Macabre Melody: Book 7 in the Spellsinger Series

by Amy Sumida

  I'd spent the night soul-searching. Not about the shooting or the earthquakes or the trapped monster, but about what Aaro had said. Had I misinterpreted the tingles? Was I falling for Slate? I had analyzed my emotions as critically as I could and finally admitted to myself that Slate appealed to me. I wanted to sleep with him. There; cold truth. No, let's be really honest; I wanted to fuck him. Sweet stones, I wanted to. Raw, wild, back-clawing fucking. But I didn't love Slate. And nothing short of phenomenal love could make me betray my men. Which meant that the tingles—the feelings that flooded me and made me want things that I shouldn't want—had to be a spell. I knew magic; I am magic. This wasn't real.

  “There's a library next door.” Slate waved vaguely to his left. “You may borrow any book you'd like. I don't have a television so you'll have to make do with old-fashioned entertainment. I shouldn't be gone long.”

  Slate stood up, wiped his mouth, and tossed the napkin on his plate. I wondered if he was interrogating the Aaruns again or if they were already dead. The amount of blood he'd been covered in the night before suggested the latter. Which meant this was either about plotting revenge for the shooting, planning preventative measures against future attempts, or figuring out what kind of monster swam beneath us.

  “Okay,” I finally said.

  He strode out, and I finished my breakfast. And then I looked up in sudden realization; a smile spreading across my face. The fool had left me alone in his home.

  I rushed out of the room and started searching. Maybe Slate had been sloppy enough to leave the key to my collar lying around. With that thought in mind, I went straight to his desk.

  There were no handles on any of the drawers. I sat in his extremely comfortable, leather chair and frowned at the glossy, black expanse before me. The silver battle scene with gargoyles—fighting both in the sky and on the ground—seemed to mock me. How did Slate get these drawers open? I'd seen him slide out the shelf that held his keyboard and toss things inside drawers. Hell, that bolt that locked the office door was triggered from a button inside one of those drawers. There had to be a way to open them. I pushed and prodded; slid my fingers under every ledge looking for secret triggers. Nothing. I had to concede defeat.

  “Oh, shove it up your silver ass,” I muttered to one of the gargoyles leering at me from the corners of the desk.

  I left the desk behind and went through the other rooms. The library had no secret, key-hiding boxes or hidden panels that I could find; just books and more books. I even looked under the set of wingback chairs. Nothing. I went through the kitchen, an entertainment room, a gym, and every guest bedroom there was before I finally ventured into Slate's room.

  I stood on the threshold for three seconds; something clenching in my belly. The last time I'd been in this room, I'd touched Slate intimately. I'd seen all of his body. I'd listened to him use that body in ways I could only—and, in fact, did—imagine. The memory of kneeling before him—that hard length in my face—shivered through me. A flush crept up my chest as I crept into the room. I half expected Slate to step out of his bathroom and tell me to suck his dick or get out.

  But no; Slate didn't magically appear and after a few minutes of carefully rooting around his room and finding nothing, I plopped down on his bed in frustration. Beside me, there was a sleek bedside table. The man really liked black. My hand stroked the velvet comforter absently; it reminded me of the feeling of his— Shit; stop thinking about that! I jerked my hand away from the velvet.

  The room was a blatant, masculine lair. Massive bed with thick posters perfect for tying a woman to. Velvet comforter and cool cotton sheets. Women always think silk is so sexy, but manly men don't like silk; it catches on their callouses and annoys the shit out of them. If an alpha male wants luxury, he usually goes for expensive cotton. I ran my hand over Slate's pillow; Egyptian cotton, I was betting. Stop that! Look away!

  I directed my attention to the dresser; ebony and silver like Slate's desk. A tall mirror was propped on it; framed in silver. A single bottle of cologne and a hairbrush sat on the dresser; that was it. The only other furniture in the room was a black leather chair on the other side of the bedside table. There was only one table. The other side of the bed was directly beside the bathroom door. A book was tossed carelessly on the leather chair. I expected to see The Art of War or something like that. I was shocked to find instead Terry Pratchett's Carpe Jugulum. Slate liked funny fantasy books? I just couldn't imagine it.

