Текст книги "Bespelled"

Автор книги: Laura Thalassa

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

CHAPTER 32

Living with Memnon is going to prove to be my doom.

That’s all I can think the next day, after another raging night of sex. I’m pretty sure the sorcerer’s goal is to screw me into loving him, and it’s working. Or at least I think I’m developing an unhealthy addiction to it.

I don’t even try to leave his bed until he’s called away to meet with Juliana.

I shower, change, then I pack my messenger bag, eager to get some work done back on campus. Nero comes up to me, clearly interested in going wherever I’m going.

I kneel down in front of him and pet his head. “I can’t take you with me today,” I say, the words cleaving my heart in two.

Nero stares up at me, and for once, he doesn’t look like a panther annoyed with my very existence. He looks like a loyal friend who knows he’s getting left behind.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly. I don’t want to leave him, but I haven’t worked up the courage to let the panther back into the Everwoods.

The way Nero nudges his head into my chest, as though he’s insistent on staying close to me, makes me want to cry.

“I know it’s supremely unfair,” I say, “but I can’t risk you getting hurt—not after what happened. At least here, you can wander and hunt in the woods without fear of someone attacking you.”

He doesn’t look like he cares about that, but he’s also done begging. Nero turns from me, whacking my cheek with a flick of his tail before heading toward an open window at the back of the living room.

Without giving me another glance, he hops through it and heads out for the woods beyond.

I stay kneeling there for another second, torn. I could just stay in Memnon’s empty house. It is the weekend after all. I could busy myself inspecting every corner of this place, then read the books he’s stocked his bookshelf with. I could wait—for Memnon to return, for Nero to come back, for the weekend to end and classes to start up again.

But I have assignments that require the use of my house’s spell kitchen, and perhaps more importantly, I need to work on that birth control potion or else find out if the house keeps any on hand. I haven’t taken anything since the day after Samhain, and we’ve had rounds of sex since then.

So even feeling like the world’s worst pet owner, I leave Memnon’s house, using his car to return to Henbane.

And then I get to work.

By the end of the day, my assignments are done and I’ve even brewed a contraceptive potion. Or at least, I tried.

I hold the beaker of potion up, worrying my lower lip. It’s a murky brownish purple, rather than the deep blue I remember from after Samhain.

To drink it or not to drink it?

Will it even work?

A group of witches pass by the spell kitchen, and I glance up, momentarily distracted as they pass the doorway. Part of me is still bracing to see Yasmin or the other girl I recognized the night they attacked Nero, but I haven’t seen them in the days since the attack, and I don’t see them now.

I return my attention to the potion I brewed. There’s no way I’m drinking this. I dump the thing down the sink.

I’ll try again tomorrow. Until then, I should find Sybil and see if she has any contraceptive potion I can use until I sort myself out.

Briskly, I clean up my things, then head out of the kitchen and up the stairs, ignoring the faint scents of dinner.

Outside, the sky is a luminous deep blue, and the lampposts speckling the campus flicker to life.

I hadn’t realized how long I’d been working. I pull my phone from my pocket.

6:44 p.m.

Shit.

It’s way past curfew.

You’ve broken curfew before, I reassure myself. What is one more day?

But when it happened before, I had my reasons. Now, I merely lost track of time.

Setting aside my worries about curfew for a moment, I send my mother a quick text—I’m still kicking!—then tuck my phone away and step off the second floor of the house, heading down the hall.

When I get to my best friend’s room, I open the door and step inside.

Sybil is busy typing away on her laptop, but when she hears me, she glances up.

“Selene!” Sybil’s face blooms into a smile. “I didn’t realize you were here. I was going to grab dinner in a few minutes. Want to join?”

“Oh.” I hadn’t even considered it. But I’ve already broken curfew. What’s the harm in lingering a little longer?

“I would love to come to dinner with you,” I say to Sybil.

“Yay!” she says.

I reach down my bond to Memnon. I’ll be out late tonight. Don’t wait up.

It feels weird checking in like this, as though I’m somehow answerable to him. But Goddess forbid the man worries about me. Heads might literally roll.

From the other side of the bond I feel Memnon’s warmth. Hello, Empress, I’ve been missing you, he says, and damn him, but I get butterflies at his words. After a moment, he adds, I might also be late. I’m now involved in a whole new arm of the organization and, Selene, I have so much to tell you.

