Chapter 6
By the time I get to Henbane, the sun is high in the sky. The coven grounds, however, remain sparse.
Normally the grounds are overrun with witches chatting and practicing spells. There are women on brooms streaking across the sky or else familiars moving about. At the very least, there’s usually a few freshly sprouted plants littering the grass.
Today there are only a couple lonely clusters of witches walking to and from the stone buildings in the distance.
But it’s more than the lack of witches on campus grounds.
The air carries a desolate feel. Several students here have died since the semester began, and many more were trafficked.
Henbane is showing the strain of all that terror.
I head up the pathway to my residence hall, dressed once more in my regular clothes.
I pass the stone lamassu—the threshold guardians that have the head of a woman, the wings of an eagle, and the body of a lion.
I’m fond of the stone sculptures, just as I am of the Medusa door knocker who sometimes speaks with me as she does now.
“Disquiet in the abode,” the knocker says. “Many witches lick festering wounds. The beasts still sleep, but they are hungry.”
The hairs on my arms rise.
With that foreboding welcome, I slip into Ravensmeade.
The house is filled with the comforting smells of homemade soup and warm, yeasty bread.
It’s toasty and inviting, so much so that it takes me several extra seconds to notice that even here within the walls of our house, the atmosphere is subdued.
There’s a quiet conversation happening in the dining hall, but the spell kitchen to my left is silent and still, as is the small den to the left of the main staircase.
Normally there’s at least one familiar besides my own in this space, as well as the sounds of shrieking and cackling, pots bubbling, magic billowing about, yet right now, all of it is absent.
Nero and I make our way up the stairs, the aged wood creaking and the lights softly flickering.
When we step onto my floor, the first thing I notice are the items clustered outside my door.
Crystals and flower bouquets sit alongside potions and amulets.
It looks like a small shrine. Tucked between the items are cards.
My brows draw together as I step up to the pile. While Nero noses the flowers, I pick up an envelope and open it. Inside is a thick, cream card with two simple words—thank you.
I blink, still not fully understanding. I pick up another card. Like the first, inside it has a simple message.
Thank you for what you did.
Unsigned.
Many of the others end up being unsigned as well.
I glance up and down the hall, but whoever set these items here—and it looks like it was several someones—decided not to linger.
I glance back at the note, my throat tightening. This must be about stopping the Fortunas and their trafficking ring two nights ago. I feel a little sick when I think about all the supernaturals who fell victim to that family.
I wonder if my coven sisters would still be thanking me if they knew I married the man who took over the Fortunas’ wealth and holdings.
Opening my door, I let Nero push his way in and settle on my bed before I haul the gifts and cards inside.
It’s foolish for me to bring these items in—any one of them might have a curse attached to it—Goddess knows I’ve made my share of enemies over the last two months—but I trust my intuition that these were given with good intentions.
I shut the door behind me, then settle against it, leaning my head back against the hard wood.
What a ride the last few days have been. From nearly dying at the hands of a demon to crossing paths with Eislyn, the millennia-old fairy who betrayed me and Memnon all those centuries ago. And of course all of those events climaxed with marrying my two-thousand-year-old soul mate.
Even now I can feel the weight of his ring on my finger, a weight I should mind but don’t. All Memnon had to do was fuck me sweetly half a dozen times and demand I keep eye contact, and now he has me thoroughly under his thrall.
I gently bang the back of my head against the door. Useless heart.
My phone buzzes, and I pull it out, distractedly tapping on a notification from Kane.
Kane Halloway
Looks like they caught the man who killed everyone in that warehouse.
Beneath Kane’s text is a link to an article written in The Grimm Guardian, one of the supernatural news sites.
Man Arrested in Connection with the Studio Street Massacre
I click on the link before I can think better of it and scroll down the article, skimming the details. It’s obviously a piece following up on the killings Memnon committed when he saved me from Lia.
There’s a mug shot of a man with black, shoulder-length hair and a tattoo climbing up his neck, one that looks an awful lot like a panther. But it’s not Memnon, and the article itself says that his name is Christopher Mendoza.
My heart nearly stops.
I reach across our bond.
Memnon? I ask, skimming over the rest of the article.
Wife, Memnon says with obvious relish. I can feel the warmth of his awareness.
I try and fail not to let it affect me.
Who is Christopher Mendoza, I ask, and why has he been framed for your killings?
