Page 44 of Bedeviled

That’s because when you’re in my arms, I’m not sure I’m going to let you go, he responds.

Eventually, Memnon tilts my head up, searching my gaze as a raindrop hits my nose.

“There’s one place we haven’t checked yet,” he says softly.

His eyes flicker—with dread, I realize.

His tomb.

“We don’t have to.” I doubt we’ll find anything of use in the tomb, considering its purpose.

But Memnon is already nodding. “We should,” he insists. His gaze moves up, beyond me to the distance, “I would like to see it again.”

“There might be a trap waiting for us there,” I say softly. I’m grasping at excuses, but this one is valid. If I were Eislyn, that would be the one space I’d think to place one.

“Maybe,” he agrees, his expression somber.

That doesn’t stop him from releasing me to take a couple tentative steps in the direction of the tomb, his gaze seeking it out. He turns back to me, reaching for my hand. When I take his, he squeezes it hard.

I assumed Memnon was unflappable. I have seen him face down demons and armies. It’s strange to see him affected by this place.

Then again, this might’ve been the one time someone ever truly bested him. If I were used to being on top of the world, it would shake me too, going from conqueror to conquered.

The two of us, along with Nero, who has stayed obsessively close, approach the one section of property that remains untouched.

My heart beats heavily when I catch sight of the innocuous stone slab fitted into the ground. I don’t want to go down into that room again. Even the thought of it causes my stomach to churn.

That’s where I first lost him.

But there’s also this lurid curiosity to see that burial chamber again. To take it in once more with eyes that know and remember.

Memnon crouches next to the square stone flooring, his hair beginning to stir with his rising emotions.

He speaks in Mochica, the language of his father. I don’t understand the words, but it’s a spell of some sort. His magic spreads from his palm, the smoky tendrils of it slithering over the stone.

It begins to rain in earnest then, the drops dappling my hair and clothes before quickly intensifying.

Memnon’s power clears, and I draw in a fortifying breath, lifting my hand and pointing my palm at the slab.

“Izkas.” Open.

The stone groans as it rises from the ground, scraping against the surrounding flooring as it goes. It floats to the side, then lands with a heavy thud.

The darkened staircase looks like a maw ready to swallow us whole. For a moment, both Memnon and I stand there, unmoving. Nero is the one who ends up prowling forward.

“Nero!” I hiss after him, afraid of what spells Eislyn might’ve placed.

I slip my awareness down the connection I share with my familiar.

My ears twitch as nearby torches hiss to life. I cannot see any spells through Nero’s eyes but nothing about his form feels injured or distressed.

I withdraw back into my own mind in time to see Memnon head down after my panther.

I hesitate only a moment longer, then I, too, descend, half expecting the slab to slide back over us and trap us inside. When it fails to do so, I finally allow myself to relax just a little.

My eyes move to the walls, where the firelight flickers along the rows of Sarmatian text. I can see now what I hadn’t been able to before, either because I didn’t have the memories or the time to study them. The text is a mimicry of my own transcription of Sarmatian.

My fingers find the grooves of one of the word horse.