Empress…
My flesh puckers at Memnon’s call. I turn to face the conservatory once more, and I startle when I catch sight of him through the double doors.
He stands with his hands in the pockets of his tux, looking so much larger than the people moving around him.
I suck in my breath at how good he looks, his wildness caged in by the cut of his suit jacket and pants. Well, mostly caged in—he’s done away with a bow tie, his dress shirt is partially unbuttoned, and I can see that panther tattoo of his peeking out above the collar of his shirt. His hair looks like he’s run his fingers through it several times.
If I thought a tuxedo would make Memnon look any less dangerous, I was wildly wrong.
My heart trips on itself at the sight of him, and a light, fluttery feeling fills my stomach.
Revenge, I remind myself. Tonight is for revenge.
His smoky eyes glitter as he takes me in, from the tips of my toes, up along the slit of my dress to my bust, and then, finally, to my face. He looks like someone hit him upside the head.
I see him swallow, his eyes still fixed on me, and holy shit, is Memnon actually…thrown by this outfit?
Guess the revenge dress worked.
I take a deep breath and square my shoulders. All right, I can do this. Already, the fluttery feeling in my stomach is settling.
I head the rest of the way up the stairs and enter the conservatory, hearing some haunting melody fill the air. All around me, witches and mages stand around in formal wear, chatting and laughing and drinking witch’s brew from delicate coupe glasses like we’re high-society folk and not wild, enchanted things.
I turn to where Memnon stood a moment ago, but he’s gone. Unfortunately, somewhere in all the crowd, I’ve lost sight of Memnon. I glance around.
“Selene!”
I turn toward the voice, only to see Sybil slipping through the crowd toward me. Farther behind her, I catch sight of the group we came here with.
“I grabbed us a table!” my friend says, stepping in front of me. “Want to go sit down, or—?”
“I saw him,” I say to her.
“What? Where?” She glances around.
“I don’t know, I lost sight of him.” As I speak, I realize my hands are shaking. But it’s not from nerves; it’s from my coiling magic.
I’m ready to face the man.
Sybil’s face grows excited. “You know what this means?” she says. “It’s revenge time.”
Instead of returning to the table Sybil nabbed us, she leads me in the opposite direction, down one of the conservatory’s wings.
For a moment, as I take in our surroundings, I forget about Memnon and the vendettas between us.
I cannot believe I haven’t visited this place before.
Plants fill every level of the conservatory, growing from massive terra-cotta pots and patches of ground where the floor has been cut away. The only place not completely covered in growing foliage is the dance floor and its surrounding tables, though even that area is dotted with plants. And all of it is illuminated by the levitating lanterns above us.
At the end of the wing, beyond clusters of chatting supernaturals, a massive cauldron smokes. Next to it rests a pyramid of coupe glasses, all filled with the wafting brew.
Right, more booze to loosen my inhibitions and allow me to have a good time tonight. Maybe it’ll even make me forget that having a good time does nothing to quench my thirst for payback.
Sybil and I haven’t made it to the cauldron when I feel the brush of familiar magic on my bare back.
Empress…we have unfinished business…
I stop walking, and Sybil glances back at me.
“What is it?” she asks.
“Memnon.”
“Do you see him?” she asks. “Where is he?” She peers around me as though she might spot him.
I have the oddest urge to laugh at her. “Do you even know what he looks like?” I ask.
“No, but all assholes have a look to them. I’m sure I could pick him out of this crowd.”
Now I do laugh. “I can hear him,” I admit. I touch my temple. “In here.”
My friend’s brows rise. “Oh—oh. Right. You have freaky soul mate powers.”
I glance surreptitiously around us, but I don’t see Memnon. He’s clearly toying with me.
Worse, it’s working.
Fun is the absolute last thing on my mind right now. Instead, all my anger and resentment and shame and worry—all those ugly emotions rise in me, along with a few others, like excitement, hope, and a breathless, flighty feeling I won’t put a name to.
We reach the pyramid of booze, and the two of us grab glasses. But as I stare at the brew I hold, I scowl.
“I can’t do it,” I admit.
“Can’t do what?” Sybil asks as she takes a sip of her drink.
I can’t continue to drink and laugh and pretend. Goddess, I don’t want to pretend anymore.
“I need to find Memnon and deal with him.” As I speak the words, I feel the absolute truth of them. I hand my friend my drink. “Can you take this back to our table and save it for me?”
“But, Selene—”
“Please, Sybil.” I give her a beseeching look. “I’ll only be gone a moment.” I force out a smile. “Then we can have fun together. In earnest.”
She exhales but then nods. “Okay, yeah, fine. You deal with the loser and then find me.” My friend gives me a playful look. “But don’t take too long, or else I’ll drink your brew for you.”
This time, I give her a real smile. “Deal.”
Once Sybil leaves my sight, I prowl the aisles of plants, making my way around whispering couples. I pass them, threading through the conservatory until I reach a lonely corner of it that is clear of all guests.
The notes of some tragic song drifting in the air and the distant murmuring of voices are the only clues that a party is in full swing at the moment.
Where are you? I call to Memnon down our bond.
My hands fist a little, and already, my thirst for revenge is mounting. I’m vividly imagining getting a good swing at the sorcerer or maybe kneeing him in the balls. Magic is leaking from my hands at the prospect.
Around me, the air stirs; then a broad chest brushes against my back.
“Right here, little witch,” he breathes against my ear.
My pulse spikes at his voice and his nearness, and I spin to face him.
Now is my opening. If ever I wanted to get a move in while he’s unsuspecting, now would be it.
Instead, I hesitate, my vengeance taking a back seat to this breathless excitement I feel at the sight of him. A sobering thought comes to me then: no matter how much I rage against Memnon, he will always be the man my eyes search for in a room, and his features are the ones I’ll crave. The crush I had on Kane is nothing—absolutely nothing—compared to this.
Memnon’s own eyes drink me in. “You have never needed magic, est amage,” he murmurs, his roughened voice drawing out goose bumps on my arms. “You are entirely bewitching even without it.”