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I swallow. “Last night was bad, Sybil,” I admit. “Someone tried to kill Nero.”

Horror washes over her features. “What?” she says softly.

I tell her everything, from meeting with the shifters to the attack to going home with Memnon. And I know I’m distrustful of witches overall, and maybe that should extend to Sybil, but honestly, I need someone besides Memnon to trust.

My friend glances heavenward, letting out a ragged breath. “I hate that this is becoming normal for us. You disappearing and me worrying that you’re hurt or worse.” She doesn’t voice whatworseis, though we both know what she means.

Dead.

She continues, “And now it’s witches who are after you, witches weknow, and Memnon who’s the good guy?” Sybil shakes her head, the action jostling her owl a little. “What parallel universe are we in?”

I glance down at my hands, my emotions a tangled mess. “I don’t know. Ididhate him. I…I do still…” I squeeze my hands into fists. “Fuck, I don’t know. He saved Nero, and he’s been good to me. I know he doesn’t deserve a second chance but?—”

“Listen, Selene,” Sybil cuts in, “you do what makes you happy. Personally, given all the disappearances, it’s probably safer for you that you’re off campus. If you happen to hate-fuck the guy along the way, more power to you. He seems like he’s a ride.”

“Sybil!” I give her a push, and she cackles, falling back on her bed while Merlin flies to his perch above Sybil’s headboard.

“Just be sure to brew lots of contraceptive potions,” she adds. “One sorcerer is more than enough.”

CHAPTER 27

My packed bagsare sitting just inside the spell kitchen as I work on the final task I want to complete before I return to Memnon’s house. Namely, making a protective amulet for Nero. Or at least I’m trying to make one.

Spellwork is a painstaking, intricate business. It’s easy enough for a witch to press their intention into their power as they cast it out, but the actual crafting of a spell, one that draws magic mostly from external things, that is like weaving a tapestry. There are lots of moving parts. But if done correctly, the protective talisman is like a mobile ward, one whose strength can grow over time.

Despite the fact that the last time I tried to make an amulet, it was a disaster, I’m determined to get it right, for Nero’s sake.

I glance down at the grimoire open on the counter.

Thrice by thrice thorn of rose

What the fuck isthrice? I know I’m a witch and this sounds like my jam, but there are some old-as-shit terms that even I don’t understand.

One quick internet search and okay,thricemeans three, which I guess I should’ve assumed.

So thrice by thrice…three by three—nine. Maiden, Mother, and Crone, they could’ve just said nine.

I’m bitching under my breath as I grab the roses I’d already gathered from the residence hall’s greenhouse. When most spells call for roses, they want the petals or the pressed oil from them. Not this one. This one calls for the thorns.

Quickly, I begin to snap them off the stem, counting them out as I go. I’m removing my ninth one when?—

“Fuck,” I curse. One of the thorns cradled in my palm has lodged itself in my flesh. I snap off the final thorn and toss eight of the nine into the boiling cauldron. The ninth one I pry from my palm, grimacing as it comes away bloody.

I hold it over the cauldron, transfixed by that red liquid. I’ve already used blood magic—dark magic. I’ve felt the alluring, forbidden press of it, and I’ve heard dark voices calling to me when I’ve used it.

I should rinse my hands and grab another thorn, one free of blood.

Instead, still under trance, I release the one in my hand, letting it fall into the cauldron. It hisses the moment it makes contact, and shimmering smoke wafts up from the potion.

I blink a few times, then take a shaky breath. Well, guess that decides that.

I move on to the last ingredient, heading to the other side of the kitchen to grab the jar labeledToad Legs (ethically harvested under the full moon)—whateverthatmeans—and pull one out, throwing it into the brew.

I eye the appendage bobbing in the bubbling cauldron, wondering how frog legs—ethically harvested or not—fit into dark magic. Where is the line drawn? Witches don’t really say, and I have a prickly, uncomfortable feeling this falls into that gray area where it’s only okay until somebody in the future says it isn’t.

Oh well, I’m probably already thoroughly fucked.

Thoroughly fucked?Memnon’s voice is sin given sound.Oh no, little witch, you haven’t evenbegunto experience what it means to be thoroughly fucked.