Chapter 3
I blink groggily and stretch,basking in the feel of dappled sunlight on my skin and the masculine smell clinging to my sheets.
I reach for the owner of that smell, but my hand lands on nothing but blankets.
My brow creases, and I sit up, stifling a yawn. I have a destabilizing moment where I’m confused, because I’ve never laid eyes on the massive, glass-encased room I’m now in, and I can’t remember how I got here. I remember last night all too well, no thanks to the sorcerer, but my memory does a nosedive after I got in the car with him.
Memnon must’ve carried me in and placed me in this bed. His bed. That makes my spine straighten and my eyes sharpen. I must be in his house, though the man himself is nowhere to be seen.
My gaze greedily takes in the room. The first thing I notice is the space. You have to be a rich bitch to afford something bigger than a tin can here in Northern California.
Memnon is definitely a rich bitch.
The room is massive, and it’s made all the more cavernous by the lack of furniture. There”s this bed, a bookcase on the wall to the left, and a side chair next to it. Beyond that, there’s nothing, save for the panoramic windows that take up most of three of the room’s walls. Out the windows directly across from the bed, I can see the rolling coastal hills, and out the ones to my right, I see several evergreen trees that flank the house. Past them, the forest looms dark and lonely. I don’t know how far we are from Henbane Coven, but these woods look similar.
Also along the right wall is a massive en suite bathroom, and to my left is the doorway out.
“Memnon?” I call out.
The building remains silent. A minute later, however, Nero pads into the room, his coat looking particularly sleek as he moves in the soft light. He walks right up to the bed, then hops on.
I reach out and pet him. “Have I told you that you’re the best familiar in the whole wide world?”
He gives me an uncomfortable look, his ears twitching a little. I imagine this is the expression teenagers give their parents. I guess he used up all his sentimentality last night during our reunion.
I run my hand down his neck. “Memnon?” I call out again.
Where in the seven hells is the sorcerer? He finally has me in his bed where he’s been apparently angling to get me this whole time, yet now he’s the one missing.
I throw the sheets off, biting back an oath once I realize that I’m in an oversize shirt—his shirt—and my panties from earlier.
He undressed me. Of course he did.
Bastard.
A small, reasonable part of me is willing to throw the guy a bone—he probably just wanted me to sleep comfortably. But fuck him and the fact that he saw my tits while I’m still angry with him. I seethe at the thought.
Memnon, I all but growl down our bond.
The first thing I sense is his smile.
You’re awake, fiancée. Did you sleep well?
I grimace at that word. Fiancée. I swear he keeps using it just to rile me.
You better have closed your eyes when you changed me, I say.
All I feel is that persistent grin from his side of the bond, damn him.
And where are you?I demand.
Is someone upset that I wasn’t in bed with them when they woke?
I grind my teeth. He’s so cavalier and playful at the moment.
When are you coming back?I ask.
I feel glee from him. Miss me already?
If that keeps your fragile ego from shattering, then sure. I miss you so desperately I might die if I don’t see you again.
On the other side of our connection, things go quiet, still.
Finally, Memnon says, Speak to me like that again, and I will give you your heart’s greatest desires.
My heart desires to be rid of you. If you can give me that, sure, I will whisper some empty platitudes in your ear.
On the other end of the bond, Memnon is no longer jovial. If anything, I swear I sense a flicker of woundedness. I nearly cackle at the thought. I might not be defeated yet.
I will be home soon,he says instead.
Soon? Soon? The fuck does that mean? Fifteen minutes? Two hours? I need to know how much time I have.
But to him, I merely say, Oh good, then I’ll get the knives out and sharpened for your return.
His amusement returns. Empress, you’re speaking my love language. With that final, disturbing thought, he pulls away from the connection.
How does he even know about the concept of love languages? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I need to get out of here.
I glance at the oversize black shirt I wear.
Well, change, then escape.
I head for the walk-in closet next to the bathroom. Halfway there, a scrap of lace hanging inside it catches my eye.
My stomach bottoms out as, for an instant, I’m filled with dread that some other woman has been here with Memnon.
No, that can’t be right. Can it?
I hate that I care. He and his poor life choices can rot.
