“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.