Chapter 30
I’ve just sentmy mom her daily text and started reading up about contraceptive spells on the steps of the residence hall when Memnon tears through the front gates of Henbane on his motorcycle. Once again he’s not wearing a helmet, and my worry rises.
Ugh, I’m worried about him. I have it bad. And that’s saying nothing about that annoying, happy warmth pooling in my belly at the sight of him.
I tuck my phone away, sparing a glance at Nero, who is busy trying—and failing—to catch a butterfly with his teeth. My familiar has forgotten for a moment that he’s supposed to be a proud, majestic creature.
Memnon pulls into a parking spot near where I parked his car and cuts the engine, grimacing as he swings himself off his seat. As soon as he sees me, his previous expression is wiped clean, and his gaze deepens. I get the distinct impression he’s vividly remembering our night together.
Or maybe that’s just me.
Memnon comes over to me then, his shoulders set a little rigidly, his stride a little stiff. A spark of unease moves through me, even as he takes me by the chin and presses an ardent kiss to my lips.
I guess we’re greeting by way of kissing now.
More warmth pools in my belly. Ugh, but I like that too.
My arms go around him to pull him closer to me when I feel wetness at his back. His shirt is drenched.
“Is this…” I’m about to say sweat when the sorcerer sags a little in my arms.
Seven hells.
“Memnon?” I say, alarmed.
He locks his knees, straightening back up. “I’m fine. Just a little dizzy.”
I move my hand away from his back, sucking in a breath when I see the blood smeared all over it.
“You’re hurt.” I mean for it to be accusing, but my tone comes out soft and concerned. Fuck, I am concerned.
“It is nothing to worry about,” Memnon says as he winces.
“I’ll decide that for myself,” I say, trying to think over the pounding of my heart. “Why didn’t you heal yourself?”
He sways, the movement so subtle I might not have noticed it if he were someone less familiar to me.
“I was ordered not to,” he admits.
So this was some punishment he was supposed to bear out.
My brows draw together. “But you only answer to me,” I say, not following.
He nods in agreement, and now I’m really not following.
“Couldn’t you have healed yourself?” I ask slowly. “Or at least taken away your own pain?”
“I am a Sarmatian king, born to a warrior queen, raised from birth to fight?—”
“Okay, okay, I get it. Sorry I asked.” Memnon is apparently only practical when it comes to my injuries.
I press a hand lightly to his back and incant in Sarmatian, “Banish the pain to the far corners of the world.”
Thick plumes of my magic spread out beneath my palm, moving across the expanse of his back before sinking in.
Memnon gives me an arch look, like he disapproves of what I’m doing.
“Arguing is useless. I’m not going to let you walk around in pain just because you can bear it.”
Memnon’s bourbon eyes flicker, then soften. He’s a hard man, and I know from memory that he hates being fussed over. I also know nothing leveled him like when I took care of him in the past.
Even now, I can feel a whisper of adoration down our bond.
I look him over again. “I’m not leaving you like this.” I maneuver myself so that I’m wedged under his arm.
“Selene—”
“Arguing really is useless,” I remind him. “If you resist, I’ll simply command you to follow me.”
He huffs but lets me gingerly wrap my arm around his back. With a little help from my magic, I lead Memnon toward my house. Nero reluctantly leaves the butterfly, trailing after us.
Once we’re at the front door, the Medusa door knocker comes to life.
“Memnon the Indomitable, king of nomads, smiter of armies, what business do you have here?”
The knocker’s never done this before. Someone must have refreshed the house’s wards. Sure enough, when I focus on the air above the threshold, I make out the glinting edges of the ward’s magical, silver writing.
“He’s with me.” I grab the handle and shove the door open.
I force the sorcerer through the ward, the spell resisting him for only a moment before it lets him pass. I hold the door open long enough for my shadowy familiar to slip in as well.
The foyer smells like someone’s opened a portal to hell, the smell of sulfur thick in the air.
“Sorry! Sorry!” a witch in the spell kitchen shouts. “I fucked up!”
“Dude, were you trying to summon an imp?” says another witch in the kitchen.
Their conversation drifts away as I drag Memnon to the library on my right. Despite the chatter in the rest of the house, no one is in here at the moment, affording us a sliver of privacy.
The wall sconces buzz and the light flickers precariously as I lead Memnon deep into the room so that we’re hidden by aisles of books. I stop us at a scarlet couch.
