As soon as my magic brightens the space, I gasp.
My fingers are coated in bright red blood. But it’s not just on my fingers; it’s all over—
“Nero.”
I’m in his head so fast, I get momentarily confused at the sight of my own human face staring back at me.
I can feel wetness against my—I mean his—flank and on his legs and paws. But there are no obvious aches or pains.
Not Nero’s blood.
I’m back in my own head a moment later. My familiar sprawls out on his side, and now I can see the blood smears across my checkered comforter.
“What happened?” I ask Nero, even though I know he can’t respond. “Is this blood from one of your kills?”
No reaction from him.
“Did you hurt the creature whose blood this is?”
Another nonreaction, except now Nero’s tail flicks with irritation.
I’m not asking the right questions.
My mind moves to darker, more terrifying places.
“Was it a human?”
Slowly, Nero’s head dips and rises, the action looking unnatural on him. But it was a nod.
“Are they alive?” I ask.
Nothing.
Fuck.
That’s a no.
“Can you take me to them?”
Nero gets off the bed and prowls toward the window once more. After grabbing my phone and sweatshirt and shoving my feet into a pair of running shoes, I follow him.
CHAPTER 21
I move like a woman possessed, jogging behind my familiar, my awareness straddled between him and myself.
It only strikes me that this may be a bad idea when we hit the tree line edging the campus.
Oh, we’re going in there.
My heart pounds loudly.
You are a powerful witch with a badass familiar. No one is going to fuck with you.
Ahead of me, Nero slows.
Before I see anything at all, I sense the slick, tainted magic that hangs in the air.
Dark magic.
“Illuminet hunc locum.” Illuminate this place.
The Latin words flow smoothly out of me, coming from the same shrouded part of me where my stolen memories go. It’s a shock to hear them, mostly because lately, it’s that other language, the one Memnon speaks, that my mind reaches for. It’s like seeing an old friend again, hearing this bit of ancient language fall from my lips.
My magic spins itself into several orbs of amber light, each one levitating into the air above me and Nero. They settle between the bows of trees, glowing softly.
Now that my surroundings are lit, I can see the insidious power ahead of us. It chokes the air and smears the ground. It takes me a moment to realize those smears are blood—tainted magical blood.
Next to me, a growl rises from my familiar’s throat as he stares straight ahead.
I follow his gaze. No more than twenty feet in front of us lies a body, its limbs twisted, its clothes and skin covered in black-tinged blood. Long hair obscures the individual’s face, but it does nothing to hide the open cavity in their chest where their organs should rest.
The meaty smell, the oily magic that glistens and clings to the body—it’s overwhelming. I turn and retch.
I figured I would find a body; Nero indicated as much. Yet I find I’m still shocked at the discovery. Shocked and disturbed.
Need to call the Politia. Now.
With a shaky hand, I pull out my phone. It takes me several tries to search for their phone number, my fingers not working as they should.
Finally, I hit the number, and it rings through.
“Politia, Station Fifty-Three—what can I help you with?”
I draw in a lungful of air, but then I taste the dark magic at the back of my throat, and I have to fight another wave of nausea.
All I can manage are a few short words.
“There’s—there’s been another murder.”
I return to the residence hall an hour before daybreak, my body beyond exhausted.
I was questioned for hours, my familiar and I photographed and swabbed for blood and anything else we might’ve picked up from the crime scene while Politia officers scoured my room for additional evidence. My bedroom is still sealed off, but I’m in no rush to see or deal with the tainted blood all over my things.
I’m going to have to bless the shit out of it once I’m allowed to return.
I spend the first hours of the day crying in one of the shower stalls. Nero is in there with me, rubbing his head reassuringly against my leg. On any other day, I’d find this situation beyond fucking weird—my familiar and I taking a shower together to rinse off the blood and dark magic clinging to us.
Not today, however.
All I can focus on is the memory of that dead individual, their organs ripped out, their very blood infused with dark magic. I didn’t see the person’s face or the shimmer of their own lingering magic—assuming they had any to being with. Somehow, that lack of distinguishing features makes the whole thing worse. There’s no personhood to change my horror into grief or sympathy.
I lean my head against the wall of the shower, letting myself cry until I feel empty.
My hands shake as I grab one of the two towels a Politia officer grabbed for me earlier from my room. I wrap the towel around myself, then use the remaining one to wipe down my familiar.
My bones are weary. I ache in places that can’t be healed with ointment and a Band-Aid.
Once Nero and I are dry, we exit the communal bathroom. If there’s one silver lining from this whole shitty experience, it’s that I feel a deeper connection to my panther than ever before.
I guess trauma can do that.
Wearing only a towel, I head down to the second floor, where Sybil’s room is. Then I pause in front of her door, my hair still dripping. I glance down at Nero. My panther stares up at me. Maybe there’s something in my eyes, or maybe he can see my lower lip shaking—something it’s been doing on and off for several hours—but Nero rubs his head against my leg, then leans his body heavily against me.
I catch a sob in my throat and force it down at the show of protective affection from my normally distant familiar.
I run my hand down the side of his face and neck. Turning back to the door, I take a deep breath, and then I knock.
From the other side of the door, I hear Sybil groggily shout, “Go away!”
I want to say something snappy back, but it feels like my throat is lodged with cotton, and the words aren’t coming.
I wait for my friend to get up and answer the door. When she doesn’t, I knock again, this time more insistently.
I hear a groan. “Someone better have died for you to be waking me at this hour.” Sybil’s words carry through the wall.
I lean my forehead against her door. “They have.” My voice comes out softer and hoarser than I imagined. I close my eyes to fight off the images pressing forward in my mind.
There’s a long silence, and I almost think Sybil’s fallen back asleep when I hear the rustle of blankets.
Seconds after I straighten, the door swings open and a bleary-eyed Sybil is squinting at me.
“Selene,” she says, frowning, “what’s going on?”
Keep it together. Keep it together.