My breath catches. Memnon has clearly learned something new, something that will probably shed light on the murders. It’s also clearly meant to entice me to return to his house.

I’ll see you later then, I say.

Stay safe, Memnon says. And kill anyone who crosses you.

Not going to address that.

I pull away from the connection in time for Sybil to come up to my side. Her eyes flick over me. “You were talking to Memnon just now, weren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, what did you two chat about?” she says.

“That I’ll be staying late here.”

My friend’s expression brightens. “That means you can come to the bonfire.”

“The bonfire?” I echo.

“It’s a small party happening at the beach. I assumed you wouldn’t be able to come because you’ve been cautious and staying with Memnon, and I didn’t want to make you feel bad for missing out.”

I make a face, annoyance flaring in me. Just because shitty people exist in the world doesn’t mean I need to stop living.

Caution be damned, I am not prey, and I’m not about to start acting like it.

Setting my jaw, I say, “I would love to go to the bonfire tonight.”

Two hours later, Sybil and I step onto the back patio of the residence hall, the two of us wearing dresses, tights, and combat boots. Sybil slathered a store’s worth of gold glitter around my eyes and hers, and honestly, it is cute as shit.

Resting near an overgrown love-lies-bleeding bush are two brooms. There’s nothing particularly special about them, except that they look old and handmade, their bristles uneven and their handles worn with age.

I side-eye Sybil. “You’re not thinking…”

“Yes. We’re going to fly to the party! The wards for curfew apparently don’t extend higher than the buildings on campus, so if we fly above them we can get past them unnoticed.”

My lips part. “But…I haven’t learned how to fly.”

“No one taught you half the spells you regularly use. You just wing it.”

I have a 62 percent success rate with winging it—which means I’m only a little likely to eat shit flying this thing.

And you know what? Caution. Be. Damned. I grab one of the brooms.

“It’s second nature,” Sybil adds, grasping the other broom. “See, watch. With air I lift, with wind I fly. Keep me airborne in the sky.” Once she finishes the incantation, the broom rises up and levels out. Sybil swings a leg over it, her dress hiking up with the action.

I turn to the remaining broom, a thrill running through me. Sybil’s right. I can do this.

I open my mouth to incant in Sarmatian when I hesitate. It’s one thing for my best friend to know there’s this ancient side to me, and it’s another to openly display it. So at the last moment, I slap a spell together.

“Broom, fly high and carry me far.” Shit, what rhymes with far? “Steer me onward toward the star…sss.”

My broom leaps upward, and I have to throw myself on it.

Sybil snickers. “Goddess, you may have gotten your memories back, but your spells still suck.”

I adjust myself on my broom, a thrill running through me when it levels out next to hers. “Your dad didn’t think so last time I saw him.”

She cackles from where she sits. “Fuck you, Selene. What did my dad ever do to you?”

I shift my weight as the broom floats slowly up. Seriously, why are flying brooms still a thing? There is literally no room for my ass cheeks on this thing.

“Better question is what didn’t he do⁠—”

Sybil screams and clutches her ears. “Don’t end that sentence.”

Now it’s my turn to cackle.

Sybil brings her hands back to her broom and throws me a look. “Bet your fiancé wouldn’t like hearing you talk about other men like that.”

I lift a shoulder. “He’d probably just spank me. I think I’d enjoy that. I might even call him ‘Daddy,’ just like I did your⁠—”

Another scream, and then Sybil’s off, racing ahead of me. Which leaves me to figure out how to follow her.

Most magic is intuitive. It knows what its caster wants; spells just help funnel and fine-tune that intention. So I envision myself following after my best friend.

I’ve no sooner willed it than my broom shoots forward, propelled onward by my magic and my shitty spell. And maybe it’s that shitty spell that causes it to bank sharply upward.

I use every last ounce of my upper-body strength to hold on as it rapidly ascends. Once I’m far above the buildings on the coven’s campus, the broom levels out, and I exhale.

Holy Goddess, I’m flying.

Beneath me, the lamps of Henbane Coven glow softly, casting the campus in soft, warm light. To my right, I can see Cauldron Hall. Behind them, I see Beldame Library and the domed roof of the Lunar Observatory. And with a quick glance over my left shoulder, I catch sight of the illuminated conservatory. It all looks particularly magical at night.

