Page 11 of Bedeviled

Because right now, I swear it certainly feels worse.

Memnon reaches out a hand from the driver’s seat and squeezes mine. I can feel the breadth of his concern down our bond, which would be sweet if I wasn’t certain he must also be enduring the spell’s same brutal effects. Now I just feel a bit like a wuss.

Except, when I look over at him, perspiration dots his brow, and he looks vaguely nauseous.

“We’re almost there,” he promises a bit breathlessly.

He’s right too. No more than five minutes later, as I’m staring at a group of sea birds riding the wind, we pull off the main road and onto a dirt and gravel path. Long stalks of golden grass and olive green shrubbery scrape the sides of the car as we pass them by. Up ahead there’s a small dirt lot where two cars wait.

Memnon pulls into an empty spot and kills the engine. I look around. It’s one of those perfect autumn days where the sun is shining and the sky is a deep cerulean blue, and I’m certain that once this unbreakable blood oath is fulfilled, I’ll appreciate it all the more.

At our back the hills rise into oak- and pine-covered mountains, and in front of us is a sloping hill blanketed with more wild grass and shrubbery. Far beyond it lies the deep blue waters of the Pacific.

I clench my teeth as I get out of the car. Beyond my difficulty breathing, there’s a growing pain burrowing into my bones.

Nero slips out after me, and he comes to my side, leaning against me as though he can physically offer his support.

Memnon steps up to my other side and places a bracing hand on my lower back. “This way,” he says, steering me down a dirt path.

In the distance, two individuals wait. One appears to be a photographer, judging by the camera in her hand, and the other one…that must be our officiant standing before a wooden wedding arch decorated with white flowers.

Finally, my discomfort is eclipsed by something else. Because at the sight of the officiant and the trellis, relief and adrenaline course through my veins in equal measure.

It’s almost over.

I don’t let myself dwell on the fact that over really means begun. Marriage will end only this gnawing pain; there’s a whole host of other new issues that will arise because of it. But it’s hard to dwell on that when I can think of only the next step and the next.

Memnon stops, and why has he stopped?

Goddess, I will drag this man to the altar—misgivings be damned—if I must to see this vow through.

My soul mate places a hand on the earth and pushes out a small plume of his power. The deep blue curls of smoke brush the ground, then sink into it.

For a few moments, nothing happens. Then, from between Memnon’s fingers, bright green shoots sprout from the soil. More join, until there are dozens—if not hundreds—of stalks rising from the wintry earth. They lengthen and unfurl in a matter of seconds, buds forming on their tips before bursting open.

Just as quickly as Memnon’s magic grew the wildflowers, it now slices through their stalks. The freshly bloomed flowers gather into two groups in midair, drawn together by the sorcerer’s power. Their stems weave through one another until a makeshift flower crown and a matching necklace form. Memnon stands, and gently the floral necklace drifts over to Nero, who takes a few uncertain steps backward. My panther isn’t quick enough, however, and it slips over his head and settles around his shoulders.

My mouth curves into a delighted smile at the sight. Memnon made my familiar a wedding collar.

Nero doesn’t share my delight. The panther futilely tries to nip at the adornment.

“Aww, you are the handsomest boy,” I say, stepping over to him and petting his cheeks.

He gives me a grouchy look but stops trying to tear the necklace off. Maybe I’m just anthropomorphizing my cat, but I swear he’s being a good sport for the occasion.

My gaze rises as the flower crown drifts into Memnon’s waiting hands. The sorcerer is staring at me with a look in his eyes, one that makes my breath catch as I straighten.

“When I first laid eyes on you in Rome,” he says, “you wore a flower crown upon your brow. You were the most exquisite woman I’d ever seen, and I cannot forget the sight of you in it when you married me mere hours later. I will go to the gods with that image.”

He glances down at the flowers in his hand. “This is a poor imitation of what you wore, but…”

I peer at him. “But you want me to wear it.”

His gaze flicks like a whip back to me. More than once today, I’ve seen this man’s vulnerabilities laid bare. He’s spent so much of his life burying them that seeing him like this is a treasure.

I glance at the woven wildflowers in his hands. My heart quickens from the rush of emotion.

“Of course I will wear your crown,” I say. Then, just for the hell of it, I add, “Est xsaya.” My king.