Macabre Melody: Reverse Harem Siren Romance (Spellsinger Book 7)

by Amy Sumida

  Frederick and Alan were among the guests. I expected their smiles to be more like leers after what they thought they'd witnessed, but the men were respectful. I suppose that was more for Slate than me. Once the initial introductions were over, I was paraded before each of them individually.

  “So, you decided to ditch the blond for his boss?” Agata watched me carefully.

  Agata was a gorgon; her snakes covered in a shimmering silk scarf that was patterned to look like snakes. It was an odd effect—startling even—as I'm sure it was meant to be. The silk trailed over one arm glamorously—accenting her cleavage—but it also moved restlessly. No one likes to be blindfolded, not even hair-snakes. Agata had a voluptuous body displayed in a clingy black dress and hands that kept trying to wander over Slate's shoulders.

  Slate should be with her; they'd be perfect together. She could turn people to stone and then he could control them. No fight, no frustration, just a bunch of stone sycophants.

  “Who? Jago?” I asked her nonchalantly.

  Conversations quieted around the room, and the other guests moved closer. Everyone wanted to hear what I said next. I almost laughed. Here were these powerful, magical beneathers, and their lives were so boring that they needed to fill them with tidbits of mine.

  “Jago's just a friend,” I went on. “I can't be mooning up at Slate every night; that's not good for business.”

  Slate's lips twitched upward as he stared down at me. Not quite a smile but it had potential.

  “Slate didn't seem to be in on the ruse,” Drago—a ryū with snow-white hair and sin-black eyes—lifted a brow at me.

  By the way, Drago is a common name among dragons for obvious reasons. I've met eight over the years. There are two types of dragons; the Ryū (Asian dragons) and the Drachen (Western dragons). Drachen tended to be the more aggressive of the two. I should know, I've dated one. The Ryū settled in Japan and China, but they aren't actually Asian; they came from planet Ry, as the Drachen came from planet Drach. The distinctions were more in their dragons forms than in their human. Ryū could fly but they were wingless; using the magic in their flowing, colorful whiskers to keep them aloft. Drachen, however, had massive, leathery wings. Obviously, their original planets had caused them to evolve differently.

  Despite not actually being from Asia, most Ryū had an exotic look to them, and this guy was no exception. But his features weren't Asian. Close but no opium pipe. His eyes were a touch too slanted, and his lips were too full. Alien instead of Asian. Ryū had a hierarchy among their kind; the five taloned dragons were emperors, the baddest of the bad. I glanced down at Drago's hand and wondered. No; he had to be a four. A five-claw wouldn't be living under another beneather's laws.

  “I may have forgotten to mention it to Slate.” I gave Drago a wink. “We girls have to keep you guys on your toes or you might lose interest.”

  “You did it to make him jealous?” A wendigo named Finbar looked as if he didn't know whether to laugh or hide behind someone in fear of fallout. “You like playing with fire, don't you?”

  “Slate is a tough man to get a reaction out of.” I leaned against Slate, and he slid his hand from my arm to my ass. I nearly slipped character then, but I managed to grin through it. “Sometimes he needs a little push.” I pinched his ass to make him let go of mine, but he only chuckled and settled his hand more firmly—with a good squeeze.

  “I'd say it worked.” Drago smirked. “Your man here crushed the glass he was holding. It was quite a rare display of emotion from our inscrutable zone lord.”

  “Oh, honey, I know it worked.” I slid my leg out to showcase the tear in my dress. “The glass wasn't the only thing that suffered.”

  The women in the room stared enviously from my dress to Slate's smug face.

  “I expect I'll get an even bigger reaction later,” I purred.

  “Oh, you have no idea,” Slate growled and covered my mouth with his.

  The men chuckled, the women fumed, and I tried my best to look as if I were enjoying myself. Or rather, to look as if I were enjoying myself without actually enjoying myself. The man simply tasted like sin; the smoky bite of whiskey enhancing his own flavor and luring me in deeper. When Slate finally broke our kiss, I was breathing hard, and he was giving me one of his rare, gentle smiles.

  “How romantic.” A kitsune named Susan sighed as her tails twitched. “How did you two meet?”

  I looked at her in surprise. They all had to know that I fought in the arena, They had to know what my collar meant. Didn't they? I glanced around and saw the same curious look on every face. Holy shit; they really thought that I was there of my own free will.

  As I floundered, Slate took over, “A couple of my men caught Elaria along with her friend Cerberus. But she caught my attention with her very first fight.”

  Okay; so they did know that I was a prisoner. And yet they still thought that I was with Slate because I wanted to be. Perhaps it was Slate himself. Looking at it from their perspective, I may have assumed the same thing simply because it would be ridiculous for Slate to force a woman. He obviously had his pick. Hell, they came running when he called; no matter how he called. I'll tell you what; if any man ever told me to get my ass over there, I'd do it only so I could kick his ass.

  While I'd been wrestling with the situation, Slate's eyes had shifted to me in what appeared to be true affection. I nearly believed it myself. Oh, yeah; the collar meant nothing under that look. They believed every word.

