Chapter 4
My breath comes in ragged, shallow pants as Memnon drives along the coastal hills just north of San Francisco, Nero reclining along the seats behind us.
I don’t know precisely where the ceremony is to be held, but I don’t much care. Between the time it took to return to Memnon’s house to pick up my familiar and now, the blood oath’s grip on me has dramatically intensified.
The last time this unbreakable oath’s magic took hold, the day after the Samhain Ball, was it this brutal?
Because right now, I swear it certainly feels worse.
Memnon reaches out a hand from the driver’s seat and squeezes mine. I can feel the breadth of his concern down our bond, which would be sweet if I wasn’t certain he must also be enduring the spell’s same brutal effects. Now I just feel a bit like a wuss.
Except, when I look over at him, perspiration dots his brow, and he looks vaguely nauseous.
“We’re almost there,” he promises a bit breathlessly.
He’s right too. No more than five minutes later, as I’m staring at a group of sea birds riding the wind, we pull off the main road and onto a dirt and gravel path.
Long stalks of golden grass and olive green shrubbery scrape the sides of the car as we pass them by.
Up ahead there’s a small dirt lot where two cars wait.
Memnon pulls into an empty spot and kills the engine. I look around. It’s one of those perfect autumn days where the sun is shining and the sky is a deep cerulean blue, and I’m certain that once this unbreakable blood oath is fulfilled, I’ll appreciate it all the more.
At our back the hills rise into oak- and pine-covered mountains, and in front of us is a sloping hill blanketed with more wild grass and shrubbery. Far beyond it lies the deep blue waters of the Pacific.
I clench my teeth as I get out of the car. Beyond my difficulty breathing, there’s a growing pain burrowing into my bones.
Nero slips out after me, and he comes to my side, leaning against me as though he can physically offer his support.
Memnon steps up to my other side and places a bracing hand on my lower back. “This way,” he says, steering me down a dirt path.
In the distance, two individuals wait. One appears to be a photographer, judging by the camera in her hand, and the other one…that must be our officiant standing before a wooden wedding arch decorated with white flowers.
Finally, my discomfort is eclipsed by something else. Because at the sight of the officiant and the trellis, relief and adrenaline course through my veins in equal measure.
It’s almost over.
I don’t let myself dwell on the fact that over really means begun. Marriage will end only this gnawing pain; there’s a whole host of other new issues that will arise because of it. But it’s hard to dwell on that when I can think of only the next step and the next.
Memnon stops, and why has he stopped?
Goddess, I will drag this man to the altar—misgivings be damned—if I must to see this vow through.
My soul mate places a hand on the earth and pushes out a small plume of his power. The deep blue curls of smoke brush the ground, then sink into it.
For a few moments, nothing happens. Then, from between Memnon’s fingers, bright green shoots sprout from the soil.
More join, until there are dozens—if not hundreds—of stalks rising from the wintry earth.
They lengthen and unfurl in a matter of seconds, buds forming on their tips before bursting open.
Just as quickly as Memnon’s magic grew the wildflowers, it now slices through their stalks.
The freshly bloomed flowers gather into two groups in midair, drawn together by the sorcerer’s power.
Their stems weave through one another until a makeshift flower crown and a matching necklace form.
Memnon stands, and gently the floral necklace drifts over to Nero, who takes a few uncertain steps backward.
My panther isn’t quick enough, however, and it slips over his head and settles around his shoulders.
My mouth curves into a delighted smile at the sight. Memnon made my familiar a wedding collar.
Nero doesn’t share my delight. The panther futilely tries to nip at the adornment.
“Aww, you are the handsomest boy,” I say, stepping over to him and petting his cheeks.
He gives me a grouchy look but stops trying to tear the necklace off. Maybe I’m just anthropomorphizing my cat, but I swear he’s being a good sport for the occasion.
My gaze rises as the flower crown drifts into Memnon’s waiting hands. The sorcerer is staring at me with a look in his eyes, one that makes my breath catch as I straighten.
“When I first laid eyes on you in Rome,” he says, “you wore a flower crown upon your brow. You were the most exquisite woman I’d ever seen, and I cannot forget the sight of you in it when you married me mere hours later. I will go to the gods with that image.”
He glances down at the flowers in his hand. “This is a poor imitation of what you wore, but…”
I peer at him. “But you want me to wear it.”
