My friend glances heavenward, letting out a ragged breath. “I hate that this is becoming normal for us. You disappearing and me worrying that you’re hurt or worse.” She doesn’t voice what worse is, though we both know what she means.

Dead.

She continues, “And now it’s witches who are after you, witches we know, and Memnon who’s the good guy?” Sybil shakes her head, the action jostling her owl a little. “What parallel universe are we in?”

I glance down at my hands, my emotions a tangled mess. “I don’t know. I did hate him. I…I do still…” I squeeze my hands into fists. “Fuck, I don’t know. He saved Nero, and he’s been good to me. I know he doesn’t deserve a second chance but⁠—”

“Listen, Selene,” Sybil cuts in, “you do what makes you happy. Personally, given all the disappearances, it’s probably safer for you that you’re off campus. If you happen to hate-fuck the guy along the way, more power to you. He seems like he’s a ride.”

“Sybil!” I give her a push, and she cackles, falling back on her bed while Merlin flies to his perch above Sybil’s headboard.

“Just be sure to brew lots of contraceptive potions,” she adds. “One sorcerer is more than enough.”

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CHAPTER 27

My packed bags are sitting just inside the spell kitchen as I work on the final task I want to complete before I return to Memnon’s house. Namely, making a protective amulet for Nero. Or at least I’m trying to make one.

Spellwork is a painstaking, intricate business. It’s easy enough for a witch to press their intention into their power as they cast it out, but the actual crafting of a spell, one that draws magic mostly from external things, that is like weaving a tapestry. There are lots of moving parts. But if done correctly, the protective talisman is like a mobile ward, one whose strength can grow over time.

Despite the fact that the last time I tried to make an amulet, it was a disaster, I’m determined to get it right, for Nero’s sake.

I glance down at the grimoire open on the counter.

Thrice by thrice thorn of rose

What the fuck is thrice? I know I’m a witch and this sounds like my jam, but there are some old-as-shit terms that even I don’t understand.

One quick internet search and okay, thrice means three, which I guess I should’ve assumed.

So thrice by thrice…three by three—nine. Maiden, Mother, and Crone, they could’ve just said nine.

I’m bitching under my breath as I grab the roses I’d already gathered from the residence hall’s greenhouse. When most spells call for roses, they want the petals or the pressed oil from them. Not this one. This one calls for the thorns.

Quickly, I begin to snap them off the stem, counting them out as I go. I’m removing my ninth one when⁠—

“Fuck,” I curse. One of the thorns cradled in my palm has lodged itself in my flesh. I snap off the final thorn and toss eight of the nine into the boiling cauldron. The ninth one I pry from my palm, grimacing as it comes away bloody.

I hold it over the cauldron, transfixed by that red liquid. I’ve already used blood magic—dark magic. I’ve felt the alluring, forbidden press of it, and I’ve heard dark voices calling to me when I’ve used it.

I should rinse my hands and grab another thorn, one free of blood.

Instead, still under trance, I release the one in my hand, letting it fall into the cauldron. It hisses the moment it makes contact, and shimmering smoke wafts up from the potion.

I blink a few times, then take a shaky breath. Well, guess that decides that.

I move on to the last ingredient, heading to the other side of the kitchen to grab the jar labeled Toad Legs (ethically harvested under the full moon)—whatever that means—and pull one out, throwing it into the brew.

I eye the appendage bobbing in the bubbling cauldron, wondering how frog legs—ethically harvested or not—fit into dark magic. Where is the line drawn? Witches don’t really say, and I have a prickly, uncomfortable feeling this falls into that gray area where it’s only okay until somebody in the future says it isn’t.

Oh well, I’m probably already thoroughly fucked.

Thoroughly fucked? Memnon’s voice is sin given sound. Oh no, little witch, you haven’t even begun to experience what it means to be thoroughly fucked.

I press a hand to my head. No one invited you into the conversation, I say, holding back the thought that only days ago, Memnon did very thoroughly fuck me.

The conversation? Memnon echoes. Who else are you talking to? Please don’t tell me you’ve involved the panther in this.

Memnon.

I feel him grin, and in response, my entire body seems to come alive. Lately, the sorcerer has been…cheeky. And Goddess help me, I think I like it.

I’ll see you soon, Empress.

Crap, that’s right. The mounted cuckoo clock in the spell kitchen says I have ten minutes, though it could be wrong—magic makes the thing finicky.

Hurriedly, I clean up my spot on the counter, then stir the pot.

The grimoire lists an incantation as the final step. I lift a hand over the cauldron and read it off: “Mortal hearts full of woe and ire, see not my form if thou dost conspire. Turn thine eyes away from me, protect my body and blessed be.”

A flare of light brightens the mixture, and I see all the solid ingredients dissolve into the liquid.

From my pocket, I pull out a soft leather cord I found in one of the drawers of the spell kitchen. On it, I strung an old quartz pendant I used to wear. Now I dip the cord, stone first, into the potion, making sure all of it is submerged. When I pull it out, the soft luster of my pale orange magic coats the pendant and cord before sinking into the objects. I can sense the ward taking hold.

I did it. I made my first successful amulet.

Once the ward has completely set, I tuck the newly made amulet into my pocket.

For the first time since Nero was attacked last night, I breathe easy.

Now to meet with Memnon.

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CHAPTER 28

My soul mate drives up on a gleaming motorcycle, his dark hair billowing in the wind, no helmet in sight.

Hell’s bells.

“What is that?” I ask from the pavement in front of my residence hall, my bags at my feet.

He raises an eyebrow, then glances at the motorcycle between his legs before looking back at me again. “You’re the modern woman. I imagine you already know.”

“You want me to ride on that thing?” The roads around here are winding, mountainous, and often pitted. Many lack guardrails, and the drops from them can be steep. The thought of taking those turns on a motorcycle sends a shiver down my spine.

Memnon swings himself off his seat. “You sound mighty judgmental for a woman who has no vehicle.”

“Considering you stole yours, I think I have a right to be.”

“You scared, little witch?” Memnon asks, eyeing me.

“No,” I say quickly. Too quickly.

A sinful smile blooms across his face. “You are.”

Maybe it’s his tall stature. Maybe it’s the outfit, a simple black shirt and black fatigues tucked into combat boots, which seems to display every damnably beautiful inch of him and showcase his dangerous nature. Or maybe it’s his face, with his annoyingly high cheekbones and those wicked lips. But he takes my breath away. He looks like something mythical and forgotten.

He steps in close. “I’ll keep you safe, Selene,” he says roughly. “You know that.”

I think I’ve stepped closer to him, lured in by that magnetic pull he has.

His gaze draws up to my residence hall. “Or we could stay here, maybe have a little dinner. You could introduce me to your coven sisters, and I could read their minds one by one.” His expression grows cold, cruel. “It could be a game—see how many witches survive the evening.”