  “I was fascinated,” Slate went on. “This beautiful woman with the most delicate hands”—he lifted one of my “delicate” hands and kissed it—“was supposed to be one of the most vicious beneathers in our world. Then I saw her kill and knew it was all true.”

  Our audience murmured appreciatively; they'd seen me fight too.

  “And that was an even greater turn on,” Slate announced.

  “I imagine it was with you, you fucking brute,” Drago said affectionately. “But truly, Ms. Elaria, you are breathtaking; in the arena and on the stage.”

  “Thank you,” I said even though thanking him for appreciating the way I killed to entertain him left a sour taste in my mouth.

  “If you ever tire of the gargoyle, let me know.” Drago winked at me. “I'd even be willing to buy your freedom.”

  I blinked in surprise and felt Slate tense beside me. Buy my freedom? If that were possible, I had five men who'd be willing to put up a lot more than this ryū could.

  “You're lucky we've known each other for so long, Drago,” Slate said casually, but his silver eyes had turned to steel. “Or you would have found your insides on the outside for that comment. Elaria is not for sale. Not to anyone.” He sent me a look that destroyed my new hope for a peaceful release.

  Drago laughed but the other men shifted uneasily. Slate may put on fancy clothes and pretend to be civilized, but Drago was right; Slate Devon is a brute. And brutes don't take kindly to other men flirting with their women.

  “Easy now, darling,” I purred as I slid my hand over Slate's phenomenal chest. “No one's going anywhere.”

  “I'm glad you're finally accepting that,” Slate rumbled at me.

  Beneath my fingers, something tingled, and Slate's frown deepened. I frowned back. What the hell was that? I stared at him suspiciously; that tingle had the distinct feel of magic to it, and we both knew it couldn't have come from me. Slate seemed to reach that same conclusion a few seconds after me, and he shifted his stare around the room. Interesting; so it hadn't come from him either. I slid my gaze over the other beneathers; searching for any hint of magic use from them. I sensed nothing, but that wasn't so surprising; what with that stupid collar around my throat.

  “I think it's time that I got my songbird home,” Slate said suddenly. “Please, stay and enjoy yourselves. I'll see you all at the Games tomorrow.”

  They murmured startled—and in some cases, knowing—goodbyes as Slate hurriedly escorted me from the room. He kept giving me strange looks as we
navigated the club and then even more as we waited for his car to be brought out by the valet. As soon as we were safely inside the Maserati, he turned to me.

  “That wasn't me,” Slate said.

  “I figured that from the look you gave me.”

  “So, what was it? Who was it?”

  “I haven't the foggiest. It was just a little zing; maybe it's nothing,” I said despite the unease curling in my belly. “Maybe someone's magic flared, and we caught the overflow.

  “Little zings are the beginning of bigger zings,” Slate muttered as he started the car. “And I don't let just anyone zing me.”

  I giggled. Slate's eyes shot to mine. He realized what he'd said and then started to laugh with me.

  “Perhaps it was nothing,” he agreed.

  But as Slate pulled away from the Quarry, another zing ran along my skin; in a circle beneath the silver collar. I bit my lip and held my tongue. If it was coming from me, it could mean that my magic was fighting the restrictions of the collar and the last thing I wanted to do was alert my jailer of the fact. Little zings are the beginning of bigger zings after all.

  Freedom might be closer than I expected.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  When Slate had so casually said he'd see everyone at the Games, I hadn't realized that meant he'd be hosting another get-together in his private viewing box at the arena. I was, of course, expected to attend.

  In a rare show of generosity (insert eye roll here), Slate allowed me to pick out my own dress for the party. I went with black lace over silk; the most modest of the fancy dresses that filled my closet. I felt more like myself in it. Stronger. More confident. I made the rounds on Slate's arm as if I had every right to be there—as if I wanted to be there.

  The topic of conversation was the same with every group; the earthquakes. Slate may have kept things hush-hush on that front but his vague explanations of shifting plates and possible new faults didn't fool these beneathers. They knew something was up. Still, they wanted to believe him. They wanted to feel safe even if they weren't. So, they let Slate weaved his lies and speculated behind his back. Surely the Zone Lord would be more upset if it were something terrible.

  Then the arena fights began.

  They started small; working up to the main event. I didn't watch most of them. I wasn't as bloodthirsty as most people believed. This wasn't my idea of entertainment. Instead, I watched the people in the room. In particular, there was a couple of hooded figures who kept to themselves. I saw the flash of a cellphone camera coming from their direction a couple of times, but I dismissed it as unimportant. Slate didn't seem bothered by them which meant that either they were his employees—taking pictures of people he wanted watched—or they were people he didn't mind watching me. Either way, I had no doubt that he knew exactly what they were up to. He saw everything, after all.

  “Here he is; the mighty Cerberus!” The male announcer shouted. “Hound of Hades!”

  My attention jerked to the window. I slipped through the crowd and found a spot against the glass. You could see everything from up there; every nuance of Cer's smiling face as he strode out onto the sand. Every bulging muscle as he flexed for his audience. I shook my head with a grin; the idiot was enjoying himself. There wasn't a dog alive who didn't enjoy a good scratch behind the ears, and the hellhound was no exception. He was eating up the adoration.

