Page 74 of Bedeviled

“I’m sorry,” she says haltingly, “I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t important.” She clears her throat, casting her eyes about. “I, um, wanted to talk to you—about sensitive stuff.”

I tense all over again.

I don’t particularly want a heart-to-heart or to rehash all that happened between us, but my intuition is telling me nonetheless to listen to what she says.

I draw in a breath, then nod my head toward the hallway I just left. “We can go into my room.”

When we enter it, I sit at my desk chair and Olga perches on my bed. Her vulture takes one look at Nero, who’s sprawled out on his cat bed, and decides to fly out my open window, nearly taking my head off in the process.

Olga’s eyes, meanwhile, move about my room, lingering on the few random bits of art I’ve tacked to the walls as well as some of the notes and memos that adorn them. Her attention drifts to my window and the layers of spells that glint over its opening.

“You enchanted it to keep out the weather?” she asks.

“Yeah.” Among other things.

She nods, her gaze returning to my bookshelf.

I clear my throat. “You wanted to talk?”

“Right, yes.” Olga sets her massive ledger down on the space next to her, and I wince as what looks like a bloodstained edge of it comes in contact with my comforter.

I swear to the undying Goddess, Nero notices and gives me a look, as though saying, “So she can track blood onto the bed but I can’t?”

But I’m probably just anthropomorphizing my cat again.

Olga flips the ledger open, rifling toward the back half of it. Olga’s Ledger of Last Words is as fascinating as it is unsettling. It contains hundreds—if not thousands—of individuals. Their names, ages, dates of death, and most notably, the last words they uttered.

The last time I saw the book’s contents, I had to threaten Olga to do so. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel now that she’s willingly showing them to me.

“A lot of wealthy, powerful supernaturals have died recently,” she says conversationally as she flips to what appears to be the most recent page of entries.

I tilt my head. The last time we chatted about the entries in her book, it was about murdered supernaturals. But that was before the Fortuna trafficking ring was effectively obliterated. So I’m not entirely sure why Olga would want to show me entries now.

“Just how recently are you talking about?” Because I happen to know that nearly two weeks ago, on the night of the auction at the Equinox, Memnon killed quite a few wealthy patrons of the Fortunas.

“Within the last week.”

Okay, so not the auction.

“Why did you want to talk to me about this?” I ask, unsure where this conversation is going. “Were these demon attacks?”

Olga shakes her head. “No, it’s not that…” She takes a breath, then turns her ledger around and points to one of the rows, where a certain Martin Miller is listed.

I’ve never heard the name before in my life, but as my eyes slide across the row, I take in Martin’s last words:

Please, Memnon, there’s been a mistake!

Bloody boils.

Distantly, I hear Olga say, “That’s the name of your …” She clearly doesn’t know what to call him.

I nod, then shake my head, my mind screaming.

What has my dastardly husband been up to?

“That is his name,” I whisper quietly. “Memnon.”

Even now I feel him stirring across our bond, his emotions murky, but his state of mind strikes me as determined, focused.