For what? Memnon challenges me. Casual get-togethers? These tunnels were created for illicit purposes.
They weren’t, I argue. They were created to avoid capture.
Yes, Memnon agrees. That would be considered illicit behavior.
Fuck, I guess it would.
The two of us finally get to the previously lit hallway. A little farther down it opens up into another subterranean room similar in size and structure to the one beneath the residency hall. But where the latter room was empty, this one is full.
I pause as I take it all in. It looks almost like a witchy clubhouse. There’s a lit candelabra hanging from the ceiling. Along the right wall is a series of inset cabinets and shelves. On several of them rest moth-eaten grimoires, their clashing magic pooling in the air above us. On another shelf is a crystal ball and a scrying bowl and a bust of a woman with a very large nose and a determined air about her.
Across the room is a massive tapestry depicting an enchanted forest. Beneath it are several chests and an armoire painted with flowers and serpents. A few broomsticks lean together in the corner.
There’s a worn green velvet couch, a plum-colored wingback chair, and a table between them stacked with books. I drift over to the stack and rifle through them, reading their titles as Memnon continues past me, cutting through the room toward another chamber that houses a spiral staircase.
I’ll be back in a minute, he says as he heads up the staircase, clearly determined to find whoever was down here.
“Mmm…” I say noncommittally as I look at the book titles. The Sisterhood: The Dynamics and Culture of Witches; Ancient Symbols and Their Meanings; Into the Dark: An Exploration of Forbidden Magic.
The book titles are somewhat interesting but not revealing in the least. Abandoning them, I wander around the rest of the room, peering at the items. The grimoires on the shelves are old, and their magic has a musty, rotting smell to it, as though it’s unmaking itself. I pause when my eyes land on one of the grimoires. It’s a small, thin tome, its spine mostly gone. Threads of dark magic waft off it.
Before I can think better of it, I pull the book off the shelf. I flip through the spellbook, but there are no bookmarked pages or obvious spells of interest. Only disturbing drawings of dismembered fingers and eyes. Real cozy reading.
I put the spellbook back, wiping my hands on my jeans to get the oily feel of the magic off me. Turning my attention to the cabinets that run along the lower part of the wall, I crouch down and open them one by one.
Inside all of them are baskets filled with bars and snack packs of chips, trail mix and mini bottled waters.
This is definitely a clubhouse of some sort. And while it’s unusual, I’ve seen nothing here that’s overtly nefarious—dark grimoire aside.
Closing the cabinets, I move to the other side of the room, drawn to the armoire simply because the painted serpent and flowers on the front of it are so beautiful. I run my hand over the image of the snake, noting how the phases of the moon have been detailed on its body. Beneath my touch, it seems to come alive for a moment, the delicately painted scales rippling as it slithers a little. I hear a click, and then one of the armoire’s doors swings open slightly.
I did not even realize it would do that.
I nudge the door open wider.
My eyebrows rise.
Dozens of black robes hang inside. Reaching for one, I rub the fabric between my fingers and breathe the material in. It smells faintly of that cloying draught I was given at the spell circle. More incriminating still, there are a few nearly transparent white shifts hanging inside as well. Cara the shifter had worn something similar when she’d been brought to the circle…
I back away from the closet, my pulse pounding loudly in my ears. I mean, it could be a coincidence. There are probably similar robes and shifts stored somewhere in the residence hall as well. These are pretty basic ceremonial regalia.
I turn and take in the room again, my gaze sweeping over the space before settling on the chests.
I move over to one and attempt to open it. The lid doesn’t budge.
I wonder if stroking this one would work?
I try doing just that. When the lid still doesn’t budge and I feel faintly like I committed some sort of sex act against the chest, I focus my attention on the iron latch at its center. There’s a keyhole beneath it, one my iron room key would probably fit—though I left it back in my room.
“Open,” I command in Sarmatian.
My magic unfurls, a thin line of it flowing into the keyhole. I hear a latch tumble, and then my power is pushing the lid up against the wall.
What is the point of a lock if a spell can…
Hell’s spells.
Stacked inside the chest are many, many masks identical to those worn at the spell circle. On top of them all is the high priestess mask.
Well, this is no longer a coincidence. Whoever’s been involved in the spell circle is storing the items for it here.
CHAPTER 12
I reach inside the chest and lift the high priestess mask out.
“Memnon!” I call.
When I don’t hear him, I lower the mask and glance down the chamber he exited through.
He’s been awfully quiet down our bond since he disappeared up the staircase.
Memnon? I reach for him through our connection.
I’ll be there soon, Empress. I’m almost finished.
Finished? I say, alarm bells going off in my head. With what?
The interrogation.
Oh, fuck.
Dropping the mask, I dash toward the wrought iron spiral staircase. I glance up it, hearing the low notes of Memnon’s voice from somewhere up above.
Bloody boils. I take the stairs two at a time, the structure shivering as I pound my way up it in my haste to get to Memnon.
The stairs lead to a narrow antechamber with an open archway out. On the other side of it, I can see what looks like some sort of teacher’s lounge, and on the far side of the room, Memnon is holding a woman by the throat, her feet flailing as she tries to rip away the sorcerer’s hand. Her pale green magic snaps at Memnon, but whatever spells she’s casting, they’re not deterring my mate in the slightest.
“Memnon!” I cannot leave this man alone for five fucking seconds. “Put the woman down,” I say in Sarmatian.
Memnon glances over his shoulder at me while he reluctantly lowers the woman back to the ground.
“Hello, my queen,” he says smoothly, like he wasn’t just choking a witch out. A witch he still holds by the throat.
I stride forward. “You cannot accost people and treat them like threats,” I say.
I don’t mean for that to be a direct order, but in response to it, Memnon’s hand opens, and he releases the witch, who then tries to bolt. Memnon blocks her escape with his body.
“You may want to qualify that command,” he says, sending his magic to the door the witch is rushing toward. When she gets to it, the handle won’t turn. Her own magic flares out to combat Memnon’s spell. “We might be stumbling on a lot of bad people.”