  All Cerberus had on was a narrow piece of fabric wrapped around his hips. He looked like an ad for men's shower gel. His gaze ventured up and found me; his eyes widening before he started to wave happily. I laughed and waved back. I couldn't help it; he was like a deadly puppy.

  “My champion is looking good, don't you think?” Slate edged up beside me; forcing me to either squish myself against the window or accept the pressure of his body along mine.

  I didn't let myself be squished. “He does. That gorgeous dumb-ass.”

  Slate chuckled. “He's built for battle. You can't fault the beast for finding joy in its nature.”

  “No; I don't fault the beast.” I turned to look pointedly at him. “Not that one, anyway.”

  “Are you going to ask for his freedom again?” Slate tucked a strand of hair behind my ear; focusing on it instead of my glare. “We might be able to come to an arrangement.”

  “Slimy, Slate.” I grimaced at him. “Really slimy.”

  “I was teasing. We both know that Cerberus won't leave without you.” He kissed my cheek and lingered long enough to whisper. “We're being watched, Spellsinger; remember your role.”

  I don't know what came over me. I suppose I just cracked. All that weird attention; the constant false affection. The clothes. The makeup. This ridiculous charade. I wanted something real; an honest response from him.

  I caught Slate around the waist and used my body to shove him against the glass. As his eyes widened in surprise, I pressed myself against him, grabbed the back of his neck, and pulled his mouth to mine. It was more violent than enticing; an angry press of flesh and teeth. His tongue pushed its way into my mouth. I tasted blood and it wasn't mine. But Slate's arms wrapped around me instantly and lifted me deeper into the kiss. He was groaning. No; growling. He licked at the blood as if fighting me for it and then tangled his tongue with mine. I tore my mouth away from his and stared at him; the both of us panting.

  “How's that?” I snapped. “Was I believable?”

  “I believed you,” Slate whispered; his eyes gone serious.

  Slate slowly slid me down his body; setting me gently on my feet. I realized with a guilty flinch that the fight was already happening behind him. The entire wall of windows was lined with Slate's guests; their eyes darting from Cerberus' show to ours. Several smiled at me knowingly before returning their attention to the giant, three-headed dog in the arena and his victim.

  My face flushed as I pushed at Slate's arm until he moved enough for me to catch a glimpse of my best friend tearing a wendigo in two. Body parts and blood went flying as the crowd roared. I scowled at it; my gut twisting at the carnage and the delight of the beneathers watching it.

  As Cerberus roared in victory, I turned away and hurried to the bathroom; the private one in my bedroom. I didn't want any of the guests hammering on the door and—

  “Elaria?” Slate's voice carried through the bathroom door as I heard him shut the bedroom one.

  “Damn it! Can't I get a few minutes to myself?” I growled.

  Silence. It went on long enough that I was certain he'd left. I sighed in relief and splashed cold water on my face.

  “It's only blood,” I whispered to my reflection. “Just another death; one among thousands. Let it go, Elaria. That beneather signed up for this. He knew he'd be fighting Cer. Let it go.”

  But damn it; I had so many new faces to add to my list of sins; Laestrygonian, Gorgon, Dybbuk, Troll, Riksha it went on and on. Now, I was gathering Cerberus' victims too. Purging myself was one thing, but this was becoming torture. I had to find a happy medium. A happy medium between being numb and being a fucking pussy.

  I choked back a sob.

  A soft click startled me. I yanked open the bathroom door and found an empty room. But I had a feeling that it hadn't been empty for as long as I'd thought.

  “Fuck.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I have no idea how much of my little self-rally session Slate had heard, but he didn't mention anything to me on the ride to the Quarry later that night.

  After the fights had finished, he'd asked me to change into something sexier. I had to admit that the dress I'd worn to his little soiree wasn't appropriate for singing in a nightclub. I put on a slinky gray number with slits in the sides so high that it came with a matching pair of silk shorts to wear underneath. I figured that Slate couldn't damage it as he had the other dress and it had the added protection of the shorts. Not that I intended to get into another hallway altercation with him.

  The Zone Lord was strangely distant after we arrived at the Quarry. We were late becau
se of the guests at the arena; several of whom had followed us to the nightclub. He had a waitress settle them in his private lounge while he walked me backstage. How many days was he going to entertain these people? Right; the earthquakes. The questions. The fake romance. Slate wanted to keep the Zone calm and focused on his new girlfriend instead of the earthquakes. The best way to do that was to give the top beneathers a good show. The gossip would trickle down from them.

  “It's fucking packed tonight, Boss!” Eli exclaimed as we strode down the hallway toward him.

  “Indeed,” Slate murmured. “Take care of her.”

  Eli looked at me with wide eyes. “Um; yeah. Sure. I got Elaria's music ready and waiting. She gave me a list last time.”

  “Binx will be posted outside the hallway; he has orders that only I am allowed back here tonight,” Slate went on. “If you see anyone else coming down this hallway, grab Elaria and get into the control room.”