Bewitched, page 11
Only, the stories didn’t get a lot of things right. For instance, hags don’t need to have warts and sinister features. This one, in particular, is more of a HAG—a Hot-Ass Grandma.
“Tell me,” she says now, “when you think of amulets, what comes to mind?” Her long white hair sways behind her as she walks.
Someone raises their hand, and she points to them. “A stone or pendant you wear around your neck.”
She nods. “Anyone else?”
Someone else calls out, “Signet rings.”
“Good, good,” Mistress Gestalt says. She stops. “What if I told you I was wearing ten different amulets? Do you think you could find them all?”
My eyes sweep over her. She wears a loose royal-blue dress cinched with an embroidered belt, a wrist full of colorful bangles, and leather sandals.
She pulls her hair away from her ear, showing off a copper earring with etched writing. She points to it. “This may be my most obvious example. But I should also tell you that the crowns on three of my teeth are marked with protective wards, and the belt has been embroidered with another spell.”
She points to a few of her bangles, a button at the top back of her dress, and a buckle on her sandals.
“Amulets do not need to be obvious or conventional—there are quite a few I’ve spelled over in the medical field—pacemakers, implants, dentures, and more.”
She spends the rest of the two-hour lecture going over the nuances of amulets and all the spells that can be placed on them. I write down notes on everything she says, determined not to miss a single detail.
A bell trills, marking the end of the class.
“Your instructor wants me to remind you all that your amulets will be due at the end of the week,” Mistress Gestalt calls out. “I myself will be looking them over. The witch who creates the most exquisite work will be offered a formal apprenticeship at my company, the Witch’s Mark.”
I gather my things alongside my classmates, my mind turning over the idea of an apprenticeship. Is that what I want? Eventually, I’ll have to specialize in some kind of magic. I wonder what a career that specializes in amulets would look like…
“Selene Bowers.”
I startle at the sound of Mistress Gestalt calling—and hell, simply knowing—my name. Of course, a name is easy enough to procure, if you’re a witch.
I glance over at her.
She gives me a soft smile, her light eyes a little vacant. “May I have a word?”
My gaze sweeps over the rest of the witches leaving the room. I don’t know what she could possibly want from me, unless it’s something I’ve forgotten.
After a moment, I nod. “Of course.” I make my way toward her.
“Good, good.” She grabs her notes from the podium and slips them into a bag at her feet.
My heart is picking up speed as I step up to her. I don’t even know why I’m nervous. I think it’s simply habit that makes me assume I’m being recognized for doing something wrong rather than, I don’t know, standing out for my amazing magical talent.
“It’s an odd form of witchcraft, yours,” Mistress Gestalt says as she zips up her bag.
I raise my eyebrows. She knows my brand of magic? I shouldn’t be surprised. Crones are especially sharp.
She straightens, and I catch sight of her unusual eyes.
“Incantatrix immemorata.” She overenunciates each word. “The unmentioned witch, whose magic devours her memories. Very peculiar. Very rare. I wonder why that is …”
My brows draw together; I’m taken aback by the fact she knows this about me. “That was just the way I was born.”
“Hmm…” Those light eyes scrutinize me, her body trembling a little. Though her magic is strong, her limbs seem light as a bird’s. “No, I don’t think it is.”
My gaze sharpens on hers. Now that I’m looking closely, I realize why her eyes look so unusual. There’s no pupil in either of them. Is she…blind?
“Who needs sight when the third eye sees all?” she says.
I recoil from her a bit.
Man, elderly witches are spooky. That really is when we come into our highest power.
“Selene, dear girl, you are being circled by vultures. Many eyes are on you. Some of them good, some of them bad, some a bit of both.”
“What?” I say, alarmed.
“Power is to be celebrated and feared. You have it in spades, but it is locked away. Find the key and use it. Don’t be a pawn when you’re a queen. No one commands a queen.”
I blink at her, and my hand twitches from the urge to write this all down before I can forget.
“I don’t…understand,” I say finally, tightening my hold on my bag.
She laughs, the sound wispy; it makes me think of corn husks for some odd reason.
“There is a lot you cannot remember, but do not fool yourself into thinking you do not understand, Selene Bowers.” She gives me a meaningful look with those all-seeing eyes of hers, and for a moment, I think she must know about Memnon.
“Make your amulet,” Mistress Gestalt says. “Protect yourself against harm.”
Harm?
“And Selene?” she says. “The villains are coming for you. Ready yourself.”
CHAPTER 16
Moldy toadstools.
I scrape the charred, flaky goop from the bottom of the cauldron, grimacing as I go.
I’ve been working on this freaking amulet all evening, and all I have to show for it is this sludge. My hair is singed, I smell like smoke, and the other witches who’ve entered and exited the spellcasting kitchen have kept their distance.
I was hoping that if I got started on an amulet for myself tonight, I’d manage to both finish my first big class project and wrangle some extra protection against the ominous threat Mistress Gestalt warned me about.
This kitchen has an old cast-iron stove as well as several cauldrons hanging over open flames, one of which is mine. On the opposite side of the room, there are shelves of jars holding all manner of rare ingredients.
