Doppelganger Dirge: A Musical Paranormal Reverse Harem Romance (Spellsinger Book 11)

by Amy Sumida

  Around us, the other gargoyles added their magic to the mix. I felt it wind through ours, collect in the air before us, and dive into the water. Freezing air hit me—a blast of arctic wind—but Slate's hand was warm in mine and his heat called to my fire. Together, we drove the cold away. The chant crested, and I pushed more magic into Slate. I don't know what he did precisely, I only gave him what he needed to accomplish it, but I felt it when the spell broke.

  The water gushed outward and slapped the stone. It settled but not into perfect stillness. The surface now stirred normally, rippling with air currents. And deep within it, Gargo's body sank, no longer held aloft by magic. It hit bottom and the water trembled from the vibration. I let go of my magic and the drums faded away with my falling vocals. Energy dispersed around us with a mineral scent.

  A shiver of dread sliced through my chest as I suddenly comprehended the danger. Gargo may have sensed the spell breaking and without magic imprisoning him, he could easily flow back into his body and emerge. He didn't need my blood nor did he need to control the Beneath. He simply needed to return before we killed him. We may have just granted the god's wish.

  “Hurry!” I shouted, breaking the peaceful silence. “If Gargo senses that his body is free, he'll return to it!”

  The dragons dove into the water, slicing through it rapidly now that the ward was gone. The rest of us watched anxiously. Darc stretched his hand out, ready to assist, but it only took seconds for the dragons to reach Gargo's body and take it in hand; or claw, rather. This time, nothing stopped them; they broke the surface with ease. The Gargoyles, including Slate, shifted and ran forward to help pull the god's body out of the water. Within minutes, the massive form of the Gargoyle God laid on dry land for the first time in millennia.

  “Stand back!” Declan shouted.

  Our plan was for Declan to manifest an enormous guillotine to remove Gargo's head. Yes, it sounds a bit dramatic. We could have simply gone with a massive machete or a cleaver or something like that, but we wanted to do it right, and Declan could create anything. Go big or go home.

  We jumped back as Declan manifested the old-school killing machine, forming it around Gargo's neck. As Declan raised his hand to release the blade, the tension in my chest constricted. Two seconds and it would be over. The blade started to fall. Light caught the edge and made me blink.

  In the second between closing my eyes and opening them, a monstrous claw had twitched and caught the blade.

  I sucked in a startled breath as Gargo roared and tore apart the guillotine. The dragons shot forward, each of them latching onto a slate-gray limb with their powerful jaws. Gargo was pulled taut and brought down to lay spread-eagle on the earth, his muscles bulging as he strained against the hold. He roared again and the zone vibrated around us. Gargoyles lifted their claws, preparing to counter their god's magic but no magic came. Gargo only reacted physically, thrashing about and waving dragons through the air like dancing ribbons above him.

  Triteia launched herself at Gargo's face, hands extended into claws, and clung to one of his horns with one hand as she tore at his eyes with the other. Gargo lifted his arm and smacked the Blue Dragon into Triteia over and over until she went limp and tumbled to the ground. A gargoyle swept in and scooped her up, carrying her to safety before Gargo could squish her with a toss of his head.

  The Blue Dragon—King Verin—snarled around Gargo's wrist and brought his hind legs up to rend the enormous forearm. Magic crackled along the flame-colored whiskers and sizzled Gargo's flesh wherever they hit. The other dragons enacted similar maneuvers and blood began to soak the barren soil. But every cut healed in moments. The Lóng were fighting a useless battle.

  Then Gargo jolted up onto his feet with an echoing roar.

  Sing, Elaria! Kyanite shouted.

  The tickling piano of “The Dismemberment Song” by Blue Kid jingled to life around me. If things hadn't been so dire, I would have laughed at the silly perfection of Kyanite's choice. The very first words were exactly what we needed and with my magic still settling from my last song, it rose quickly to infuse that line with power. In a sugary voice, I commanded Gargo to stop fighting; be still so we can slice you into pieces. Don't worry, darling, this won't hurt a bit... not me, at least.

  Gargo whimpered, his burning stare flying to me as if sensing where this new attacked stemmed from. But there was no recognition within those eyes. Nor any of his usual venom. That's when it all fell into place, and I realized with a jolt that Gargo wasn't there. Gargo hadn't sensed his freedom and returned. Or perhaps he had, but he couldn't leave Poseidon's body without losing control of it and didn't want to risk it. Whatever the case may be, this was merely the automatic flailing of an empty shell; alive but not conscious and devoid of magic beyond the healing immortality that was wedded to its flesh. A knee-jerk reflex, Gargo's body was reacting to danger. Striking out blindly at pain. We had hit his knee with our magic rubber hammer and now, he was kicking.

  Which meant that we had a chance.

  Slices appeared over Gargo's body as my song seeped into the thick, gray flesh and began to split it apart. The body thrashed and managed to free an arm from the White Dragon's jaws, but shortly afterward, the hand on that arm tore away on its own and fell into the water with a huge splash. Gargo's body trembled and tumbled to its knees. Horrible screeches and moans came from its curled lips as I continued to sing.

