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It only strikes me that this may be a bad idea when we hit the tree line edging the campus.

Oh, we’re going in there.

My heart pounds loudly.

You are a powerful witch with a badass familiar. No one is going to fuck with you.

Ahead of me, Nero slows.

Before I see anything at all, I sense the slick, tainted magic that hangs in the air.

Dark magic.

“Illuminet hunc locum.” Illuminate this place.

The Latin words flow smoothly out of me, coming from the same shrouded part of me where my stolen memories go. It’s a shock to hear them, mostly because lately, it’s that other language, the one Memnon speaks, that my mind reaches for. It’s like seeing an old friend again, hearing this bit of ancient language fall from my lips.

My magic spins itself into several orbs of amber light, each one levitating into the air above me and Nero. They settle between the bows of trees, glowing softly.

Now that my surroundings are lit, I can see the insidious power ahead of us. It chokes the air and smears the ground. It takes me a moment to realize those smears areblood—tainted magical blood.

Next to me, a growl rises from my familiar’s throat as he stares straight ahead.

I follow his gaze. No more than twenty feet in front of us lies a body, its limbs twisted, its clothes and skin covered in black-tinged blood. Long hair obscures the individual’s face, but it does nothing to hide the open cavity in their chest where their organs should rest.

The meaty smell, the oily magic that glistens and clings to the body—it’s overwhelming. I turn and retch.

I figured I would find a body; Nero indicated as much. Yet I find I’m still shocked at the discovery. Shocked and disturbed.

Need to call the Politia. Now.

With a shaky hand, I pull out my phone. It takes me several tries to search for their phone number, my fingers not working as they should.

Finally, I hit the number, and it rings through.

“Politia, Station Fifty-Three—what can I help you with?”

I draw in a lungful of air, but then I taste the dark magic at the back of my throat, and I have to fight another wave of nausea.

All I can manage are a few short words.

“There’s—there’s been another murder.”

* * *

I return to the residence hall an hour before daybreak, my body beyond exhausted.

I was questioned for hours, my familiar and I photographed and swabbed for blood and anything else we might’ve picked up from the crime scene while Politia officers scoured my room for additional evidence. My bedroom is still sealed off, but I’m in no rush to see or deal with the tainted blood all over my things.

I’m going to have to bless the shit out of it once I’m allowed to return.

I spend the first hours of the day crying in one of the shower stalls. Nero is in there with me, rubbing his head reassuringly against my leg. On any other day, I’d find this situation beyond fucking weird—my familiar and I taking a shower together to rinse off the blood and dark magic clinging to us.

Not today, however.

All I can focus on is the memory of that dead individual, their organs ripped out, their very blood infused with dark magic. I didn’t see the person’s face or the shimmer of their own lingering magic—assuming they had any to being with. Somehow, that lack of distinguishing features makes the whole thing worse. There’s no personhood to change my horror into grief or sympathy.

I lean my head against the wall of the shower, letting myself cry until I feel empty.