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I mean, yes, my bank account sobs into a bottle of wine most days of the week, but I don’t want to come off as desperate.

The witch notices my hesitation. “Sorry, I hope that wasn’t rude,” she says. “It’s just that…” She glances around, then leans in toward me. “There’s a spell circle some of us do every new moon that’s funded by a few private sponsors. It’s a little shady, but it pays well.”

That sounds very interesting and 100 percent not up my alley. Listen, I’m all for pushing the rules, but I learned my lesson about not messing with shady shit when I opened a warded tomb and let out an ancient evil who thinks I’m his dead wife and is now stalking me. And maybe killing witches.

A girl can only take so much trouble.

But…I am also desperate—both for quick cash and friendship.

“Thanks for the offer,” I say. “I’ll think about it.”

And then promptly forget. All for the best though.

The witch smiles back at me. “Please do. It’s an easy five hundred.”

Dollars?

I suck in a breath and nearly choke on my saliva. “I’m sorry,what?” Five hundred dollars? That has to be a joke.

Or it’s something illegal.

Probably very, very illegal.

The witch flashes me a secretive smile. “Our sponsors pay well.”

Seriously. Five hundred dollars is almost enough to make me throw my morals to the wind.

After a moment’s hesitation, my coven sister pulls out a notebook, and she scribbles something on it. “I’m Kasey, and this is my number. If you decide to join, you can text me here.” She taps the written number, then backs away. “Think about it, and let me know. Next circle is happening on Saturday.” She gives me a wave and heads up the stairs, calling out over her shoulder, “I hope you decide to come.”

* * *

When I walk into my room, the lights are on, music is blaring from my speakers, and there’s an overgrown man sitting in my computer chair, his muscled arms and tattoos on display below the sleeves of his fitted T-shirt. In front of him is one of my social media pages. It’s open to a photo of me and Sybil wearing onesies and holding red Solo cups. I’m sticking out my tongue and making the peace sign with my fingers, while she’s blowing a kiss.

It’s…not my best moment. Not that I remember that particular evening.

My gaze slides back from the photo to Memnon. “What thefuck?” I say.

I raise my hand, readying my magic, angry rather than scared.

Memnon leans back in my computer chair, snaps his fingers, and poof, everything goes silent.

“Fascinating world you live in,” he responds—in English. He has a subtle foreign accent, so the words come out guttural and rolling.

His eyes drift over me, taking in the short wrap dress I wore to class. His gaze grows heated.

I angrily toss my bag onto my bed, my pulse rate climbing. “What are you doing in here?” I demand.

Memnon threads his hands behind his head, leaning back in my seat. “I’m seeing where my scheming wife lives,” he says, still speaking in English. He glances around him. “Your room is smaller than even our wagon was.” His eyes move over the sticky notes that cover the room. “I see you haven’t lost your love of writing.”

“You can’t just…come in here whenever you please,” I say, alarmed by the fact he already has.

Not even going to ask about how he knew which room was mine.

Memnon narrows his eyes at me, all while wearing this insufferable little smirk that makes me feel warm in all the wrong places.

Why must I have this reaction to him? He’s obviously evil, and the scar and the power he oozes are really driving that home. My body simply isn’t catching up to my mind.

“Does that bother you,est amage?”My queen.Those two words are the only he’s uttered so far in his old tongue.