Текст книги "Bespelled"

Автор книги: Laura Thalassa

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

“Do you want something to sleep in?” he asks.

My eyes are already closing. I’m beyond caring. “This is fine.” It’s not like he hasn’t already seen everything.

Memnon moves away from the bed, toward his closet, stalking around the room like a caged panther. It barely registers until he exits the room altogether.

Memnon, I call tiredly down our bond.

Yes, little witch?

Where did you go? I ask.

I’m letting you sleep.

Oh.

Several seconds go by, and I think I drift a little, only to wake feeling agitated.

Memnon?

Yes?

I can’t be sure, but he sounds a little amused.

Will you…come back?

The other side of the bond is quiet, but a minute later, Memnon returns to the room wearing only a low slung pair of sweats. He stands just inside the doorway for several seconds.

I’m half-asleep when I reach for him.

It seems to take another small eternity before he moves to me and takes my hand, threading his fingers between mine.

I blink sleepily at him.

Will you stay with me until I fall asleep? I want to ask him for more, but I’m not brave enough.

Memnon uses his other hand to run his knuckles over my cheek.

Of course, Empress.

He releases my hand and gets on the bed then. I flip over, curling my body toward his.

“Good night, wife,” he murmurs.

“Former wife,” I whisper, correcting him.

“Future wife,” he corrects me.

Sleep presses in, pulling me under. I’m too tired to argue further.

The last thing I sense before I fall asleep is Memnon’s hand running over my wet hair and this sharp, almost agonized love trickling into me from our bond.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I feel the brush of fingers against my hair.

I need to take care of a few things, est amage. I will be back soon.

But perhaps Memnon’s words were just a dream, because when I wake, he’s there, pressing kisses to my skin. Against my throat, at the juncture of my neck and shoulder, and down my arm.

I should push him away, but my bond is singing, and the kisses feel like wish fulfillment.

Good morning, future wife, he says when he notices me waking, propping himself on a forearm. He’s still above the sheets, and I don’t know why, but that is disappointing to me. Which is absurd.

I forbid you from calling me that, I say, brushing my tangled hair back from my face.

Good morning, fiancée, he corrects.

That too.

Good morning, my vicious queen who demands the blood of our enemies.

I smile.

Another kiss to my shoulder. You liked that one, he says, noticing.

You know, you’re my enemy too, I remind him.

Then punish me, he demands.

I part my lips, unsure what to say, when a sound like nails on a chalkboard saves me from having to answer. It comes from the other side of the closed bedroom door.

SCRIIIITCH. SCRIIIITCH.

There’s only one creature who makes that noise.

“Nero!” I say excitedly. I didn’t think my panther would be up for a while still. But at the sound of his claws, my heart nearly leaps from my chest.

Before I can scramble out of bed, Memnon’s indigo magic reaches out and opens the door.

Nero walks in silently, and once I see him, I slide out of Memnon’s bed and rush over to my panther, only belatedly realizing I’m still very naked and a little dizzy. I wrap my arms around Nero anyway, who leans into my embrace, nuzzling against my cheek, then giving it an abrasive lick.

“How dare you almost die on me,” I whisper, squeezing him tighter.

He rubs his head against me again, then pulls away. At first, I think it’s because he’s only so touchy-feely with his emotions, but then he pads over to the far side of the bed, where Memnon is, and he places his head on the edge of it.

The sorcerer’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and Memnon reaches out and rubs Nero’s head. “You’re a true warrior,” the sorcerer says gruffly, “You owe me no thanks for healing you.”

Ah, fuck. This man is definitely going to make me fall for him.

Memnon glances at me, a small smile on his lips. That’s my deepest hope, my queen.

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CHAPTER 25

“You cannot go back to Henbane,” Memnon says.

The two of us are in the sorcerer’s kitchen.

Memnon is currently shirtless, his back to me as he cooks bacon on the stove. I forgot how good of a cook he is; it was one of his hobbies way back when.

“I’m sorry, what?” I say, my eyebrows rising.

He turns from the stove, crossing his arms over his rippling torso. I can hear the crackle and pop of frying bacon, and the oil must be hitting his back, but the sorcerer doesn’t move and doesn’t flinch.

