Chapter 19 #2
I don’t know what precisely he’s referring to, but then as he stares at me, his magic opens the door.
On the other side of it is a well-built man in his mid-forties with sharply cut graying hair, a spray tan, and a suit that screams money.
Next to me, Memnon stiffens, and across our bond, his playful mood vanishes.
The phone is still ringing, and the visitor is taking full appraisal of the both of us when Memnon moves out from between my thighs—so fucking incriminating—and leans back against his desk, folding his arms.
Curious about what could possibly extinguish the sorcerer’s good mood so swiftly, my gaze returns to the stranger as the man steps into the room. On any other day and in any other situation, a man like this would come across as domineering.
Today, however, when he stands in the same room as towering, muscled Memnon, with his ink and his scars, the man’s presence seems diminished.
The phone is still ringing. Without taking his eyes off the approaching man, Memnon answers the phone.
“We’ll be speaking about this later, Matt,” Memnon says ominously, then hangs up.
If I were Matt, I’d be pissing myself right about now.
Refocusing his attention on the newcomer, Memnon says, “Bold of you to come right up.”
Apprehension flashes in the man’s eyes. “I’m sorry to interrupt you”—his eyes move between me and the sorcerer—“but I felt it was urgent.”
“I see,” Memnon says carefully. Across our bond, however, I can tell that Memnon does not, in fact, see.
As if to emphasize this, a little of his magic leaks out, the ribbon of it wrapping possessively around one of my legs.
The closer the man gets to us, the more I notice the trepidation he wears like a cloak.
He extends a hand. “Kincaide Cole.”
Memnon doesn’t take it. “I know who you are.”
Kincaide drops his hand. “You asked to see me.”
“I did,” Memnon agrees.
Cole cuts to the chase. “I know why you’ve asked me to come. I know I’m in that book.”
That book?
Luca Fortuna kept a ledger of names, Memnon says to me.
My mind spins at the revelation.
To Kincaide, my husband says, “Then you’ve heard about what I’ve done to others on that list?”
Maybe it’s the mention of ledgers that makes me think of Olga, maybe it’s Memnon’s ominous words about what he’s done to others that makes me think about what my coven sister showed me in her book.
Regardless, this special meeting suddenly feels like it’s veering very close to the murdering people side of the spectrum.
Kincaide nods. “I didn’t have to come here. I could’ve run. There are a thousand different places in the world I could hide to avoid encountering you, but I chose to come.”
Memnon scrutinizes him. “And you thought your bravery would be rewarded.”
Kincaide Cole hesitates. “I don’t want to die.” His voice breaks over that last word.
I can sense Memnon’s disgust. My husband is a man who, though king, still rode into battle alongside his warriors. He’s faced down death many, many times.
“So not brave after all,” Memnon says, “but you thought you might ingratiate yourself to me by doing as commanded.”
“There are others who would pit themselves against you. Several are making plans to do so even now.”
I go still.
Memnon merely says, “Are they?”
Cole jumps at what he perceives as my soulmate’s interest. “I could tell you about them.”
The sorcerer raises his brows. “A man who would sell out his own friends—”
“They’re not my friends, and I don’t wish to be associated with them in any manner.”
Memnon nods, assessing Kincaide. “And for all this benevolence you offer, you want…your life?”
Kincaide nods. “I don’t want to die. I have a family.”
Memnon cocks his head. “I imagine there are a lot of young supernaturals the Fortunas captured who didn’t want to die either. But they were killed anyway so my predecessor might turn a profit.” After a pause Memnon adds, “And you looked the other way.”
“I didn’t know about any of that!” A burst of anger laces his panic.
Memnon raises his eyebrows, his gaze flicking over the man’s attire. “Mr. Cole, you don’t strike me as the sort of man who is ignorant. You seem rather accomplished, someone who got where they are today through ruthless ambition.”
Mr. Cole seems pinned between the flattery and his desperate attempt to sway Memnon. He shakes his head. “I didn’t know,” he repeats.
“Mmm,” Memnon responds, rubbing his lower lip with a thumb.
“Please.” Mr. Cole’s gaze swings to me. “Please.”
“Don’t look at her.” Memnon’s eyes are beginning to glow, and his power snakes out of him, lashing the air.
Mr. Cole raises his hands placatingly. “I’m sorry.”
Memnon’s magic is still snapping around him, but the glow in his eyes dims a little.
“How many bonds do you have?” Memnon demands.
“One—but I didn’t know it was against Irina’s will,” Cole is quick to add. “I assumed she wanted this.”
I huff out a disbelieving laugh, though my stomach churns at the admission.
The nuance when it comes to forged bonds and forced bonds is tricky, and the Fortunas did make it even more obscure. Still, there’s a reason why even forged bonds—those agreed upon by both parties—are taboo. Cole could not have walked into that auction room and not been aware of this.
Memnon echoes my thoughts. “But you knew it was wrong.”
The man opens his mouth, as though to argue, and Memnon raises his eyebrows, his expression turning amused.
Cole’s mouth shuts.
Memnon reaches behind me and grabs a huge black leather book. I tense when I see it. It has to be a ledger of Luca Fortuna’s dealings, given the current discussion.
Memnon opens it and casually flips through the pages. As he does so, the tension mounts. Cole stares at the book like he wants to make it disappear.
I peer at the pages, then my breath catches in my throat.
Maiden, Mother, Crone.
I catch a glimpse of names, some of them clients who presumably bought forged and forced bonds, and some of them—well, those must be their victims.
“Ah, here it is,” Memnon says, setting the book down and pushing it across the desk so that Kincaide can see it.
Memnon leans forward and taps on a row. “Kincaide Cole,” he says, “forged a bond with Miss Irina Rusu on March eleventh of this year. It’s all there.”
Eight months that woman has been Kincaide’s prisoner. I try to tamp down my horror and my heartbreak. I can’t know what she endured during all that time, but I’m guessing at least some of it has been nightmarish. Decent people don’t buy other people, period.
Memnon makes a hissing noise through his teeth. “Looks like this bond was made unto death,” he adds. He shakes his head before closing the ledger and dragging it back to his side of the desk.
The sorcerer looks at Kincaide. “You must know what that means.”
Only death can break the bond.
Cole is starting to sweat. “Please.”
“Please what?” Memnon asks, genuinely curious.
“Spare me.”
“No,” Memnon says flatly.
Cole staggers back a half step, his expression gallows bound. “I’ll do anything.”
“I know you will,” Memnon says, leaning back and narrowing his eyes speculatively at the man.
After a moment, he adds, “Many of the others who came before you flung magic at me. I do appreciate the fact that you could’ve but you haven’t—and I also appreciate the fact that you’re willing to tell me about those who plot against me, even if it demonstrates a weakness in your character. So I would like to work with you.
“Unfortunately, I cannot let this bond continue to exist. And by the terms you agreed to—terms your bondservant, this Irina, was forced into—you two are bound to death.”
It’s unsettlingly quiet in Memnon’s office.
“It’s your life or Irina’s,” my husband continues, “and between you and her, we both know who deserves to live more.”