Ahead of me I can barely make out Sybil’s dark form before she’s swallowed up by a cloud. I follow her, the wind whipping my hair behind me.

The cloud envelops me a moment later, and for a heart-stopping few seconds, I can’t see anything beyond swathes of mist. But then I break through to the other side of it, and the sight before me is…unreal.

There’s a blanket of pale clouds beneath me, and the moon and stars hang above me, gleaming like gems.

“Hey, freak!” Sybil calls out from ahead of me. She’s come to a stop, her broom hovering in the sky. “Incredible, isn’t it?”

I nod, not trusting my voice.

“We’re almost there. Follow me!” With that, she takes off again, her broom arcing back down into the cloud cover.

I will my magic to follow hers and begin my descent. Not for the first time, I stare in awe after Sybil. I thought I was throwing caution to the wind, but it’s my friend who is downright fearless.

That point is only further driven home when I cut through the clouds once more. The experience isn’t as jarring as it was a minute ago, but as soon as I clear the clouds, I can see the ground far, far below me.

Fuck, why is it so far?

But it’s a rhetorical question. The coastal mountains that Henbane is nestled among descend rapidly, ending right at the ocean. Most of the coastline here is inaccessible since it’s bordered by the sides of these mountains. But every so often, there’s a crescent-shaped section of beach, which is perfect for intimate parties, such as the one I can see below me, illuminated by a bonfire and several orbs of light.

It’s hard to see much beyond that, however, because a hazy cloud of magic hangs over the party, partially cloaking the supernaturals below it.

Ahead of me, Sybil drives her broom straight for the magical cloud. I can hear her peals of laughter as she cuts straight through the gathering, and I can imagine her parting the crowd of partygoers and possibly colliding with a few of them.

Yeah, I’m not going to do that.

Instead, I steer my broom toward the ocean beyond the party.

Under the moonlight, the water looks like glass, and the closer I get to it, the greater the urge to touch it. I lower my broom until I’m no more than a couple feet above the sea’s rippling surface, the waves looking inky in the night. I tuck my legs in close to my broom and lean down and reach out, dragging my fingertips across the top of the ocean.

The water is icy cold, and moving as fast as I am, the sea sprays against me. I laugh at the sensation, something primal stirring in me. I’m still a ways from shore, and if I fell into the water, I’d probably have to use more magic to get out of the situation, but I’m not afraid of the possibility.

This is what it means to be a witch.

I lift my hand from the water and rise a little higher as the water swells, then crests into waves the nearer to shore I get. I fly over the churning surf, then will the broom to slow as, beneath me, sand replaces sea. Once I hit dry sand, the broom comes to a stop, and I hop off, walking over to the edge of the party. A dozen other brooms lean against the rocky cliffside that borders it, and I leave mine among them.

I use a wordless spell to dry my skin and clothes. My nose and hands are numb from the cold, but I don’t bother wasting more power on heating them up. It’s nothing that a bonfire and booze can’t fix.

On the far side of the party a group of musicians play the fiddle, the harp and the flute.

I walk over to the cluster of witches and mages and shifters mingling around the fire. Among them is Kane. My stomach drops at the sight of him. I hadn’t realized he would be here. I nearly duck when he turns his head my way.

I move deeper into the group, my eyes drinking in faces. I can’t help but search the crowd for Nero’s attackers. I don’t know that they’re here or what I’ll do if I do see them, but⁠—

“Selene!”

I turn at the sound of my name, thinking it’s Sybil.

Instead, I take in wild-haired Olga. I’m used to seeing the witch with her Ledger of Last Words tucked under her arm. But for the second time this week, the book is out of sight. Instead, my coven sister holds two drinks in her hands.

“I haven’t seen you since Samhain!” she says, looking genuinely happy to see me. “So good to see you. Here.” She thrusts one of her drinks at me. “Want this? I got it for Mai, but now I can’t find her.”

“Oh,” I say, taking the drink reflexively, “thanks. I can’t find Sybil either, so that makes two of us.” I glance down at the drink. “Does this have any espiritus in it?” I ask.

I’m still traumatized by the last time I drank the stuff.

