Bewitched

But if this man is going to keep showing up, the right answer would really settle part of my nerves.

“Are you murdering the witches found dead on campus?”

Memnon holds my gaze, his face impassive. I see his throat work, as though the answer is trying to wriggle its way free. He holds it back, curving his lips into a defiant smile.

I wait, feeling my spell at work.

Finally, his lips part. “No.”

My magic releases him all at once, and I sag with relief.

He’s not the killer.

He’s not the killer.

I want to sob. I didn’t realize what a weight that had been, thinking Memnon had hurt i

His gaze flits over me. “I take it you’re relieved.”

I exhale. “Very.”

Memnon watches me silently. If he was offended I thought he was the murderer—or disappointed that now I don’t—he doesn’t say it or show it.

I run my hands through my hair, composing myself once more.

“Come here then, Empress.” He gestures me forward. “It’s my turn.”

I take a hesitant step toward him.

“Closer,” he insists.

Oh Goddess, am I really going to let a sorcerer rifle through my head? I didn’t think this plan out fully.

I step into his space, trying to banish my nerves. “Is there anything you need?”

Memnon places his hands on either side of my head, and I jolt a little at the touch. “Just you.”

That odd humming noise between us grows louder, and my breath comes in shallow pants. It could also be his words. Everything he says sounds like a double entendre.

I don’t mean to glance up and meet the sorcerer’s stare head-on, but this close to him, with his hands tilting my face up to his, there’s nowhere else to look.

His whiskey-brown eyes are tender, affectionate. My heart skips a beat at the sight.

I have been inside you more times than there are stars to count.

Heat rises to my cheeks, and I force away the memory.

Memnon gives me a shadow of a smile. An instant later, however, it’s gone. “Close your eyes,” he commands.

I stare at him for a moment longer, feeling small and vulnerable with his hands cupping my face, the wall of his body looming over me, and his face so close.

Drawing a fortifying breath, I let my eyelids flutter shut.

Memnon’s thumbs stroke my cheeks in silent approval. “Now repeat after me: Ziwatunutapsa vak mi’tavkasavak ozkos izakgap.”

I bare my memories for you to see.

The words come easily to me, the sounds of this ancient language both harsh and lilting.

He continues. “Pes danvup kuppu sutvusa vak danus dukup mi’tupusa. Pes vakvu i’wpatkapsasava kusasuwasa dulipazan detupusa.”

All that I know, I share with you. I willingly give you the truth of my past.

I sense his magic rise, and as soon as I finish speaking, it rushes into me.

Reflexively, I grab Memnon’s wrists, ready to jerk his hands away at the first brush of his power in my head, but the sorcerer holds me fast.

Memory after memory flitters by so swiftly, I can hardly make sense of any of them, only that each one is touched by the sharp caress of Memnon’s power. On and on it goes, and it could be seconds, or it could be hours. I feel like I’m being turned inside out, like every dirty little truth has been inspected and—

With a curse, Memnon’s hands leave me. He stumbles back, breathing heavily, and when he takes me in, his eyes are haunted.

He searches my face, as though it will give him the answers he’s looking for. “How…?”

“Do you believe me now?”

He’s still searching my face, and while he does so, I allow myself to study his. I’m mesmerized by the black hair that curls at his nape, his pronounced cheekbones, those multifaceted eyes and sensuous lips.

“You’re right, Selene.”

I almost close my eyes when I hear him say my name. This is a small victory, but I’ll take it. And I can’t help but notice how intimate he makes my name sound. As though he knows things about me that no one else does—which, now that he’s rifled through my mind, is technically true.

“You remember nothing,” he continues. “Your memory itself…” Memnon frowns, a crease forming between his brows.

“My magic feeds off my memories,” I explain. “So there are lots of holes in it.”

He studies me. “I don’t understand our situation,” he says slowly. “Not yet at least. But neither, it appears, do you.” Memnon grimaces to himself. “So, for now, I’ll accept this horrible simulacrum of reality.”

Does that mean he really, truly, finally believes me?

The intensity in his gaze has cooled; all that’s left is a hollow sort of sadness.

“I had horses, I had warriors and armies, I had palaces and servants and admirers, but most important of all, I had you.” His voice breaks on that final word, like a wave crashing against the rocks.

“You had Roxilana,” I remind him softly.

Memnon works his jaw and looks away. “No, in the end, I apparently did not have even her.”

His chest rises and falls faster and faster, and I can sense the violent edge of his magic stirring awake.

“You need to leave,” I say quietly. Memnon got what he came for. It’s not my fault it wasn’t what he wanted.

The sorcerer’s magic fills the room, and mine mounts to meet his.

Memnon gives me one last baleful look, and then he strides past me and out of my room. The door swings closed behind him, and with that, Memnon the Cursed is finally gone.

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