Текст книги "Bespelled"

Автор книги: Laura Thalassa

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

CHAPTER 23

Lia. I remember that name. It’s the same woman who’s been coordinating the spell circles and forcibly binding witches.

A burst of magic hisses through the air. The moment it hits the ground, it explodes, throwing me off the witch and into a nearby tree trunk. I grunt as all my cursed wounds scream.

Another spell hits me, this one carving open my chest. I gasp as blood spills from me.

“Fuck you.” The witch who strides up to me is petite, with cropped, curly black hair.

“Yasmin?” I say softly.

Only last night, we’d been drinking and chatting together. I considered her a friend. And last I saw of her, she had made plans to hunt down the fae rider.

I can’t reconcile that woman with this one, who helped torture an animal.

“Help!” the half-buried witch calls out.

While I bleed out, Yasmin turns from me and pulls the other witch from the ground.

I begin to stand, my magic gathering. Yasmin glares at me as she helps the other witch to her feet, then lobs another curse at me. I don’t dodge quick enough, and the spell hits me in the forehead, knocking me out.

My queen. My queen, you must wake.

I rouse at the panic-laced notes of Memnon’s voice.

I blink, and Memnon’s dark form takes shape in front of me. I stare at him for a moment, searching his gaze. Pain muddles my thoughts. I’m cold. Tired.

His hands cup my cheeks, and his eyes glow.

I shiver. The chilly night feels like it’s burrowed itself in my bones.

Abruptly, the air around me warms, and I’m certain Memnon is responsible for it. Beneath his palms, magic seeps into me, drifting through my body and driving out the cold. As it moves through me, it stitches together torn flesh.

I look dazedly around.

Nero. Where’s Nero?

He’s alive, my queen, Memnon says. There is heartbreak in those burning eyes. But you are battle-battered. He says this lightly, using the same tone he takes with badly wounded soldiers.

I’m fine, I insist, trying to get up. Only now that adrenaline and outrage aren’t fueling me, my body has given out almost entirely.

Memnon’s thumb strokes my cheek from where he cups it. You’ve lost a lot of blood. Too much. You need to rest.

I can’t. My eyes move to the darkened forest where the witches fled. Where Yasmin⁠—

His gaze follows mine.

Memnon turns back to me. “Where are they?” His voice carries a dark, lethal note to it.

The witches, he means.

“They ran,” I say hoarsely.

“I’ll find them,” he says menacingly. I remember that menace in all its horrific glory. The fields of dead soldiers, the blood he sometimes wore like a second skin.

Memnon rises, the shadows catching on that scar of his. But it’s his eyes that are the most sinister. They still glow like dying embers, and though I know it’s only his magic that makes his irises smolder like that, the effect is downright villainous.

“Stay here,” he says. With that, he turns and disappears into the Everwoods.

For several seconds, all I hear are my own ragged breaths. My eyes scan the darkness until I see the slumped form of Nero.

I make a small sound, forcing myself up. Every muscle protests.

I told you not to move, Memnon chastises down our bond. He must’ve sensed my pain.

I’m the one who gets to be bossy, I say, dragging myself to my familiar.

I let out a shaky sob when I see the state he’s in. Despite my earlier magic, my panther’s wounds are still open and still sluggishly bleeding. I can sense oily magic churning inside him. Whatever curses they placed on him, they haven’t evaporated away yet.

Memnon! I all but cry out down our bond. Come back. I…I think I’m losing Nero.

“Bind the flesh. Mend what has been torn and broken. Heal the wounds within. Make Nero whole once more.” I incant the spell for the third time since I fell to my familiar’s side, pouring my heart and what’s left of my magic into it. The pale orange plumes of my power sink into his body just as they have the last two times.

His wounds heal for a few moments before my spell gets no further. I want to scream, but the sound keeps getting trapped beneath this knot of fear in my throat.

