Page 12 of Bedeviled
I feel a sharp thrill move across our bond as I step up to my fiancé and dip my head.
Memnon hesitates only a moment, then places the crown upon my head, his fingers lingering in my hair an extra second.
When I straighten, I catch sight of his eyes as they scour me. They’re full—of love, of hope, and of longing.
“Better than memory,” he murmurs.
I allow myself a moment to take him in, trying to remember how he looked once, long ago.
Clad in a tux, with his dagger nowhere in sight, Memnon hardly looks like the man I first married in Rome. Gone are his armor, his kurta and breeches. Gone are his sheepskin boots and scale mail. Gone are his bow and arrow. He didn’t even have the panther tattoo that peeks above the edge of his suit collar.
And yet, even without the accoutrements he used to wear, Memnon is still more Sarmatian warlord than he is modern groom. His hair still frames his bronze face in wild waves, and that puckered scar still cuts across the skin of his cheek and jaw, its existence telling its own violent story.
I find I like him like this, balanced between the past and the present, a feral being parading as someone civilized.
I say none of what I think, but still, Memnon’s eyes dance, and I think he might’ve overheard some of my thoughts.
“Stop eavesdropping,” I playfully tease.
“When you’re showering my appearance with compliments?” he scoffs. “Unlikely, est amage.”
I smile a little, sharing a moment with the sorcerer, one that is just as swiftly interrupted by another crushing wave of our oath’s magic. The magic digs into sinew and bone. I gasp, stumbling forward a little as it causes my limbs to spasm and seizes my throat up.
Memnon scoops me up then, though he, too, must be suffering greatly, and he walks us to the officiant, Nero following close behind. Distantly, I’m aware of the click of the camera, the photographer immortalizing what might, in another context, be a sweet moment. I’m afraid, however, that all she’s capturing is the raw pain of our unbreakable vow.
Memnon sets me down before the trellis. I sway a little in place, lightheaded from the pain. Nero comes up to me then, leaning against my leg as the sorcerer moves across from me.
My heart goes wild—at the sight of him, at the agony I’m experiencing, at the prospect of what we’re about to do. I’m terrified and thrilled all at once, and I’m afraid I might faint from it.
It will be alright, little witch, the sorcerer says. He takes my clammy hands in his, giving them a squeeze.
The officiant nods to us, smiling benignly, as though all of this—panther included—is cute and ordinary. Maybe he’s been briefed on the situation or been paid for his discretion. Or maybe he simply read the room. Whatever the reason, he doesn’t waste any time on introductions or niceties, and I send up a small prayer of thanks for it.
The officiant begins to speak, and though the words are in English, they might as well be in some foreign tongue because I do not truly hear any of them. Nor do I much notice the click of the photographer’s camera as she moves around us.
I focus instead on the comforting grip of Memnon’s hands holding mine, and the way he’s looking at me. I can get through this. I can.
“You may now speak your vows and exchange your rings,” the officiant finishes.
I jolt.
Those words I understand.
Memnon reaches into his inner coat pocket and pulls out a ring.
Maiden, Mother, Crone. I catch sight of the thin gold band, but it’s the smooth, carnelian stone topping it that stills my whirling thoughts. He gave me something similar when we first arrived in Sarmatia.
And he’s giving it to me again.
Memnon adjusts the grip he has on my left hand, then slides the ring onto my finger.
“Where you are,” he begins, speaking in Latin.
My breath catches at the old Roman vows, the ones we first spoke in Nero’s palace while the emperor, his mother, and the Praetorian guard watched on. All of them are long gone, turned to memory and bitter ash.
Only we remain.
If we cannot have this life, I promised him long ago, then we shall have another.