“Not sure, if I’m being completely honest. A shifter was handing the drinks out. Why?” she asks.

I make a face. “Samhain was…an experience,” I say. “I ended up spending the night screwing my nemesis.” It feels weird calling Memnon that. My nemesis. Wrong somehow. Lately, he’s been something else entirely.

“Oooh, sounds threatening and very hot,” Olga says. “Well, cheers to making love in war.” She clinks her cup with mine, then downs her drink.

Tonight, the witch has put on makeup, and her wild hair looks more windblown than frizzy. All done up, Olga is stunning. One would hardly know that she’s unnervingly obsessed with people’s final words.

Olga finishes off her drink and breathes in the briny air. “Mmm…tonight smells like a night for reaping. I bet I’ll get another entry in my book.”

And there it is. Her witchiness making itself known.

I grimace at the glee in Olga’s voice and take a reluctant sip of my drink, which tastes like cranberries, cheap vodka, and spices meant to cover up said cheapness. But it lacks the bittersweet edge of witch’s brew, and I relax a little.

Sybil finds us then, slinging her arms around my neck and Olga’s. A bit of her drink sloshes onto Olga’s shirt.

“What’s up, witches?” she says, nuzzling my cheek, her lilac magic twining around my head before drifting up into the air above us.

Behind Sybil are Mai and another witch whose name I’m pretty sure is Cordelia. They move over to join our group.

Sybil glances at my cup. “How about you? You’ve hardly had any of your drink.”

“She’s worried if she drinks it, she’s going to screw her archnemesis again,” Olga adds helpfully.

I throw Olga an annoyed look, taking another deliberate swallow of my drink.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Kane glance over sharply.

Fuck me. He must’ve heard that.

“Oh, archnemesis is it?” Sybil says, raising her eyebrows as she drops her arms and squeezes in between me and Olga. “We definitely wouldn’t want you to make the same mistake twice,” she says, knowing full well that I’ve made that mistake more than twice now.

Hell’s spells, that reminds me—I still have to ask her about the birth control potion.

I feel the press of a broad chest behind me, then an arm snakes around my midsection.

“We need to talk.” Kane’s voice is soft against my ear.

My heart leaps at the touch even as my stomach twists. I don’t want to talk to Kane. Not really. It was fine when things with him were simple, but now they’re messy. We’re messy.

I take another long swallow of my drink.

“Ohhh, her fiancé is not going to like how handsy you’re being,” Sybil says.

Kane doesn’t let me go, and I stare down at his arm, unsure whether the embrace is bothering me or not.

“I don’t remember having to answer to him,” Kane says smoothly. “He can fuck himself for all I care.”

“I don’t think he needs to. Not when he’s got your girl here to fulfill all his dark, depraved needs.”

“Fucking Furies, Sybil,” I say. This is her getting me back for the dad comments earlier.

Kane’s grip on me tightens, and I feel rather than hear a low, possessive growl vibrate in his chest.

My best friend looks delighted, and the witches around us watch this all avidly.

I turn in Kane’s arms and push him back, out of the group.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell them over my shoulder.

“Take your time!” Sybil says, waggling her eyebrows.

To Kane, I say, “Get your shit together. You and I are just friends, and she is just teasing.”

“About your sex life.”

I lift a shoulder. “And?”

He grimaces, and I feel our different worlds colliding. Witches tend to be very sex positive. We like the act of coming together, it goes hand in hand with our magic, and it’s part of our ethos to celebrate it. It’s even incorporated into some of our rituals, such as Beltane.

Shifters, on the other hand, seem a bit more territorial about who they fuck and how they flaunt it.

Kane shakes his head and pulls me aside. I sway a little at the action, and the lycanthrope frowns. “You okay, Bowers?”

“What? Me?” I point to myself. “I’m fine.”

Kane scrutinizes me for another second, then moves on. “I wanted to apologize to you again. For not helping you when your familiar was hurt.”

Bile rises at the memory. Don’t want to talk about this. Don’t want to remember that night.

I have another swallow of my drink.

“I should’ve ignored my alpha’s orders,” he continues. “I could…hear the screams. I knew something was happening. All the shifters out there could.” Kane’s throat bobs, and he ducks his head, toeing a clump of sand. “I had admitted I liked you, and I didn’t help. I didn’t take care of you as I should’ve.”

