to the table, his body pinning me in, and now his hand on my neck, I am completely immobilized.

“But you are right, I have given you more misery than passion. Perhaps it is time I reminded you of what it means to be with me.”

My eyebrows shoot up. Wait, what?

Before that thought has more than crossed my mind, Memnon kisses me.

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CHAPTER 41

Hateful, hateful man. With his wicked lips and wicked thoughts and wicked intentions.

He’s got some fucking gall to dare kiss me after he’s upended my world.

So I bite his lip. Hard.

Memnon groans as the metallic tang of blood hits our tongues. The monster smiles against my mouth and deepens the kiss, as though the small violence is a turn-on for him. Despite my raging fury—and, oh, how it rages—I kiss him back, hungry for more of him. My fingers slide into his hair and pull it taut enough to hurt.

I hate that I do still want him when all I really want is to hate him.

Memnon’s fingers flex just the slightest bit against my throat, reminding me that he has me pinned and vulnerable, though it doesn’t make me feel vulnerable. I feel as though I’m going to combust. Already, I know that if I open my eyes, I will see plumes of my magic seeping out of me.

“My empress is finally showing her true colors,” Memnon murmurs against my lips.

There’s nothing true about this at all—this is my worst side. But if my mate wants to cut himself on the sharpest parts of my personality, so be it.

When his tongue delves back into my mouth, I bite it. Memnon hisses, but again the action only serves to make him kiss me with more fervor. Fervor I return.

I can’t explain it. There is no explaining it. I hate his guts. I’d love nothing more than to kick him in the balls. But I’m also enjoying hate kissing the shit out of his lips. I’m pretty sure I’d be fine taking this hate all the way to the end of desire.

I think I’ve just unlocked a new kink.

Memnon pulls away. “You will know me in all ways,” he vows.

His thoughts must be in the same vein as mine—that, or he heard me through our bond.

While it’s fine for me to fantasize about using Memnon to fulfill my own desires, like hell am I going to let him do the same thing.

I push the sorcerer away, his hand slipping effortlessly away from my neck.

Hate-fucking fantasies be damned—

“If I can’t break the bond, I’ll simply cast a spell to shrivel up your dick,” I threaten him.

Memnon smiles, a bead of blood gathering at the corner of his lip. “It’s cute that you think you haven’t already tried.”

That has my eyes widening.

He wipes the bead of blood away, flicking his eyes over me.

“Release,” he says in Sarmatian.

Immediately, his magic lifts itself from my body, no longer anchoring me to the table.

His eyes settle on me. “I love you, little witch,” he says, his expression a touch sad. “More than all the world. That is my deepest truth, and it’s one I should have told you again and again as I once did.

“And I’m sorry you have to bear the weight of that love.” His features shift a little, growing determined. “But you will bear it.”

With that, he heads for the doorway.

“Three days,” he calls over his shoulder. “That’s all you have left, Empress.”

And then he’s gone.

Those three days pass in the blink of an eye.

Three days to try to sort out my own tangled emotions. Three days to fixate on my revenge. Three days to wonder what Memnon means to do on the night of the ball.

I now stare at the gown spread out on my bed, my mood grim.

I don’t want to face Memnon again.

Maybe that’s cowardly. It’s still the truth.

He is my worst nightmare, but I’m also coming to find he’s a huge weakness of mine because he saved me and he cared for me and a part of me—a twisted, wayward part of me—likes him. Fuck, I more than like him. I’m beyond attracted to the man, and I crave the sound of his commanding voice and the feel of those arms around me. All he has to do is kiss me or whisper a few pretty words in my ear, and I’ll reconsider every hateful thought I’ve had of him.

I’m terrified that will happen again tonight when I’m seeking out my revenge.

In the distance, I hear someone tromping up the stairs, followed by the creaking of floorboards as they head down my hall.

Seconds later, Sybil opens the door. “Hey, babe!” she hollers as she bustles in, carrying her dress and shoes as well as a massive tote bag full of what looks to be makeup and maybe hair supplies.