Still, my pulse pounds between my ears as I hustle toward the closet, drawn by a horrified fascination at what I might find inside.
Women’s clothing? Weapons? Bodies? Who the fuck knows.
The walk-in closet is about as big as my entire room at the coven. He’s such a rich bitch. Despite the space, there’s not much inside as far as Memnon’s clothes go. I see a handful of suits hanging up as well as some folded shirts and pants on the shelves.
Not that I’m paying much attention to those.
My eyes are pinned to that single scrap of lace, which now that I’m closer looks like a slip dress. I reach for it, my stomach plummeting at the thought of someone else wearing this around Memnon until I notice it has a tag still attached.
I exhale, my breath shaky. Okay, so it’s not some mystery woman’s. What a relief. For her, of course. Best not to get within striking distance of this dude.
Letting it go, I tug out another dress. This too has a tag still attached.
All the women’s clothes seem to have tags.
They’re also all roughly my size.
These are meant for me, I realize.
That really shouldn’t stun me—Memnon intends to marry me, after all. Still, this is…a lot.
An old feeling, one that belongs to Roxilana, rises.
This would’ve won her over. Easily.
Before Memnon took her away and married her, she had little to her name. Even for me, independent though I am, being doted on is alluring.
This is blood money, Selene. And the price is letting the asshole get his way.
Dicks will sprout wings before that happens.
I stare at the clothes a moment longer. I do have to get dressed, I concede. I rifle through the women’s clothing until I find a pair of jeans and a simple white shirt.
Goddess, forgive me for taking from the devil.
On a shoe rack below, there are three different pairs of shoes in my size, one of which happens to be a set of Doc Martens.
I grab the combat boots.
Forgive me, Goddess, for taking these too. And for keeping them.
I mean, it’s not every day one gets new Doc Martens.
Grabbing the items, I head into the bathroom and quickly pull on the clothes, my agitation growing. I don’t know where Memnon is, but the time I have before he returns is limited.
When I straighten, I notice that tucked into the bathroom mirror is a photo. Of me.
In it, I’m clinking a champagne flute with a few people who are off camera. I know from memory that it was taken this last New Year’s Eve, when Sybil and I and a few of her coven sisters were all at an apartment party. It’s an action shot of me, one where I’m genuinely smiling and my eye just happened to catch the camera.
My heart does a funny thing, finding this picture in Memnon’s otherwise bare bathroom, knowing he must’ve taken it from one of my photo albums and placed it here where he’ll see it every day, alongside his own face.
I stride out of the bathroom and snatch up my phone, which rests on one of the bedside tables. It clings to a mere five percent of battery life.
I slip it into my back pocket and survey my surroundings once more.
There’s not much to see in this room, nor was there much to the bathroom and closet. For some reason, I assumed there would be. Memnon is good at playing the game of rulers, and in the modern world, so much of that is owning lots of expensive things. But so far, there’s really not that much that screams self-involved.
I guess my warlord ex is a little too rugged to bother with more creature comforts. That, or he’s still amassing his wealth, one victim at a time.
I need to go, now.
Yet my attention moves to the one place where Memnon has accumulated items: his bookshelf. Without intending to, my feet lead me over to it.
There are books from Pliny the Elder written in their original Latin, alongside the Greek versions of The Iliad, The Odyssey, and Herodotus’s writings, and some ancient poetry. There’s a biography of Nero as well as some histories of Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Americas that span the time frame when Memnon and Roxilana lived.
My eyes move to the lower shelves, where they snag on the familiar spines of my notebooks.
I don’t breathe.
It’s not possible.Memnon burned them. I watched him burn them.
I drop to my knees, disbelief and hope—painful, awful hope—riding me, and I pull one notebook out. This one is covered in gold foil constellations. I open it up, and a little sound slips past my lips when I see my name and the date range in my handwriting. On the next page is a set of notes about how to get to the restaurant where I was working at the time. Alongside it is a spell I scribbled in for removing wrinkles from clothes.
I flip through several more pages, which are full of Polaroids, sticky notes, to-do lists, directions, spells I thought were worth remembering, and hasty sketches.
