Bewitched

CHAPTER 19

Having a familiar is creating some problems.

Besides the most obvious problem, which is that loose panthers make even witches nervous, there’s the fact that feeding a big cat is expensive, especially for a broke girl like me.

I mean, technically, Nero is often out in the surrounding forest hunting wild game—I try not to shudder at the thought—but that comes with its own issues. For instance, he may be doing so on lycanthrope territory, and that could have potentially catastrophic fallout. Not to mention that in the meantime, Nero would be poaching off them.

It’s all one massive headache, and it’s just easier if I can get him food from the butcher.

So I have to get a job.

I look at the bulletin board hanging in the hallway to the left of my house’s main staircase. Pi

Before I lived here, I couldn’t land a single one of these jobs. Each one required a coven-affiliated witch, which I wasn’t at the time.

Now, however, I can do any of them—assuming they hire me.

I scan the listings. Someone wants a witch to enchant five years off their face. Another one wants a cleaning spell placed on their house. Still another is for some undisclosed need, but it’s printed on fancy card stock, which makes me think whoever posted it has money to spend.

Money I could definitely use, especially since I learned earlier today that the amulet I remade for Wards didn’t earn me that sought-after apprenticeship.

I jot down the number for each job post. Personally, I’m not sure I could lift five years from a toad, let alone a person, nor do I know a satisfying cleaning spell (my old apartment was proof of that). But I’m willing to learn, so long as it gets me a few extra dollars.

Another witch steps up to the bulletin board, looking at the listings. “There are never enough postings here, in my opinion,” she says.

I make a noise of agreement, even though what do I know? I’m new here.

The witch turns to me, and the first thing I notice about her is how white her teeth are. White and straight. Then it’s her perfectly arched brows and the way her hair falls in orderly loose waves. Witches are often striking in one way or another. Whether that’s a long nose, a short frame, odd eyes, frizzy hair, generous curves, an addled mind, a long face, a prominent birthmark, or—in this witch’s case—some pleasing symmetry.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” she asks.

“Not really,” I say, turning my attention back to the bulletin board. Technically, I’m looking for something easy, but I’ll settle for what’s available.

“So just short on cash?” she says.

I hesitate, then glance back over at the witch next to me.

I mean, yes, my bank account sobs into a bottle of wine most days of the week, but I don’t want to come off as desperate.

The witch notices my hesitation. “Sorry, I hope that wasn’t rude,” she says. “It’s just that…” She glances around, then leans in toward me. “There’s a spell circle some of us do every new moon that’s funded by a few private sponsors. It’s a little shady, but it pays well.”

That sounds very interesting and 100 percent not up my alley. Listen, I’m all for pushing the rules, but I learned my lesson about not messing with shady shit when I opened a warded tomb and let out an ancient evil who thinks I’m his dead wife and is now stalking me. And maybe killing witches.

A girl can only take so much trouble.

But…I am also desperate—both for quick cash and friendship.

“Thanks for the offer,” I say. “I’ll think about it.”

And then promptly forget. All for the best though.

The witch smiles back at me. “Please do. It’s an easy five hundred.”

Dollars?

I suck in a breath and nearly choke on my saliva. “I’m sorry, what?” Five hundred dollars? That has to be a joke.

Or it’s something illegal.

Probably very, very illegal.

The witch flashes me a secretive smile. “Our sponsors pay well.”

Seriously. Five hundred dollars is almost enough to make me throw my morals to the wind.

After a moment’s hesitation, my coven sister pulls out a notebook, and she scribbles something on it. “I’m Kasey, and this is my number. If you decide to join, you can text me here.” She taps the written number, then backs away. “Think about it, and let me know. Next circle is happening on Saturday.” She gives me a wave and heads up the stairs, calling out over her shoulder, “I hope you decide to come.”

When I walk into my room, the lights are on, music is blaring from my speakers, and there’s an overgrown man sitting in my computer chair, his muscled arms and tattoos on display below the sleeves of his fitted T-shirt. In front of him is one of my social media pages. It’s open to a photo of me and Sybil wearing onesies and holding red Solo cups. I’m sticking out my tongue and making the peace sign with my fingers, while she’s blowing a kiss.

It’s…not my best moment. Not that I remember that particular evening.

My gaze slides back from the photo to Memnon. “What the fuck?” I say.

I raise my hand, readying my magic, angry rather than scared.