  “Stand back!” Declan shouted again.

  Everyone backed away from the body, the dragons releasing their hold to dart aside as well, and a giant ax appeared above the body's throat. The ax came down as my song crested, and Gargo's beloved physical form flew apart in hundreds of pieces, one of those being his head. Blood gushed from the giant wounds, sinking into the soil and pouring over the edge of the chasm to stain the water. I backpedaled from the crimson puddle that rushed toward my feet.

  How fitting that I should see Gargo's blood flood this ground after I had spilled so much of mine for him.

  “Do you have the strength for one more song, Spellsinger?” King Verin asked in a challenging tone. “Burning would be the best way to dispose of the body.”

  A grin spread over my face.

  Chapter Thirty

  Slate didn't want his zone filled with god-corpse smoke so we had to transport the pieces up to the surface before I used my Goddess fire to incinerate them. Acquiring some of those pieces required swimming, which, thankfully, the dragons did for us. It was a much longer process than killing the thing had been. By the time we were done, my magic and my stamina were withering. I didn't even want to travel back to Kyanite. So, Slate shared our palace for the first time and invited not only my other men but also Cerberus, Triteia, and the Dragon Kings to spend the night.

  I wish I had been awake enough to appreciate the astonishment on the faces of our guests when we entered the crystal palace, but I was so sleepy that Slate had to carry me upstairs and help me into a bath. He would have put me directly to bed, but I insisted that after dismembering and incinerating a god, I needed to bathe.

  I sat in the hot water with my head lolled back on Slate's chest as he cradled me. A sponge moved languidly over my body, trailing down from my throat and across my chest, held in his strong hand. I was already clean, but Slate continued to bathe me; an action that made both of us happy. I sighed and trailed my heavy-lidded gaze over the rim of the crystal tub to the gold shelf cradling it. Crystal bottles filled with jewel-toned liquids gathered beside bowls of natural sea sponges and fluffy piles of towels and washcloths. A delicate floral scent teased my nose; telaine flowers from the Zurui Realm. Nothing but the best in Slate's home.

  “So, your bad feeling was right,” I murmured.

  “It would seem so,” Slate's voice was lower than usual and softer.

  I glanced up and over my shoulder at him. Slate's silver stare ignited and the sponge fell away as his hand slid down to my breast. I lifted my head, and he met me partway, a groan vibrating from him and into me. Fing
ers clenched then moved lower. I sighed into our kiss but pulled away regretfully.

  “I'm so tired, baby,” I whispered.

  “Don't worry, you won't have to lift a finger.” Slate grinned at me as he stood, lifting me out of the water with him.

  Water sluiced from our bodies as Slate stepped from the tub. He set me on my feet and snatched up a towel to briskly rub me dry. He even wrapped my hair before he got a fresh towel to dry himself. I twisted the towel into a turban and grinned at him as he flung his aside and scooped me up again.

  Slate strode into the bedroom with me cradled in his arms. In the center of the magnificent space, a massive bed rose like something from a fantasy. Shards of clear quartz formed the frame, rising into pointed columns as wide as my thighs; taller ones for the headboard and smaller ones for the foot. Between the two collections of crystal points, the stone had been cut away and polished, leaving just enough of a rim to hold the mattress in place. A white fur blanket covered the mattress and Slate laid me upon it.

  “Oh, hell no,” I muttered as I rolled off the bed.

  “What's wrong?” Slate gaped at me.

  “I'm not having sex on fur; it'll get everywhere. Especially in my mouth. I do not want to be spitting out fur all night.”

  Slate chuckled. “Fair enough.”

  He flung back the fur and revealed the fuzzy sheets beneath, also in white. I ran my hand over the thick pile and lifted a brow at my boyfriend.

  “Is this a blanket or a sheet?”

  “It's a sheet,” he assured me as he slid onto the bed. “They're from Paduur, and I assure you, they do not shed.”

  “Loups make linens?” I asked as I slipped back onto the bed. Then I sighed. “Sweet stones, this feels amazing.”

  “Right?” Slate asked me as he pulled me close. “Now, lay back and relax, sweetheart.”

  Slate massaged the towel over my hair then drew it away. I slipped my damp hair over the edge of the pillow and settled into the softness of Slate's bed. Our bed. My gargoyle grinned wickedly, looking a little sinister with his dark hair slicked back from the chiseled angles of his face. He eased his body between my legs and settled onto his forearms above me.

  “I love you, Spellsinger,” he murmured, his eyes gone serious.

  “I love you too, Zone Lord.” I smiled softly and stroked the slope of his cheek. “We did good today.”

  “We did. Together,” he agreed before he kissed me.

  The kiss seeped into my chest and kindled something. Under the pressure of Slate's gentle lips and the lashing of his tongue, a fire ignited. I moaned and arched upward as my arms went around his shoulders. Slate smiled against my lips and pulled away.

  “I thought you were tired?” He asked with a twinkle in his eye.

  “I thought so too.” I nibbled his ear and whispered, “I guess I was wrong. It happens on rare occasions.”

