“Kasey.” He tests her name on his lips. “She lives in this house?”
I swallow. “Yeah.”
There’s a long ominous silence following that. I don’t really want to know what Memnon’s thinking.
“She brought you to the spell circle?” he asks as I step off the stairs.
“Yeah,” I say again, heading back over to the Ritual Room. It looks especially dark from this angle.
“Did she bring anyone else along?” Memnon asks at my back.
I turn to him. “No.”
“So you were singled out,” he says, his expression severe. “Someone wanted you and specifically you to be at that circle last night. That means you do have enemies, Selene. You just don’t know who they are—yet. But they are clearly aware of you.”
Goose bumps burst to life along my skin.
Memnon crosses into the Ritual Room and stops at my side. “You have worried enough on this for now, little witch. Stay guarded, but let me shoulder the burden.”
That sounds…really nice.
There’s that word again. Nice. Memnon is not nice. It’s not in his nature. Especially not to me, regardless of his pretty words about being mates.
“I will find who thought to hurt you,” he continues, “and they will suffer for it.”
“Please don’t hurt anyone,” I say.
He flashes me an amused look. “Have the years softened you, my queen?”
“I’m not your queen,” I say.
He gives me another look like I’m precious, then turns his attention to the archway. “Someone thought to control who can sneak unnoticed into and out of your home. Why don’t we turn their little trick back on them?” Memnon says to me, a calculated gleam in his eye.
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.