I scoop the charred paste from the cauldron and place it into a bowl, ignoring the way Nero’s ears go back at the sight of it.
I set the bowl down on the kitchen’s butcher-block counter and make a face at my creation. My creation cannot be right. After moving over to my textbook, A Practitioner’s Guide to Apotropaic Magic, I read through the spell recipe once more.
“Where did I go wrong…?” I ask Nero.
Nero blinks at me, and I swear he’s saying, How am I supposed to know? You’re the witch.
But maybe I’m just anthropomorphizing my panther.
I turn back to my textbook. Could it have been the alyssum? The recipe called for a handful, but that’s such a loose measurement. Or maybe I need fresh mugwort and not the dried version.
But then, maybe it’s not the mugwort?
I rub my temples.
“You’re still here?” Sybil’s voice rings out.
I glance up as she enters the kitchen. She came in here with me a couple of hours ago to work on an assignment for a different class, but she long since left to get some reading done.
Apparently, she finished reading.
She crinkles her nose. “What is that ungodly smell?” she says, wandering closer to me.
“That’s the smell of protection,” I say smoothly.
“Whatever concoction you’re brewing, I don’t think it’s supposed to smell like that.” When she gets to my side, Sybil peers into my bowl. “Or look like that.”
I gaze down at the lumpy charred paste. According to my textbook, it’s supposed to settle into a milky green liquid.
“What are you making anyway?” Sybil asks.
I grimace. “It’s supposed to be a protective potion. Once it’s done, I just dip a piece of jewelry into it…and it should come out an amulet.”
At that, she laughs. “Dude, that’s more likely to attract bad shit than it is to scare it off.”
I make a face at her. “It’s not done yet.”
“Babe, scrap it and call it a night. You can try again tomorrow.”
I grab my wooden spoon and stir the grayish sludge. “Does my best friend really have that little faith in my abilities?”
Sybil raises her eyebrows at me. “Uh, when it comes to this particular spell—yeah, I do.”
“Pfft.” I wave her away. “I’m almost done here.”
“All right, Selene, you do you.” Sybil pushes away from the counter. “I’m heading off to bed. Want to join me for a run before class?”
I make a face at the thought. “Do I really like running?” I ask her.
For a moment Sybil hesitates, like she doesn’t know if I’ve truly forgotten.
“It’s a rhetorical question,” I say. “Of course I hate running. But I’m a masochist, so yeah, I’ll join you.”
She shakes her head. “You have the worst humor, you know that, right?”
I point the wooden spoon I’m holding at her. “I…yeah, I might.”
She gives me an amused look. “Night, babe. Don’t accidently curse anything with that…potion.” With that, she breezes back out of the kitchen.
“Night!” I call out after her.
Once it’s quiet, I return my attention to my goop.
Now, where was I?
I glance down the list of steps I’ve meticulously checked off. All that’s left is the final step.
Take the object you wish to coat with your protective mixture and submerge it into the potion.
There’s an incantation that goes along with this step, and supposedly, invoking this spell will cause the potion to burn away and leave only the magic-coated amulet behind.
Simple enough.
I add more water to my mixture, whispering the incantation under my breath as I do so. And then I stir and stir until my sludge turns into a lumpy liquid. It looks a little greener as a liquid too, so that’s a win.
It’ll have to do.
I grab a small clay pendant with swirls stamped onto the front. It was a cheap knickknack I bought at a street fair in Berkeley, but it’s unusual and pretty. And if this all goes well, it will be an amulet.
I worry my lower lip as I look at my concoction. After a moment, I drop the pendant into the mixture.
This is going to work, I tell myself.
Taking a deep breath, I hold my hand over the bowl and begin. “I call on earth and air…” My power rises, called by my intent and the incantation. “Wash away weakness”—the soft orange magic flows down my arm and out from my palm before settling over the liquid—“from beings wicked and intent unkind…”
As I watch, my power sinks into the potion, making the liquid luminesce.
I finish the incantation with “keep me safe; keep me whole.”
BANG!
The potion explodes like a shot, liquid splattering everywhere.
Shit.
I cough, waving away the odious hazy smoke. Once it clears, I peek inside the cauldron. Then I groan.
Sitting at the bottom is a lump of what looks like fossilized poop.
Do I have to touch it?
After a moment’s hesitation, I reach in and scoop the amulet from the cauldron. On a positive note, at least my clumpy concoction is all gone. I mean, the rest of the kitchen is now covered with it, but we’re not going to focus on that.
At the sight of the amulet in my hand, Nero curls his lips back.
“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad,” I say, dropping my smoldering pendant back onto the counter.
But it is. It really is.
I’m at the kitchen’s industrial sink, humming while I wash the last of the utensils I used. I try not to notice the heavy disappointment settled in the bottom of my stomach, sitting there like a stone.
This was simply a first try.
I’ll get it next time.
“Cleaning cookware, my queen? This is what you gave me up for?”
I scream and spin, throwing the wooden spoon reflexively at the voice.
Memnon leans against the doorway to the kitchen, his frame taking up most of the space. He catches the utensil in his fist, but his eyes remain fixed on me.