His gaze flicks like a whip back to me. More than once today, I’ve seen this man’s vulnerabilities laid bare. He’s spent so much of his life burying them that seeing him like this is a treasure.
I glance at the woven wildflowers in his hands. My heart quickens from the rush of emotion.
“Of course I will wear your crown,” I say. Then, just for the hell of it, I add, “Est xsaya.” My king.
I feel a sharp thrill move across our bond as I step up to my fiancé and dip my head.
Memnon hesitates only a moment, then places the crown upon my head, his fingers lingering in my hair an extra second.
When I straighten, I catch sight of his eyes as they scour me. They’re full—of love, of hope, and of longing.
“Better than memory,” he murmurs.
I allow myself a moment to take him in, trying to remember how he looked once, long ago.
Clad in a tux, with his dagger nowhere in sight, Memnon hardly looks like the man I first married in Rome.
Gone are his armor, his kurta and breeches.
Gone are his sheepskin boots and scale mail.
Gone are his bow and arrow. He didn’t even have the panther tattoo that peeks above the edge of his suit collar.
And yet, even without the accoutrements he used to wear, Memnon is still more Sarmatian warlord than he is modern groom. His hair still frames his bronze face in wild waves, and that puckered scar still cuts across the skin of his cheek and jaw, its existence telling its own violent story.
I find I like him like this, balanced between the past and the present, a feral being parading as someone civilized.
I say none of what I think, but still, Memnon’s eyes dance, and I think he might’ve overheard some of my thoughts.
“Stop eavesdropping,” I playfully tease.
“When you’re showering my appearance with compliments?” he scoffs. “Unlikely, est amage.”
I smile a little, sharing a moment with the sorcerer, one that is just as swiftly interrupted by another crushing wave of our oath’s magic. The magic digs into sinew and bone. I gasp, stumbling forward a little as it causes my limbs to spasm and seizes my throat up.
Memnon scoops me up then, though he, too, must be suffering greatly, and he walks us to the officiant, Nero following close behind.
Distantly, I’m aware of the click of the camera, the photographer immortalizing what might, in another context, be a sweet moment.
I’m afraid, however, that all she’s capturing is the raw pain of our unbreakable vow.
Memnon sets me down before the trellis. I sway a little in place, lightheaded from the pain. Nero comes up to me then, leaning against my leg as the sorcerer moves across from me.
My heart goes wild—at the sight of him, at the agony I’m experiencing, at the prospect of what we’re about to do. I’m terrified and thrilled all at once, and I’m afraid I might faint from it.
It will be alright, little witch, the sorcerer says. He takes my clammy hands in his, giving them a squeeze.
The officiant nods to us, smiling benignly, as though all of this—panther included—is cute and ordinary.
Maybe he’s been briefed on the situation or been paid for his discretion.
Or maybe he simply read the room. Whatever the reason, he doesn’t waste any time on introductions or niceties, and I send up a small prayer of thanks for it.
The officiant begins to speak, and though the words are in English, they might as well be in some foreign tongue because I do not truly hear any of them. Nor do I much notice the click of the photographer’s camera as she moves around us.
I focus instead on the comforting grip of Memnon’s hands holding mine, and the way he’s looking at me. I can get through this. I can.
“You may now speak your vows and exchange your rings,” the officiant finishes.
I jolt.
Those words I understand.
Memnon reaches into his inner coat pocket and pulls out a ring.
Maiden, Mother, Crone. I catch sight of the thin gold band, but it’s the smooth, carnelian stone topping it that stills my whirling thoughts. He gave me something similar when we first arrived in Sarmatia.
And he’s giving it to me again.
Memnon adjusts the grip he has on my left hand, then slides the ring onto my finger.
“Where you are,” he begins, speaking in Latin.
My breath catches at the old Roman vows, the ones we first spoke in Nero’s palace while the emperor, his mother, and the Praetorian guard watched on. All of them are long gone, turned to memory and bitter ash.
Only we remain.
If we cannot have this life, I promised him long ago, then we shall have another.
Memnon gives my hands a squeeze.
I clear my throat of these strange, old emotions.
The words come to me as though they were always there, waiting for me to grab them.
“There I am,” I finish, the Latin words rolling off my tongue.
If this were ancient Rome, that would be it—the sum total of the vows spoken before the gods to bind us together. And, swept up in the glittering hues of Memnon’s tiger eyes, I forget, for an instant, that it is not.
The officiant leans forward and whispers, “The ring.”
Oh, right.