She drops it all on the bed. “Fuck, I’m excited for tonight, aren’t…?” Her voice trails off as soon as she sees my face. “No, no, no, Selene,” she says.

I touch my cheek. “What?”

“I’m not going to let you panic about tonight. This is your night for revenge. I want to see wicked grins and evil looks only.”

I put my face in my hands and groan. “I’m nervous,” I admit.

Sybil comes over to me and places her hands on my shoulders. “Your soul mate thinks you’re conniving and cruel. The Politia thinks you could be a killer. You’re obviously neither of those things, but fuck it.” She gives my shoulders a shake. “We’re going to embrace it for one night.”

She releases me and turns to the items on the bed. From her bag she pulls out a bottle of vodka and two cans of sparkling juice. “We’re going to drink, we’re going to do each other’s makeup and hair and have fucking fun dressing up like villainesses for a night. What do you say?”

I take a deep breath. “Pour me a shot.”

By the time I reach for my dress, I’m giggling.

I may have had a touch too much alcohol.

Our hair and makeup—done. All that’s left is pulling on our dresses. I walk over to mine while Sybil grabs hers, my legs a little shaky.

The black dress is floor-length with a small train and a slit all the way up to nearly the top of my thigh. The back is even sexier, held together by only two crisscrossing straps, leaving the rest of my skin down to the small of my back exposed.

There’s a sheen to the material that makes it look a touch iridescent, and it slides around me like a serpent. Now that I have it on, I do feel more than a little wicked.

“I know you have a love affair with high-tops and combat boots.” Sybil turns to me in her ruby-red dress, the gemstones on it glittering as they catch the light. “But for tonight, let’s do something a bit fancier,” she says, moving over to my closet.

“I don’t have anything fancier,” I say. “Besides, how am I going to crush my enemies beneath my boots if I’m not wearing boots?”

“You’re not going to crush them beneath your boots,” Sybil says with an exaggerated eye roll. “You’re obviously going to impale them with your stiletto heel. Just give me a sec—”

She dashes out of the room, her own nude heels already on. Distantly, I hear something thumping down the stairs, followed by curses.

Uh-oh. This is why stilettos are a bad idea—especially when alcohol is involved.

I rush out of my room, passing other witches in various states of dress. Lying on the landing, her dress basically around her waist, is Sybil.

Another witch is already there, ready to help her, but she waves the girl away. “I’m good, I’m good.”

Despite her words, I head down to the landing and help pick my friend up as she smooths her hands over her dress.

“The shoes aren’t worth it,” I whisper.

“I didn’t just eat shit for nothing, Selene,” she says. With that, she pulls her hand away and staggers down the rest of the stairs, heading to her room.

I take the moment to visit my own room and grab my phone, which I tuck into my dress. Nero has been lounging next to my bed this entire time, but now, as though sensing I’m leaving the room for good, he follows me out.

We get to Sybil’s room just as she’s closing the door behind her, her owl familiar perched on her shoulder and a pair of open-toed stilettos in her hand.

“Here,” she says when she sees me, thrusting the heels at me.

I slip the shoes on, and then we make our way downstairs with our familiars before heading out of the house alongside another group of witches—two of whom are wearing Chucks.

Meanwhile, I’m strapped into a pair of stilts.

Wait, this thought feels familiar. Did I have an entire exchange just like this one with Sybil on another night…?

I bet I did.

I exhale. I better be putting off killer-queen vibes, or I’m going to mutiny.

The group of us cuts across campus, following the stream of witches heading toward the conservatory. Nero prowls at my side, acting as my date.

Overhead, the full moon shines down, illuminating the darkness and limning our surroundings in a pale blue light. I draw in a breath at the sight of it, my magic tingling as it too feels the touch of that light. Full moons are for revelation and truth that not even the darkness can hide. And this one, the hunter’s moon, is particularly poignant.

It’s a good night for revenge and for forcing Memnon to face my true feelings of him.

Witches on broomsticks cut through the air, laughing with abandon, their skirts and hair waving in the wind behind them.