“Sit,” I command, “and lean forward.”
My beloved queen,Memnon protests, even as he does what I say, this is not necessary.
“I disagree,” I reply as I follow him down to the couch. My heart has been beating a mile a minute since I discovered his injury. I don’t think I’ll be capable of relaxing until I’m sure he is okay.
Nero sits down next to Memnon’s legs, leaning against them for support. I see my sorcerer place a hand on the panther’s head, and a lump forms in my throat. Nero genuinely cares for Memnon, and Memnon genuinely cares for him.
I force my gaze to return to my mate’s back. My teeth scour my lower lip as I stare at his drenched black shirt. It’s so wet it clings to his back. That’s all blood.
I reach for the hem of it, then hesitate.
I’m…afraid.
“You don’t have to do this,” Memnon says over his shoulder.
“No one is compelling me to do anything,” I say brusquely. “I…want to help.”
I feel a burst of—of love from Memnon’s side of the bond. I don’t let myself linger on it, though I badly want to.
Instead, I draw in a fortifying breath, then grab the hem of his shirt. I peel it slowly away from his skin, hissing in a breath at the sight before me.
Crisscrossing his back are strips of open wounds, the skin split and jagged. There are over a dozen of them, each one oozing blood and a black, oily substance.
Seven hells. The wounds are cursed.
“How long ago did this happen?” I ask, trying to understand the extent of the damage.
Already my magic pours out of me, thick clouds of it settling over his injuries. The frayed edges of his skin reach for each other, but the dark magic forces them apart just as quickly.
“Hours,” Memnon says.
“You were commanded not to heal yourself?” I ask, my mind racing to remember the curse-breaking spell Memnon used on me.
He nods reluctantly.
So Patrick, the mage he was supposedly bonded to, must’ve ordered the punishment. But it was an order Memnon didn’t need to follow. The forced bond between him and the mage is entirely fabricated; Memnon has never been under its sway.
I set my remaining questions aside for the moment.
I glance around at the shelves and shelves of books. Any one of them might have instructions on curse breaking. And if I enter the little room at the back of the library, I’ll have access to many, many grimoires that might have the spell I need.
It feels like a waste of time trying to chase the right spell down when the sorcerer here already knows one.
“I need help breaking the curse on my own,” I say softly. “Will you remind me of the incantation you used?” It feels funny to ask for his help when he refused to heal himself.
But he answers readily enough. “Tirub xeqeqoyaq yaqub evritiwuwa yasnnichis, puqamubyaqpi chiqmachibmi.”
I extend my hand over his back, gathering my magic. The buzzing from the sconces grows louder, and the lights flicker more intensely as I recite the curse-breaking spell.
My magic spreads across his back once more, but this time, it doesn’t bother healing the wounds at all. Instead, an alarming amount of the black, tarry substance coating his wounds now oozes from them. The moment it’s expelled from his body, it begins to bubble and hiss away, dissolving into an oily smoke that dissipates into the air.
“What do the words of the spell mean?” I ask softly as my magic works.
“Begone poisoned death that corrupts my spirit. With love I destroy you.”
I muse on that as the last of the dark magic burns away. Once I’m sure the spell is finished, I lick my dry lips, inspecting the wounds. They look clean.
“I think it worked,” I say softly.
“I had no doubt,” Memnon says, still leaning forward and idly petting Nero’s head. My panther closes his eyes, basking in the touch.
“I’m going to finish healing you,” I say, letting my magic spill from me. This doesn’t take an incantation. My power wants to heal him, the soft plumes of it rolling over his back and sinking into his flesh. It begins stitching muscle and skin together, his torn tattoos beginning to reform.
My gaze crawls up his back to what I can see of his profile and his wavy, blood-speckled hair.
I cannot seem to help myself—I reach out and run my fingers through that black hair. Belatedly, I realize this is a caress. I’m caressing this man.
My heart stumbles over itself as Memnon leans into the touch, and I have a moment of déjà vu—we have done this many times before. This is muscle memory as much as anything else, and for some reason, that makes my heart ache all the more.
I withdraw my hand and refocus my attention on his wounds.
How did this happen?I ask down our bond. I don’t dare voice the question out loud while I can still hear my coven sisters in the distance. I can’t forget that here in this house, I’m at least partially among enemies.
