I run my fingers over the writing inscribed there, feeling the divots where someone painstakingly carved them into the stone. That simple brush of my hand is enough to release the knot of spells. The threads of them split and unravel, and the released magic blows my hair back as it passes through the chamber, making the flames dance wildly in their sconces for a second before resettling.
My fingers trace the inscribed letters, and I form the words on my lips. “Zoginutasa vaksasava vexvava ozakosa pesaguva ekawabiw di’nasava.”
For the love of your gods, beware of me.
Beneath that is a name.
Nu’suwnusavuva Memnon
Memnon the Cursed.
Conflicting emotions roil within me like sand kicked up in the tide. Fear, anticipation, desire.
Empress…
More than anything, I have the overwhelming urge to open the coffin. It goes against good judgment and rational thought, but then, most of today has gone against good judgment and rational thought. Why break from precedent now?
I didn’t come all this way to stop at the last moment.
Decision made, I splay my hand against the cool marble surface.
Closing my eyes, I draw in a deep breath and focus on my power.
“Spells unbind. Lid be cast aside. Reveal what lies within.”
Magic surges from me, slicing through the last of the spells coating the coffin. The pale orange plumes of it gather around the stone lid. It’s eerily silent as my power lifts the carved slab into the air, then slides it aside. Only once it’s completely clear of the sarcophagus does it fall.
BOOM!
The lid hits the ground, cracking apart. Clumps of dirt trickle from the ceiling and the earth tremors, just a little. I wave my hand at the cloud of dust it kicks into the air.
Once the dust and the magic settle, I peer into the open sarcophagus, my pulse racing.
Resting within it is a man—a stunning, flawless man.
This is no mummy—this isn’t even a fresh corpse. His chest isn’t rising or falling, but his olive-toned skin has a ruddy, sun-kissed appearance. It’s almost as though he were out in the sun hours ago and merely came in here to rest. And yet, if it were that simple, he would have woken up by now.
Even asleep, this stranger is the most mesmerizing person I’ve ever seen. I stare at his sharp high cheekbones, then his subtly hooked nose. His coarse black hair curls around his ears, and his lips…I can already tell those full, curving lips were made for wetting panties and ruining girls’ hearts.
A wicked scar cuts from the corner of his left eye toward his ear before sharply plunging down to the edge of his jaw.
Memnon seems like a badass. A hot, violent badass.
My pounding pulse grows louder and louder as I continue to stare. Something is happening inside me, something that has little to do with this man’s dangerous beauty.
Over my heart my magic gathers, the sensation so sharp, so visceral, I have to place a trembling hand over my chest just to tamp it down.
I move my gaze to Memnon’s broad chest, which is covered in scale armor. Unlike his physical form, the armor he wears appears brittle and tarnished. His leather trousers and boots look even worse off, the clothing rotted away completely in certain places. The tunic he wears beneath the armor is all but gone. Only the sheathed dagger at his hip looks like it’s in decent condition—that and the golden rings he wears.
My love…
My gaze snaps back to Memnon’s face, my breath leaving me at the endearment. I’m sure it wasn’t meant for me, but I’m moved by it all the same.
As I stare at him, I feel the strangest sort of longing, like my heart is shattering and reforming.
I lift a hand, reaching for him. Whatever force drove me here now desperately wants to touch this man—Memnon the Cursed.
Free him, my mind whispers. Rouse him from his deathless sleep.
When my hand is a hair’s breadth from Memnon’s face, I hesitate, remembering myself for a moment. But then I’m sucked under the spell of this place and the magic surrounding us. Tentatively, I press my fingertip to the edge of that scar near his eye.
I bite back a yelp when the skin gives beneath my fingers. It has the icy chill of death clinging to it, but it’s—it’s supple the way living skin is.
Slowly, I trace the scar, following the line of it to his ear, then down, to the edge of his jaw. My hand brushes against his hair, and there is an ache in me so deep. So, so deep.
Free me…little witch…please…
The sound of his voice only sharpens that ache.
How long I have waited…for you…only you…
I place my hand against the man’s cheek, ignoring the way that inky-blue magic is filling up this room and that shrewd little voice inside my head is screaming at me to run from this place.
Instead, I draw in a sharp breath, then speak a single command in the same language that surrounds us. “Obat’iwavak.”
Wake.
CHAPTER 7
Wind tears through the chamber, nearly extinguishing the torches. A scream rises, and another voice fills the room.
What have you done? it wails.
I pull my hand from the man’s cheek, blinking away the strange daze that’s shrouded me ever since my plane crashed.
What am I doing?
Before I can come up with an answer, the man’s eyes snap open.
I stumble back, a hand going to my mouth to muffle my scream.
His irises are a beautiful brown color—dark along the outside edge and light like bourbon on the inside. His pupils dilate as they take me in.
Memnon draws a deep breath, his chest finally rising. As he does so, several scales from his armor slide off his chest, clinking as they fall.
“Roxilana,” the man breathes, still staring at my face.
My breath catches at his voice. It’s no longer echoing and disembodied, and the rough, human quality makes it all the more intimate.
If longing were a sound, this would be it.
His eyes seem to devour my form. “You found me. Saved me.” He’s still speaking in the same language written on the walls. I don’t know what it is or why I understand it.
Memnon sits up, and dozens more metal scales fall from his chest.
I take a step back, then another.
He places his hands on the lip of the stone coffin and rises.
Oh, Great Goddess, he’s getting out.
In one fluid movement, he steps out of the sarcophagus. His clothes slide off his body, and his scale armor falls like rain to the ground, tinkling as it goes.
The undead man doesn’t seem to notice any of it; his eyes stay fixed on me.
I, however, do notice—both because it leaves him naked and because his exposed skin is covered in strange stylized tattoos, the images mirroring that of the artwork around me. Animals and flowers twist up his arms and spill onto his chest and neck. More wrap around his calves and climb his thighs. There are a few others sprinkled onto his lower abs, and there may be more on his back that I can’t see. It looks like the ink is slowly closing in on him from his outer extremities to the very center of him.
He strides toward me, staring at me like I’m his oxygen, completely oblivious to the fact he’s mostly naked, save for the few remnants of armor and clothing that cling to him like linen wrappings.