“I don’t want to be taken care of.” If I did, I would be sitting prettily in Memnon’s home, waiting on him to arrive.

Kane’s and my true differences creep up on me then. How we view intimacy, how we view relationships. A casual fling with Kane might’ve worked out, but anything more would’ve stifled me.

I don’t answer to anyone, not even Memnon. Memnon knows that. Fuck, Memnon likes that aspect of me. He’s been all too eager to goad me into my own power.

I drink down a good portion of my alcohol then, wanting to be anywhere other than right here in this conversation with Kane.

“Selene, are you listening?” Kane says.

I glance up too quickly from my drink, realizing the shifter has been talking. Shit, maybe he has been asking me about Nero.

I sway a little, and my drink slips from my hands, the last of it spilling onto the sand.

Kane frowns, eyeing me up and down. “How drunk are you?”

I shake my head, swaying more as I reach down to grab my empty cup. “I’m not drunk. I haven’t even had one full glass.”

The lycanthrope’s brow furrows. He steps in close and leans into my neck, breathing me in.

“Kane,” I say, pushing him back.

“You smell off.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I say, laughing semihysterically. “You don’t know me well enough to know what I smell like.”

Behind us, one of the other shifters whistles and gestures that they’re getting ready to leave.

Kane nods to the shifter, then his gaze flicks over me. “My pack is getting ready to leave. I want you to come with us.” Though it’s a suggestion, there’s a thread of his power in his voice. I’m not a lycanthrope, but even I am compelled by the order in it.

I raise my eyebrows at him. “Are you trying to assert your dominance over me?” I say skeptically, a wisp of anger rising in me.

His features harden. “Yes,” he says. “And you can like it or not, but, Selene, I’m not backing down on this. The last time I let you go, both you and your familiar got hurt. I won’t make the same mistake again.”

I stare at him for a moment. “This is all because I smell funny?”

He presses his lips together, then slightly dips his head. Yes.

I want to laugh; the whole situation is beyond absurd. But the man is obviously serious, and I have no doubt he means what he says.

Which means I have three options: One, go along with what he says like a good little witch. Two, stand my ground and go toe-to-toe with an alpha werewolf. Or three, run.

I am a powerful witch, daughter of those who shaped the world and bent it to their will. I have a legacy to uphold.

Which I’ll do on another day.

I turn on my heel and dash away. I also nearly eat shit three steps into my getaway sprint.

Alcohol and sand do not mix well.

I flail, then right myself and book it, using a pinch of my magic to spur me onward and help my balance.

Behind me, Kane growls, the sound full of annoyance and maybe a little possessive promise. Then he’s chasing after me.

I manage to run a total of maybe ten steps before his arms wrap around my waist and he swings me over his shoulder, causing my skirt to ride up. Only a quick spurt of my magic prevents the whole party from seeing my ass.

A group of nearby witches and mages whoop and catcall us.

“I’m done playing,” Kane growls into my ear, ignoring the attention we’re receiving. “We’re going.”

I see red.

Who’s offended you, est amage?

You stay out of this.

I fear for the person who crossed you, Memnon says a little too gleefully for the sentiment to be genuine. Also, the eyes are a great place to attack first.

I’m not interested in Kane’s eyes.

To Kane, I say, “I will curse your dick to shrivel up and fall off if you don’t put me down.”

“That’s more than a little disturbing,” Kane says, “but you and I both know that I won’t be cowed by a threat.”

Before I can respond—or gather my magic—Kane presses his nose into my side and gives me another sniff. “You still don’t smell right,” he says.

I want to scream. Instead, my power rolls off me in agitated waves.

The lycan must sense it, because he says, “Don’t make a scene.”

Going to murder him. Going to enjoy it too.

“Says the man who’s kidnapping me,” I hiss out. I bet he doesn’t want a scene. Makes him look bad.

“I’m not kidnapping you,” he says. “I’m—” His words are interrupted when another shifter comes up to him, asking about fuck knows what.

Across the party, I catch sight of Sybil, who mouths, Are you okay?

No, I respond.

Immediately, she shoves her drink at someone and begins walking toward us, determination in her eyes.

Before she can do anything, however, I reach my arm out toward the cliffside, where over a dozen brooms rest.

