Chapter 16
“Well, I thought that went well,” Memnon says when we step off the ley line a short distance from his new house. The entrance here is subtle; a small circle of stones in the forest is the only indicator that there even is an opening.
I scoff as I stumble a little. I don’t know how many drinks I’ve had since the sun rose this morning, but I do know that I am sloshed. “If by well, you mean that you weren’t eviscerated on the spot, then sure, it went well.”
From between the trees Nero prowls out. I reach out and pet my panther, feeling more like myself now that he’s by my side. “I still cannot believe you told my parents everything.”
I don’t mention that I do feel immense relief that my parents now know about me and Memnon.
And while they might be put off by the situation, they begrudgingly seem to accept it.
Well, my mom, that is. My dad is already planning cookouts with Memnon and calling him son, like my warlord husband is some overgrown, playful young boy.
“I would have no secrets between us.”
“Yes, us, as in you and me,” I say, pointing between the two of us. “Good ol’ Liv and Ben do not need to know the full extent of your depravity and my foolishness.”
“You are not foolish.”
I guffaw. “Oh yes, I fucking am.” If I had a single iota of sense, I would end things between us.
I stagger into him, and Memnon catches me, then hauls me up in his arms.
“You’re not,” he insists. “And I like your parents. They are good people. Loving. It settles my soul that they raised you.”
And with that, he carries me into our house.
The next morning, I once again wake to an empty bed. Well, empty of Memnon. Instead, Nero sleeps with his back to me, snoring softly, the big oaf.
I pet him. “Who’s a good, overgrown kitty?” I say, running a hand down the length of him.
His tail thumps, probably with irritation, but he endures the ordeal. I’m positive that he secretly enjoys it.
The longer I pet him, however, the more obvious the house’s silence becomes. No one moves around in the living room, no bacon fat crackles and pops in the kitchen, no soft sounds come from my husband moving around.
Only then, when the silence itself becomes loud do I remember that Memnon had mentioned right before we fell asleep last night that he would be gone part of today for work. And another memory comes of Memnon peppering kisses down my back and murmuring apologies about leaving my side.
Now I slip out of bed, wander into our shared closet, and pull out the first shirt and pants I see hanging inside that appear to be in my size.
Pulling off the tags, I strip down and shove them on.
Wandering into the bathroom, I grab the toothbrush Memnon left for me, and I brush my teeth. As I do so, I begin opening cabinets.
Call it curiosity.
Memnon has the usual bathroom supplies—cotton balls and swabs, bandages, Vaseline. All things I marvel at since he must’ve only learned of these items within the last few months. The toothbrush slumps in my mouth as I take it all in.
Even amongst these surprising finds, there are other more curious things. A blow dryer, a straightener and a curling iron, pads, tampons. My eyebrows hike way up when I see that he’s even stocked his bathroom with pregnancy test strips.
Real wishful thinking on his part.
Like the women’s clothes in his closet, these are all new and unused. I don’t know why I’ve never really rummaged through our things before, but taking it all in now, my heart thumps strangely. Seeing that he’s trying. Just like the disaster meeting with my parents yesterday.
I finish freshening myself up and pause. Part of me wants nothing more than to hole myself up in this house’s hidden library. But…
My hand drifts to the skin above my heart.
An idea has taken root in me, and I need items for it—items I might only find at Henbane.
I grab my phone and purse and head to the front of the house, Nero at my heels. I’m about to search around for a broom when I spot a set of car keys resting on the entryway’s side table.
Memnon obviously left them there.
Cautiously I move over to them, extending my hand as if to grab them. Then I hesitate, remembering the demon that stood in the middle of the road and how my car veered when I jerked on the steering wheel—and the impact that left me concussed.
Drawing in a shuddering breath, I snatch the keys up. I have faced worse and lived to tell about it. One more measly car ride won’t end me.
“C’mon, Nero, let’s go ruin another one of Memnon’s pretty vehicles.”
Because of the Thanksgiving holiday, there’s no class today. Instead, I use the time to gather ingredients for today’s little project.
So far, from my house’s spell kitchen I’ve managed to get charcoal and the dried … errr, herb I need. I nearly cackle when I notice that next to the jar of cannabis buds someone has left a pile of rolling paper and another jar filled with pre-rolled blunts.
Bless my coven sisters and their considerate hearts.
I snag a couple of the joints and tuck them away as well.
The last item I need is a bone needle, and unfortunately, my spell kitchen does not have any of those. I’ll have to buy one. Luckily, Henbane’s apothecary should carry it.
I can feel myself growing excited as I return to my room and set the items on my desk. It’s been a while since I’ve felt this way about an idea.
I grab my coat and slip out of my room, tugging it on as I head down the hallway. My daggers tap against my thighs as I move.
I’ve taken to wearing them since the demon attack. As silly as they look, they make me feel safer. I don’t know if there will ever be another demon attack, but I want to at least feel like I could defend myself against a creature like that without worrying about magic.
My thoughts return to the ingredients I’ve been gathering. If I manage to find all the items by nightfall, then tonight—
“Selene!” a familiar voice calls as I head down the stairs. “Wait, Selene!”
I pause to glance up the winding staircase. Olga leans over the railing on the floor above me, her large vulture, Odessa, perched on her shoulder.
“I’ve been meaning to speak with you,” Olga says, rushing down the stairs now.
I tense.
Only a short while ago, Olga drugged my drink at a party, which resulted in me falling off a broom, breaking a fuck ton of bones, and getting captured by Juliana Fortuna, one of the key players behind the supernatural trafficking ring.
And then being subsequently bound and tortured by said woman.