  Before he could respond, I surged up and flipped him onto his back. Slate's eyes went wide as I straddled him. He growled, his hands going to my hips to pull me into position, and I eagerly moved with him, reaching between us to guide him home. With the first plunge, we both sighed in bliss but then desire flared, and I started riding him faster and faster.

  The past few days flashed through my mind, bringing up the fear and stress I'd been repressing. I set them free with my hips and hands and sex, pushing them out of me with passion. Slate's lips parted, fangs bared, and his grip tightened, pulling me down upon him harder. Then, suddenly, he snarled.

  “Fuck!” Slate flipped me onto my back, moving my legs up around his waist. “I'm sorry, but I can't take one more second of your hair dripping onto my balls.”

  I laughed, deep and wild, and Slate shivered.

  “Damn, I should make you laugh more when we have sex,” Slate announced as he lowered himself over me. “Your body does this rippling clench that sends shivers up my spine.”

  “You may attempt to amuse me all you want, Zone Lord,” I declared generously. “But no tickling.”

  “I promise; no tickling.” He nuzzled my nose then lifted his head to stare at me mischievously. “What about biting?”

  “Go ahead and bite, but I doubt it'll make me laugh.”

  “Ah, but I didn't tell you where I'd bite you.” Slate ducked his head into my armpit.

  “Hey!” I laughed again as he nibbled me beneath my arm. “Stop that! That tickles. I told you; no tickling!”

  “Oh, but I can't stop,” he groaned and thrust deeper. “You feel too good, my laughing lady.” He nibbled the underside of my breast, and I giggled more. “Oh, fuck. Yes, just like that. Keep laughing, sweetheart.”

  Slate's hips surged faster against me and the pleasure rose up my belly to meet the zinging of his nibbling bites. Once those two sensations collided, there was no more laughter to be had. My humor evaporated into a different delight and no matter how hard my gargoyle tried, he couldn't make me laugh again. So, he gave up and focused on making me scream.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” King Reihar said to Slate the next morning at breakfast.

  Slate didn't keep the palace staffed so he had breakfast delivered from one of the Zone restaurants. We sat together in the dining room, at a mahogany table placed in front of a window that overlooked the gardens Slate had just begun construction on. The room was done in shades of red; crimson curtains, a ruby carpet so dark it was nearly black, and walls of polished garnet. Slate had heard that red stimulates the appetite and may have gotten a little carried away with it. Amid this crimson color scheme, a crystal chandelier hung, illuminating the fine carvings of the furniture, including a sideboard whose top was held up by snarling Gargoyles. It stood along one wall, take-out platters littering its surface.

  “It's my pleasure,” Slate said. “You've given my home the prestige of having you as its first guests.”

  “We're the first guests?” King Zhavage asked in surprise.

  “I've only recently built this palace for Elaria,” Slate admitted with a warm glance at me. Then he waved a hand toward the window. “As you can see, the grounds are still under construction.”

  “Then we are honored.” King Finshen bent his head respectfully. “But now that the body is destroyed, we must get on with the business of evicting the soul.”

  “The meeting will be in a few hours,” Darc informed them. We've decided to hold it here due to the safety and the secrecy the Zone offers. The other races have agreed to send their representatives again.”

  “I'd be happy to take you on a tour of the Zone before the meeting,” Slate offered.

  “That would be most appreciated,” King Zhavage said with an eager glance at the other kings.

  They all nodded in agreement. Even Verin, who'd been staring at me strangely throughout breakfast. I had studiously ignored his looks, refusing to let him get to me. Not today, Dragon!

  “While you do that, Darc and I will go to Tír na nÓg and speak with the Water Fey,” I told Slate.

  “Oh, yes!” Zhavage declared. “I recall you mentioning that you were allies. Water Fairies; how delightful. I can't wait to meet one.”

  Verin grunted/growled noncommittally. I couldn't tell if that meant he was eager as well or annoyed. What annoyed me was how sexy he looked in his new clothes. He had rolled up the sleeves of his charcoal button-down, showcasing corded forearms, and left the top button undone to give glimpses of his golden, sculpted chest. The shop owner who had brought the clothing by this morning—at Slate's request and expense—must have shown Verin how to wear it. There was no way the undersea dragon could have known how to style a modern garment. Then again; he did mention cable. I'd thought he was joking but after the discussion about art and music, I should probably reconsider. Perhaps the Lóng were better suited to the modern, surface world than I gave them credit for.

  “Will you need a breathing potion?” Declan asked me. “Or will you sing?”

  “Hmm?” I blinked, tearing my thoughts awa
y from sharp-dressing dragons.

  “A breathing potion?” Zhavage asked with a lifted brow.

  “The Shining Ones make a potion that, once consumed, will allow a person to breathe underwater for up to eight hours,” I explained, catching up quickly but earning some narrow-eyed looks from my men for my distraction. “The first breath of air negates the effects.”

  “Remarkable,” Verin murmured.

  Why were his eyes so unsettling? They ranged from that icy aquamarine—very close to Slate's silver—to their current gleaming turquoise. I watched them lower to focus on my lips as I spoke. And that was why they unsettled me; they couldn't decide whether to be cruel or covetous. Damn it all! What happened to ignoring him, Elaria? I firmly looked away.