An old sense of longing comes over me, and I have to remind myself I’m in the coven and I’ll learn how to fly on brooms eventually. That’s one more thing I’ll get to accomplish during my time here. I just haven’t yet.

The conservatory glows in the distance, the all-glass structure lit from within and without by hundreds of levitating lanterns, the flickering candlelight creating a beautiful, almost-Gothic effect.

I’ve never actually been inside the coven’s massive greenhouse. Not until tonight. It’s clear as I get closer that I’ve been missing out. I can see all sorts of wild greenery growing inside, and in honor of Samhain, someone’s grown pumpkins the size of chairs outside the building. Many are still attached to their vines, and the plants themselves curl around the massive fruit.

I make my way up the marble steps leading to the door, Nero at my side. I glance at Sybil’s shoulder, noticing that Merlin has already flown off into the night. I pause, glancing around as the rest of the witches continue into the building. No one else’s familiar seems to be with them.

I chew on the corner of my lip as I take in Nero. “I don’t think you’re allowed inside as you are,” I say.

My panther looks at me for a long time with his golden-green eyes, as though he’s trying to silently communicate something. I slip down our bond and into his head for a moment, and I feel an emotion from him I’m not expecting—affection.

Slipping back into my own body, I kneel so I can place my forehead against my familiar’s.

“I love you too,” I whisper to him. I pull away and pet his face. “Stay safe in those woods tonight.” There are bound to be a lot of drunk, lusty witches making bad decisions out there.

Nero gives me another long look, as if to say, You stay safe too.

Or maybe that’s just me anthropomorphizing my familiar. I nod anyway.

With one final look, Nero turns from me and lopes toward the tree line. I stand, watching him go.

Empress…

My flesh puckers at Memnon’s call. I turn to face the conservatory once more, and I startle when I catch sight of him through the double doors.

He stands with his hands in the pockets of his tux, looking so much larger than the people moving around him.

I suck in my breath at how good he looks, his wildness caged in by the cut of his suit jacket and pants. Well, mostly caged in—he’s done away with a bow tie, his dress shirt is partially unbuttoned, and I can see that panther tattoo of his peeking out above the collar of his shirt. His hair looks like he’s run his fingers through it several times.

If I thought a tuxedo would make Memnon look any less dangerous, I was wildly wrong.

My heart trips on itself at the sight of him, and a light, fluttery feeling fills my stomach.

Revenge, I remind myself. Tonight is for revenge.

His smoky eyes glitter as he takes me in, from the tips of my toes, up along the slit of my dress to my bust, and then, finally, to my face. He looks like someone hit him upside the head.

I see him swallow, his eyes still fixed on me, and holy shit, is Memnon actually…thrown by this outfit?

Guess the revenge dress worked.

I take a deep breath and square my shoulders. All right, I can do this. Already, the fluttery feeling in my stomach is settling.

I head the rest of the way up the stairs and enter the conservatory, hearing some haunting melody fill the air. All around me, witches and mages stand around in formal wear, chatting and laughing and drinking witch’s brew from delicate coupe glasses like we’re high-society folk and not wild, enchanted things.

I turn to where Memnon stood a moment ago, but he’s gone. Unfortunately, somewhere in all the crowd, I’ve lost sight of Memnon. I glance around.

“Selene!”

I turn toward the voice, only to see Sybil slipping through the crowd toward me. Farther behind her, I catch sight of the group we came here with.

“I grabbed us a table!” my friend says, stepping in front of me. “Want to go sit down, or—?”

“I saw him,” I say to her.

“What? Where?” She glances around.

“I don’t know, I lost sight of him.” As I speak, I realize my hands are shaking. But it’s not from nerves; it’s from my coiling magic.

I’m ready to face the man.

Sybil’s face grows excited. “You know what this means?” she says. “It’s revenge time.”

Instead of returning to the table Sybil nabbed us, she leads me in the opposite direction, down one of the conservatory’s wings.

For a moment, as I take in our surroundings, I forget about Memnon and the vendettas between us.

I cannot believe I haven’t visited this place before.

