Bewitched

CHAPTER 36

Three years ago, I was given a draught of bittersweet, and my powers Awoke. I only remembered one of them—that I’m a witch.

But apparently, there was a secondary one I forgot.

That I’m a soul mate.

It’s right there, typed neatly onto the document bearing Peel Academy’s seal.

Soul mate.

I can all but hear Memnon’s voice in my ear.

Mate.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I press my hand to my forehead and push my hair back.

That swamp monster I revived from undying sleep was right this whole time? Memnon is really, truly my soul mate? And I mean, okay, he’s not a swamp monster—he’s devilishly handsome, and I think I might have fallen in love with him a little after I invited him into my bed, but he also believes we were lovers two thousand years ago.

And now I have to seriously entertain that idea.

Goddess, why me?

I blow out a breath. Let’s take it one step at a time, Selene.

I go to my shelf and glance down the line of magic-related books until I get to one on types of supernaturals. I pull it out and plop on my bed next to Nero, flipping to its glossary. Then I run my finger over page after page of definitions until I get to the one I’m looking for.

Soul mate

n. one of a pair or a group of amorous supernaturals who are bonded through an unbreakable magical co

I grimace at the word amorous, and then my eyes reread the last bit of the definition.

An unbreakable magical co

No. No, no, no.

We’re in denial again, I see. Memnon’s earlier words float through my head like a taunt.

My panic is interrupted when my phone buzzes…then keeps buzzing.

Worst time ever for my friend to call.

I answer without looking. “Sybil, I promise you, I’m fine.”

I’m not fine at all. Not even a little bit.

A gruff voice clears their throat, and shit, this is not Sybil.

“Ms. Bowers?” a masculine voice says, one I vaguely recognize.

“Uh…yeah, sorry, hi there,” I say, trying to recover the pieces of my dignity.

“This is Officer Howahkan with the Politia. We spoke at the begi

My mind is screaming, I am a soul mate! I clear my throat. “Yeah, sure.” That sounded normal and not hysterical, right?

“We are trying to solidify your alibi”—that pulls me into the moment—“and I wanted to follow up with you on getting your notebooks so we can create a comprehensive timeline for you.”

This…sounds a lot like I’m a suspect.

And yet I feel a wave of relief. They want my notebooks. Even though Officer Howahkan couldn’t clear me based on what he saw in my pla

As soon as the Politia gets a good look at all of them, it’ll be clear I have an ironclad alibi and a large paper trail. This is my chance to get myself off the suspect list.

“Of course,” I say, nibbling on a half-painted nail. “Anything you want to look at, you can see.” So long as it gets me cleared, I’m fine with it.

“Great,” the officer says. “Will you be home tomorrow afternoon?”

“I have class until two. But after that, I’ll be home for the rest of the day.”

“All right, then I’ll have one of my colleagues swing by sometime between then and five to collect them.”

Officer Howahkan and I end the call shortly after that, and I drop my phone and rub the heel of my hands into my eyes.

As much as I want to focus on what it means to be a suspect, my mind keeps going to that email. To the fact I really am a soul mate.

I’m going to have to save a copy of those results and write them down in a billion different places just so I don’t forget again. I should do that right now.

Instead, I roll onto my back, my shoulder bumping against Nero’s body. I place a hand over my heart and close my eyes.

The truth I’ve ignored has been right here this whole time. That magical river, the one I drew Memnon’s magic from, is still there, patiently waiting for me to notice it. It’s time I stopped denying its existence.

The moment I focus on it, really focus on it, I can sense the sorcerer’s power on the other end, along with a brief glimpse of his mood, which seems to be calm yet determined.

That little insight causes my breath to catch and warmth to bloom low in my belly. I’m literally co

And for good or for ill, he may actually be my person.

I take a deep breath, remembering the trick he taught me some time ago.

Memnon? I push the word down that magical river, sending it out like a message in a bottle.

I wait, my eyes still closed.

Did it work? Did I manage to—?

Est amage, you are using our co

I can hear Memnon’s pleasure in his response. I can even feel warmth in his words. That warmth goes against every other aspect about him, and yet something about it makes me want him in an entirely new way, one that has nothing to do with his sex appeal.

I exhale, trying to calm the turbulent storm of my emotions. I focus on what I want to say to him and push it down our…bond.

I don’t understand any of this, but I believe you. I take another deep breath and finish the thought. You’re my soul mate, and I’m yours.