The forest has gone unnervingly quiet. It’s just me and my helpless grief. I’m losing my familiar, and there’s nothing I can do.

I pet Nero softly, my touch light. “Though the pain exists, you shall no longer feel it,” I whisper.

My panther nudges my hand, his body relaxing just a touch. I begin to sob then, bowing my head over him.

“I’m sorry, so sorry, Nero. I never meant for this to happen.” I should’ve been more cautious with him. It’s easy enough for me to be brave in the face of threats, but my familiar is another matter altogether. He’s a true weakness of mine, and the witches who attacked him know that.

Yasmin knows that. I cry a little harder, even as my vision darkens at the edges and a shiver racks my body.

Memnon’s strong, warm hand falls to my shoulder. “Save your tears, little witch. You are not losing anyone tonight.”

I glance up at him, my heart giving a hopeful stutter, as the sorcerer scoops up an unconscious Nero and settles the big cat over his shoulder.

I’m about to stand when Memnon bends down and scoops me up in his other arm.

“If you think I’m going to let you walk in the state you’re in, you better start revisiting those old memories of ours,” he says, striding into the forest.

I lean my head tiredly on his shoulder, not bothering to fight him or revisit those old memories.

Thank you for coming, I say down our bond. Distantly I’m aware that I must be in bad shape to be, of all things, thanking Memnon.

Memnon’s mood darkens. I got here too late.

Maybe for the battle, I say, but not for me and Nero.

My gaze drifts to my panther’s dark form. At least I hope so.

Will he be okay? I ask. I’m holding my breath, terrified of Memnon’s answer.

The sorcerer glances down at me, his eyes no longer glowing. “Ferox didn’t survive the Roman arena and the many battles on the steppe only to be cut down by a few hasty curses. He has your magic running through his veins, sustaining him when his own body cannot. He will be okay, little witch. I swear it.”

The last of my tension leaves me.

I’m holding you to that, est xsaya, I whisper down our bond.

Memnon stiffens at the title, then tightens his hold on me.

It must be incredibly difficult to carry both me and Nero, but Memnon doesn’t complain and doesn’t slow as he moves through the woods.

I stare into the darkness, wondering about the witches who attacked my familiar. Surely the wards activated at curfew would’ve caught their identities.

For a few seconds, I’m hopeful that the coven might be able to deal with these threats all on its own. But then I remember the persecution tunnels running beneath the campus. I doubt they were warded, and it’s likely the witches who attacked Nero used those to get to the woods unnoticed.

In the distance, a forlorn howl goes up, and I remember all over again how the evening started.

The wolves never came. I thought after I heard those earlier howls that they might. Instead, I had to fend off Nero’s attackers on my own, mere hours after the wolves pledged their loyalty. I don’t know why that wounds me. It really shouldn’t. At the end of the day, I am not a shifter, I am a witch, and no amount of friendship changes that.

Memnon enters Last Rites, Henbane’s cemetery. It still bears a few remnants of our Samhain gathering—a melted candle here and there, a few scattered flowers lovingly left on tombstones, an empty potion vial someone left behind.

The sorcerer moves between the headstones, making his way to a particularly large crypt with the phases of the moon carved into its façade.

“What are we doing here?” I ask.

Memnon gives me a curious look. “I thought you would’ve remembered how we used to travel, est amage.”

“By horse?” I say, confounded.

He gives me a secretive smile. “By ley line.”

The dreaded ley line. I almost forgot.

Memnon steps up to the massive crypt and releases his power, forcing the stone doorway to open. The slab swings inward, scraping against the ground as it goes.

Of course the portal entrance onto a ley line couldn’t be out in the open. Of course we have to go inside a tomb to access it.

While ley lines stretch across the entire world, you can’t open these magical roads just anywhere. There are portals onto them, and almost all these portals are located in sacrosanct places like temples and churches, stone circles and cemeteries.

Memnon moves to enter the crypt.