He lifts his chin. “You cannot stay there.”

Without meaning to, my eyes have drifted down his chest, following the flow of his tattoos.

Stop staring at his pretty muscles.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Fine,” he echoes, narrowing his gaze.

I have to force myself to not react to that word. We both now know I often use it when things aren’t fine.

I brace myself for his retort.

Instead, he says, “Yes, I can believe that. You are fearsome.” There’s no mockery in his words. “But how about Nero?”

His question is a sucker punch to the stomach.

Nero.

My gaze moves to the woods beyond the window, where my familiar bounded off to ten minutes ago. Even though this is a different patch of forest, one Memnon has insisted is safe, I’ve still been worried about my panther’s well-being ever since he left.

I rub my forehead and take a deep breath.

“Damn it,” I mutter.

Memnon’s right. Even if I warded my room within an inch of my life, and even if I was willing to take on whatever skirmishes might come my way…I’m not willing to risk Nero. Not again.

I scowl. “Did you know this would happen?” I ask, perhaps a touch accusingly.

The sorcerer’s expression has softened, and his eyes look almost pitying. “Not this specifically. But, est amage, we have always had enemies. This is not new or surprising to me.”

My eyes drift over his kitchen again. Memnon watches me like a hawk, drinking in my appraisal of his place. The loud pop from the pan rouses him, and he turns back to the stove.

“So somehow separate from all your plotting, I find myself in a position where I have to stay with you,” I say to his back, my eyes trailing over the tattoos covering it.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he responds, rotating his head just enough so I can see his scarred profile. “You are a former queen,” he reminds me. “You do as you fucking please.” He pauses to turn off the burner and move the pan away from the heat. Then he swivels back to me. “But I want you here. This is your house. That”—he nods in the direction of the bedroom—“is your room and your bed.”

“Our bed,” I correct. “It would be our bed.”

Memnon’s gaze burns with intensity. “You’re the one with the power, Selene. If you don’t want me in it, you can command me to sleep anywhere else,” he says. “You are the one in control.”

It’s the illusion of control, nothing more.

“This house and the woods around it are protected, and here, you and Nero will both be safe,” Memnon continues. “And in the meantime, we’ll work together to find this Lia, and we’ll stop her.”

Presumably then I’ll be able to return to the residence hall.

I take a deep breath. “Okay.” I nod. “I’ll stay.” Just until it’s safe for Nero. “I’ll still need to go back to campus,” I add, “at least some of the time. There are things that I need.” Such as my clothes, my notebooks, my laptop, and my textbooks. “And I’m going to continue attending class,” I say, lifting my chin a little. I fought hard to be admitted to Henbane. I’m not going to let a few rogue witches ruin it all for me.

Perhaps if the sorcerer were a modern man, he’d find the idea of me going back to campus supremely foolish. But Memnon is a warlord and a king. He has brazenly walked among enemies and would only assume I’d do the same. It’s not in his nature—in any Sarmatian’s nature—to be cowed by an opponent.

The sorcerer crosses the kitchen and stops close enough to tilt my face up to his, his gold rings pressing against my skin. “Fair enough, Selene,” he says, taking in my features. “But if you must be among foes, do not give them this tempered, modern treatment. I don’t care what compassionate thoughts fill that heart of yours. If someone so much as looks at you wrong, you use your magic, and you aim to kill.”

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CHAPTER 26

Another witch is missing.

I learn that ten minutes after I arrive on campus, right as I’m settling into my seat in Spellcasting 101.

The news steals the air from my lungs. Could the missing witch be one of Nero’s attackers? There was at least one whose throat he ripped out.

Goddess, she had to have died. I try not to panic in my seat as I remember that. What happened to the body? Is it still out there, waiting to be found? Could she have survived? Or is she the missing witch, her body moved sometime in the last twelve hours?

Throughout the lecture, I woodenly take down notes, but I’m not really listening. Instead my mind is turning and turning. There have been murdered witches, and there are now missing witches—Kasey is one of them, and now there’s another one. Both disappearances happened right after battles. Could whoever they’re working for be cleaning up any evidence? Or could it be…

I need to take care of a few things, est amage. I will be back soon.