He’s not real, he says down our connection. That’s a fake name and face.
My eyes widen. Christopher Mendoza is not some poor soul framed for a crime he didn’t commit. He’s not even real. He’s just some conjured identity made to appease the media. Which likely means Memnon paid someone off to make this story go away.
Is that all, Empress?
No, it’s not all. I want to know what Memnon intends to do with the Fortunas’ wealth and what he wants to do about Eislyn now that we know she’s still alive.
But most of all I want to crawl back in bed with him and feel his skin on mine and whisper secrets into his ear I’m too afraid to tell anyone else.
That’s all.
Across our connection Memnon hesitates. After a moment, however, he adds, My mind is on you always, est udugab amage.
My eternal queen.
Before I can respond, I feel him pull away from our connection.
I let out a shuddering breath, then rub my eyes with my thumb and my forefinger.
I am in way over my head.
I exit out of the news article and choose to ignore Kane’s message altogether. Instead, I click on a message from a new number.
Hey wench, this is Sybil! This is my new number. Miss yooooouuuu.
I suck in a sharp breath, then rapidly update Sybil’s contact info.
It’s only been a couple days since I last saw my best friend, but a lot has happened in that short span of time.
She was one of the witches trafficked, and she tried to save me and escape her own forced bond by getting bitten by her lycan boyfriend.
And now according to pack law, she has to isolate with other werewolves for the rest of her first lunar cycle, essentially until she gets the hang of shifting.
It’s only a few short weeks until I get to see her again, but I’m already feeling the distance.
On a whim I tap on Sybil’s new number and bring the phone to my ear.
“Hello?” she answers.
“No howls for me?” I say. “I’m disappointed.”
I hear her cackle on the other end. “You couldn’t handle them, freak.”
“Probably not,” I agree with a smile.
“What’s up?”
I open my mouth, unsure how to start. Finally, I settle with, “I miss you.” If she were here, I’d be in her room right now, throwing myself dramatically onto her bed.
“You do realize it’s only been two days since you last saw me.”
“Two days too long.”
“Goddess, you’re clingy,” she says.
“A lot has happened,” I say, a little of the levity bleeding from my voice.
Though Sybil doesn’t immediately respond, I can tell the heaviness of the last several days is settling on her.
“How has it been going?” I ask, pushing away from my door.
“Good.” She sounds tired.
When she doesn’t elaborate, I say, “So, have you changed into a cute little wolfie yet?”
“I was literally bit less than a week ago.”
“Um, is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“Goddess, Selene,” she laughs, “these things take time.”
Not that much time, as far as I’ve been told. There’s less than two weeks until the full moon, and by then, the lunar cycle will have forced a shift upon her.
“Do we need to have the ‘your body is changing’ talk?”
She laughs again, though for some reason she sounds a little choked up.
“You okay?” I ask, my brow furrowing.
“Mhm,” she says tersely.
I’m pretty sure my friend is not okay, and why would she be?
Only days ago, she had her werewolf boyfriend bite her in an attempt to break a forced bond placed on her.
It worked, but it didn’t stop Sybil from getting kidnapped by the very woman she’d been trying to escape.
She’d then been beaten and nearly auctioned away.
And if that wasn’t enough, my best friend is now tied to her boyfriend, Sawyer, and his pack in ways I don’t fully understand.
And she’s dealing with an impending shift, which seems scary and probably painful.
So with that all in mind, I’m not going to force the confession out of her when she’s trying to put on such a brave face.
She clears her throat. “Enough about me. I sense you need to talk.”
I glance down at my hand, my stomach flipping as I take in my new ring. I can’t tell if the sight of it evokes horror or excitement.
Both, I think.
I bite the inside corner of my lip, getting nervous. “Do you remember how Memnon made me vow to marry him?”
I love you, est xsaya, est etap, est Memnon.
“Yes…” she says tentatively. After a long pause, I hear her gasp. “No, you didn’t.”
I cover my eyes with a hand. “Mhm.” Now it’s my turn for the dodgy answers.
She screams. “You’re lying.”
“Why would I lie to you?”
“You married the demonic sex god.”
“I had no choice.”
I don’t mention the annulment and how I had a choice then.
“I thought you had gotten around the unbreakable vow?” Sybil says.
I twist my ring back and forth. “I had—so long as I didn’t fall in love with Memnon.”