“Wait,” I caution. “It might be warded.” Then again, it might be too late if Memnon already crossed it once to get here.

“There was a partially disintegrated ward when I arrived,” the sorcerer says, “but I broke what was left of it. There’s nothing else barring our way.”

With that, Memnon carries me and Nero inside. Once we enter, candles light, and they reveal a chamber bare of coffins and urns, bones and plaques. Aside from the candles themselves, there’s nothing in here at all except for a thin column of space that seems to bend the light a little differently. The ley line entrance.

“Have you traveled along one of these in this life?” Memnon asks.

I shake my head against him.

“Then hold on tight.”

I wrap my arms around Memnon’s neck, ignoring the way the movement tugs at my wounds.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I breathe.

With that, he steps through.

I nearly vomit as my surroundings smear together. The tunnel bends and warps the dark forest around us, the outside world rushing past as Memnon walks along the ley line. These magical roads are little wrinkles in reality, areas where space and time don’t follow normal rules. It means you can cross the world—you can even cross into other worlds—in seconds. Unfortunately, you can also get lost on these roads.

Fae are masters at crossing them, humans not so much. I never truly learned how to travel them as Roxilana. Instead, I bargained with the magic of these ley lines, giving it gifts in exchange for its assistance. Memnon, on the other hand, did learn. Eislyn taught him.

I hold on tightly to Memnon, breathing slowly so I don’t retch.

He only takes a handful of steps before exiting the ley line. Our blurred surroundings sharpen into more shadowy forest that looks identical to the Everwoods.

“Where are we?”

“Nearly home,” Memnon says, striding through the woods.

“You mean to your house,” I correct him tiredly.

He’s quiet, contemplative, at that, and I don’t know what to make of the mood. I’m so used to Memnon being pushy and conniving and angry with me, it’s unsettling to see this side of him. It’s the side I remember from long ago, but even then, it was always offset by his thirst for war.

We step out of the forest and onto a street, and Memnon leads us down it.

Up ahead, lampposts partially illuminate a massive house. There looks to be tarps on the roof, and whole segments of the house are nothing more than exposed wood or bare drywall. Despite its half-finished state, a warm, inviting glow comes from within.

“Is this the house I burned down?” I ask as we approach it. Between the darkness and the fire damage, I hardly recognize it.

“It is.” Amusement drips from his voice.

I pull away a little and take him in. “You sound proud of that fact.”

“I am.” Memnon glances at me. A tendril of his magic slips out then, the strand of it curling against my cheek. “Your ferocity is attractive, Empress, even when it’s focused on me.”

“You are unhinged,” I say, but my words lack bite.

Memnon lets out a self-assured laugh. “We make a particularly terrifying pair,” he admits, heading up the driveway of the house.

My stomach flutters at the idea of us as a unit before pushing the thought away. My gaze goes to Nero—wounded, agonized Nero. My panther’s eyes are shut, and his body is still limp. One glance into his mind and it’s clear he’s temporarily unconscious.

Memnon has been so reassuring that Nero will be okay that I’ve let down my guard. But now my guard is back up, and my earlier panic has returned.

The sorcerer’s magic unfurls ahead of us, and the front door swings open, and the lights inside flick on. Memnon strides straight into the house, heading toward the living room as the door swings shut behind us.

I peer curiously at his house. The walls bear no signs that they were incinerated not so long ago, but there’s still a faint scent of smoke that clings to the space, as though it’s soaked into the very bones of this structure. A couple of the walls are bare panels of drywall, and the ceiling above us is partially gone, exposing wood beams and some electrical wiring. All in all, however, it could be much worse.

“How did you fix this place so quickly?” I ask. I don’t even see scorch marks on the remaining walls or the floor.

“Magic and money,” Memnon admits. “It’s still very much a work in progress.”

A plush dog bed lies in the living room, next to a couch that looks new. Memnon sets me down on the couch, then carefully lays Nero out onto the dog bed.