Shortly after the murdered shifter was found today, the mage I worked for, Patrick, and his employees were called in before Luca Fortuna. We were all punished for negligence and sloppy work, and Patrick was…disposed of.
So this was retaliation for the bodies in the woods, bodies that Patrick ordered Memnon to move.
From everything Memnon’s told me, it seems blatantly clear that he’s the one staging these victims. It doesn’t seem like it would’ve been hard for Patrick to prove Memnon’s guilt. But the mage didn’t do that. Instead he died, and Memnon was punished alongside his colleagues as though no one knew who the culprit was.
This is a dangerous sort of game Memnon is playing. He’s clearly manipulating many minds to hide what he’s doing. But this is a multimillion-dollar criminal organization he’s messing with. Luck and strategy can only last so long.
Why did you move the body?I ask. It made sense before, when he was framing me. It doesn’t make sense now.
We’re working to bring down the murderers,Memnon reminds me. The killers aren’t just people. They’re a kingdom. A seemingly untouchable one. They’re not so different from Rome, really. The first step in defeating such a kingdom is undermining their power.
You don’t have to put yourself at risk for this—for me. I don’t want that.
Make no mistake, Empress. I enjoy doing this. I feel like the king I once was.
Spoken to me while his back is a mess of injuries and he’s faint from blood loss.
But Memnon could’ve healed himself or else altered minds to prevent his punishment in the first place. He didn’t. I need to remember that.
If Patrick is dead, then why would you still pretend to follow his command?I ask as my eyes linger on his healing injuries. Most of them have closed, the new skin pink.
Juliana Fortuna commanded it. I was forced to bond to her, along with the rest of Patrick’s former bonds.
I go still. From what Memnon previously told me, Juliana is a daughter of Luca Fortuna, the head of Ensanguine Enterprises, a.k.a. the Fortuna crime ring. If this binding was as public as it sounds, then?—
Is the bond?—
Real?Memnon finishes. Gods, it nearly was, but no. I managed to avoid it. Barely. But Juliana and everyone else there believe it is.
I exhale, my body going slack with my relief.
I’ll meet with her tomorrow, Memnon continues. I still haven’t been able to get close enough to either her or Luca to physically see into their minds, but now that I’m under Juliana’s control, I’ll have more opportunities. Once I’m able to peer at their thoughts, I’ll understand why the murders are happening—and I can then perhaps alter their minds and stop them.
Or he’ll kill them, but he doesn’t say that.
Suddenly, I feel weary. So weary. I should be thrilled. Finally, the pieces are falling into place, and Memnon has all but admitted he might actually be able to stop the murders.
But when I asked for his help, I was fueled by anger and resentment and my own sort of revenge. Now, I can feel two thousand years of fear creeping up my spine.
Memnon, the last time you took on an empire like this, it ended badly for us.
He turns on the couch to look at me fully, and his hand goes to my cheek. This isn’t Rome. It will be different.
I search his eyes. There’s a feeling knotted in my chest, an echo of the pain I felt the night I discovered him in that sarcophagus, hopelessly out of reach.
I can’t lose you again. I’m horrified when I realize I’ve pushed the words down our bond.
Memnon’s eyes go soft, too soft, and if I were standing, my knees would weaken at the sight.
My queen, since I woke, I have desperately dreamed you might say such a thing. That you might feel a shadow of what I feel for you. But you do not need to worry, he continues. I’d sooner burn every last remnant of the Fortuna dynasty than let something come between us. You won’t lose me, I swear it to you.
That’s not truly something he can promise me, but I tuck the vow away anyway.
I glance at his back. The last of his lashes are nothing more than faded lines. Even those are slowly darkening to match the rest of his bronze-toned skin. I release a little more of my power, this time to lift the blood from Memnon’s shirt, his skin, and his hair, and then my own. The red liquid vanishes in seconds, and it appears as though he weren’t hurt to begin with.
I tug the hem of his shirt down, covering his back. “You’re going to have to make up an excuse to your shitty new boss about why your back is healed—or you can just snap her neck as you do most people who annoy you.”
Memnon gives me an amused smirk, his eyes twinkling. “Is my soul mate growing vicious? I do approve.”
Before I get a chance to respond, Memnon stands, pulling me to my feet. He cups my face.
His eyes glitter. “Thank you, Empress,” he says.
I take a deep breath and nod. “Of course.”
His expression turns amused. “Now let’s go meet these wolves.”