  My gaze landed on the bedside table. There was a slim drawer tucked under the top lip.

  I flicked on the lamp—a glamorous lead crystal column with a black shade—and opened the drawer. A key was the first thing I saw. I nearly squealed with joy, but it didn't fit the little lock in my collar. I scowled at the key; it was an odd, hollow shape. The type used for...

  I leaned toward one of the bed posters and pulled back the pillows. There it was; a pair of handcuffs. One of the cuffs was closed around a bedpost.

  “Can you be any more predictable?” I muttered as I tossed the key back in the drawer. Then I spotted something else. “Hold the presses.”

  I slid my finger along the inner edge of the drawer. What I'd thought was drawer liner was actually a manila folder. I used a fingernail to lift it up and pull it out. It was thicker than I expected and as soon as I got it free, papers and photos spilled out across the floor.

  Photos of me.

  I gaped down at the collage of myself. I smiled up at Cerberus in one. I glowered at Jago in another. My hand reached out beseechingly toward Tessa's cell as Jago escorted me by. Every day I'd been there had been chronicled. But that first picture—the one of Cer and me—that hadn't been taken in the arena.

  I got down on the floor and pushed the pictures around. There were several that had been taken before Cerberus and I were captured. There were even pictures of me with my lovers. I ran a fingertip gently over Banning's face; stroking his cheek adoringly. My breath caught. He was so damn handsome. Those eyes like green fire. That fucking jawline. And there was Torin looking stern; his sapphire stare spearing out at the camera as if he knew it was there. Over there was Gage; hazel eyes laughing as he stared down at me. Then Declan; a slash of auburn hair the color of dried blood falling across my cheek as he kissed me. And finally, Darc; looking larger than life; a wet dream come true.

  I wanted to snatch all of those pictures up and take them back to my room with me. Then sit there and hold them to my chest like a heartbroken teenager. I missed them desperately. But instead of giving in to the urge, I took a deep breath and tried to work this out. Why did Slate have pictures of me from before he knew me? Who took the pictures? More importantly; who gave them to him?

  I pushed the photos into a pile and then gathered the papers. It was information on me; my name, date of birth, my parents, where I lived in Hawaii. I gaped at my life laid out in black and white. My friends were listed there and even some of the jobs I'd done for Cerberus. Not a lot of them—Cer was too good for that info to get out—but enough that I was impressed. Impressed and confused.

  This was good investigative work but there were big chunks missing. Nothing was mentioned about the Witch Relic. It was noted that I was Queen of Kyanite and that the stone had increased my spellsinging abilities, but nothing about how I had won my crown. And nothing about Darc and I; who we really were.

  Darcraxis was noted as a “significant other” but not as a god. No mention was made of Faenestra or the things I'd done as her. This report, for all of its detail in some areas, was seriously lacking in others. They'd left out the worst bits. Why? On purpose or an accident? I couldn't understand how they could find all this other stuff and not everything else.

  Another photograph caught my eye, and I pulled it out of the pile. It was just me; a close-up of my face. And it wasn't a good one. I looked broken; eyes haunted and nose red from crying. I recognized the wall behind my head. It was my old cell; the one I had stayed in when I'd first arrived.

  I gaspe
d in shock. I knew exactly when that picture had been taken. It was the night I'd first had dinner with Slate. The night I'd sat in my cell and accepted what I had been becoming before Faenestra showed up and what I could still become if I wasn't careful. That was a rough evening and it was hard to look at the evidence of it. But all of that faded away when I saw what lay on the surface of the glossy photo; smudges. Fingerprints nearly covered the picture; long streaks of them over my face and full prints at the sides.

  My stomach clenched and my heart raced. An image of Slate—laying in bed, stroking my picture—flashed in my mind. Had my pain touched him when my words couldn't? Had he seen the truth; that I was fighting the monster inside me? Did he feel closer to me because of it? Pity me? Pine for me? Surely not. That man did not pine over women. Maybe he had simply enjoyed my suffering. There was no way Slate could actually feel something for me...