My familiar doesn’t so much as stir.

It’s that lack of reaction that breaks whatever was keeping me together. I move off the couch and toward my familiar. Immediately, my eyesight darkens, and my legs fold.

I must black out, at least for a few moments, because when I blink my eyes, Memnon is holding me upright.

“No sudden movements, sweet mate,” he says. “You’re still badly injured.” Gently, he lowers me to the ground next to Nero, then squats in front of me. He gives me a stern look. “I will tend to Nero first, because I can sense your insistence, but you’re not going to move. When I’m done with him, you’re going to let me treat your wounds too. Deal?”

If he is capable of healing Nero, I’ll agree to just about anything.

“Deal,” I say softly.

Memnon nods, then pivots away from me and settles himself in front of Nero.

The night hid many of the big cat’s wounds from me, but under the bright lights of Memnon’s living room, it’s easy to see the extent of the damage. His belly and flank have been repeatedly sliced into, and the flesh around the cuts looks bubbled and mangled. Despite all my earlier spellcasting, the wounds still weep blood, along with a tar-black substance I recognize as dark magic. I can feel an echo of my familiar’s pain, and it seizes up my chest, making me draw in shallow breaths.

Memnon pets Nero as he looks him over, and the big cat licks what he can of the sorcerer’s arm. The sight has me biting back a sob.

“The curses he was struck with are still in him, preventing him from healing,” Memnon finally says.

Cursework is a complicated art. The Romans used to love them, but it was Memnon’s paternal side, the Moche people of South America, who were truly skilled at it. Particularly the royal family. Memnon’s father taught it to him, and now, when my soul mate closes his eyes and speaks low, the old Mochica language rolls over me like a lullaby, though I understand little of it.

The indigo magic that leaves Memnon’s hands and enters Nero is luminous. I watch it disappear beneath Nero’s matted fur, then wait.

Within seconds, oily magic starts to pour out of Nero’s festering wounds as Memnon’s magic purges it from my familiar’s body. As it leaves, it begins to sizzle away. The process takes minutes, but it feels like a small eternity.

Once the last of the dark magic leaves Nero’s body, Memnon spends minutes more healing the big panther. The sliced muscle and sinew reform, the bubbled flesh smooths out, and the skin seals itself up until Nero is whole again.

I slip into the panther’s mind, just briefly, and I can sense his renewed vitality. His body is still sore, and he’s very weak, but he’ll be all right.

I retreat back into my own head, shuddering out a breath.

“You did it,” I say to Memnon. “You saved him.” Disbelief coats my words.

I knew my mate could do it, yet there had been a time earlier tonight when I was certain I was about to lose my familiar.

Memnon turns to me, his eyes dropping to my cheeks. He reaches out and wipes away a couple spare tears I hadn’t realized I’d shed. “You would’ve figured it out too, est amage,” he says quietly.

I catch his wrist and brush a kiss against his knuckles, then press his hand to my cheek. “Thank you,” I say sincerely.

Memnon’s gaze flitters all over my face before he inclines his head. “Nero’s lost a lot of blood, so don’t be worried if he sleeps longer than usual or he’s a bit tired for another day or so. I will set out a flank of lamb and some water for him in a little bit so he’ll have something to eat when he wakes.

Memnon turns to me. “Now,” he says, and his tone changes. “Let me see your wounds.”

I glance down at my shredded shirt. Beneath the torn material, I can make out lines of scabs. It’s a strange sight, almost as though I have tiger stripes, only these were made by spells, then cauterized when I offered my blood to the entity beneath the earth. There’s a deeper cut on my belly, and I know my back must be a mess; it took the brunt of the hits. I can feel more dried blood on my face and hairline from the final curse Yasmin threw at me.

Memnon runs his fingers lightly over my skin. Again I hear him murmur in Mochica.

