I don’t breathe.
It’s not possible. Memnon burned them. I watched him burn them.
I drop to my knees, disbelief and hope—painful, awful hope—riding me, and I pull one notebook out. This one is covered in gold foil constellations. I open it up, and a little sound slips past my lips when I see my name and the date range in my handwriting. On the next page is a set of notes about how to get to the restaurant where I was working at the time. Alongside it is a spell I scribbled in for removing wrinkles from clothes.
I flip through several more pages, which are full of Polaroids, sticky notes, to-do lists, directions, spells I thought were worth remembering, and hasty sketches.
My thumb runs over one such sketch, this one of a Sarmatian griffin. I swallow down the strange rush of emotions it brings forth before moving through the rest of the notebook.
It is, without a doubt, mine. Somehow, it’s whole once more.
This is a trick. It must be. I saw these notebooks burn, and I touched their charred remains. I remember the acrid, smoky smell that clung to the room once they were nothing more than cinders.
I grab another journal and flip through it. Then another.
I pinch my eyes shut, my throat tight with emotion. Despite my efforts, a rebellious tear slips out.
I don’t know how Memnon managed to weasel these out of my room or fake their fiery demise, but they still exist. He saved them.
For one-point-five seconds, I feel a rush of tenderness toward the sorcerer. Then I remember that he still manipulated and coerced me. He still framed me for murder and forced me to lift that curse against my will.
So screw him and his small kindnesses.
Moving back over to his closet, I look for anything that might be able to hold my notebooks. Tucked away in a far corner, I find a black duffel bag that has a knife, rope, and some zip ties.
Not fucking suspicious or anything.
Emptying the bag, I haul it over to the bookcase and dump all my books into it. There are so many of them that I can’t zip the bag up. The spines of several of the journals peek out as I heft the bag onto my shoulder. I suddenly feel more like myself, having my notebooks close.
I pull out my phone and, ignoring the slew of messages and notifications waiting for me, order my familiar and me a car.
“Nero,” I call out to the panther, who’s still sprawled out on our enemy’s bed. “It’s time to go.”
I don’t wait for him to follow. My body is jittery with nerves and resolve. I’ve got my notebooks. Now I need to get back to the coven and ward the shit out of my room so that pushy sorcerers can’t approach me.
I leave the bedroom, Nero at my heels. The two of us pass by several rooms that branch off the house’s hallway as well as a sprawling living room. I lament the fact that I have to get out of here. I really am curious about the rest of Memnon’s home.
The front door is a bronze monstrosity. I reach for the handle, only when I go to open it, it doesn’t budge. It’s then that I notice the ward shimmering on both the lock and the door handle’s surface.
I glance down at Nero, who’s come to a stop at my side. “Memnon has a bad habit of locking us in places while I’m unconscious.”
The big cat blinks up at me, clearly bored.
I lay my palm on the door and simply wait. After a few seconds, deep blue tendrils of the ward peel themselves away from the door and crawl up my fingers. Like last time I did this, Memnon’s magic can’t seem to help but draw near. They wrap around my wrist like they’re desperate to hold on to me, and as they do so, the spell’s structure warps and melts until the whole thing slides off the door completely.
It lingers on my skin for several seconds, then dissipates.
When I try the door again, it gives, sunlight slicing through the opening.
In my pocket, my phone vibrates, and I know without looking that my ride is approaching. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect.
My gaze drops to Nero, and I run my teeth along my lower lip. He’s going to be a problem for whoever picks us up.
Lightly, I place a hand on the big cat’s head, causing his ears to twitch. “Do ulibad povekomsa pesagus diveksu kuppu mi'kanutgusa buvekatasava.”
Hide this great cat from all eyes but mine.
My power, which is still recovering from last night, sluggishly sifts out of me and pours down Nero’s body.
The spell is not accompanied by the usual prickling or throbbing in my head I’ve come to expect, the one that took memories from me.
My memory loss really is no more.
At the reminder, I feel the burn of betrayal all over again.
Yesterday might’ve been Memnon’s day, but today fucking isn’t.
I glance back at the foyer and living room. It really is a lovely house. Shame.
Closing my eyes, I focus on what little magic remains. It’s not much, yet I only need a spark.
Memnon made a mistake, leaving me and my wrath here in his inner sanctum.
I extend my arm palm up, and my eyes snap open. “Elements of old, feel my ire. Light this fucking house on fire.”
Down my arm, my magic trickles and gathers until a wisp of pale orange smoke rises from my extended hand, curling and transforming into flame.
I toss the ball of flame into the living room, where it lands on a fringed rug. In a matter of seconds, the fire smolders, then grows, consuming what it can of the rug and anything else nearby.
“C’mon, Nero,” I say. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
CHAPTER 4
By the time Nero and I return to the coven, the sun has disappeared behind a thick layer of clouds, and I feel like I’ve been hit by a cauldron.
Memnon’s pain-numbing spells must’ve worn off, and my body is feeling all the aches of last night, as well as the deeper exhaustion that comes from overusing my magic.
Once I enter my house, I head toward the dining hall, lured in by the smell of soup and fresh bread. Halfway there, I feel a prickle at the back of my neck. I glance around and notice a couple of witches staring. And when I enter the dining room, a witch who had been playing a fiddle now stops, and the chatter in the room quiets as my coven sisters glance my way.
I’ve been distracted by my wicked fiancé, but for these women, my arrest must’ve been the drama of the night—especially since Memnon spelled them to forget their own brushes with death.
Ignoring the looks, I grab a bowl painted with vines from a stack at the front of the buffet line and fill it with steaming soup. Snagging a bread roll from a nearby basket, I beat a hasty retreat from the room, Nero at my heels.
All I really want to do is snuggle into my bed and binge-watch something on my laptop, but I haven’t spoken with my best friend Sybil since last night, and so much has happened since we parted that it feels wrong to hole up without at least stopping by her room first.
I don’t bother knocking when I get there, I just step inside, Nero trailing in after me, and I set my bread and soup down on her desk.
Sybil’s back is to me while she tends to her wall of plants, her lilac magic threading through the room. She’s lost in her own world, humming something under her breath that the leaves are swaying to. Merlin, her barn owl familiar, rests on a perch over her bed, his eyes hyper focused on Nero.
“Sybil,” I call out.
My friend startles, nearly dropping her watering pail.