Bespelled (Bewitched Book 2), page 1
BESPELLED
BEWITCHED
BOOK 2
LAURA THALASSA
LAVABROOK PUBLISHING, LLC
Copyright © 2024 by Laura Thalassa
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Published by Lavabrook Publishing Group, LLC
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Content Warning
A Brief Recap of Things I Must Not Forget
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Coming Soon
Thank you for Reading!
Also by Laura Thalassa
Acknowledgments
To Ali,
Remember, remember…
CONTENT WARNING
Bespelled contains some themes and depictions that might be sensitive to certain readers. Please click here or go to my website for a full list of content warnings.
A BRIEF RECAP OF THINGS I MUST NOT FORGET
(IN THE OFF CHANCE THAT ASSHOLE MEMNON SCREWS WITH MY MEMORY AGAIN)
I am Selene Bowers.
Age twenty.
My parents are Olivia and Benjamin Bowers.
My best friend is Sybil Andalucia.
I attend Henbane Coven. (Finally!) Despite the coven’s reluctance to admit me (they didn’t like that my magic eats my memories), they did so after they learned I used my magic to land a plane in the middle of the Amazon rainforest. That’s a long story. The only really important parts of it are that (1) while there, I found my familiar, Nero—he’s the grumpy panther hanging around you like a shadow. Yes, that’s his legitimate personality. Don’t hold it against him. He’s secretly a really good boy. And (2) I…woke a dude.
Okay, so he’s not just any dude. He’s a tit-sucking whoremonger. Memnon the Cursed is a two-thousand-year-old sorcerer who believes I’m some long-dead wife who shoved him into a musty tomb two millennia ago and forced him to sleep away the centuries. In the plot twist that no one saw coming, I am his long-dead wife. (I’m sorry if you’re relearning this now. You have my endless sympathies.)
Memnon and I are—brace yourself—soul mates, fated from birth to be together because fate was drunk the day it decided to make this decision. Before you even consider thinking this situation is romantic, please note that Memnon is terrible and ruthless, and he hates me. He literally burned my journals, the ones that hold my memories.
The sorcerer also framed me for a series of murders. The victims were witches—some of them coven sisters. One of them I knew, Charlotte Evensen. (Nero and I had the misfortune of discovering her body.) I am innocent, though the Politia, the supernatural police force, now believes I’m some rampaging serial killer. Despite all appearances, Memnon is not the killer either. The true murderer is still at large, and the bodies of their victims were mauled and coated in dark magic. Whoever or whatever is responsible is truly evil.
The Marin Pack shifters consider me a friend of the pack, and they are willing to help prove my innocence. If When my name is cleared, I’ll need to meet with the pack to discuss another matter I have to deal with: a spell circle gone wrong.
Two weeks ago, on October 14, the night of the new moon, I participated in a spell circle in the persecution tunnels beneath the Ravenmeade residence hall (a.k.a. my house) because I was broke and needed some cash.
Yeah, terrible idea. The high priestess tried to force a bond on a shifter girl named Cara who was extremely intoxicated. I broke the circle before the spell could be completed, and I managed to get the girl out of there, but there was a violent magical fight, and now at least one witch, Kasey, is missing. The other witches who participated in the spell circle all wore masks, so I don’t know who they are, but it’s entirely possible some of them live in my house. Which means I might be eating and sleeping alongside my enemies.
Memnon had been helping me sort out how to handle the fallout from the spell circle, and honestly for a few seconds there, I thought maybe I could get past his many, many issues. He does have a few things going for him:
(1) Bad boy attitude
(2) Muscles and tattoos
(3) Worships the ground I walk on when he’s not vengeful
(4) Gorgeous
(5) Is giving when it comes to…never mind
Unfortunately, he nearly asphyxiated an entire room of supernaturals and forced me to remember my past when I explicitly told him I didn’t want that. So he sucks.
Oh, and I’m now engaged to him. It’s an unbreakable oath, so…sorry about that.
Good luck.
XO,
Selene
CHAPTER 1
Well, this night fucking blows.
I sit on the concrete floor of one of the Politia’s dimly lit cells, my arms slung over my knees, my dress from the Samhain Ball pooled out around me.
I stare at the ground absently, my palm still throbbing from where I cut it earlier this evening to lift my curse. It’s not the only thing that hurts.
A migraine like no other is pounding beneath my skull, thanks to overusing my magic earlier tonight. But even that isn’t the most painful part of my body at the moment.
I can barely breathe around the ache in my chest and the memories that now fill my head.
