Page 48 of Bedeviled

Again, I feel my face flush.

I glance down at the keys still in my hand.

Thank you for the gift.

I feel something sweet across our bond. My queen, this is but the beginning.

He wasn’t kidding.

The next day a pair of carnelian earrings and a matching necklace wait for me in the same place, the set matching my wedding ring. The pieces are eerily similar to the set Memnon gave me two thousand years ago as a wedding gift.

The day after that I find a wax tablet and a bottle of wine spiced with anise and clove on my desk.

Each gift is accompanied by a love note, all of them written in Sarmatian with the exception of yesterday’s, which was written in Latin. Memnon previously mentioned that I used to slip into Latin when I was angry.

He must’ve been thinking about my anger considering the gift—a pair of gold hilted daggers, the tops of which were decorated with snarling wild cat heads. The note was simple:

For my terrifying wife who has made even the most battle-hardened warriors quake. Even your violence and anger are delicious.

Naturally, he’d enjoy that, the psycho.

I finger the hilts of those daggers.

I think I’m ready to see Memnon again.

But first, there’s one thing I need to do.

Among witches, getting on birth control is a lot easier than it is for regular folk. If a witch is brave enough, she can simply brew her own potion to prevent pregnancy. But to me, that feels too much like playing Russian Roulette, at least at my skill level, which leaves me one other option: procure birth control from the health clinic on campus.

Remembering the hoops I had to jump through for prescriptions in the past, I put it off until now.

But as I enter Henbane’s apothecary, located at the back of Cauldron Hall, I feel like a fool for assuming this would be anything like its non-magical equivalent.

I step inside the large room, my eyes moving to the walls. Hundreds of glass jars and vials line floor-to-ceiling shelves, and racks holding all sorts of witchy paraphernalia dot the room.

I wind my way through the items, my eyes scouring the labels. Tinctures for brain fog, pills for pain. Balms to ease melancholy. There are a few wrapped candies for luck and a gum that helps improve memory.

There are little spelled sachets for yeast infections, a potion for UTIs, and then I see the birth control tonics.

I stare at the vials, chewing my inner lip. These ones state that a single vial will work for three months—but am I supposed to drink it all at once, or in separate doses?

“We have amulets too,” a voice calls out. I glance over my shoulder to see the witch behind the front counter indicate a nearby rack. She clearly knows what I’m looking for.

My cheeks heat. “Thanks.”

I wander over to where she indicated. On the rack are dozens upon dozens of different spelled jewelry items. Some rings, some bracelets, some necklaces. Many are gold and dainty while several others are roughhewn.

Like the potions, these have a little tag on them that states that they’re effective for anywhere from one month to six months.

Because I’m cheap, I pick one of the one dollar amulets at the bottom of the rack, which are both the ugliest and the shortest lasting.

But it’s cheap enough that I can overlook the fact that it will only prevent conception for a month, or that the amulet itself is nothing more than a small piece of fired clay stamped with a creepy, smiling face of the moon and strung up on a ribbon.

This is so easy I should’ve done this months ago, long before Memnon was actually a threat to my pussy.

I bring the crude piece of jewelry up to the counter along with a waded up dollar bill. The witch behind the counter takes the money from me and inputs the purchase into her register.

She nods to the necklace still clutched in my hand. “Make sure to exchange the amulet or get it re-charmed every month. Otherwise, the spell will wear off.”