My thumb runs over one such sketch, this one of a Sarmatian griffin. I swallow down the strange rush of emotions it brings forth before moving through the rest of the notebook.
It is, without a doubt, mine. Somehow, it’s whole once more.
This is a trick. It must be. I saw these notebooks burn, and I touched their charred remains. I remember the acrid, smoky smell that clung to the room once they were nothing more than cinders.
I grab another journal and flip through it. Then another.
I pinch my eyes shut, my throat tight with emotion. Despite my efforts, a rebellious tear slips out.
I don’t know how Memnon managed to weasel these out of my room or fake their fiery demise, but they still exist. He saved them.
For one-point-five seconds, I feel a rush of tenderness toward the sorcerer. Then I remember that he still manipulated and coerced me. He still framed me for murder and forced me to lift that curse against my will.
So screw him and his small kindnesses.
Moving back over to his closet, I look for anything that might be able to hold my notebooks. Tucked away in a far corner, I find a black duffel bag that has a knife, rope, and some zip ties.
Not fucking suspicious or anything.
Emptying the bag, I haul it over to the bookcase and dump all my books into it. There are so many of them that I can’t zip the bag up. The spines of several of the journals peek out as I heft the bag onto my shoulder. I suddenly feel more like myself, having my notebooks close.
I pull out my phone and, ignoring the slew of messages and notifications waiting for me, order my familiar and me a car.
“Nero,” I call out to the panther, who’s still sprawled out on our enemy’s bed. “It’s time to go.”
I don’t wait for him to follow. My body is jittery with nerves and resolve. I’ve got my notebooks. Now I need to get back to the coven and ward the shit out of my room so that pushy sorcerers can’t approach me.
I leave the bedroom, Nero at my heels. The two of us pass by several rooms that branch off the house’s hallway as well as a sprawling living room. I lament the fact that I have to get out of here. I really am curious about the rest of Memnon’s home.
The front door is a bronze monstrosity. I reach for the handle, only when I go to open it, it doesn’t budge. It’s then that I notice the ward shimmering on both the lock and the door handle’s surface.
I glance down at Nero, who’s come to a stop at my side. “Memnon has a bad habit of locking us in places while I’m unconscious.”
The big cat blinks up at me, clearly bored.
I lay my palm on the door and simply wait. After a few seconds, deep blue tendrils of the ward peel themselves away from the door and crawl up my fingers. Like last time I did this, Memnon’s magic can’t seem to help but draw near. They wrap around my wrist like they’re desperate to hold on to me, and as they do so, the spell’s structure warps and melts until the whole thing slides off the door completely.
It lingers on my skin for several seconds, then dissipates.
When I try the door again, it gives, sunlight slicing through the opening.
In my pocket, my phone vibrates, and I know without looking that my ride is approaching. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect.
My gaze drops to Nero, and I run my teeth along my lower lip. He’s going to be a problem for whoever picks us up.
Lightly, I place a hand on the big cat’s head, causing his ears to twitch. “Do ulibad povekomsa pesagus diveksu kuppu mi”kanutgusa buvekatasava.”
Hide this great cat from all eyes but mine.
My power, which is still recovering from last night, sluggishly sifts out of me and pours down Nero’s body.
The spell is not accompanied by the usual prickling or throbbing in my head I’ve come to expect, the one that took memories from me.
My memory loss really is no more.
At the reminder, I feel the burn of betrayal all over again.
Yesterday might’ve been Memnon’s day, but today fucking isn’t.
I glance back at the foyer and living room. It really is a lovely house. Shame.
Closing my eyes, I focus on what little magic remains. It’s not much, yet I only need a spark.
Memnon made a mistake, leaving me and my wrath here in his inner sanctum.
I extend my arm palm up, and my eyes snap open. “Elements of old, feel my ire. Light this fucking house on fire.”
Down my arm, my magic trickles and gathers until a wisp of pale orange smoke rises from my extended hand, curling and transforming into flame.
I toss the ball of flame into the living room, where it lands on a fringed rug. In a matter of seconds, the fire smolders, then grows, consuming what it can of the rug and anything else nearby.
“C’mon, Nero,” I say. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”