Plants fill every level of the conservatory, growing from massive terra-cotta pots and patches of ground where the floor has been cut away. The only place not completely covered in growing foliage is the dance floor and its surrounding tables, though even that area is dotted with plants. And all of it is illuminated by the levitating lanterns above us.

At the end of the wing, beyond clusters of chatting supernaturals, a massive cauldron smokes. Next to it rests a pyramid of coupe glasses, all filled with the wafting brew.

Right, more booze to loosen my inhibitions and allow me to have a good time tonight. Maybe it’ll even make me forget that having a good time does nothing to quench my thirst for payback.

Sybil and I haven’t made it to the cauldron when I feel the brush of familiar magic on my bare back.

Empress…we have unfinished business…

I stop walking, and Sybil glances back at me.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Memnon.”

“Do you see him?” she asks. “Where is he?” She peers around me as though she might spot him.

I have the oddest urge to laugh at her. “Do you even know what he looks like?” I ask.

“No, but all assholes have a look to them. I’m sure I could pick him out of this crowd.”

Now I do laugh. “I can hear him,” I admit. I touch my temple. “In here.”

My friend’s brows rise. “Oh—oh. Right. You have freaky soul mate powers.”

I glance surreptitiously around us, but I don’t see Memnon. He’s clearly toying with me.

Worse, it’s working.

Fun is the absolute last thing on my mind right now. Instead, all my anger and resentment and shame and worry—all those ugly emotions rise in me, along with a few others, like excitement, hope, and a breathless, flighty feeling I won’t put a name to.

We reach the pyramid of booze, and the two of us grab glasses. But as I stare at the brew I hold, I scowl.

“I can’t do it,” I admit.

“Can’t do what?” Sybil asks as she takes a sip of her drink.

I can’t continue to drink and laugh and pretend. Goddess, I don’t want to pretend anymore.

“I need to find Memnon and deal with him.” As I speak the words, I feel the absolute truth of them. I hand my friend my drink. “Can you take this back to our table and save it for me?”

“But, Selene—”

“Please, Sybil.” I give her a beseeching look. “I’ll only be gone a moment.” I force out a smile. “Then we can have fun together. In earnest.”

She exhales but then nods. “Okay, yeah, fine. You deal with the loser and then find me.” My friend gives me a playful look. “But don’t take too long, or else I’ll drink your brew for you.”

This time, I give her a real smile. “Deal.”

Once Sybil leaves my sight, I prowl the aisles of plants, making my way around whispering couples. I pass them, threading through the conservatory until I reach a lonely corner of it that is clear of all guests.

The notes of some tragic song drifting in the air and the distant murmuring of voices are the only clues that a party is in full swing at the moment.

Where are you? I call to Memnon down our bond.

My hands fist a little, and already, my thirst for revenge is mounting. I’m vividly imagining getting a good swing at the sorcerer or maybe kneeing him in the balls. Magic is leaking from my hands at the prospect.

Around me, the air stirs; then a broad chest brushes against my back.

“Right here, little witch,” he breathes against my ear.

My pulse spikes at his voice and his nearness, and I spin to face him.

Now is my opening. If ever I wanted to get a move in while he’s unsuspecting, now would be it.

Instead, I hesitate, my vengeance taking a back seat to this breathless excitement I feel at the sight of him. A sobering thought comes to me then: no matter how much I rage against Memnon, he will always be the man my eyes search for in a room, and his features are the ones I’ll crave. The crush I had on Kane is nothing—absolutely nothing—compared to this.

Memnon’s own eyes drink me in. “You have never needed magic, est amage,” he murmurs, his roughened voice drawing out goose bumps on my arms. “You are entirely bewitching even without it.”

I lift my chin a little. “Were you hoping I’d be a mess tonight now that you burned my notebooks? That I’d be begging you to return my memories back to me?”

“Mmm…” The noise he makes sounds more like a growl than anything else. “I do like the idea of you begging, est amage. You always made such…convincing arguments.”

