It’s there when I forget I have a coffee date with one of the witches in my wards class, and it’s there when I miss turning in an assignment for spellcasting. I cling to the promise of vengeance every time I see Politia officers on campus, interviewing witches or examining cordoned-off sections of the woods. I reassure myself of it after each weird look a coven sister casts my way, and I bask in the thought of it when Sybil and I go shopping for dresses in San Francisco.
The problem is, the longer I muse on Sybil’s plan, the more I realize…it’s not settling my demons.
Not by half.
I think of all the burned books—years of life and work meticulously documented—and how the sorcerer relished destroying them. Then I think of how he attacked Kane in my room and how he’s repeatedly threatened me.
Despite Memnon’s wicked tongue and the budding thing we had between us, he has made it clear since the beginning that we are enemies. And what have I done to stop him?
Nothing.
And now my revenge is supposed to be wearing a sexy dress and giving other men attention in some bid to make Memnon jealous? It’s laughably pathetic, and I’m far too bloodthirsty to settle for that.
I need to make the man truly pay. But how?
Wednesday evening, I sit sprawled out in one of the wingback chairs in my house’s library, Nero at my feet, as I rub my lower lip and muse over my situation.
Right over my heart, I can sense my devilish bond thrum with life. Unfortunately, I’ve been noticing this bond more and more since I accepted that I’m Memnon’s soul mate. Just giving it this small amount of attention is enough for me to feel the sorcerer on the other side of it.
Whatever he’s doing, he’s some combination of pleased and impatient.
Smug bastard.
Little witch, are you poking around my mind? Memnon’s voice is soft like velvet in my head.
Crap, I forgot that he can sense me too.
I ignore him and the way his words stroke me from the inside out.
I can taste your frustration, he says. Are you desperate yet?
Screw you. I shove the words down our bond.
Is that a legitimate offer? Because if it is, I’ll have to think about it.
Goddess, but I hate him.
I feel his amusement as his presence retreats from our bond, and I’m alone once more—or as alone as I can be now that I’m connected to another.
That’s the heart of the issue—being bonded to him.
Being bonded…
Can…soul mate bonds be broken?
The thought makes my breath catch.
Has anyone ever tried?
Before another thought has fully formed, I’m rising from my chair, then giving my familiar an idle pet as I leave my spot and head for the back of the library.
Nero is up and at my heels as though he weren’t busy sleeping a minute ago.
This early in the evening, the library is filled with several witches doing homework or reading various tomes. A few of them glance up at me, including one witch I think is friends with the still-missing Kasey, whose disappearance is now being investigated by the Politia. Kasey’s friend grimaces at me, then goes back to reading her book.
One nasty look isn’t nearly enough to distract myself from the fierce purpose riding me.
I haven’t visited the grimoire room since my first night here, but I’ll need them now for what I have in mind.
I pass the ornate stone fireplace and reach the door to the sealed room. When I open it, I wince at the clashing magic that fills the air, and Nero’s ears go back.
It’s only then that I hesitate.
What am I doing?
This idea that’s gripped me, it fills all the dangerous, wrathful spaces in my soul, but is it what I really want? Every source I’ve read on soul mates speaks of the deliberate nature of them. They’re each other’s perfect other half.
I don’t know what it means that Memnon and I don’t feel perfect. We feel like two misaligned puzzle pieces being forced together.
I take a deep breath, moving my eyes to the lantern lamp that sits there waiting for me.
Maybe the books got it wrong. Or maybe Memnon and I are perfectly awful on our own and even worse together.
Either way, it seems like a good idea to end this now—if I can.
I pick up the lantern. Waving my hand over it, I murmur, “With a flicker and a spark, light this candle in the dark.” A tiny flame flickers to life, and I note with relief that this time, the flame doesn’t look demonic.
I step fully inside the room, Nero slipping in after me, and I close the door behind us.
Already, my head is pounding from the conflicting magic in the air.
I set the lantern on the table in the middle of the room, and I close my eyes to better focus my senses.
Now that I’m not looking with my eyes, I swear I feel the prickling awareness of all these spellbooks. Magic is semi-sentient; these grimoires may not have lungs or hearts or brains, but in some innate way, they are alive. And right now, they’re observing me.
With my eyes still closed, I place my hands on the wooden table. “I would like to sever a soul mate bond.” The words feel forbidden. Taboo. “If any of you contain such a spell, I would ask to see it. Please.”
For several long seconds, I hear nothing.
My heart sinks, even as a sliver of relief threads through my system. If it cannot be done, then it absolves me from acting—
I hear the soft scrape of a book sliding out.
I open my eyes in time to see a thin black tome leave one of the shelves high above my head. It flutters down to the table like a falling leaf before landing gently right in front of me.
I barely have time to look at the image stamped on its black cloth cover before it opens itself. The grimoire’s pages flick by, like some phantom hand is thumbing through them. Near the back of the book, it finally stops on a page. There’s an inked drawing of a heart and a handwritten spell penned in German.
I place my hand over the text, taking a moment to compose an incantation.
“Translate to English this spell for me. Make its meaning clear to see.”
The letters jiggle, then morph, and suddenly, I can read it all. A Spell for Severing Amorous Bonds.
I swallow. This may be a mistake.
What may be a mistake, Empress…? Memnon’s voice echoes in my head.
I scowl at the intimate feel of this man inside me. Why don’t you mind your own fucking business? I snap back at him.
On the other end of our bond, the sorcerer seems quiet, pensive. It’s better than the cavalier amusement I felt from him earlier.
There’s a flicker of something on his end of our connection, and then he withdraws completely.
I exhale, and my eyes move over the page in front of me. The bloodthirsty, vicious side of me gets a perverse little thrill at the sight of it.
I tap the spell.
I’m going to do it.
The wind howls as I stand in the spellcasting kitchen deep into the night, my cauldron bubbling.
It took me hours to hunt down the ingredients for this spell, including seawater, roses that bloomed under a full moon, tears from a broken heart (using mine—hope they work), and then some mundane herbs. And to be honest, I didn’t find all the ingredients. But I think I can still make it work.
Using a mortar and pestle, I crush the dried rose petals, then throw them in. The next part is going to be tricky—the recipe called for a dead man’s dreams, but I couldn’t find any of those, so I went to Olga and got the last words of a life cut short.