Page 174
Story: Bewitched
“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 ithighlyamusing 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.
“But…” My brows draw together. I asked him point-blank if he’d murdered those witches while he was under a truth spell.
“I didn’t kill those witches,” he concedes. “That was another. But Ididmove their bodies before they could be destroyed. I found that I could expose the deeds of those who were guilty while implicating you for their crimes.”
There it is, his confession, said before a room of hundreds of my peers. It terrifies me that he’s unfazed by that—especially because I’m sensing that his indifference doesn’t come from ignorance of our modern ways. I think it may truly come from having enough power to make problemsgo away.
I can’t seem to catch my breath. “What have you done?” I whisper.
“So many things I couldn’t possibly recount them all to you here.” He scrutinizes his dagger. “A warlord is more than just a sword arm,est amage. There is so much strategy involved.”
My magic rises, pressing against my skin.
“We can’t come back from this, you know.” Even as I say it, I ache. Ache for something that might’ve been deep and real but now I’ll never get.
What monster does something like this to the one they love?
But the answer has always sat there, right in front of me.
Memnon’s wife, Roxilana, went to incredible lengths to hide Memnon from the world. Perhaps she saw this side of him before I ever did.
“We can’t come back from this?” His eyes spark with his power, and his grip on the woman in his arms tightens. “Est amage, I did not endure in that cold, bleak sarcophagus for two millennia to lose you all over again.”
The witch in his arms whimpers. There’s a growing number of tear tracks down her cheeks, ruining makeup she probably put on with excitement. Tonight was supposed to be fun, not some sort of nightmare.
“Let the woman go, Memnon,” I say again. My magic continues to gather, mounting beneath my skin and sliding through my veins. “This is between the two of us.”
Memnon’s gaze drops to the witch. More blood drips down her neck. She shifts, and I see her magic thickening beneath her palms, the emerald wisps of it dissolving inches from her. I don’t know what enchantment he’s placed on her, but it’s neutralizing her powers.
“How badly do you want her freedom?” he says. “What would you be willing to do for it?”
I’m caught off guard by the question. I feel all the eyes in the room on me. This bargain isn’t just for the witch in Memnon’s arms. It’s for Sybil and all the others here who are trapped under the sorcerer’s magic.
“What do you want?” I say, my power churning inside me.
“You know what I want.”
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