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

by Amy Sumida

  “Is this your... consort?” She asked hesitantly. “We've been hearing rumors.”

  “And now I'm back at court,” I muttered under my breath.

  “This is my girlfriend,” Slate said as he jerked me against his side. “Elaria.”

  “The Spellsinger?” The nymph's blue eyes widened. “So, the rumors are true.”

  “Yep.” I smiled and tried not to turn it into a grimace.

  “Welcome to A Slip of Lace, Ms. Tanager,” she said. “My name is Teresa. Is there anything I can help you find?”

  “How about we start with a purse?” I waved the envelope at her. “I seem to have forgotten to pack mine.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Won't your real girlfriends be upset about this charade?” I eyed Slate over my wineglass.

  We were at an exclusive restaurant in the heart of the Zone. It was all open-air seating; a lush garden surrounded by rock walls. The entrance was a garden gate and the kitchen was hidden behind a waterfall. A stream ran through the place; right beside our table. Wisteria draped above us and manicured bushes formed privacy walls between the other diners and us. I knew it was exclusive because there were only ten tables in the place and the menu didn't have any prices on it.

  “My what?” Slate removed his sunglasses; closing them with sharp movements before tucking them into his jacket. He looked at me curiously.

  “Your girlfriends,” I said again. “Won't they be mad when they hear about us?”

  “What exactly about our conversation last night gave you the impression that I have a bevy of women?”

  “I heard more than one woman that... time... with the... you know,” I trailed off as Slate began to smile.

  “I have a voracious appetite.” He sat back as the waiter slid a plate before him; right on cue.

  I swear; sometimes it seemed as if the world really did revolve around him.

  Slate took a bite and chewed as the waiter set my plate before me and then hurried away. Normally, the lady's plate went down first. Not in Slate's world, evidently.

  “I don't have a girlfriend; single or plural,” he murmured. “I have... acquaintances.”

  “Wow,” I muttered.

  “What?”

  “No; nothing.”

  “What?” He put some stone in his tone.

  I was learning that Gargoyles were good at that.

  “You can't even call them friends; that's too close to a relationship, isn't it?” I took a bite. “Your brother was right; you only allow yourself to feel lust for women.”

  The chicken was amazing; I enjoyed it thoroughly, along with Slate's discomfort.

  “I don't have time for distractions,” he said gruffly.

  I looked around pointedly. He'd taken a significant amount of time out of his busy, zone lord schedule to take me shopping.

  “You are a part of my work.” He shrugged.

  “This is work?” I asked dubiously.

  “To your left is Aribella Lane; she owns several fruit and vegetable markets.”

  “A dryad,” I murmured.

  “To her right is Quintan Gareth; he brings in our meat. And then there's Falcon Harvey; my liquor supplier.”

  “Loup and troll,” I said as I looked them over. “You want them to see us together. Why?”

  “Word has been circulating about us after our little performances. Those three weren't able to make it to the parties.” Slate smiled at me and it was breathtaking; enough to make the women at the other tables sigh. “I wanted them to see you for themselves; see the strength I have beside me. And see that I'm not concerned about the earthquakes.”

  Everything was a tactical move with him. I grimaced; I should have known this wasn't just a pleasant day out.

  “I seem to always be on display here. Even when I think I'm not.”

  “As am I.” He shrugged. “You should be used to it, Your Majesty.”

  I blinked at that. He'd said the title without sarcasm.

  “Tell me about Gargoyles.” I set my stare on the chicken, but my attention was on Slate.

  Slate cocked his head. “Why?”

  “I'm curious.” I shrugged. “I know you can manipulate stone and that you're one of the few Beneather races who evolved on Earth.”

  “We were the first higher form of life here,” he said proudly. “Three-thousand years before homo sapiens turned up.”

  I looked up in surprise. “See? That's fascinating. Tell me more.”

  “How much more?” Slate's smile went wicked.

  “All of it.”

  “We'll see about all of it,” he murmured. “I'll tell you what I remember.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Some beneathers believe that we slunk into the shadows when humans began to form their civilizations,” Slate huffed. “That's not true. They crawled out of the swamp, but we rose out of the volcanoes. Formed in magma; the very blood of the Earth. We've always felt most at home within her embrace.”

  I sat back; unable to eat while Slate spoke. His voice was richly melodious; the perfect timbre for storytelling. His lips were nearly as expressive as his words; twitching, pressing together, spreading slowly. His eyes gleamed and his fingers stroked his water glass; collecting condensation in a way that made me shiver. I was enthralled.

  “So, it's true that you're fireproof?”

  “Rock doesn't burn.” He winked at me.

  “But you're not rock,” I argued. “I saw Jago's gargoyle form up close; I felt his skin. It felt like a tough hide, but not stone.”

  “No; we're not stone exactly,” Slate admitted. “We have an affinity for it. Our elders believe there is rock dust in our blood and bones.”