I don’t know if it’s a memory or my imagination, but for a split second, I have an image of myself on my knees before him, his cock in my mouth—

It disappears as quickly as it came, but it leaves me breathless and flushed.

Memnon’s eyes drop to one of my reddened cheeks, and he strokes the skin there. “Beautiful, intoxicating witch,” he breathes.

He leans in, almost as though he can’t help it, those tempting lips skimming my skin, daring me to push him away.

I don’t know what spell he’s using, but right in this moment, our insurmountable issues seem to dissolve into nothing. When Memnon is this close to me, it all becomes very simple.

He’s mine.

His lips skim down my jaw. “Something I discovered after I first met you is that if I kiss you right here—” He brushes his lips against the side of my neck, right under my pulse point, and a shiver wracks my body. He smiles against my throat. “You do just that.”

I tilt my head back even as I lean into the kiss, one of my hands moving to his hair. I thread my fingers through his dark locks, wanting to keep him against me. I crave more than his mouth on my throat and our bodies pressed together like this.

I want to push him down and yank open his starched white shirt. I want to hear buttons popping. I want his skin against mine.

I want him to flash me that pirate smile of his while I have my way with him and put an end to this fire he’s lit in me.

He burned your notebooks—your memories. Do not climb the man like a tree. Make him pay.

I nearly gasp at the sobering thought. My fingers loosen from his hair, and I stiffen in his arms—when did his arms snake their way around me?

Fuck, this is exactly what I wasn’t supposed to do tonight.

It takes a ridiculous amount of self-possession, but I manage to bring my palms up to his chest, admiring for a moment that his pecs feel so good. Isn’t that silly, that pecs can feel—?

Fuck, concentrate, Selene.

Roughly, I push Memnon away, adding a little magic into the action to move his massive body.

The sorcerer staggers back, his expression lust drunk as his eyes move to my lips.

“You destroyed my journals and the years of memories in them,” I remind us both.

Some of the haze fades from Memnon’s face.

“Is this your attempt at making me feel regret?” he says, wiping his lip with his thumb. “Guilt? Shame?” His hand drops, and his features grow serious. “Because, my queen, this is absolutely what victory feels like.”

“Victory Over what? Our highly dysfunctional relationship?”

Memnon smiles down at me. “I have anticipated this evening for a long, long time.”

My brows draw together, even as unease coils in my belly. “What are you talking about?”

“What do you think I’ve done with all the time we’ve been apart?” he asks, tilting his head.

I never knew.

He shakes his head slowly. “There is so much you don’t know about who I am.” Memnon steps in close. “Like you, est amage, it is not in my nature to grovel. I am in the business of power.” He puts a finger beneath my chin and tilts my head up. “And you, my love, are wholly unready for it.”

I search his eyes. This is where I need to pull away. Or attack. But he has me bewitched, both by his look and his touch.

“Even as a king, I would ride into battle with my horde.” His voice grows soft, intimate, and he’s switched to speaking Sarmatian. “But sometimes, when I faced a particularly obstinate foe, or one I wanted to make an example of, I would leave my warriors a ways away from the battlefield, and I would ride in alone.” As he speaks, the lanterns above us dim, as though shrinking from whatever ominous story Memnon is set on telling me.

“Do you know why I would face my worst opponents alone?”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me,” I say softly.

He flashes me a whisper of a smile, though it holds no actual humor.

“Sorcerers have vast amounts of power, but when used in such large quantities, our magic can grow a bit…feral.”

I think he’s about to tell me the story of how he lost his conscience to his power.

Instead, he says, “The stronger the magic we cast, the less we can control who that magic touches. Friends—and family—are always in danger when we let it loose.” He pauses to let that sink in. “So I would face my enemies alone, and the fearsome, obstinate rulers I faced would see firsthand the sort of destruction I could wreak.”

I feel myself growing cold, terrified by what he’s insinuating.

“Fields would be strewn with entire armies, and I would sit there on my steed, untouched.”

In my mind’s eye, I can see fields of corpses and blood-spattered wheat and Memnon in his scale armor sitting astride his horse. I can practically taste his ominous, overpowering magic thickening in the air.