“Come to me,” I order in Sarmatian, flicking a bit of magic out. I feel like a drunk Jedi as I call out to one of the brooms.

The alcohol is blunting a bit of my power, because for a second, the broom I focus on does nothing more than tremble where it leans against the sheer rock. But then, a little sluggishly, it peels itself from the wall and cuts through the crowd, knocking supernaturals aside.

The broom lands in my hands.

Success.

Kane glances over his shoulder.

“Fly us home,” I command the broom.

It jerks forward, pulling me with it.

Kane curses as I slip through his grip. It’s not my proudest moment, scrambling to drag myself onto the wooden handle and away from Kane’s determined hold.

I’ve just gotten myself firmly on it when the broom launches forward, and now I am cutting through the party, bowling people over.

“Sorry! Sorry!” I call out as I go.

Kane strides after me, but Sybil’s magic is pouring out across the beach, likely to stop the shifter from getting any closer to me. My heart swells; she’s such a fucking amazing friend.

“Selene!” Kane bellows, his lupine eyes glinting when I glance back at him.

So much for not causing a scene.

I will the broom to rotate around so I can face the lycan head on.

“Screw you, Kane!” My voice rings out. “No one orders a witch around.”

The crowd around me must agree because, despite running into several of them, I hear whoops and cheers.

My broom lifts higher into the sky, above the reach of Kane and everyone else there, and then I’m zipping away.

For one exhilarating minute, I enjoy the absolute victory of besting the determined lycan.

Then I realize one huge, glaring error—I spelled my broom to fly home. I don’t want to go home. I simply wanted to get away from Kane.

I’m about to order my broom to turn around when a gust of wind blows my broom sideways and nearly unseats me. When I right myself, the world spins.

I blink several times, trying to clear my sight, but the world is still spinning, and my broom is still climbing higher and higher into the air. I’m now fifty feet or so above the ground and very, very intoxicated. Impossibly so.

I grip the broom handle tightly, feeling nauseous.

I had less than one full drink. Even if the vodka was really strong, it shouldn’t affect me this intensely. Not unless⁠—

Unless it was spiked.

Devil’s dick. Did someone spike my drink? Or Olga’s drink, since she gave it to me? Did she do it?

Fuck, Kane must’ve been right after all to worry about me, even if he went about it in the most atrocious way possible.

I call on my power. “Lower me to the ground,” I command in Sarmatian.

My magic comes out of me in sluggish spurts, but rather than lowering, my broom jerks beneath my grip, nearly throwing me off.

“Seven hells,” I curse, righting myself.

It bounces again, and my body tips sideways. As I tip, the world spins.

Shit, shit, shit.

I desperately wrap my arms and legs around the broom as I’m fully unseated, clinging to the underside of my airborne broom.

This is fucking unfortunate.

I glance over my shoulder only to see the earth passing by fifty feet below me. My broom bounces again and again and again, eventually dislodging my feet. I’m too terrified to yelp out as my legs slip off the broom, leaving me hanging from it by my hands.

My surroundings are blurring past me faster than my eyes can follow, and my stomach churns. I pinch my eyes shut, just to make the world stop moving.

“Lower us to the ground!” I shout the command.

Selene? Memnon’s voice cuts in. Are you…in the sky?

He must’ve overheard some of my thoughts.

Not for much longer.

My magic seems to trip over my command, weakly pulling at the broom. In response, the broom pauses in midair, then it begins to simply fall, taking me along with it.

What does that mean? The alarm in his voice pairs well with the screaming in my head.

Blessedly and through no attempt on my part, the broom seems to remember it’s enchanted to fly. Abruptly, it stops falling and levels out.

I grit my teeth as the action yanks at my shoulder joints, but it’s my hands I’m worried about. My palms have slickened with sweat, and my grip is sliding off the wooden handle, and fuck, fuck, fuck⁠—

“Seal my hands to this broom!” I command in Sarmatian, channeling my power down my arms and into my palms.

Despite invoking the dead language and funneling my magic to my hands, nothing happens. My power doesn’t leave my flesh, and the incantation doesn’t take root.

The spell fails entirely.

I’m coming! Memnon says. Just hold on.

But holding on is the one thing I can no longer do.

My fingers slip off the sweat-slickened handle, and I fall.

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