His magic moves like a lover across my flesh, and the way it ripples right now looks like the surface of the ocean. It sinks into my body, and every injury it touches heats. To my shock and horror, beads of black, oily magic push through my wounds.

I hadn’t realized some of the curses that struck me earlier were still lingering inside me.

I watch the oily magic burn away into vapor, then nothing at all.

“I used dark magic,” I admit softly. I chew the inside of my cheek. It’s not the first time I’ve done so either. I used it when I fought Memnon the night of the dance, and I used it the night of the spell circle. I hadn’t realized it, and I definitely hadn’t meant to, but it’s become a habit.

Fuck, it’s been a habit since before this life.

Memnon glances up from my skin. “You used your gods-given power to retaliate against those who harmed your familiar. It was justified.”

It did seem justified, but it doesn’t make me feel better about using it.

The sorcerer must sense my lingering unease because he adds, “We have both used such magic many, many times. It is…tainted, but powerful.”

I peer at Memnon, my eyes lingering on his scar. “What do you think it’s tainted with?” I ask, fearing the answer. I’ve heard all the stories about dark magic, the most famous of which is the Law of Three—using it will curse you three times as badly as the original act. But mostly, supernaturals don’t speak of dark magic. And now that I’ve used it a few times, I’m starting to worry.

Memnon shakes his head, his eyes dropping to the last of the curse as it dissolves away. “I don’t know.”

After a pause, I admit, “I heard a voice.”

Memnon’s sharp gaze flicks to mine. “What sort of voice?”

I open my mouth, but then I shake my head, at a loss for words. “I don’t know. It might have been many voices, but it spoke to me.” I don’t mention that this likely was the same entity that granted my final spell as Roxilana, nor do I mention that it lent me power tonight. “I don’t know what to make of it.”

The sorcerer looks concerned as his eyes search mine. He turns back to my arm, watching his magic as it sinks into my skin.

“Have you ever heard of anything like it?” I ask.

After a moment, Memnon nods. “My father called them the Hungering Ones. He told me they were malevolent but formidable deities. They have a taste for power and enjoy nothing more than blood-soaked earth. I’ve always ignored the voices when they’ve called out to me. If you hear them again, est amage, you should too.” He holds my gaze, his eyes steady. “There are things even kings and queens should not meddle with.”

Unfortunately, I think it’s too late for that.

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CHAPTER 24

Once the dark magic is out of my system, Memnon sets to healing me. His hands press against my stomach, his magic moving through every limb.

“You were with the shifters tonight,” he states.

I swallow delicately, already knowing I’m going to hate the conversation.

“How is it that on the very night you met with an entire pack, you and your familiar manage to get severely injured?”

Memnon makes it sound like they were involved.

“It wasn’t their fault,” I say. “Nero and the shifters didn’t get along, so my panther left the meeting to hunt in the woods. It was there that the witches cornered him.”

“The lycans must’ve been aware of the attack—I heard their howls. Why weren’t they there fighting off the witches?” Memnon says.

Down our bond, I feel the breadth of his anger.

There’s only one explanation that makes sense to me, not that it makes me feel any less wounded.

“Shifters cannot cross into witch territory without permission,” I say.

Memnon scowls. “That pup crossed easily enough the night I found him in your bed weeks ago.”

I give Memnon a look. “His name is Kane, and I gave him permission then.”

“And you didn’t tonight?” Memnon presses. “I would assume that permission was implied.”

I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. In fact, the longer I sit with what he’s saying, the more uneasy I feel. I am a friend of the pack, but where was that friendship thirty minutes ago?

The sorcerer continues. “It seems to me that Kane and the rest of his pack are so worried about following the rules that they let evil slip through their fingers in the name of them.” Memnon leans forward as the last of my wounds pull together under his magic. “Call me a monster, call me a devil, but you and I both know I will fucking shatter the rules for you.” He stares at me fervently. “Always for you.”