Memnon leans back in my computer chair, snaps his fingers, and poof, everything goes silent.

“Fascinating world you live in,” he responds—in English. He has a subtle foreign accent, so the words come out guttural and rolling.

His eyes drift over me, taking in the short wrap dress I wore to class. His gaze grows heated.

I angrily toss my bag onto my bed, my pulse rate climbing. “What are you doing in here?” I demand.

Memnon threads his hands behind his head, leaning back in my seat. “I’m seeing where my scheming wife lives,” he says, still speaking in English. He glances around him. “Your room is smaller than even our wagon was.” His eyes move over the sticky notes that cover the room. “I see you haven’t lost your love of writing.”

“You can’t just…come in here whenever you please,” I say, alarmed by the fact he already has.

Not even going to ask about how he knew which room was mine.

Memnon narrows his eyes at me, all while wearing this insufferable little smirk that makes me feel warm in all the wrong places.

Why must I have this reaction to him? He’s obviously evil, and the scar and the power he oozes are really driving that home. My body simply isn’t catching up to my mind.

“Does that bother you, est amage?” My queen. Those two words are the only he’s uttered so far in his old tongue.

Of course it bothers me. He made himself my enemy.

He also might have murdered two witches.

And once again, I’m trapped in a small room with him.

“Last time I saw you, I banished you,” I state.

Memnon drops his hands from behind his head to the chair’s armrests. “Yes, well, your magic likes me too much to keep me out for long.”

I frown at him, remembering how his spells melted away once my magic touched them. The thought that our powers like each other is perhaps the most unsettling thing I’ve heard all day.

“You need to leave,” I say.

“I’ll go when I’m ready.”

I want to scream. “I swear to the goddess I will banish you again if you don’t leave.”

He grins again, and maybe it’s the way it tugs at his scar, or maybe it’s how it displays his sharp canines, but I shiver at how nefarious that smile is. Nefarious and absurdly sexy.

I get hot and flustered at the sight of it.

Memnon lifts his chin. “Try it, little witch.”

I stare at him for a long moment. There’s a wild look in his eyes; he’s watching me like a snake about to strike.

A banishment spell might be a very, very bad idea.

I’ll need to get him out some other way. But first—

My eyes flick to my social media page, where the picture of me and Sybil is still taking up most of the screen.

I cross over to my desk before leaning over Memnon so I can exit out of the page.

Memnon bends forward, skimming his lips against my hair.

I freeze at the contact.

“You came and woke me”—he almost purrs it, his voice is so soft—“and now you continue just existing as though nothing has changed.”

I swallow, trying to control the way my body trembles at his nearness. My dreams come back to me then, and I vividly remember how it felt to have him close.

I shut my laptop screen and back away from the desk.

Memnon catches my wrist. “Roxilana, tell me why,” he beseeches.

For once, this terrifying supernatural is unguarded, and there’s something in his eyes when he looks at me, something beyond heat and anger.

“My name is Selene,” I remind him.

“You can lie to everyone else, but not to me,” he says.

He really thinks this is some elaborate charade this woman, Roxilana, has been keeping up.

No wonder he’s confused.

“I’m not her,” I insist.

He stands slowly from his seat, and I’m reminded all over again of just how large this man is. I have to tilt my head back to look at him. It doesn’t help that every inch of him seems to be made of heavy corded muscle.

Memnon reaches out, and I shrink away. He scowls when he sees my reaction, but that doesn’t stop him from cupping my cheeks and tilting my head up.

One of his thumbs strokes my cheek. “You have my Roxi’s same blue eyes, down to the white line that rings the inside of them.” He tilts my face to the side, moving one of his hands to touch something near my ear. “You have the same two freckles she had right here.” As Memnon speaks, his eyes soften.

His hand moves to my hair, and it’s as though he’s forgotten himself and his vendetta for a moment. His touch is almost reverent as he runs his fingers along the strands. I find myself mesmerized by it.

“And this hair,” he says, “is the same ci

I stare at him like I’ve seen a ghost. “H-how do you know those things about me?” I say.

His brows come together in confusion. “Why wouldn’t I know those things? I have spent years mapping you out—as you have me.”

What?

Almost instinctively, my gaze moves to that scar of his. Memnon has many distinct features, but that scar is perhaps the most prominent of them.

Seeing where my attention is drawn, he says softly, “You can touch it, est amage.”

I shouldn’t.