Bewitched (Bewitched, #1)(101)

Despite his words, I do try to use my power to put out the flames. Just like he warned, my magic does nothing but momentarily make the flames flicker.

The acrid smell of smoke fills the air, the plumes of it mingling with Memnon’s magic. Despite that, the fire doesn’t seem to be spreading. My shelved novels and textbooks—and hell, the shelves themselves—sit there intact. Only my precious journals burn.

I stare up at the two notebooks still in midair, watching page after page blacken and char, scorched bits flaking off and fluttering to the floor.

In the distance, I can hear another woman saying, “You smell something?”

Her companion replies, “Probably just Juliette burning another spell.”

My cheeks are wet. I didn’t even realize I was crying. “Why are you doing this?” I say to Memnon. My life was already a dumpster fire before he entered it. “Not even my queen gets away with ruining my life.”

I feel myself shaking, though everything else in me is disturbingly calm.

“I hate you,” I whisper.

I really do.

A muscle in his jaw jumps, but his eyes look confident, certain. “Only because you cannot remember that you once loved me,” he says.

Does he not see? He is standing in my room, ruining my life, and breaking my heart, and he thinks some lifetime thousands of years ago matters to me?

“Fuck the past, and fuck you.” There is so much more bottled up in me, so many emotions I can’t put words to.

Memnon must feel them churning inside me through our bond because he says, “Do you think this is the worst I can do, little witch?” His eyes are sharp as knives. “I have watered entire fields with the blood of men I’ve killed. This is the least of my vengeance.”

His eyes flick to what’s left of my two journals that hover in the air.

“Let’s see how well you fare without your precious books. You have until the Samhain Ball.”

I have until the Samhain Ball to what? Beg some more? Come groveling his way? Whatever he wants, hell will freeze over before he gets it.

“You made a mistake crossing me.” The words come from deep within me, my power swirling out of me as I speak.

The look Memnon gives me blazes with satisfaction. “There’s my queen.”

I grimace at him. “I would rather spend a thousand lifetimes forgetting my past than spend one remembering yours.”

I think I might’ve imagined it, but I swear I saw him flinch.

“You can rot, Memnon.”

He steps up to me, his eyes stormy. A muscle in his cheek clenches and unclenches. “Tough words, witch. Let’s see if you can stand by them.” He moves to the door, even as my notebooks continue to burn.

“I’ll see you at the Samhain Ball, Empress.”

And then he’s gone.





CHAPTER 38





It takes only a handful of minutes before the crackle of fire quiets.

Smoke drifts from the notebooks that now lie in scorched heaps on my shelves.

My levitating notebooks fall to the ground, disintegrating into ash when they hit the floorboards.

I make a small noise at the sight. I can still feel wetness on my cheeks, but I’m too determined to see what’s left of my journals to pay much attention to my emotions.

I move over to my notebooks, reaching for the more intact ones. They’re still hot to the touch, but that doesn’t stop me from examining them to see what’s left.

The photos have melted away, and the paper is too charred to make out the writing and sketches that once covered the pages.

I swallow my rising emotion.

The ones that fared the best seem to be the oldest books, the ones least relevant to my life. The only mercy Memnon gave me was that he didn’t touch my photo albums.

So I guess that’s a win.

I sit heavily on my bed and put my head in my hands.

The oak tree outside rustles. Then Nero hops back into the room, as though he can sense my sadness.

Actually, now that I understand bonds, he probably can.

Nero comes up to me, rubbing his head against my shoulder.

“Fat lot of good you did there,” I say, wiping my eyes.

He rubs the rest of his body against my side, shameless about the fact he was a total traitor.

Need to write down what I can remember.

I cross over to my desk before pulling out one of the wooden drawers along its side. In it rests a stack of notebooks.

For all my faults, I am organized. And optimistic and kind and clever.

But now I’m also determined.

After grabbing a new notebook, I pull out a pen and begin writing.

First my name, my date of birth, and my parents’ names. Important phone numbers, addresses, and so on. Anything and everything I truly could not bear for my mind to lose.

Then I write down a warning.

Do not trust Memnon the Cursed.

You woke him from eternal sleep. He believes you’re his dead wife who betrayed him. He wants to make you pay.

He is your soul mate, but he is an ASSHOLE. He burned all your previous notebooks. He will fuck you over again if he gets the chance.

You hate him with every fiber of your being.





A tear hits the page. Then another and another. I can’t decide if I’m sad or angry.