Memnon’s initial response isn’t a sentence, it’s a feeling: hope. There’s some other emotions mixed with it—triumph, and maybe a touch of regret? It all flitters by too fast for me to make sense of, especially on top of my own tangle of emotions.

Est amage, I have yearned to hear you say those words. I am coming over…

A wave of panic washes over me.

Wait.

I am still processing the fact I’m actually a soul mate at all. I’m not really ready to face Memnon or deal with the reality of what being his mate actually means. Especially considering that the last time I saw him, he had just gone down on me, and that alone has my nerves and my heart all jumbled.

I want to talk, but my head is a mess, I admit. Can you come over tomorrow instead?

I may at least have some things sorted out by then.

From Memnon’s side I sense a massive amount of emotion being tamped down.

Tomorrow then…he agrees. After a moment, he adds, Sweet dreams, little witch…

No more sex dreams! I send back down our bond.

In response, I hear an echo of his laughter, the sound of it opening an ache in me so sharp, it’s hard to breathe around.

Memnon’s presence recedes from the bond, and though I’m sure I could still pass messages to him, it’s a clear signal that he’s giving me the space I just requested, space that now feels gapingly lonely.

I rub my forehead.

Memnon and I are really soul mates.

Fuck.

The next morning, right as I’m about to leave my room and head down to breakfast, I step on an envelope someone must’ve slipped under my door.

I bend and pick it up. It smells like rosemary and lavender, and the loopy scrawl of my name is written in iridescent ink.

Pretty.

I open the envelope and read the brief message inside.

You’ve been summoned to the private chambers of the high priestess of Henbane Coven. Please forgo your scheduled classes and come at once.

This…can’t be good.

In group-led witchcraft, there’s often a priestess, a witch who leads the spellcasting. Covens too have a version of this, and the witches who lead these regional groups are known as high priestesses.

I’ve never met Henbane’s high priestess before, but I’ve caught sight of her house several times since I was accepted into the coven. It sits like a castle in the woods to the north of campus. Climbing roses and wisteria cover the sides of the pale stone walls. Birds and butterflies flitter around it. It’s the definition of enchanting, though there’s an eeriness to it because it’s too enchanting, too lovely. It mesmerizes the eyes while unsettling the heart.

Magic, no matter how benevolently used, has that effect.

I step up to the large wooden door, Nero at my side, and reach for a knocker held between the fanged teeth of some primordial goddess. Before I can touch it, the knocker cackles.

“No need for that, Selene Bowers. We’ve been waiting for you,” the knocker says around the metal in her mouth.

Goose bumps break out across my skin at the small show of magic. The hinges of the door groan, and then it swings inward of its own accord.

I don’t know what I expect when I step inside—to be honest, I don’t know why I’m here at all—but I’m surprised to see the bare stone walls and smooth floor, the only decoration another primitive goddess figurine sitting in a nearby alcove, her arms raised above her head. Most witches tend to be maximalists, cluttering their walls and spaces with every conceivable knickknack. The lack of it all is strangely unsettling.

There are arched doorways and a myriad of rooms branching from the entryway, but it’s the stairway directly in front of me, the one cut like a slash into the floor of the foyer that has my attention.

“Down here,” a woman calls from below.

The high priestess.

I can tell it’s her without even seeing her face or knowing her name. There’s power folded into her words.

I take the stairs down, Nero at my side. Despite my familiar’s soothing presence, my nerves are set on edge. Dread has long since soured my stomach. I must be in trouble. Maybe it’s the murders. Or perhaps this is about the fight in the Everwoods. Or Nero poaching on lycanthrope territory.

I honestly have a lot to account for.

But I try to push those worrying thoughts away.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and enter a subterranean room whose floors and walls are covered in the same pale stone as the rest of the house.

Directly across from me, on the other side of the room, sits the high priestess. She’s a crone, her skin wrinkled and paper-thin. Her dark brown eyes shine like gems, and there is something beautiful and strong about her—perhaps it is her power alone that makes her hard to look away from.

Magic loves old things most of all.

She wears white robes, gold clasps holding the garment together at her shoulders. Her hair lies like unspun yarn over her shoulders and down past her breasts. A white raven sits on her shoulder.

“Sit.”

I don’t think the high priestess used any compulsion on me, but I swear my ass has crossed the room and lowered itself into the seat across from her before the echo of her voice has quieted.