My gaze dips to his lips as my pulse begins to race. Memnon’s right; for all his faults, he would do anything, give anything, for me. And at one point in time, I did the same for him. That’s why the two of us exist at all in this future—I sold my last life to some buried god for the chance to sit here in this room with him.

The air feels thick with tension as the moment draws on.

Memnon leans back on his haunches then, breaking the tension as he removes his hands from my stomach.

“Your wounds are all healed, est amage, though like Nero, you’ll be a little lightheaded from blood loss. You’ll need to take it easy.”

My eyes flitter around the room. I’m staying here tonight, I realize. I guess it was assumed from the moment Memnon carted Nero and I away from the forest, but only now is it truly setting in. I’m staying here, after a measly few days back at my residence hall.

The defeat stings a lot less than I thought it would.

I go to stand, and the edges of my vision darken.

Memnon is at my side in an instant.

“I’m fine.”

The sorcerer gives a malevolent laugh. “I’m understanding that phrase better and better every time you use it.”

I give him a weary look. “I just want a hot shower.”

“You’ll likely pass out from the heat,” he says, looking apologetic.

“Then I’ll have a hot bath,” I say.

“You might still pass out.”

I want to growl my frustration. “Then come in with me and make sure I don’t.”

Memnon’s eyes widen.

Exhausted though I am, I nearly laugh. For a scheming sorcerer, he looks awfully surprised.

That’s a command, I add. My skin itches with the feel of dirt and dried blood, and now that I’ve seen the dark magic ooze out of me, I need to scrub away the memory of it too.

“All right, Empress,” he says, his expression unreadable.

Memnon helps me down the hallway and into his bathroom. I hadn’t realized how fatigued I was, but I need the help. Even with his arm around me, I’m still breathing heavy by the time the two of us get there.

“Shower or bath?” he asks, still holding me.

Both the tub and the glass shower stall could easily fit us both.

“Which would be easier for you?”

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter what I want. Shower or bath?”

“I like showers better⁠—”

Memnon’s magic slips past the glass door of the shower and turns the spigot on.

“—but I’m not sure how long I want to stand,” I confess.

“Then you can sit in the shower, or I can hold you.”

I glance up at him, feeling unusually vulnerable. I don’t know why. Memnon has fought alongside me, he’s been inside me, he’s seen me naked and tended to me. None of it is new. No part of us is new.

“Okay,” I agree.

Memnon’s blue magic encircles us, peeling away our ruined clothes. I hear my phone thump to the ground, along with the soft sounds of my shredded jeans and shirt.

“Wait,” I say, bending down to grab the phone while several of Memnon’s daggers clatter to the ground alongside his clothes.

I straighten and hastily text my mom I’m alive before dropping the device back to the tiled floor. I don’t need her fretting about me on top of everything else right now.

The sorcerer’s magic pulls the shower door open, and he helps me in. Immediately the shower spray rinses away the most obvious grime that’s on me, and Goddess but does it feel good. Under the heat of the spray, my muscles loosen.

I swivel around, leaning against the stone wall of the shower stall, and take in Memnon. He stands close, ready to catch me if I fall. The water has already hit his hair and speckled his face. Rivulets of it trail down his sculpted chest, and my eyes follow their path, taking in the tattoos that I used to doodle into my notebooks—bits of him that my mind never forgot.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he breathes, grabbing a nearby bar of soap and rolling it between his hands.

“Like what?” I say dazedly, leaning more heavily against the wall.

“Like you want a repeat of last night.”

The heat is making me dizzy. “You don’t?” I ask.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath. Louder, he says, “Of course I do. But not when you’re half dead and delirious from blood loss.”

“I’m not delirious,” I say, even as I sway.

Memnon steps into the last of my personal space and takes one of my arms. He focuses on scrubbing up and down it. “You are,” he insists. “Besides,” he adds, moving to my other arm, “I got the impression I was in your bed yesterday because of a potion and nothing more.”