“And sometimes,” he continues, “if I had particularly good control of my power that day, I would save the ruler’s death for last. I’d let him survey the ruins of his army. I’d let it sink in that he should’ve surrendered to me when he first had the chance.”

It’s obviously a warning, one that leaves me shaking. Distantly, I can hear the music playing and people laughing, and my phone vibrating between my cleavage as someone tries to call me, but it feels a world away.

Through my fear, however, my anger rises, along with my magic. This is my moment—my opening for true revenge.

My power gathers in my palms.

Memnon glances down at my hands. “Are you going to strike me, little witch?” He sounds amused. “I like the thought of that. It may even tickle.”

My magic burgeons in response to the insult, building and building. I can feel the chaotic movements of it within me.

He nods to my chest. “Your phone’s been ringing. I imagine it’s urgent,” he says, backing away. “Why don’t you answer it?”

I glance down at my chest for just a moment, but when I look back up, Memnon’s gone.

Damn it.

I stride after him, my power already receding into me now that I’ve lost sight of the sorcerer. My heels click as I wind through the aisles, searching for Memnon. But he’s vanished entirely.

I stop, peering around at one empty row of trees and shrubs and another where a couple is making out against the trunk of a palm tree.

Bzzzz…bzzzz…

I glance down at my cleavage again. Memnon’s right, my phone has been ringing.

I blow out a breath, then fish the phone out.

I give the caller ID a passing glance, assuming it’s Sybil.

It’s not.

Kane Halloway, my phone reads instead.

Why is Kane of all people calling me? I haven’t heard from him since our disastrous evening together. To be honest, I hadn’t even realized I had his number.

I answer the call anyway, putting the phone to my ear as I walk down a row of plants.

“Hey, Kane,” I say, bringing the phone to my ear. My eyes snag on a door to a back courtyard. “Now’s not—”

“Listen, Selene, I have a lot to say, and I don’t have much time to say it.” The man who speaks doesn’t sound like the lycanthrope I remember. His voice is far too low and gravelly. He hardly sounds human at all.

I pause. “Kane, is that you?” I ask softly.

“Full moon. I’m fighting a shift.”

My mouth forms an O. To be honest, I didn’t know it was possible for lycans to hold off a shift during the full moon for any amount of time.

I head for that door outside, wanting some fresh air and a little privacy to handle wherever this call is going.

“My pack knows it was you who saved Cara,” he rushes to say. “I confirmed your scent myself.”

The shifter girl I saved—that’s what he’s talking about.

“Okay…” I’m not sure where he’s going with this.

I slip out the door to a massive courtyard enclosed on three sides by the glass walls of the conservatory. There’s a stone patio, but it gives way to a garden full of overgrown plants. The foliage has mostly overtaken the marble statues and fountains scattered throughout the space, and it’s all but engulfed the few lampposts out here.

“I don’t know how much about pack dynamics you know, but after what you did, you’re now considered a friend of the pack.”

The silence that follows that admission is heavy, like what he’s saying is a big deal.

“Being a friend of the pack means we extend our protection to you for as long as you hold the title,” he adds.

Protection. He’s offering me protection. Not just any protection either, but the protection of an entire pack. My breath leaves me all at once. That is a damn big deal—and a formidable offer.

I glance at the few other revelers out here, who are sipping drinks or slipping into the shadows of the night while his words sink in.

“We meant to arrange a formal meeting and to tell you all this in person, but I’m afraid there’s no longer time for that,” Kane says, his voice still inhumanly low.

I frown as I watch a few witches flying on broomsticks now land and make their way toward the back doors of the conservatory.

“What do you mean there’s no longer time for that?” I say, not following.

Kane seems to pick his words carefully. “One of my pack mates works with the Politia.”

As soon as I hear that, my stomach twists on itself.

Kane pauses too, as though he doesn’t want to say his next words.

He finally sighs, the sound coming out garbled, as though his throat can’t fully make the noise. “The Politia is going to arrest you.”

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