Page 19 of Bedeviled

He takes my hands in his and gives them a squeeze before he begins.

“From the gods that made me to the gods that take me, from this first breath to my last, I am yours,” he says in Sarmatian.

It hits me then like a lightning bolt what he intends. My eyes drop to the champagne and the wine flutes before returning to Memnon.

Our Sarmatian wedding vows—he means to re-create them in all their violent glory.

The air grows quiet in the wake of his words. It’s my turn to recite them. My stomach twists with nerves and perhaps a touch of sentimentality.

“From the gods that made me to the gods that take me, from this first breath to my last, I am yours,” I echo.

Memnon’s smile is blazingly bright—brighter even than when we spoke our Roman vows a short while ago. But perhaps that’s because pain laced those words.

More pain is coming, however.

As if to punctuate the thought, Memnon releases my hands to grab the champagne bottle. Removing the foil capsule and the muselet, he pops the cork. Amber liquid froths from the opening and spills over Memnon’s fingers as he dips down again and picks up one of the wine flutes. He pours the bubbling liquid into a single glass, one he then passes to me.

Once his hands are free, Memnon shrugs off his suit jacket, setting it aside on the wild grass. I catch sight of the sheathed dagger he did in fact bring with him today.

He unbuttons one of his shirt cuffs, rolling a sleeve back to reveal the soft bronze expanse his forearm.

I remember what’s coming, and old dread rises with it.

Memnon unsheathes his dagger, the blade gleaming bright in the midafternoon light. He clenches his fist and drags the blade down his skin.

I’m not ready for how quickly the violence happens, nor how alarmingly fast his blood flows from the wound. I fumble with the champagne flute as I bring it to Memnon’s forearm. Some of the blood trickles into the glass, turning the light amber liquid into a darker, rust-colored hue. A thread of my magic slips from my hand, lingering about his wound as though it wants to do something about it. But the wedding rite isn’t over.

I hand him the champagne flute and reach for his dagger, a sense of déjà vu—and a little dread—washing over me.

I’ll have to cut myself, just as he has.

He passes the weapon to me, his magic dissolving his blood from the blade. I take it from him, swallowing at the sight of the sharp edge. This dagger is one that he was buried with. It’s tasted the blood of many enemies. And now it will taste mine.

I take a steadying breath and bring the dagger to the skin of my inner arm. Before I can overthink it, I slice downward, across my forearm. The flesh parts sickeningly easily, and then a curtain of blood flows from the wound.

Immediately, Memnon is there with the glass, catching the crimson liquid, the champagne further darkening.

Brave woman, he murmurs across our bond, his gaze flicking to mine and holding my stare for a long moment.

The wedding ritual still isn’t over.

The sorcerer raises his bleeding arm before me, his palm open. I clasp his proffered hand, my wounded forearm pressed to his, our blood mingling. Our magic slips from our hands and our wounds, winding about our arms as though drawn forth by the pain.

Memnon raises the glass of bloody champagne between us.

“I drink of your essence and of mine,” he says in Sarmatian, his gaze unwavering. “Just as our blood is now one, so too are we.” He brings the champagne flute to his lips and takes a long, deep drink of the macabre liquid.

Once he’s finished, he hands it to me.

I ignore the throb of my wound and the warmth of our blood as it drips down our arms. “Pes vaksasava xu I’kapsasava pikabuwapgus azkupus.” I repeat the Sarmatian vow. “Daksasava sisapak dat di’nvusa muda, dak kup vakosgubpak.”

For a moment, I feel Memnon’s earlier words—that ghosts are our wedding guests. Because I swear, though it is only the two of us on this lonely hill, the past feels alive in this moment.

I raise the champagne flute to my mouth. Memnon drank roughly half of it, and I intend to swallow the rest, no matter how unappealing it tastes.

Casting Memnon a final look, I tip my head back and drain the glass, stifling a wince at the intense, coppery tang of it.

I toss the flute aside, the long grass catching it before it can break.