  I traced the tracks of his fingers; my hand stroking my own cheek. A glance over at Banning's picture—the one I'd touched so adoringly—showed similar smudges. Sweet stones; this had to be a spell.

  It didn't matter. None of this mattered. Five days and I'd be free; of the Zone and its lord. Why was that thought so unsettling?

  I heard something; the creak of a door. I bolted up; gathering the pictures and papers and shoving them back in their folder. Then I tucked it beneath the random drawer detritus. I slid the drawer closed, turned off the lamp, and sprang across the room on my toes. A few more steps and I was in my bedroom. I shut the door just as I heard Slate come down the hallway. One leap and I was on the bed; laying across it as if I'd been taking a nap.

  A soft knock came at the door, and then Slate opened it. I sighed and rolled over. That's right; the academy award goes to Elaria Tanager. We stared at each other. Something was different about him.

  “What is it?” I sat up.

  “I'll tell you what it isn't.” He moved into the room and immediately filled it with his frustration and in-your-face masculinity. “It's not the Aaruns, nor is it either of the two who I thought it might be.”

  “What isn't?” I asked in confusion. What the hell? It didn't sound like he was talking about the monster. What else was there for him to investigate? I had a flash of him covering my body with his as shots rang out. Oh. Yeah; that probably wasn't something he thought himself capable of. He had protected me even though my immortality was stronger than his. It had been an unnecessary risk, and Slate didn't take those. “Are you talking about the magic between us?”

  “Of course, I am. The magic between us,” Slate mimicked as he tossed himself into a chair.

  I realized then that my room was a feminine version of his; poster bed, dresser, side table, and chair. But the chair was upholstered in dusty rose velvet instead of sexy leather and the furniture had a lighter feel. Slate managed to look powerful even against the girly color. Powerful and annoyed. He set his elbow on the armrest and his chin on his fist; glaring into the air before him.

  I laughed. His gaze shot to mine.

  “This really fucks you up,” I observed. “Caring about a woman.”

  “I care about people,” he snapped. “I love my brothers. I loved our parents.”

  Loved; past tense. Okay, that answers that question.

  “And women?” I asked. “Have you ever loved a woman? Someone you weren't related to?”

  “I've already told you that I've never felt anything like this,” he sounded petulant. “Stop fishing for compliments.”

  “We were talking about the magic, not emotions,” I reminded him. “You've never loved a woman? How about a man?”

  Slate grimaced at me, and I laughed again.

  “You never know.” I shrugged. “I don't judge. Love is love.”

  “Oh, please. You heard me with those women that... day...” Slate trailed off when he noticed my blush. He cleared his throat. “I think you know I'm straight.”

  “What about friends? Do you have friends you love?”

  “Why are you pestering me about love?” Slate stood up abruptly. “It's a weakness; something for others to use against you. You say that Rooster Spell gave you and your men strength? Well, that's the only strength you'll get from loving someone and it took magic to make it happen. Now that it's dead, you're just a liability to each other.”

  “Wow,” I whispered. “You have loved someone, and they fucked you over. Royally. Or were they used against you?”

  “Don't confuse me with fiction. I'm not a hero in a movie; the hard man with a soft heart beneath it all.” Slate smirked at me. “Some men are just born smarter than others. I don't need nor want that kind of love. I've never felt and don't wish to. I'm perfectly happy as I am.”

  “Ending the night with a meaningless fuck?” I asked sweetly.

  “That was an act for Binx.”

  “Why don't you trust him?”

  “Excuse me?” Slate blinked; taken aback by the twist in the conversation.

  “You told Aaro about the magic but not Binx,” I pointed out. “Why not?”

  “Binx is a battering ram.” Slate rolled his eyes. “He'd run around the Zone beating on anyone who's ever looked at me wrong until he either got to the truth or I stopped him. He'd be a hindrance, not a help.”

  “Fair enough.” Yeah; that went with my impression of him. “You know; there's a very simple solution to this.”

