Immediately, I call Kane. The phone rings and rings, but he doesn’t answer. I try again, and then a third time.
Nothing.
Fuck.
Of course Kane’s not answering. He’s out in the woods with the rest of his pack, mourning the shifter they lost.
I call once more and leave a hasty message, and then reluctantly, I head into Wards.
I sit there among my peers, listen to the lecture, and I diligently take notes, but the excitement that normally suffuses this class is lost on me. It feels pointless, so goddess-damned pointless to be here, when all around us, supernaturals are being preyed on.
Perhaps this latest death is unrelated to the murders. Perhaps the dead shifter got gored by a deer or shot by some trigger-happy human who wandered onto the wrong patch of wilderness. Perhaps it was a mere accident or a more mundane misfortune.
I don’t know for sure until shortly after class lets out.
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I head down the stone steps of Cauldron Hall. I snatch it up before the second ring.
“Hello?” I answer, ducking as someone’s bat familiar zips past my head.
“Selene?” Kane says. His voice is unnaturally low and gravelly. In the background, the grief-filled howls are amplified, the noise punctuated by whimpers and sobs.
“I heard the news. I’m so sorry, Kane,” I say.
The other end of the line is quiet, and part of me is sure Kane’s shifted and I’m now speaking to a wolf.
“Miranda was ripped apart,” he finally says, “just like the witches on your side of the woods.” It’s silent for another long moment, then he adds, “Her body carried the stink of something unnatural…” Kane’s voice disintegrates into a growl.
I take that in, wondering how much time I have to talk with the lycanthrope before he gives in to his shift.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, though the sentiment rings hollow. What is an apology in the face of a life cut horrifyingly short? “Do you or your pack mates need anything?” I ask. I don’t know that I have anything of substance to offer, but the rest of my peers and I have dealt with these deaths several times already.
The other end of the line is quiet again.
“The last time we spoke in person, you admitted that Memnon moves the bodies,” Kane eventually says.
My stomach drops.
“My pack would like to meet with him so that he might answer for this.”
After the call ends, I sit down on a random patch of grass in front of Henbane’s main buildings, Nero flopping down beside me.
I idly coax a small daisy to grow from the soil. As its stalk rises and a flower unfurls, I sit with my thoughts. Worry, doubt, and dread all knot together.
Memnon?
I feel the brush of Memnon’s pleasure, though beneath it, I sense…strain.
Est amage…your voice is sweeter than wine after conquest. Despite his words, his voice sounds tight, thready.
A light, fluttery feeling blossoms in my stomach. It has no business being there, given the current circumstances.
Did you move another body?
Perhaps … Again, his voice sounds strained.
I frown, and the daisy beneath my palm wilts a little.
Are you okay? I ask.
Is my fiancée worried about my well-being? he teases.
I look skyward even as I suppress a smile. Forget I asked.
Never. I’m collecting your slipups.
Maiden, Mother, and Crone.
Please don’t. I don’t even bother trying to deny that they are in fact slipups.
I feel the brush of his mirth, though there’s still that nagging sensation beneath it.
You’re really okay? I ask.
Again I feel his pleasure. Sweet mate, I’m fine. Were you reaching out just to ask about the body?
The one he all but confirmed he moved.
The shifters want to speak with you about their dead pack mate, I say. And…I told them you would.
Memnon groans.
I draw in a deep breath. We’re meeting Kane and his pack at five o’clock tonight to discuss it.
The moment I mention Kane, there’s a shift in Memnon’s energy.
I’ll pick you up at four thirty in front of your house. I can’t wait to fuck with the wolves.
Memnon.
I’m kidding, Empress. I’ll only fuck with Kane.
Tonight’s going to be a long night.
CHAPTER 30
I’ve just sent my mom her daily text and started reading up about contraceptive spells on the steps of the residence hall when Memnon tears through the front gates of Henbane on his motorcycle. Once again he’s not wearing a helmet, and my worry rises.
Ugh, I’m worried about him. I have it bad. And that’s saying nothing about that annoying, happy warmth pooling in my belly at the sight of him.
I tuck my phone away, sparing a glance at Nero, who is busy trying—and failing—to catch a butterfly with his teeth. My familiar has forgotten for a moment that he’s supposed to be a proud, majestic creature.
Memnon pulls into a parking spot near where I parked his car and cuts the engine, grimacing as he swings himself off his seat. As soon as he sees me, his previous expression is wiped clean, and his gaze deepens. I get the distinct impression he’s vividly remembering our night together.
Or maybe that’s just me.
Memnon comes over to me then, his shoulders set a little rigidly, his stride a little stiff. A spark of unease moves through me, even as he takes me by the chin and presses an ardent kiss to my lips.
I guess we’re greeting by way of kissing now.
More warmth pools in my belly. Ugh, but I like that too.
My arms go around him to pull him closer to me when I feel wetness at his back. His shirt is drenched.
“Is this…” I’m about to say sweat when the sorcerer sags a little in my arms.
Seven hells.
“Memnon?” I say, alarmed.
He locks his knees, straightening back up. “I’m fine. Just a little dizzy.”
I move my hand away from his back, sucking in a breath when I see the blood smeared all over it.
“You’re hurt.” I mean for it to be accusing, but my tone comes out soft and concerned. Fuck, I am concerned.
“It is nothing to worry about,” Memnon says as he winces.
“I’ll decide that for myself,” I say, trying to think over the pounding of my heart. “Why didn’t you heal yourself?”
He sways, the movement so subtle I might not have noticed it if he were someone less familiar to me.
“I was ordered not to,” he admits.
So this was some punishment he was supposed to bear out.
My brows draw together. “But you only answer to me,” I say, not following.
He nods in agreement, and now I’m really not following.
“Couldn’t you have healed yourself?” I ask slowly. “Or at least taken away your own pain?”
“I am a Sarmatian king, born to a warrior queen, raised from birth to fight—”