  “What do you think?”

  “When I work with stone, something resonates inside me.” His lips parted slightly and his gaze went distant. “If they're not exactly right, they're close. We are kin to the Earth; born of her body, not of what clings to her surface.”

  “Beautiful,” I whispered. “What about the name? I've read a lot of theories but nothing conclusive.”

  “Let me guess; the French dragon and the gutter spout.” His eyes glittered like stars.

  “Those are the ones. But the way you say them makes them sound like a nursery rhyme.”

  “Because both are fiction. 'Gargoyle' is the name we gave ourselves when we evolved enough to care about such things. It was taken from a god we credited with the creation of our race; Gargo.”

  I went still. I was betting Slate had it backwards and Gargo had named his children after himself. I knew all about that sort of thing.

  “What happened to this god?”

  “He disappeared in the way of gods.” Slate shrugged. “Gargo was a religious fiction created by creatures who were too young to understand the world around them. When we wised up, his worship waned.”

  “Interesting,” I murmured. I was betting he had that wrong too.

  Slate smiled softly. “Do you want to hear about the stone gargoyles on churches?”

  “Of course, I do.” I grinned back. “Didn't I say that I wanted to hear all of it?”

  “So, you did.” He took a sip of wine before continuing. “Several gargoyles decided that they wanted to live among the humans; they started by working with them. We were beginning to see the benefit of blending into human society. Most of them found jobs that could utilize their stone magic; such as stonemasons. Some of the stonemasons worked on churches. One, in particular, decided to immortalize his image—his gargoyle image—in stone and set it on one of the human churches. He thought this was the height of hilarity.”

  “It is kind of funny,” I admitted.

  “It became all the rage.” Slate rolled his eyes. “Every gargoyle wanted their face on a building. Some became stone masons just to accomplish this, others commissioned working masons to do it for them. Soon, our images were everywhere.”

  “That's why no two are alike,” I said in revelation.

  “Precisely.” He w
aved his hand to me in acknowledgment. “They are modeled after real gargoyles.”

  “Slate,” a man interrupted us.

  I glanced up to see the loup Slate had pointed out earlier; Quintan Gareth.

  “Quintan.” Slate shook hands with the werewolf. “This is my girlfriend, Elaria.”

  “I've heard a lot about you, Elaria,” Quintan said as he shook my hand. “I haven't made it to the arena to see if they're true yet. Will you be fighting tonight?”

  “I've removed her from the roster,” Slate said before I could answer. “I refuse to risk her any further.”

  “Wise.” Quintan looked me over. “One should never gamble with priceless treasure.”

  I nearly rolled my eyes. Instead, I managed a polite smile.

  “But it's a shame I won't get to see you in action,” he went on.

  “You can still hear me sing at the Quarry,” I offered. “When will I be singing next, darling?” I looked at Slate with a bright, fake grin.

  Slate smirked. “Tonight, sweetheart.” He took my hand and kissed it. “We wouldn't want to disappoint your fans.”

  “Of course not.” I barely hid my sarcasm.

  “I'll see you at the Quarry then,” Quintan promised. Then he nodded respectfully to Slate. “Enjoy your meal.”

  “Perhaps you could behave yourself tonight.” Slate gave me a dubious look; as if he didn't think it was possible.

  “No leaping on tables and chopping off heads?” I asked with a pout.

  Slate burst into laughter and the others diners stared at him curiously. He ignored them completely; his eyes twinkling long after his laughter faded.

  “Leave the chopping of heads to Cerberus,” he finally said. “Come on; I actually have some business to attend to before we head back.”

  Slate tossed some cash on the table as he stood and then held a hand out to me. He was smiling down at me as we walked out; I could feel it even though I refused to look up and confirm it. We passed the host station and the shadow of the entry arch crept over us; a tunnel of stone several feet long. The scent of the flowers hanging there was like a sweet slap in the face. I finally glanced up at Slate. His gaze glinted silver, his lips softened, and his hand slid to my back. His touch was warm; in contrast to the chill of the shadows, it made me shiver. Slate's smile widened. He leaned closer. Too close. I should pull away. But those eyes. Something was tickling the inside of my chest; urging me to look deeper.

  A screech of tires caught Slate's attention; his gaze flicking toward the street. His eyes widened, and he suddenly yanked me against his chest; turning me toward the rock wall as the rat-tat-tat-tat of an automatic rifle went off. I felt a sting in my thigh that escalated to a burning. Slate jerked against me as if he'd been pushed. I knew he was being hit, but he remained where he was; between danger and me. Then the stone wall of the entryway was shifting around us; sliding together to form a shield.

  Our breath was harsh in the sudden silence, and then people started screaming. Slate slumped and then was pulled off me, but his hand reached out, and I took it anxiously. We held tight to each other as people crowded around us. There was so much talking.

  “What happened?”

  “Gunfire? Who could possibly get guns into the Zone?”