And I mean, technically, Olga was forced to drug me against her own will, but also technically, I’m still kinda pissed off about the whole thing.
We’ve patched things up somewhat, but I’m not too eager to chat with her now.
She reaches me, huffing a little as she catches her breath. Her hair hangs down her back in frizzy waves, and her eyes are magnified by the lenses of her glasses. She’s considered a little odd, even among witches, mostly because of the book she carries at all times—even now.
My eyes drop to the infamous ledger tucked under her arm.
I turn to face her, trying and failing to not look put out. “What is it, Olga?”
“I’m sorry,” she says haltingly, “I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t important.” She clears her throat, casting her eyes about. “I, um, wanted to talk to you—about sensitive stuff.”
I tense all over again.
I don’t particularly want a heart-to-heart or to rehash all that happened between us, but my intuition is telling me nonetheless to listen to what she says.
I draw in a breath, then nod my head toward the hallway I just left. “We can go into my room.”
When we enter it, I sit at my desk chair and Olga perches on my bed. Her vulture takes one look at Nero, who’s sprawled out on his cat bed, and decides to fly out my open window, nearly taking my head off in the process.
Olga’s eyes, meanwhile, move about my room, lingering on the few random bits of art I’ve tacked to the walls as well as some of the notes and memos that adorn them. Her attention drifts to my window and the layers of spells that glint over its opening.
“You enchanted it to keep out the weather?” she asks.
“Yeah.” Among other things.
She nods, her gaze returning to my bookshelf.
I clear my throat. “You wanted to talk?”
“Right, yes.” Olga sets her massive ledger down on the space next to her, and I wince as what looks like a bloodstained edge of it comes in contact with my comforter.
I swear to the undying Goddess, Nero notices and gives me a look, as though saying, “So she can track blood onto the bed but I can’t?”
But I’m probably just anthropomorphizing my cat again.
Olga flips the ledger open, rifling toward the back half of it. Olga’s Ledger of Last Words is as fascinating as it is unsettling. It contains hundreds—if not thousands—of individuals. Their names, ages, dates of death, and most notably, the last words they uttered.
The last time I saw the book’s contents, I had to threaten Olga to do so. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel now that she’s willingly showing them to me.
“A lot of wealthy, powerful supernaturals have died recently,” she says conversationally as she flips to what appears to be the most recent page of entries.
I tilt my head. The last time we chatted about the entries in her book, it was about murdered supernaturals. But that was before the Fortuna trafficking ring was effectively obliterated. So I’m not entirely sure why Olga would want to show me entries now.
“Just how recently are you talking about?” Because I happen to know that nearly two weeks ago, on the night of the auction at the Equinox, Memnon killed quite a few wealthy patrons of the Fortunas.
“Within the last week.”
Okay, so not the auction.
“Why did you want to talk to me about this?” I ask, unsure where this conversation is going. “Were these demon attacks?”
Olga shakes her head. “No, it’s not that…” She takes a breath, then turns her ledger around and points to one of the rows, where a certain Martin Miller is listed.
I’ve never heard the name before in my life, but as my eyes slide across the row, I take in Martin’s last words:
Please, Memnon, there’s been a mistake!
Bloody boils.
Distantly, I hear Olga say, “That’s the name of your …” She clearly doesn’t know what to call him.
I nod, then shake my head, my mind screaming.
What has my dastardly husband been up to?
“That is his name,” I whisper quietly. “Memnon.”
Even now I feel him stirring across our bond, his emotions murky, but his state of mind strikes me as determined, focused.
Olga looks a little sick when she adds, “There’s another individual that mentions his name as well…”
She taps on another entry, and I go preternaturally still.
Adan Quintana
The hairs along my arms rise. The demon, Maelverynox, mentioned he was bonded to this very man.
Farther down the row, I see Memnon’s name again.
Memnon, no!
“I wasn’t going to say anything after the first one, but when I saw the second instance of someone mentioning his name, I…I thought you should know.”
It’s not that Memnon killing people is shocking.
I’ve obviously seen the man end lives several times myself.
It’s that these took place after the Equinox catastrophe.
Sometime between when we got married and now.
And while I understand why Memnon might’ve hunted down Adan, I have no idea why he targeted this Martin Miller.
“When did these deaths happen again?” I ask.
“Adan died two days ago, and this other one died six days ago.”
Okay, so definitely after the Equinox catastrophe. And after Memnon and I got married.
My eyes return to the ledger, my stomach roiling.
“The Politia has me do some of this work for them, and the families of the dead sometimes hire me out,” Olga explains. “Lot of rich individuals involved recently,” she adds. I glance at her before my gaze returns to the ledger and those incriminating final words.
She continues. “The Politia has made a note of Memnon’s name, and I’m guessing they’ll bring him in for questioning.”
I think she means to warn me, maybe so that I can brace for the moment my soul mate is arrested and charged with these people’s murders. I don’t know how to break it to Olga that this will never happen. Not when Memnon has both the money and the literal power to stop such an inquest.
Instead, I give Olga a tight smile. “Thanks for letting me know.”
She and her familiar leave me then. My gut churns as Olga’s footfalls move away from my room, and I’m left to ruminate over what she said.
Grabbing my latest journal, I scribble down the names of the individuals Memnon most certainly killed.
I spare Adan’s name only a passing glance, feeling a guilty spark of relief that he and his demon are no longer hunting me.
My eyes linger on the second name—Martin Miller. Killed days before Adan.
Who were you, Martin, and why did my husband want you dead?
As soon as I get the last needed ingredient, I intend to ask Memnon, face-to-face.