Maybe that wasn’t just a dream. Maybe Memnon legitimately left.

I reach out to the sorcerer now. Did you move any bodies from the forest last night?

Is this an intrusive thought, or is this my little witch? Memnon responds.

I glance heavenward. Memnon.

I feel the warmth of his smile down our bond.

Did I mention that I miss you?

Memnon, be serious.

I can almost feel his next words—I am serious.

But he lets them go unspoken. Instead, he says, I went back and removed any evidence that might be incriminating, he says evasively.

Including bodies?

I do believe there was a body involved. Maybe even two.

My stomach turns over. Witches died last night, and while my blood still boils that they tried to kill my familiar, I feel nauseous at the thought of more lives lost.

Don’t, Memnon says, cutting through my thoughts.

Don’t what?

Don’t let your guilt obscure the truth. This was a planned attack on your familiar. You and he both defended yourselves against it, and in the process, some of your attackers died. More of them will die if they’re foolish enough to take you on again, he says fervently.

The knot forming in my stomach now loosens. They’re words I didn’t know I needed to hear.

Now go be studious. I’ll see you at six sharp.

Abruptly, Memnon pulls away from our link, leaving me to mull over his words.

My pale orange magic hovers around me like a storm cloud as I enter the residence hall after class. I’m braced for a confrontation with Yasmin or that other housemate.

But today, the house is mostly quiet. Only a few witches linger in the common areas, and they aren’t either of the witches I’m keeping an eye out for.

I head to my room, my heart sinking when I see Nero’s empty bed. Quickly, I pack up what I need and set it by the door. I hate that I’m being forced out of this room.

This isn’t forever, I promise myself.

I have some time in between now and my next class, and there are a million things I could be doing with the precious time I have left on campus.

I don’t end up doing any of them.

Instead, I head down to my house’s dining room and through an inconspicuous door that leads to the house’s kitchen. Inside are two witches currently on cooking duty. One look at the roster hanging up on the adjacent wall, and I can see that I’ll be called to help prep a meal next week.

My power thickens as I take in the witches’ faces, but it resettles a little when I realize neither of them are the witches from last night.

I breeze past them and head for the metal freezer. Cold air hisses out when I open it. Inside, I see exactly what I was looking for.

“What are you doing?” one of them demands.

I drag out a massive tub of ice cream. “I’m tossing this out. The ice cream has been recalled,” I say. “There was a listeria outbreak at the factory where it was made.”

“Oh,” one of the witches says, looking baffled. The other one eyes me skeptically.

I walk out of there, carrying the industrial-size carton. Once I’m in the dining room, I use my magic to call a spoon to me. And then I head to my house’s den.

I sit down cross-legged on the couch, set the carton in my lap, and begin stress eating the shit out of Neapolitan ice cream.

Need to go to class, need to finish the assigned reading, need to finish my spellcasting homework…

My hands itch to write this down in one of my notebooks, but since I left my notebooks in my room, I just manically go over and over my list, trying to sear it into my brain so I don’t forget.

Need to double-check that I packed everything I need for … for …

I shove another panicked bite of ice cream into my mouth.

Tonight.

The evening looms ominously in my mind. It was one thing to stay with Memnon when Nero and I were hurt. It’s another to deliberately choose to stay there. And now that my mind isn’t busy taking notes or worrying about missing witches, I have all the time in the world to stress about living with Memnon.

I take another massive scoop of ice cream.

One of the witches passing by stops in the doorway of the den. I recognize her as the same witch who, weeks ago, fell asleep on our staircase landing with her fox familiar. I think her name is Rosemary.

“What are you doing with that?” she asks, her tone both curious and accusing as she takes in the industrial-size container of ice cream.

“Obviously, I stole it,” I say. A little petty theft seems like nothing compared to some of the crimes I’ve witnessed lately.

The witch glances up and down the hall, then heads toward the dining room.

She returns less than a minute later with a spoon.

“Scooch over, Selene,” she says, sitting next to me. “I want some too.”

My eyebrows rise at the sound of my name—I didn’t realize she knew it—but I do make room for her.

“You okay?” she asks as a group of three witches catch sight of us.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I say. Was she one of the witches who attacked me? I reassess her.