I woke up this morning as Selene Bowers, a twenty-year-old witch with magically-induced memory loss. I’m ending this evening as Selene Bowers, a twenty-year-old witch who has two complete sets of memories—one from this life and one from another.
A wave of nausea rolls through me, partially from the migraine, partially from the sheer quantity of memories that have been shoved back in my brain. All of them demand my attention, but especially the strange, alien, old memories.
I now focus on that other life, Roxilana’s life.
My life, I correct myself. My first one.
It unspools behind my eyes like some awful movie. The battles, the death, the sheer desperation to survive.
The sweetest, most beautiful part of that life was Memnon, that insufferable bastard. I hate that tonight, on the heels of one of the worst evenings of my life, when I should revile the sorcerer more than ever, my head is filled with memories of his touches, his whispered pledges of undying love, and his sheer magnetism. It drew me to him over and over again when I was Roxilana, and damn it, it draws me to him even now.
Back in that ancient life, he fought for me and fiercely loved me. He crossed Europe to find me, then made me his queen. And he became one of the most powerful, monstrous men in the ancient world so that I could have my heart’s desire. We had the sort of love that’s so sharply wonderful it borders on pain.
Until, of course, the moment it all fell apart.
And it fell apart just as spectacularly as it began.
In the distance, a metal door hisses open, the sound scattering my thoughts.
I lift my head, wondering if I’m about to be questioned. My exhaustion surges at the thought. I don’t think I have the energy to effectively plead my innocence, even though I now have the memories to prove it.
I hear the low tones of an officer speaking to the man on duty down here. Then two sets of footfalls head toward my cell. One of them I’d recognize from anywhere, the sure, heavy sound of that stride drawing out goose bumps. A moment later, a ribbon of twisting, indigo magic moves toward the bars of my cell.
Memnon.
The ache in me deepens. Yet after all he did tonight, I have anger to match my hurt. It’s buried under the pain of my migraine, but how it burns.
Memnon’s magic reaches between
“These are neutralizing cells,” a masculine voice explains. “No magic gets in or out. They’re spelled to keep inmates from using their power.”
Inmates like me, he means.
“You’ve subjected my fiancée to this?” Memnon says, menace dripping from his voice. My stomach bottoms out at that word. Fiancée. I think I might’ve liked inmate better.
“I assure you, there was a warrant for her arrest—”
“She was arrested and detained under false allegations,” Memnon cuts in, his tone sharp as a blade. “I expect your department to make amends for this.”
The fucking audacity of this man to demand anything from the Politia when he was the one who truly placed me here.
His heavy, ominous footfalls come to a stop right in front of my cell. Even with the jail cell suppressing my magic, I can sense the throb of the sorcerer’s presence, his power spilling out of him.
It’s that staggering power that got me into this mess in the first place. A sorcerer’s magic eats away at their conscience, so the more powerful they grow, the more heartless they become. And my soul mate is both very, very powerful and very, very heartless.
“Est amage.”
I don’t react. I’m too exhausted to react.
The officer unlocks the cell, the door clanging as he opens it.
“Miss Bowers, it seems the department made a mistake with your arrest,” he says dispassionately. “Please accept our apologies. You are now free to go.” He steps aside to make room for me.
I draw in a long and defeated breath. I don’t like sitting in this cold, dank cell, where my power is muted, but I’m even less eager to run into the arms of my vengeful soul mate.
“Pouting is so very unlike you, fiancée.”
That damn word. It makes my temples pound harder.
I lift my head to stare at the cinder-block wall ahead of me. “I don’t want to leave with him,” I say to the officer.
I sense the man looking between me and Memnon. “Miss,” he finally says, “you don’t—” His words cut off suddenly.
“Hey!” the officer on duty shouts. “What do you think—?” His voice, too, abruptly cuts off, and a moment later, I hear the dull thud of his body hitting the ground somewhere in the distance.
Finally, I glance over, only to see my soul mate gripping the officer by the back of his neck. The man’s eyelids flutter, and I know with stomach-curdling clarity that Memnon is altering yet another mind tonight. He already did this to a room full of my peers shortly after he nearly killed them all.
Once Memnon finally releases the officer, the man calmly walks back the way he came, not bothering to look at either of us. Nor does he stop to check on the other officer on duty down here.
And now I’m alone with the sorcerer.
I still don’t meet his eyes. “I’m not going with you,” I say.
“I’m not giving you a choice,” he says.
He takes an ominous step forward into the cell, then another and another. Before I can think better of it, I scramble to my feet. The action wakes up all my aches and pains, and I nearly collapse under the onslaught of them all.
