Bewitched (Bewitched, #1)(88)

He holds out his hand to me, palm up. It’s an open invitation to spellcast with this man.

I’ve used his power and fought it too. I’ve never deliberately mixed mine with it. I find that more than desiring safety and revenge, I’m eager to feel Memnon’s magic meld with mine.

I take his hand, facing the opening once more. Beneath my palm, my magic stirs to life. I’m still recovering from the power drain last night, but at the press of Memnon’s hand against mine, it wakes, twining around his fingers and wrist like a lover’s caress.

The sorcerer glances at our joined hands, his features pleased. His eyes rise and lock with mine, and for a moment, I’m somewhere else, somewhere where endless blue sky meets endless fields of wheat. Memnon wears that scale armor, his hair blowing in the breeze.

Just as quickly as it appears, the image is gone.

“Est amage?” Memnon says. My queen.

Yes. His queen.

Wait, no.

“Are you ready?” he asks, furrowing his brow.

I swallow, then nod, facing the archway.

I feel Memnon’s eyes on me for a moment longer before he too turns his attention to the opening.

A second later, his magic blooms to life, the dark blue plumes of it rolling off his body.

“From the seed of the air and the womb of the earth, I call forth creation. Fashion a wall to match those that surround it,” Memnon says, reverting to his mother tongue.

I feel our magic mixing where our hands touch. Memnon pulls on it, drawing my power into him.

I gasp at the sensation. Like he mentioned earlier, I can feel him in me, his own essence grasping mine, twisting my magic around his own. It leaves me breathless.

He continues. “Create an illusion made real to all who look upon it and all who touch it. Only we, your creators, shall hold the power to bring down such an illusion. By our command at the word reveal, you shall fall away.”

Our joined magic swirls together, making a deep purple color, one you might see at the end of sunset. It’s coalescing in front of us, fitting itself to the archway then smoothing out. The smoky appearance of our power solidifies and the color of it darkens.

“And at our command, conceal, you shall return to your false form.”

Need to write these words down—hell, I need to write this whole experience down—before I forget.

“Mask all traces of this spell so they blend in with those around us.”

The words Memnon’s using are simple enough, but the amount of power and magical precision it takes to actually execute any of this is astronomical.

As more of my magic seeps out and joins with Memnon’s, I stare in awe. Memnon is a master at what he does, as talented as he is thorough and devious.

The shimmering residue left behind in the spell’s wake takes on the same pale sheen that matches the other wards and enchantments placed around the room. If I stared really, really hard, I’d see that the edges of it are laced a dusky deep purple—because not even the best spells can completely override their innate truth.

But this one comes pretty damn close.

With Memnon’s final words, the last of our magic leaves us, and the wall solidifies. I step forward and run my hand over it. It feels and looks…exactly as it should. Solid. Mundane. Seamless. It’s just one long, uninterrupted surface.

“Reveal,” I say in Sarmatian.

The wall falls away, and my hand slips forward through empty air. I can see the spiral staircase ahead of us once more.

I step back. “Conceal.”

All at once, the open doorway becomes a wall again.

A startled little laugh escapes me because I helped make this.

I feel Memnon’s eyes on my face, and when I glance at him, his own features are full of longing.

“That laugh…” he says reverently. Then his expression grows determined.

I clear my throat, trying to break the strange moment. “What we did probably breaks a law or three,” I say. I mean, I don’t know that, but this feels naughty enough for it to be a crime.

“You have forgotten how power works, little witch. It is one of the few things time hasn’t changed.” He smirks at me, the dim light in the room exaggerating his scar. “Modern people act like they’ve evolved into something…palatable. They pretend they don’t hunger for blood and destruction, and they almost have themselves fooled.” The shadows in the room have exaggerated Memnon’s features, turning him sinister.

“But, est amage,” he continues, “there is only one law humans ever follow: might makes right. We were strong enough to take this doorway, so now it is ours.”

“That’s not how the world works,” I argue.

His smoky-brown eyes glint. “Careful now, Selene. You’re thinking like an idealist. Bad men use such thoughts for their own gain.”

Memnon closes the last of the distance between us. Even the way he moves is confident. And why wouldn’t he be confident? He is physically powerful, wickedly intelligent, and has enough magic to wipe out a city. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who possesses so much strength.

He searches my face again, then peers into my eyes.

“Strange,” he murmurs curiously.

“What is strange?” I ask, distracted by how alluring he is. Even now, heat pools in me.

“Your memory and my legacy are both gone,” he muses. “Mine has been cast from the record, but it still lingers in my mind, while yours has been cast from your mind but still lingers in the record…”