I frown, not liking how my reasons sound coming out of his lips. Especially not after Memnon helped me this evening. I hadn’t commanded him to come, and I didn’t need some fancy friendship pact for him to show up. It’s just what Memnon does for me, what he’s always done for me.

He continues washing my body, the strokes of his hands decidedly not sexual, even as they move over my torso.

“It’s annoying when you’re honorable,” I say.

He grabs more soap, then kneels down to wash my legs.

“Why is that?”

The steam is getting to me. I feel lightheaded, nauseous.

“It makes it harder to hate you,” I confess.

Memnon glances up from where he kneels, the water slicking his hair back. I reach out for his face just as I sway again.

“Selene—”

My vision darkens. When it clears again, I’m in the sorcerer’s arms, and the water is cooling.

“Did I pass out?” I ask, my torso pressed against his. I’m about eye level with his pecs, and I get an intimate view of the dragon tattoo over his heart.

“I caught you,” he says, keeping me upright.

I draw my gaze up, meeting his eyes. His hands stay on me, and though I don’t necessarily need the continued support, I don’t move out of his embrace. I think we’re both fooling ourselves about how weak I am until I begin to shiver.

“Shit.” Memnon uses one hand to pull me in closer to him and the other to nudge up the temperature until it’s lukewarm.

Still, my shivers don’t fully abate.

“I want to get you out of here,” he says, frowning. “You’re still lightheaded.”

His fretting is disarming.

“Just a little longer,” I insist. I still feel like I have dirt in my hair and dark magic on my skin. I press my cheek against his chest. “I trust you to keep me safe.”

I can’t see his face, but his hold tightens on me.

Without letting me go, he reaches for a bottle of shampoo and gets a little on his hand. Indigo magic flows out of him, wrapping around my midsection and holding me up so he can scrub my hair with both hands.

I stare up at him. The two of us are caught between hate and love, and we’ve found a tentative alliance right in between the two. Memnon is doing everything he can to prevent me from hating him again, and I’m doing what I can to not topple headfirst into caring about him.

He tilts my head back to wash off the shampoo.

“Did you see who was attacking Nero?” he asks.

I close my eyes, my nausea rising again at the memory.

“They were all witches, I think. Two of them…” My voice catches. I open my eyes. “Two of them live in my house at Henbane.”

Memnon’s eyes are sharp as he watches me.

“One of them told me that Lia was looking for me.”

The sorcerer’s expression darkens, growing cold and determined.

“I think these witches might’ve been working for her, but I don’t know,” I finish.

It’s quiet for several seconds.

“Do you know the names of these witches?” Memnon finally asks. A chilling ruthlessness has entered his voice.

I hesitate.

“I only know one of their names, and only her first name—Yasmin.”

Memnon’s features smooth, turning placid. That expression is more terrifying than his anger. It’s the face he wears as a warlord.

“Memnon, I don’t want you to hurt her,” I say.

His eyes begin to glow a little as his magic wells. “She sought to kill your familiar. She hurt you. It’s too late for her, est amage. She is borrowing air at this point.”

“She’s a coven sister, and she might be involved in something against her will,” I say.

“I don’t care.” It’s truly that simple for him too. Yasmin hurt me, so now she must die.

“You won’t hurt her,” I order.

The sorcerer’s jaw tightens, and his eyes glow brighter. “Fine.” He bites the word out, and to give him credit, he uses it exactly as I have been using it—to cover an obvious lie.

I reach out and turn off the water, thoroughly worn out by the evening. Memnon uses his magic to call a towel to him. He wraps it around me as another floats over and fits itself around his waist.

The tension in the room once again is thick enough to slice into, only now it’s fueled by frustration, not chemistry. Memnon isn’t used to truly being hemmed in. It seems the bond he forged with me is finally getting to him.

I’ve barely finished drying when the sorcerer’s magic whisks away our towels. He scoops me up then and carries me into the bed, setting me gently on the mattress and tucking me in.