Cursing, Memnon closes the distance between us and catches my swaying form.
And now, cradled in his arms, I do finally look at my soul mate.
I drink in his bronze skin, his black, wavy hair, and those mesmerizing eyes, which are dark brown at their edges and light like bourbon near the pupil. It’s only been hours since I saw him last, but my eyes rove over his subtly hooked nose and full, curving lips, his high cheekbones and knife-sharp jawline. Finally, they snag on the scar that runs up from that jawline to his left ear, then cuts across to the corner of his left eye.
It’s like seeing a specter, and for a moment, old memories eclipse the new ones. I reach out, my fingers grazing his cheek.
Memnon’s expression softens at the touch, and that’s all that’s needed for the rest of our past to overtake my addled mind.
“Est xsaya. Est Memnon,” I whisper. “Vak watam singasavak.”
My king. My Memnon. You survived.
Some terrifying emotion wells up in me. It feels like a serrated knife, carving me up from the inside out. I can’t place what it is I feel or why I feel it, but I do know that if Memnon wasn’t already holding me, my legs would buckle.
This close to me, I see his pupils dilate, and he goes still. “You remember,” Memnon says almost desperately.
“Of course I remember. You forced me to.”
And now all that anger swells back up in me. I pinch my eyes shut and weakly try to push away from him, even as my skull throbs and my stomach churns.
“Oh no, little witch,” he says softly, fondly. “I’m not letting you go now.” He hoists me more fully into his arms and strides out of the room.
The moment we cross that magical threshold that separates the neutralizing cells from the hallway, my power floods my body, the sensation so sudden and sharp that I gag.
In an instant, Memnon’s own magic swarms me, slipping into my mouth and down my throat, settling my nausea.
I release a shaky breath and lean tiredly against the sorcerer’s chest. I note absently that he’s changed out of his tuxedo, exchanging it for a black fitted thermal, black jeans, and boots.
“Does anything else hurt?” he asks, his tone gentle—far too gentle.
Everything else hurts—my head, my joints, my very skin. But most of all, my heart.
“Isn’t this your moment to gloat?” I say instead as I’m carried down the empty cellblock. “You’ve defeated me in all ways.”
Memnon’s magic stretches out and opens the heavy metal door ahead of us. “I will gloat when my future wife feels better.”
Future wife.
I make a face at that, then wince when my head throbs harder. Fucking hate unbreakable oaths and this farce of an engagement.
Next to the door out, the officer on duty lays sprawled on the ground, his eyes closed and his chest steadily rising and falling. Memnon pauses a moment to crouch next to him and, balancing me in one of his arms, he uses his other to touch the man’s forehead.
“You drank too much tonight and fell asleep while on duty,” he murmurs. “You’re embarrassed and will tell no one of this.”
Memnon rises, cradling me in his arms once more. If I felt better, I would’ve had some acidic commentary about what he just did. But honestly I’m too tired and in pain to care.
“Where do you hurt most?” Memnon asks as we exit the cellblock, as though he read my thoughts.
“My head.” What point is there in lying? It feels like someone is trying to jackhammer their way out of my skull.
No sooner have I spoken than Memnon readjusts the arm wrapped around my back so that his hand cups my forehead.
“Ease the pain,” he murmurs in Sarmatian.
His magic sifts out of him, some of it slipping up through my nostrils and some of it sinking directly into my skin.
Immediately, the migraine fades, each pulse of pain less intense than the last, until it’s gone completely.
I sigh, settling deeper into Memnon’s arms for a momen—
Wait. No, he’s still the enemy. I’m not going to enjoy being carried when he just ruined my life.
“I can walk,” I insist as Memnon carries me down the Politia’s lonely hallway.
Not actually sure about this one, but fuck it if I’m going to let Memnon continue to haul me around like I’m helpless.
“All right then, little witch,” he says, almost indulgently, like I’m being cute and ridiculous.
Goddess but I’d love nothing more than to stab this man with a spork.
He bends, letting my feet touch the linoleum floor and holding me stable as I stand. I’m still wearing the heels I borrowed from Sybil earlier this evening for the Samhain Ball, and as soon as Memnon lets me go, my legs wobble like I’m a colt. For a second, I’m positive I’m going to eat shit, but then I find my balance.
Memnon moves around to my front and kneels at my feet.
My brows pull together. “What are you—?”
He reaches for one of my legs and lifts it, setting my foot on his thigh. I hop around for a moment before resting my arms on his shoulders and leaning my weight against him.
