Bewitched, page 32
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.
I bite my lower lip as I stare at the words I copied.
Sounds good. Love you—see you soon.
I try not to shiver at how mundane these last words were. It makes death seem all the more grotesque, to rob someone of their life right in the middle of a perfectly average day.
Instead, I focus on the ingredient itself—should I throw the note into the cauldron or whisper the words over it?
Before I can decide, the front door crashes open, wood splintering as it rips off its hinges. I expect to hear a chorus of screams, but most of, if not all, my sisters have gone to bed, save for a group that left an hour ago for some outdoor spellcasting.
Familiar heavy footfalls stride across the foyer, and my stomach fills with dread.
Memnon fills the doorway, his eyes blazing. They move from my face to the wooden spoon I have in my hand, then the cauldron in front of me.
I move in front of the cauldron, ready to defend my spell. “You do not get to just—”
I yelp as he picks me up and sets me on the island behind me.
He puts a finger up to my face. “Stay,” he growls, his magic coiling around me.
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a dog,” I snap back at him.
I try to hop off the counter, but damn it, he spelled my ass—literally. I can’t get up.
I watch on helplessly as Memnon stalks toward my cauldron and grabs it with his bare hands.
“Memnon, no—”
Before I can even finish my plea, he overturns the thing, dumping its contents out onto the open fire beneath it, dousing the flame and ruining my concoction.
I make a horrified sound and stare aghast at the ruins of my spell.
Memnon turns back to me, his chest heaving and his palms blistered from where he held the cauldron. “You were trying to break our bond!” he roars.
Upstairs, I hear someone yell, “Shut up!”
“Goddess above, lower your voice,” I whisper. “You’re going to wake up the whole coven.” I’m skating on thin enough ice as it is.
“Even after enduring your betrayal and your desertion, est amage, I would never dare to break what is ours and ours alone!” His voice rises until he is bellowing the words.
“Maybe if you had spent the past several weeks trying to be my friend instead of making my life miserable, I wouldn’t be attempting to break our bond.”
His expression flickers, like he may feel regret or shame, but I’m not done.
“I swear to the goddess,” I continue, “the moment you leave my sight, I will start the process all over again.”
It seems like Memnon grows taller, wider. He steps between my legs, looking menacing, lethal.
“No,” he says softly, “you won’t.” The sorcerer places his hands on either side of my head, his eyes flinty.
I jerk against his touch. “Let me go.”
“Your mind isn’t the only one that can steal memories,” he says, those smoky eyes piercing.
I go still at what he’s hinting at. “You wouldn’t,” I breathe.
He smiles. “Of course I would. I already have.”
“You’ve taken my memories?” My voice is unnaturally quiet as I speak. Dark, roiling fury builds beneath my veins.
“Your heart isn’t the only thing I own.” It’s as much a confession as anything else.
I don’t think—I launch myself at him. Memnon’s magic still holds my legs fast to the table, but I manage to claw at his eyes and tear that self-satisfied smirk from his face.
“Fuck,” he curses in Sarmatian, staggering out of my reach. Then he laughs. Laughs!
“Ah, est amage, I’ve missed your fiery side,” he says, stepping back into my space and catching one of my wrists.
“I will gut you for taking my memories, you asshole!” I manage to drag my nails down the other side of Memnon’s face before he’s able to capture my other wrist.
He grins wickedly. “I thought you didn’t mind losing them? You fought for your curse so passionately a week ago.”
“You had no right to take them,” I say vehemently.
Memnon ignores my words, his gaze moving to the open grimoire next to me. “Ah, is this the hateful spell?” He moves my wrists into one of his hands so he can place his palm on the book.
Beneath his hand, the page curls and blackens, and a wisp of smoke rises from the book.
I jerk fruitlessly against his grip, my mood darkening with every passing second. This spell was supposed to placate my rage, not enflame it. But it’s as though I’m reliving the book burning in my room all over again.
“You think you can break our bond and dispose of me as you did two thousand years ago?”
I sense his own rage rising, and his eyes illuminate with his power. I’m reminded all over again that a sorcerer’s magic draws from their conscience; as they grow stronger, their empathy grows weaker. I’m sensing that Memnon lost most of his back in antiquity.
“You will never be free of me, little witch. Never.”
I stare at the magic sparking in his eyes. I’m coming to find that there is nothing nearly so dangerous as a wronged sorcerer.
Memnon’s hand comes up, wrapping around my throat in the most featherlight grip. But between his spell nailing me to the table, his body pinning me in, and now his hand on my neck, I am completely immobilized.
“But you are right, I have given you more misery than passion. Perhaps it is time I reminded you of what it means to be with me.”
My eyebrows shoot up. Wait, what?
Before that thought has more than crossed my mind, Memnon kisses me.
CHAPTER 41
Hateful, hateful man. With his wicked lips and wicked thoughts and wicked intentions.
He’s got some fucking gall to dare kiss me after he’s upended my world.
So I bite his lip. Hard.
Memnon groans as the metallic tang of blood hits our tongues. The monster smiles against my mouth and deepens the kiss, as though the small violence is a turn-on for him. Despite my raging fury—and, oh, how it rages—I kiss him back, hungry for more of him. My fingers slide into his hair and pull it taut enough to hurt.
I hate that I do still want him when all I really want is to hate him.
Memnon’s fingers flex just the slightest bit against my throat, reminding me that he has me pinned and vulnerable, though it doesn’t make me feel vulnerable. I feel as though I’m going to combust. Already, I know that if I open my eyes, I will see plumes of my magic seeping out of me.