  Slate looked at me askance.

  “Let me go.” I waved a hand at the collar. “Take this thing off and let me walk away. You won't have to worry about unwanted feelings anymore. I won't have to worry about being assassinated. Out of sight, out of mind.”

  Slate went from calm to chaos in three seconds flat. He whirled up and over me; sending us both falling back onto the bed. His breath struck my face with hot slaps as he covered me; hands fisted to either side of my head, heavy legs pinning mine down.

  “You're not going anywhere, Spellsinger,” he growled. “Not until we figure this out. Maybe not ever.” He looked down at my cleavage; his chest had pushed it up toward my chin. The look wasn't predatory, it was possessive. “You're my property; caught fair and square.”

  I glared at him and started to speak, but he cut me off.

  “What?” Slate smirked. “Are you going to tell me how unfair it is?”

  “No; I know better than most how unfair life is,” I said tightly. “I was going to say that you don't have what it takes to hold onto me forever.”

  Slate laughed; low and wicked. “If there's any man who does; it's me.”

  I saw that photograph again; the lines made by adoring hands smeared over it. I was so fucked.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Later that night, I dreamed of the men I loved. They all stood around me; smiling. They held each other's hands in an unbreakable circle around me. Protecting me. Loving me. Nothing would get past them. I spun slowly; letting my heart overflow with my love for them.

  Then I froze.

  Slate was there; clasping hands with Torin and Darc. I gaped at him.

  “You don't belong here.”

  “Don't I?” Slate asked with his twisted smile. “I chose you, and you chose me.”

  “No; I didn't!” I snapped. “I don't even like you; you're an arrogant dick.”

  “I have my reasons.” Slate's eyes went soft; the color of antique silver. “Look deeper, sweetheart.”

  “I don't want to look deeper!”

  Then I appeared between Slate and me. Yes; I did. Another me stood before me; smirking at me. That was one too many mes in the room.

  “You already have,” I said to myself. “You feel him; you know him. He's a diamond covered in dirt; waiting to be polished and cut. There's beauty inside him; sparkling magic within his heart. A primal being whose loyalty, once given, will never falter. He will make us stronger. He's just what we need for the battles to come.”

  “I have more than enough love,” I argued. “More than enough strength for any battle.”

  “More than enough?” T
he other me laughed. “You are an immortal. What is enough for us? We can never be powerful enough, nor can we love enough.”

  “My lovers will argue that they are enough.”

  “No; they won't.” She smirked at me. “Not after they are made to understand.”

  “You don't know shit, fake-me!” I slapped her.

  She laughed harder.

  “It's too late.” She chortled. All the men laughed with her. “You're already his.”

  I woke up in a tangle of sheets and a cold sweat. My heart was racing as if I'd run for miles. I breathed deeply and slowly to calm it.

  Look deeper, sweetheart. The words echoed inside me. You're already his.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  I spent the day fuming. I felt powerless and frustrated; two things that pissed me off to no end. Slate's childish back and forth treatment was taking its toll. It didn't matter that I was treating him the same way. I had reasons to deny what I felt. What I was starting to feel, I mean. Five reasons. He had no one. No reasons besides being an asshole.

  Slate had all this pent-up passion inside him and would only release it with women he didn't care about. I didn't believe for one second that there was something deeper worth digging for; that he was a diamond in the dirt. Fuck that; he was a dick in the dirt. He was a dick and a dictator; a dick-tator. He ran his world with a hot head and a cold heart. He demanded and controlled and dominated but never let anyone close enough to see what was beneath all that. I was tired of getting glimpses; he needed to keep that shit to himself and leave me the fuck out of his neurosis.

  And I was going to make that clear to him in the only way I could.

  I put on black leather; skintight pants and a corset top that displayed my breasts dangerously. Just another weapon in my arsenal. Over the top of the corset, I slipped on a ragged chainmail tank; links draping around my hips. My hair was pulled into a severe ponytail; straightened into a blade down my back. I looked deadly, and I felt it too.