BANG!
The potion explodes like a shot, liquid splattering everywhere.
Shit.
I cough, waving away the odious hazy smoke. Once it clears, I peek inside the cauldron. Then I groan.
Sitting at the bottom is a lump of what looks like fossilized poop.
Do I have to touch it?
After a moment’s hesitation, I reach in and scoop the amulet from the cauldron. On a positive note, at least my clumpy concoction is all gone. I mean, the rest of the kitchen is now covered with it, but we’re not going to focus on that.
At the sight of the amulet in my hand, Nero curls his lips back.
“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad,” I say, dropping my smoldering pendant back onto the counter.
But it is. It really is.
I’m at the kitchen’s industrial sink, humming while I wash the last of the utensils I used. I try not to notice the heavy disappointment settled in the bottom of my stomach, sitting there like a stone.
This was simply a first try.
I’ll get it next time.
“Cleaning cookware, my queen? This is what you gave me up for?”
I scream and spin, throwing the wooden spoon reflexively at the voice.
Memnon leans against the doorway to the kitchen, his frame taking up most of the space. He catches the utensil in his fist, but his eyes remain fixed on me.
How long has he been there?
Now is probably not the time to notice yet again just how smoking hot Memnon is, but fuck, the goddess blessed him a little more in that department than she did the rest of us.
Then, at some later date, she must’ve regretted that blessing and cursed the hell out of his fate to make up for it.
His hair is brushed back from his face, revealing the scar that runs from his eye to ear to jaw. He’s frowning, and I’d say he’s angry, except there’s a touch of confusion in his eyes.
He pushes away from the wall, his bewitching magic unfurling like a flower. “And what in the gods’ names is that smell? It’s worse than those Roman dishes you made me try—”
“Don’t you dare come in,” I warn him, gripping the counter behind me to hold myself up. My legs want to buckle at the sight of him. This is the man who might’ve murdered one of my coven sisters.
And he hates me.
Memnon lifts his chin, even as his magic snaps in annoyance. “Or what?” He squares his shoulders, taking a calculated step into the room. “What will my long-lost wife do to me now?”
It’s only now that I realize we’re, once again, speaking that other language. It stirs strange feelings in me I can’t make sense of. The one thing I can identify is my terror rushing through me the longer I stare at this ancient sorcerer.
My heart bangs against the walls of my chest as though it’s desperate to get out.
He tilts his head, taking in my expression.
A flash of something enters his eyes, but then it’s gone just as quickly.
“Now the fear comes,” he says. “Are you realizing, my queen, that you have a reckoning to receive?”
“I swear to the goddess, I will scream so loud, I’ll bring this whole damn house down on you.”
Memnon pauses, narrowing his eyes. “That is your threat, Roxilana? To scream loudly? What game are you playing?” he says.
He keeps asking this same question, and Goddess, but the only thing worse than a vengeful sorcerer is a vengeful, confused one.
“I will tell you what I know,” I whisper, “if you stop coming closer.”
Memnon must want answers desperately because he does halt in his tracks.
My gaze sweeps over him. He wears a formfitting white shirt, revealing his inked forearms. It’s partially tucked into loose black fatigues, which are then tucked into heavy leather combat boots. Gone is the ancient warrior I woke. He looks every inch like some modern special ops soldier.
His power ripples off him like steam from boiling water, and it strikes me all over again that this man is a sorcerer of all things; he doesn’t seem correctly cast for the role. He’s not supposed to have muscles and power. That’s, like, cheating.
Shit, maybe that’s why he’s cursed. Something has to even out the playing field with this man.
Memnon’s expression heats at my perusal, but I can still sense his blistering wrath. “I’m waiting.”
“Yes, well, give me a moment—you make a girl want to wet herself.”
Shit.
Did that just come out of my mouth?
Did that just come out of my mouth?
Memnon’s eyebrows rise; then a self-satisfied look spreads across his face.
My cheeks heat. “Because y-you’re scary, and I’m t-trying not to pee my pants,” I stammer.
Honestly, just bury me now and save me from myself.
He begins to close the distance between us again.
I put a hand out. “Stay back!” I warn him.
Memnon knocks my hand away as though it’s nothing more than a nuisance, and he steps into my space.
“Roxilana,” he growls, gazing down at me. My skin pebbles at the guttural sound of that name on this man’s lips. It’s not even my name, yet it’s affecting me. How twisted is that?
“What game are you playing?” he demands again, biting out each word.
I lift my jaw obstinately and glare at him. “You need to back up. Now.” Belatedly, I realize that I once again switched languages. Only, this time, I spoke in Latin.
He smiles at me, and it’s so godsdamned wicked. “You think threats will work on me?” he responds in Latin. A moment later, his hand comes to my neck, and it grips me softly. “I make the threats now, wife,” he says, squeezing my throat just a little so his meaning is clear. “Answer my question.”
“This isn’t some game to me,” I say, reverting back to that other, unnamable language, the words rolling off my tongue. “This is my life.”
“Your life,” he echoes bitterly. “And have you been enjoying our time apart? All twenty centuries of it?” The more he speaks, the more his grip tightens on my throat.
“Have you eaten bad bread?” I say, which is apparently the old-school way of saying, What are you smoking? “Listen, my name is Selene, I’m twenty years old, and the first time I ever laid eyes on you was when I opened your tomb. I’m not your wife, and I didn’t betray you.”
As I speak, Memnon’s fury morphs into something colder and more resolute.
He stares at me for several seconds.
“So you’re determined to lie to me,” he finally says.
I want to scream. Did he hear nothing of what I just said?
He continues. “It’s been some time since you were around me, my queen, so perhaps you have forgotten just how I inspired fear into enemies’ hearts.”
All over again, I remember Kate, the murdered witch. The hand around my throat suddenly feels a whole lot more menacing than I’ve been treating it.
My eyes dart to my familiar. Nero is curled up on the kitchen rug, his eyes closed.
Why is he sleeping right now?