Rosemary scoops out a bite from the carton. “No one steals a tub of ice cream and eats it alone without having a supremely shitty day.”

I mean technically, I could just really like ice cream and not care about the consequences.

But she’s right.

“I’m just…overwhelmed…by things lately,” I admit. As I speak, the three witches I noticed earlier now come in, each of them carrying spoons.

Damn it. Now I have to share.

I eye each one of them, relaxing a little when I see that none of them are the witches from last night.

They could’ve still been out there in the woods. Or they could’ve been at the spell circle. They could be plotting against me even now.

I hate these thoughts, and I hate that I have to think about them at all. All I’ve wanted for the last year is to come to Henbane and make friends with other witches. But now I feel paranoid, like those medieval inquisitors who seemed to find witches in every shadow and demons in every witch.

Rosemary makes an agreeing noise, oblivious to my churning inner monologue.

“If that isn’t the Mother’s damn truth,” she says while the three new witches cram themselves onto the couch.

One of the new witches who sits down on my other side adds, “I’ve heard that Henbane is seriously considering closing its doors.”

I glance at her wide brown eyes, alarmed.

“What?” One of her friends echoes my thoughts. “Where did you hear this?”

“One of our instructors was discussing it with another faculty member when I came in for office hours.”

“Why?” Rosemary asks. “No other witches have been killed since the dance.”

“But more have gone missing,” the witch says, brushing back her curly brown hair before scooping out another bite of ice cream. “Not to mention there are plenty of angry parents set to sue the coven.”

Everyone is quiet.

I don’t want Henbane to shut down, not after all the effort that it took for me to get accepted and to stay here and make it work. However, it’s not like the concerns are fabricated.

More witches step into the room, some of them with spoons, some of them asking to borrow their coven sisters’ utensils.

I’m starting to feel agitated by the swarm of them when I catch sight of Sybil at the threshold of the den, her owl Merlin perched on her shoulder.

She must see the growing panic in my eyes because she smirks before she cuts through the room and the cluster of witches around me.

“All right, snack time’s over for you,” Sybil says, grabbing my hand and pulling me off the couch. Another witch catches the half-eaten carton of ice cream with her magic before it hits the ground.

Taking my spoon from my hand, Sybil gives it to another witch who needs one, then steers me out of the den and up to her room. As soon as the door shuts behind her, she leans against it.

“Okay,” she says. “Where the fuck have you been?” At her tone, Merlin flaps his wings before resettling. “And don’t give me some bullshit answer. Kane called me frantic last night, asking me if you made it home okay, and when I checked, you weren’t here.”

As she speaks, her lilac magic sifts out of her, a clear sign of her agitation. It weaves through my own power, which still hovers around me.

I swallow. “Last night was bad, Sybil,” I admit. “Someone tried to kill Nero.”

Horror washes over her features. “What?” she says softly.

I tell her everything, from meeting with the shifters to the attack to going home with Memnon. And I know I’m distrustful of witches overall, and maybe that should extend to Sybil, but honestly, I need someone besides Memnon to trust.

My friend glances heavenward, letting out a ragged breath. “I hate that this is becoming normal for us. You disappearing and me worrying that you’re hurt or worse.” She doesn’t voice what worse is, though we both know what she means.

Dead.

She continues, “And now it’s witches who are after you, witches we know, and Memnon who’s the good guy?” Sybil shakes her head, the action jostling her owl a little. “What parallel universe are we in?”

I glance down at my hands, my emotions a tangled mess. “I don’t know. I did hate him. I…I do still…” I squeeze my hands into fists. “Fuck, I don’t know. He saved Nero, and he’s been good to me. I know he doesn’t deserve a second chance but⁠—”

“Listen, Selene,” Sybil cuts in, “you do what makes you happy. Personally, given all the disappearances, it’s probably safer for you that you’re off campus. If you happen to hate-fuck the guy along the way, more power to you. He seems like he’s a ride.”

“Sybil!” I give her a push, and she cackles, falling back on her bed while Merlin flies to his perch above Sybil’s headboard.

“Just be sure to brew lots of contraceptive potions,” she adds. “One sorcerer is more than enough.”