“My empress is finally showing her true colors,” Memnon murmurs against my lips.
There’s nothing true about this at all—this is my worst side. But if my mate wants to cut himself on the sharpest parts of my personality, so be it.
When his tongue delves back into my mouth, I bite it. Memnon hisses, but again the action only serves to make him kiss me with more fervor. Fervor I return.
I can’t explain it. There is no explaining it. I hate his guts. I’d love nothing more than to kick him in the balls. But I’m also enjoying hate kissing the shit out of his lips. I’m pretty sure I’d be fine taking this hate all the way to the end of desire.
I think I’ve just unlocked a new kink.
Memnon pulls away. “You will know me in all ways,” he vows.
His thoughts must be in the same vein as mine—that, or he heard me through our bond.
While it’s fine for me to fantasize about using Memnon to fulfill my own desires, like hell am I going to let him do the same thing.
I push the sorcerer away, his hand slipping effortlessly away from my neck.
Hate-fucking fantasies be damned—
“If I can’t break the bond, I’ll simply cast a spell to shrivel up your dick,” I threaten him.
Memnon smiles, a bead of blood gathering at the corner of his lip. “It’s cute that you think you haven’t already tried.”
That has my eyes widening.
He wipes the bead of blood away, flicking his eyes over me.
“Release,” he says in Sarmatian.
Immediately, his magic lifts itself from my body, no longer anchoring me to the table.
His eyes settle on me. “I love you, little witch,” he says, his expression a touch sad. “More than all the world. That is my deepest truth, and it’s one I should have told you again and again as I once did.
“And I’m sorry you have to bear the weight of that love.” His features shift a little, growing determined. “But you will bear it.”
With that, he heads for the doorway.
“Three days,” he calls over his shoulder. “That’s all you have left, Empress.”
And then he’s gone.
Those three days pass in the blink of an eye.
Three days to try to sort out my own tangled emotions. Three days to fixate on my revenge. Three days to wonder what Memnon means to do on the night of the ball.
I now stare at the gown spread out on my bed, my mood grim.
I don’t want to face Memnon again.
Maybe that’s cowardly. It’s still the truth.
He is my worst nightmare, but I’m also coming to find he’s a huge weakness of mine because he saved me and he cared for me and a part of me—a twisted, wayward part of me—likes him. Fuck, I more than like him. I’m beyond attracted to the man, and I crave the sound of his commanding voice and the feel of those arms around me. All he has to do is kiss me or whisper a few pretty words in my ear, and I’ll reconsider every hateful thought I’ve had of him.
I’m terrified that will happen again tonight when I’m seeking out my revenge.
In the distance, I hear someone tromping up the stairs, followed by the creaking of floorboards as they head down my hall.
Seconds later, Sybil opens the door. “Hey, babe!” she hollers as she bustles in, carrying her dress and shoes as well as a massive tote bag full of what looks to be makeup and maybe hair supplies.
She drops it all on the bed. “Fuck, I’m excited for tonight, aren’t…?” Her voice trails off as soon as she sees my face. “No, no, no, Selene,” she says.
I touch my cheek. “What?”
“I’m not going to let you panic about tonight. This is your night for revenge. I want to see wicked grins and evil looks only.”
I put my face in my hands and groan. “I’m nervous,” I admit.
Sybil comes over to me and places her hands on my shoulders. “Your soul mate thinks you’re conniving and cruel. The Politia thinks you could be a killer. You’re obviously neither of those things, but fuck it.” She gives my shoulders a shake. “We’re going to embrace it for one night.”
She releases me and turns to the items on the bed. From her bag she pulls out a bottle of vodka and two cans of sparkling juice. “We’re going to drink, we’re going to do each other’s makeup and hair and have fucking fun dressing up like villainesses for a night. What do you say?”
I take a deep breath. “Pour me a shot.”
By the time I reach for my dress, I’m giggling.
I may have had a touch too much alcohol.
Our hair and makeup—done. All that’s left is pulling on our dresses. I walk over to mine while Sybil grabs hers, my legs a little shaky.
The black dress is floor-length with a small train and a slit all the way up to nearly the top of my thigh. The back is even sexier, held together by only two crisscrossing straps, leaving the rest of my skin down to the small of my back exposed.
There’s a sheen to the material that makes it look a touch iridescent, and it slides around me like a serpent. Now that I have it on, I do feel more than a little wicked.
“I know you have a love affair with high-tops and combat boots.” Sybil turns to me in her ruby-red dress, the gemstones on it glittering as they catch the light. “But for tonight, let’s do something a bit fancier,” she says, moving over to my closet.
“I don’t have anything fancier,” I say. “Besides, how am I going to crush my enemies beneath my boots if I’m not wearing boots?”
“You’re not going to crush them beneath your boots,” Sybil says with an exaggerated eye roll. “You’re obviously going to impale them with your stiletto heel. Just give me a sec—”
She dashes out of the room, her own nude heels already on. Distantly, I hear something thumping down the stairs, followed by curses.
Uh-oh. This is why stilettos are a bad idea—especially when alcohol is involved.
I rush out of my room, passing other witches in various states of dress. Lying on the landing, her dress basically around her waist, is Sybil.
Another witch is already there, ready to help her, but she waves the girl away. “I’m good, I’m good.”
Despite her words, I head down to the landing and help pick my friend up as she smooths her hands over her dress.
