Page 46 of Bedeviled

He scowls but allows me to step out of his arms without further protest.

I move next to Nero and peer into the open sarcophagus.

My mind is already conjuring up the memory of Memnon asleep, but of course, the stone coffin is empty. Well, mostly empty. There are more bits of armor and linen and⁠—

And a note. One tucked so neatly under the remnants of Memnon’s ancient outfit that it almost blended in.

I shouldn’t touch it.

It’s likely cursed.

Memnon must notice my reaction because he looks from me to the sarcophagus. Now he stills. He must not have seen it before, when he was lost in his own memories.

Before I can help myself, I reach in for it, curses be damned.

I open the folded sheet of paper.

Memnon,

Are you looking for me? Shame I’m not there to greet you in person. We have much catching up to do, and I confess I long to look at you again without the light of anger in your eyes. I hope you carry enough lingering affection for me to stay your hand until we can speak.

Yours ever faithful,

Eislyn

That rancid, boot-licking bitch.

Yours ever faithful? Faithful? The woman needs a fucking dictionary.

“Wow,” I finally manage.

When I look over at Memnon, his magic is back in his eyes and twisting his hair. He hasn’t said anything, but his jaw is clenching and unclenching as though, even consumed by his magic as he is, he’s still holding himself tightly restrained.

Beneath my own simmering anger, I can feel the ocean of his rage. Two thousand years of it is ready to slip its leash the moment it can find its target.

I turn back to the note, ignoring how aware I am of Memnon in this state. There are no enemies for him to release his wrath on at the moment.

Eislyn knew we’d return. She was ready for us. And though a dizzying amount of time has passed, she’s still up to her old tricks—using this paltry means of communication to ignore me and sweet-talk Memnon.

It worked once, and she has the hubris to believe that after everything she’s done, it’ll work again.

Smoothing out the note, I use my magic to burn a little letter of my own onto the paper.

How’s the arm these days, Eislyn? I’d love to know how you reattached it. Looks like Daddy’s house fell to ruin. Shame. It was so pretty too. Excited to see you again.

Oh, and go fuck yourself, you saggy ballsack.

XOXO,

Selene

I drop the note into the stone coffin. Then, releasing my magic, I fit the broken lid back over it. Unable to help myself, I force out more of my power, the orange plumes of it curling against the lid’s surface, my spell silent. When my magic clears, it no longer says Memnon the Cursed but instead Memnon the Indomitable.

Memnon is still consumed by his power, and I can feel the sharp edge of it. It teases out the harsh aspects of my own magic.

A final, wrathful spell rises in me, and I don’t waste time worrying about whether it will affect her or not. I place a hand on the sarcophagus lid and press my power down my arm and out my palm.

“May Eislyn never know peace. May her food always turn her stomach, may her thirst never be quenched.” This feels like the inflammatory spells of the past. An incantation that scorned witches might utter. “May her bones know pain and her skin perpetually itch. May all the predators hunger for her, and the pests of the world plague her. May she forever walk in the sun’s shadow. May she never know peace within the walls of this structure, and may the ghosts of all those she’s killed haunt her.”