How long has he been there?
Now is probably not the time to notice yet again just how smoking hot Memnon is, but fuck, the goddess blessed him a little more in that department than she did the rest of us.
Then, at some later date, she must’ve regretted that blessing and cursed the hell out of his fate to make up for it.
His hair is brushed back from his face, revealing the scar that runs from his eye to ear to jaw. He’s frowning, and I’d say he’s angry, except there’s a touch of confusion in his eyes.
He pushes away from the wall, his bewitching magic unfurling like a flower. “And what in the gods’ names is that smell? It’s worse than those Roman dishes you made me try—”
“Don’t you dare come in,” I warn him, gripping the counter behind me to hold myself up. My legs want to buckle at the sight of him. This is the man who might’ve murdered one of my coven sisters.
And he hates me.
Memnon lifts his chin, even as his magic snaps in annoyance. “Or what?” He squares his shoulders, taking a calculated step into the room. “What will my long-lost wife do to me now?”
It’s only now that I realize we’re, once again, speaking that other language. It stirs strange feelings in me I can’t make sense of. The one thing I can identify is my terror rushing through me the longer I stare at this ancient sorcerer.
My heart bangs against the walls of my chest as though it’s desperate to get out.
He tilts his head, taking in my expression.
A flash of something enters his eyes, but then it’s gone just as quickly.
“Now the fear comes,” he says. “Are you realizing, my queen, that you have a reckoning to receive?”
“I swear to the goddess, I will scream so loud, I’ll bring this whole damn house down on you.”
Memnon pauses, narrowing his eyes. “That is your threat, Roxilana? To scream loudly? What game are you playing?” he says.
He keeps asking this same question, and Goddess, but the only thing worse than a vengeful sorcerer is a vengeful, confused one.
“I will tell you what I know,” I whisper, “if you stop coming closer.”
Memnon must want answers desperately because he does halt in his tracks.
My gaze sweeps over him. He wears a formfitting white shirt, revealing his inked forearms. It’s partially tucked into loose black fatigues, which are then tucked into heavy leather combat boots. Gone is the ancient warrior I woke. He looks every inch like some modern special ops soldier.
His power ripples off him like steam from boiling water, and it strikes me all over again that this man is a sorcerer of all things; he doesn’t seem correctly cast for the role. He’s not supposed to have muscles and power. That’s, like, cheating.
Shit, maybe that’s why he’s cursed. Something has to even out the playing field with this man.
Memnon’s expression heats at my perusal, but I can still sense his blistering wrath. “I’m waiting.”
“Yes, well, give me a moment—you make a girl want to wet herself.”
Shit.
Did that just come out of my mouth?
Did that just come out of my mouth?
Memnon’s eyebrows rise; then a self-satisfied look spreads across his face.
My cheeks heat. “Because y-you’re scary, and I’m t-trying not to pee my pants,” I stammer.
Honestly, just bury me now and save me from myself.
He begins to close the distance between us again.
I put a hand out. “Stay back!” I warn him.
Memnon knocks my hand away as though it’s nothing more than a nuisance, and he steps into my space.
“Roxilana,” he growls, gazing down at me. My skin pebbles at the guttural sound of that name on this man’s lips. It’s not even my name, yet it’s affecting me. How twisted is that?
“What game are you playing?” he demands again, biting out each word.
I lift my jaw obstinately and glare at him. “You need to back up. Now.” Belatedly, I realize that I once again switched languages. Only, this time, I spoke in Latin.
He smiles at me, and it’s so godsdamned wicked. “You think threats will work on me?” he responds in Latin. A moment later, his hand comes to my neck, and it grips me softly. “I make the threats now, wife,” he says, squeezing my throat just a little so his meaning is clear. “Answer my question.”
“This isn’t some game to me,” I say, reverting back to that other, unnamable language, the words rolling off my tongue. “This is my life.”
“Your life,” he echoes bitterly. “And have you been enjoying our time apart? All twenty centuries of it?” The more he speaks, the more his grip tightens on my throat.
“Have you eaten bad bread?” I say, which is apparently the old-school way of saying, What are you smoking? “Listen, my name is Selene, I’m twenty years old, and the first time I ever laid eyes on you was when I opened your tomb. I’m not your wife, and I didn’t betray you.”
As I speak, Memnon’s fury morphs into something colder and more resolute.
He stares at me for several seconds.
“So you’re determined to lie to me,” he finally says.
I want to scream. Did he hear nothing of what I just said?
He continues. “It’s been some time since you were around me, my queen, so perhaps you have forgotten just how I inspired fear into enemies’ hearts.”
All over again, I remember Kate, the murdered witch. The hand around my throat suddenly feels a whole lot more menacing than I’ve been treating it.
My eyes dart to my familiar. Nero is curled up on the kitchen rug, his eyes closed.
Why is he sleeping right now?
“Nero,” I gasp out, trying to get his attention. His ears flick and his tail twitches, but his eyes remain closed.
“Nero?” Memnon repeats. The venom in his voice has my attention snapping back to him. “What does that swine have to do with anything? Did you betray me for him? Even after what he tried to do to you?”
