“I don’t disapprove actually,” I say, surprising even myself. But it’s the truth. “You woke two millennia later than when you went to sleep. I’m glad you took care of yourself.”
In the darkness of the woods, I sense Memnon’s eyes on me. He doesn’t say anything, but down our bond, there’s this honeyed softness coming from him. It makes me think of all the parts of us I really don’t want to focus on.
I press my lips together and say nothing else for the rest of the walk back.
As soon as Memnon and I enter the residence hall, the air in the house shifts.
But as we pass my house’s library to our right, a few witches gaze curiously at the sorcerer. He gets more looks from the witches heading to the dining hall and a couple more from coven sisters coming down the staircase.
I glance over at Memnon, struck all over again by his appearance. His bronze skin, his black hair, and that beautiful, unforgiving face are arresting to look at, and that’s saying nothing about his massive stature. He’s built like the warrior he once was, and it shows.
He quirks an eyebrow at me, the corner of his mouth curving up. His lips part, and he sucks in a breath to speak.
“Whatever you’re about to say,” I warn, “don’t.”
The sorcerer closes his mouth, bound by my order. That doesn’t stop him from continuing to appear highly amused.
When we get to my room, Memnon’s assessing gaze sweeps over the place.
“Where is Nero?” he asks when he sees the empty cat bed.
“Out hunting.” I close the door behind me. “I didn’t name Nero after the emperor,” I confess. It was one of the things Memnon and I argued about weeks ago. “I named him after the era I first found him.”
Romans included the reigning emperor’s name in their dates. I lived and died during Nero’s reign, and though I hadn’t consciously realized that when I gave my familiar his name, I was still unknowingly paying tribute to it.
“I…see.” I sense the frayed edges of Memnon’s guilt all over again. That’s his only tell.
The sorcerer moves to my computer chair and sits down, his legs splaying out. His eyes still look a little haunted, and he’s definitely acting more reserved than usual, but there’s this menacing energy about Memnon that he can never fully shake. I feel as though I caught myself a monster. One who looks at home in this cramped room.
He swivels a little in the seat, peering over the knickknacks on my desk. The action makes me twitchy, and I have to remind myself that I can actually control the man now.
His eyes snag on my keyboard. Abruptly, he stops moving.
“Who wrote this?” His voice is entirely different, low with rage.
He picks up the sticky note with the threatening message, strands of his power snapping and coiling out of him like lunging serpents. When his eyes meet mine, he looks ready to murder somebody. He probably is ready to murder somebody.
“The people who survived the spell circle—I think.”
His eyes begin to glow, just a little. He slides the note into his pocket.
“What are you doing?” I say, sitting down on the edge of my bed.
“Saving this note so that I can nail it to their body when I find them.”
Hell’s bells. Involving Memnon is already turning out to be a bad idea. I’m trying to tame a creature far more intense than even my panther.
“Is this note why you wanted my help?” he asks, way too insightful.
There’s no point denying it. I give a sharp nod.
My soul mate leans forward, the tense set of his features making his scar appear extra visible. “I will tell you everything I know about the murders and the spell circle, but, est amage, the knowledge comes at a cost. If I involve you, we run the risk of our enemies discovering our connection—not just that we’re soul mates but also that you now control me. That is…dangerous knowledge to have. It can be used against us. Do you still want my help?”
“I’m already involved. I want to know.”
Memnon bows his head and nods. Which should we focus on first? he says, speaking directly down our connection.
Right. This discussion is a bit too sensitive to be voicing out loud.
I jut my chin toward his pocket, where the threatening note rests. The witches involved in the spell circle. They are the more immediate concern.
Memnon’s eyes begin to glow again. Those glowing eyes, along with rustling hair, are signs a sorcerer is giving in to their power. When that happens, they run the risk of losing hold of their humanity and their control over the power they wield. This is when a sorcerer’s magic truly eats at their conscience.
But just as quickly as my mate’s eyes illuminate, they return to their normal hue.
They entered your room, even with the wards? Memnon asks. His gaze moves to my door.
I nod.
More of Memnon’s magic slithers out of him with my admission. It moves across the room and spreads over the surface of the door, and I’m sure that the sorcerer is setting yet another ward.
About the spell circle, I say down our bond, my gaze wandering to the panther tattoo that’s peeking out from his neck. This is what I know: the circles happen every new moon beneath this house—or at least they used to. I don’t know if they will move them after the shit show that happened last time. The only woman I know by name who was involved in it was Kasey. She was the witch who recruited me to attend the spell circle. Now she’s missing.
Memnon rubs his lower lip, watching me. The night they chased you through the woods, how many were injured?
I shake my head. I don’t know—at least a dozen.
Did anyone die?
I hesitate. At least one. Nero…Nero ripped out one woman’s throat. There might’ve been others as well. I wasn’t paying attention.
Memnon nods. When I went back to exact revenge, all the women—both alive and dead—were gone. Whoever got the dead and injured out of those woods made sure to scrub the area of their blood and any other evidence I might use to hunt them down. They were ready for a counterattack. Whatever is going on, this isn’t just some monthly gathering. They are organized, they have resources, and they know how to make bodies and evidence disappear—and they have access to the persecution tunnels beneath the house.
The thought is nauseating, now that I know these people have gotten through my wards and into my room. The persecution tunnel that leads out from beneath this very building connects to a vast network of subterranean tunnels. No one in this house is entirely safe if the tunnels are being exploited for nefarious purposes.
Memnon threads his fingers loosely together, his forearms resting on his thighs. Why would a well-organized group of supernaturals do their business in the tunnels beneath your coven? he asks down our bond.
I sense he knows the answer to this. I turn inward, thinking about it. The only thing that comes to mind is the most obvious answer, the one I already know.
Most of the members must live here.
Memnon nods. Or they’re trying to recruit witches from your house.
That is what happened to me. I just didn’t go along with it.
Memnon’s eyes flick over me, and though the conversation is a bit dark, a small smile curves his lips.
What? I say through our connection, trying not to notice the lock of hair that’s fallen in front of one of his eyes. I have to physically restrain myself from reaching out and tucking it behind his ear.