  “Where are the healers?”

  “She's already healing.”

  “He's not; someone get a fucking healer!”

  I pushed the helping hands aside with my free hand and moved closer to Slate. He was lying in a puddle of blood that was rapidly growing, but I couldn't see any wounds; they must have all been in his back. His lips were pressed together and there were lines of strain around his eyes like cracks in stone. But that silver stare was focused on me; looking me over for injuries. I squeezed his hand to let him know that I was all right.

  “Slate, turn off my collar,” I said urgently. “I can heal you with a song. Turn it off.”

  “You're not getting away that easily, Spellsinger,” he ground out.

  “Stubborn ass!” I hissed. “Just—”

  “Make way!” A woman shouted.

  She was blonde, stunningly beautiful, and stacked. Her clear, blue eyes went round in horror when she saw Slate.

  “Slate!” She slid onto her knees; breaking our grip. Her perfect white dress instantly started soaking up Slate's blood. “I'm here now, love,” she declared as she dug into a huge bag. “You're going to be fine.”

  The blonde pulled out a small vial, opened it, and held it to Slate's lips. An herbal, astringent scent wrinkled my nose. Slate scowled but drank it all, and she stroked his cheek adoringly as he did. Then she started to chant.

  “A witch,” I whispered.

  I stared at her face but I didn't recognize her. I didn't know every witch, but most of them knew my father. Maybe I could... was I seriously plotting my escape while Slate laid there bleeding from saving my life?

  Fuck yes, I was.

  I waited for the witch to heal Slate first, of course. I wasn't the heartless monster he thought I was. Her hands moved over him as she chanted, and then she cupped them above his chest. Six bullets appeared in her palm. Six. Fuck me; he'd taken six bullets for me.

  She cast the metal aside while she continued to chant. Slate trembled; his body forced to heal much faster than it could on its own. It was disconcerting to see him like that; to know that a few bullets could kill the powerful Zone Lord. But immortal didn't mean indestructible nor did it mean instantaneous healing. I knew that better than most. So, when color returned to Slate's cheeks, and he closed his eyes in relief, I found myself relaxing as well. He'd live. Six fucking bullets and he was going to live. Good. Now, how did I do this subtly?

  “I'm Robert Scorcher's daughter,” I whispered into the blonde's ear. “Do you know him?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes widened, and she moved as if to turn to me.

  “Don't look at me; just listen,” I hissed. “I'm being held here against my will. Can you tell my father where I am?”

  She looked down at Slate; eyes still closed as he healed. Her hand was laid over his on his chest. The steady rise and fall of his breaths lifted their touching, but not holding, hands. She made the tiniest nod.

  “Thank you.” I pressed a grateful hand against her back. “Tell him to talk to my consorts about a rescue.”

  I didn't want to give her too much information about the rescue my men were already planning, just in case she betrayed me. And maybe I should have just trusted that my guys could free me on their own, but I was raised to take no chances. I needed all the help I could get to escape the Zone and its lord.

  The witch turned to look at me; noting the way my thigh wound was knitting together and then glancing down to see the bullet my body had expelled. A single bullet while she had pulled several out of Slate. She looked back at Slate. It was obvious what he'd done for me; I had one wound and he had several in his back. Her gaze narrowed and her lips pursed. She glanced back at me again and nodded more firmly. Oh, yes; she had more than one reason to help me.

  “Slate,” the witch said softly as she leaned over him; pressing her breasts against his arm. “How are you feeling, darling?”

  Of course, she called him darling. I rolled my eyes.

  Slate took a deep breath and opened his eyes. He instantly looked over her shoulder and zeroed in on me. Even though I'd assured him before, his gaze was worried. I nodded to him; I'm fine. Then he looked at the blonde. She didn't like that one bit. Her lips pursed together, and she slid her hand—tipped in long, red nails—over his chest.

  “You should be feeling more powerful than ever,” she went on. “The reviving potion combined with my magic will not only heal but also strengthen you.”

  “Thank you, Eleanor, I won't forget your timely assistance,” Slate said as he sat up. He flexed his shoulders and then his neck before he smiled at her. “I do feel incredible.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, but his gaze shifted to mine. There was something in his eyes that worried me. But
when he sat back, he was staring at Eleanor again. “You're an angel.”

  Eleanor blushed. She was about to say more, but Slate stood and reached a hand out to her... and to me. We both took his hands, and he helped us to our feet just as the earth started to shake beneath us.

  I reached out to steady myself against the wall. Eleanor reached for Slate. But he didn't see her. Slate was too busy pushing me flat against the wall; covering me again. His solid, rejuvenated body flexed over mine like a living shield. Even his head bent over mine. Rocks tumbled around us along with flower petals and leaves. The scent of soil and blossoms filled the air. People screamed and cars crashed into each other on the other side of Slate's stone barricade. Above it all rose the sound of breaking glass. It was a symphony of destruction.