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CHAPTER 27

My packed bags are sitting just inside the spell kitchen as I work on the final task I want to complete before I return to Memnon’s house. Namely, making a protective amulet for Nero. Or at least I’m trying to make one.

Spellwork is a painstaking, intricate business. It’s easy enough for a witch to press their intention into their power as they cast it out, but the actual crafting of a spell, one that draws magic mostly from external things, that is like weaving a tapestry. There are lots of moving parts. But if done correctly, the protective talisman is like a mobile ward, one whose strength can grow over time.

Despite the fact that the last time I tried to make an amulet, it was a disaster, I’m determined to get it right, for Nero’s sake.

I glance down at the grimoire open on the counter.

Thrice by thrice thorn of rose

What the fuck is thrice? I know I’m a witch and this sounds like my jam, but there are some old-as-shit terms that even I don’t understand.

One quick internet search and okay, thrice means three, which I guess I should’ve assumed.

So thrice by thrice…three by three—nine. Maiden, Mother, and Crone, they could’ve just said nine.

I’m bitching under my breath as I grab the roses I’d already gathered from the residence hall’s greenhouse. When most spells call for roses, they want the petals or the pressed oil from them. Not this one. This one calls for the thorns.

Quickly, I begin to snap them off the stem, counting them out as I go. I’m removing my ninth one when⁠—

“Fuck,” I curse. One of the thorns cradled in my palm has lodged itself in my flesh. I snap off the final thorn and toss eight of the nine into the boiling cauldron. The ninth one I pry from my palm, grimacing as it comes away bloody.

I hold it over the cauldron, transfixed by that red liquid. I’ve already used blood magic—dark magic. I’ve felt the alluring, forbidden press of it, and I’ve heard dark voices calling to me when I’ve used it.

I should rinse my hands and grab another thorn, one free of blood.

Instead, still under trance, I release the one in my hand, letting it fall into the cauldron. It hisses the moment it makes contact, and shimmering smoke wafts up from the potion.

I blink a few times, then take a shaky breath. Well, guess that decides that.

I move on to the last ingredient, heading to the other side of the kitchen to grab the jar labeled Toad Legs (ethically harvested under the full moon)—whatever that means—and pull one out, throwing it into the brew.

I eye the appendage bobbing in the bubbling cauldron, wondering how frog legs—ethically harvested or not—fit into dark magic. Where is the line drawn? Witches don’t really say, and I have a prickly, uncomfortable feeling this falls into that gray area where it’s only okay until somebody in the future says it isn’t.

Oh well, I’m probably already thoroughly fucked.

Thoroughly fucked? Memnon’s voice is sin given sound. Oh no, little witch, you haven’t even begun to experience what it means to be thoroughly fucked.

I press a hand to my head. No one invited you into the conversation, I say, holding back the thought that only days ago, Memnon did very thoroughly fuck me.

The conversation? Memnon echoes. Who else are you talking to? Please don’t tell me you’ve involved the panther in this.

Memnon.

I feel him grin, and in response, my entire body seems to come alive. Lately, the sorcerer has been…cheeky. And Goddess help me, I think I like it.

I’ll see you soon, Empress.

Crap, that’s right. The mounted cuckoo clock in the spell kitchen says I have ten minutes, though it could be wrong—magic makes the thing finicky.

Hurriedly, I clean up my spot on the counter, then stir the pot.

The grimoire lists an incantation as the final step. I lift a hand over the cauldron and read it off: “Mortal hearts full of woe and ire, see not my form if thou dost conspire. Turn thine eyes away from me, protect my body and blessed be.”

A flare of light brightens the mixture, and I see all the solid ingredients dissolve into the liquid.

From my pocket, I pull out a soft leather cord I found in one of the drawers of the spell kitchen. On it, I strung an old quartz pendant I used to wear. Now I dip the cord, stone first, into the potion, making sure all of it is submerged. When I pull it out, the soft luster of my pale orange magic coats the pendant and cord before sinking into the objects. I can sense the ward taking hold.

I did it. I made my first successful amulet.

Once the ward has completely set, I tuck the newly made amulet into my pocket.

For the first time since Nero was attacked last night, I breathe easy.

Now to meet with Memnon.

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