“Okay,” I say, my voice a little lost.
I’m now vividly picturing Politia officers swarming the conservatory and cuffing me in front of all my coven sisters.
I need to leave and get back to my room. If I’m to be charged and arrested tonight, I don’t want an audience. Especially not one that consists of my friends and peers. This will be a bad enough experience to live through as it is.
“When are they going to get here?” My voice wobbles.
“I don’t know,” Kane admits remorsefully. In the background, I hear a wolf howl, then several more. “In an hour? Maybe later, maybe sooner—I didn’t get the specifics.”
I rub my eyes, and I can’t decide if I want to laugh or cry. This whole situation is nuts.
“I am so sorry, Selene,” he adds softly. “I—”
Screams echo from inside the conservatory, and I nearly drop my phone.
I curse under my breath.
Memnon—I know this is his doing.
“Kane, I have to go.”
Before he can respond, I end the call, cutting across the eerily silent courtyard, the train of my dress whispering behind me.
I head for the double doors that lead into the main section of the conservatory. Even from here I can see the guests inside, but I don’t hear the music playing anymore, and now that my eyes sweep over the supernaturals closest to the windows, they seem unusually tense.
“Selene!” Memnon bellows from somewhere in there.
The hairs on the nape of my neck stand up.
I reenter the enormous greenhouse, brushing past guest after guest. Their eyes are wide, and lots of nervous magic wafts off mages and witches and floats high in the air.
“Selene!” he calls again.
There’s such a thick crowd of supernaturals that I don’t see him. Not until I slip past the guests ringing the dance floor.
Standing in the center of the dance is Memnon. He’s not alone.
In his clutches is a blond witch, her entire body trembling. He holds that fancy dagger with the golden hilt almost casually to her throat. I know in my bones it’s an honest threat. He’d slit that woman’s throat in an instant if it suited him. He may still do worse.
“Selene!” This time, it isn’t Memnon calling to me.
I turn toward Sybil’s voice, searching for my friend in the crowd. I catch sight of her red dress, then her panicked eyes. “Run—”
“There she is,” Memnon says, his wicked eyes glittering when they catch sight of me.
Everyone around us stands watching in frozen horror.
For a moment, I’m just as frozen as they are. I was expecting something awful from the sorcerer, but not this.
Finally, I find my voice. “Let her go.” The command comes out stronger and calmer than I thought it would.
Memnon’s attention drops to the witch, and he considers my words. Beneath his blade is a thin line of blood.
“No,” he eventually says, “I don’t think I will.”
My pulse thunders in my ears. Around me, the guests are still rooted in place. It’s only now that I notice Memnon’s magic weaving between them, and I sense it’s what’s keeping them from intervening or fleeing.
My attention returns to the sorcerer. “Whatever you’re thinking of doing, Memnon, you won’t get away with it,” I say. “This isn’t the ancient world, and you aren’t a king anymore. You have hundreds of witnesses here. The Politia will get you.”
He laughs, the action causing his dagger to shift and the witch in his arms to cry out. Another line of blood forms beneath the edge of his blade.
“The Politia?” Memnon says. “I find it highly amusing that you would trust them, considering your own situation.”
He tilts his head. “Have you already forgotten our conversation on power? Those who hold it make the rules. And those who don’t must follow them—including the Politia.”
Around me, I hear people murmuring and the quiet sobs of one or two of them, but in some fundamental way, the room has gone lethally quiet.
“Strange how the murders always seemed to involve you,” he says. “How many times have you wondered if you were guilty of them? The Politia sure seems to think it was you. I wonder who could have possibly directed their eyes to such an innocent, law-abiding witch?”
We believe someone’s framing you.
I stare at him in growing horror.
“You,” I breathe. “It was you who framed me.”
My stomach roils, and for a moment, I think I’m going to be sick.