Macabre Melody: Book 7 in the Spellsinger Series

by Amy Sumida

  He sat back in his tufted leather chair, and it felt as if his presence expanded. This man knew how to fill a room. Behind him, the Zone glittered with softened lights. I guess they needed a way to tell night from day.

  “No,” he said.

  “No?” I asked in shock. “You're seriously turning down a chance to double your money?”

  “No; I won't release her, but I will let you fight on her behalf,” he amended. “I'll keep her to ensure that you keep your part of the bargain.”

  “What's your name?” I asked instead of accepting. “I'd like to know who I'm dealing with.”

  His eyes flashed. All Gargoyles had gray eyes; the shade differed, but they were always as gray as the stone they manipulated. This was the first one I'd met with silver. I looked closer. Not just silver; there was a dark gray ring around them, keeping his irises from bleeding into the whites. Even that ring was an unusual shade; not marble, more like—

  “Slate Devon,” he said.

  Yep, that was it; slate gray.

  “If you ever forget, look to your nightmares; I'm sure you'll find me there.”

  I laughed boisterously. Oh, that was a grand line. I wondered if he practiced it in a mirror. Look to your nightmares indeed. I chortled. I chuckled. I nearly got a stitch in my side.

  Jago flinched. Slate narrowed his eyes at me.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I asked when I finally stopped laughing. “Please. The only reason you have any power over me is that some asshole was able to tranquilize me and get this thing on my neck before I woke up. This metal is all that stands between you and utter annihilation, Slate Devon,” I growled his name. “You had best pray it holds or it's I who shall become your greatest nightmare.”

  “Yes; I'm sure you'd give it a go.” Slate's lips twitched at the corners. “But I'm not so easy to annihilate or intimidate, Elaria. The only thing between you and utter annihilation is your voice, and I've taken that.” He lifted a tiny remote. “Now, do you accept my counter offer, or not?”

  “I accept.” My eyes strayed to that remote; doubtless, it was the switch for my collar. “And you can be damn sure I'll remember your name. I like to keep a list of the people I plan on killing.”

  “Step out of line and the girl is dead,” he said coolly; as if he were talking about what he was going to have for dinner.

  Slate's head angled and the overhead light caught in his silver stare. For a moment I had the surreal feeling that he wasn't real; eyes like that belong on an android. Something with the appearance of life but without a soul. Without a heart.

  “Understood,” I said in the same tone he'd used.

  Slate nodded; first to me and then to Jago. Jago turned me around roughly and started leading me out of the room with a hand at my shoulder.

  “And don't think that you've escaped punishment for that salute you gave me this morning,” Slate's voice followed me out. “You'll have a special surprise waiting for you in the arena tomorrow.”

  I wasn't worried about his surprise, but that bargain I'd made was worrisome; it showed my hand. My weakness. That being said, it may have been the only way to keep the girl alive.

  “You got balls the size of Kansas, woman,” Jago muttered as he led me downstairs.

  Kansas. I nearly sighed when I heard the word. Banning would be frantic by now. All of them would be. Could they find me down there; past miles of stone and wards that even I couldn't pierce? I had to get word to them somehow. Kyanite! Darc was King of Kyanite now. That meant Ky could take him a message for me. Hell, knowing my stone, he already had.

  I began to smile. Slate Devon had no idea what kind of nightmares he'd be having... while still awake.

  Chapter Eight

  The next day, I fought trolls. Two of them. At the same time. I hadn't specified when I'd fight the girl's battles, and Slate had used that against me; bundling them with mine. I guess that was my punishment for flipping him off. Fucker. Honestly, I preferred it this way; it meant that I only had to go out and face that wild crowd once a day instead of giving them two shows. Word had spread that the Gargoyles had a spellsinger fighter and the stands were packed.

  The problem wasn't that there were two trolls. It was that I'd promised Slate a show and in order to draw out the fight, I had to stay out of my opponent's grasp. That meant running and evading while I sang. Luckily, I was faster than trolls—very few people weren't faster than trolls—and I killed them with a great flourish. But if Slate ever pit me against something I couldn't outrun, I wasn't going to drag it out. I'd take my enemy down before they made it across the arena.

  My luck held for four days. Every match was watched closely by the Zone Lord, and I was true to my word; making them all entertaining. I burned beneathers. I drowned them. I broke their bones. I became a monster to save that little girl, and I'd do it all over again in a fucking heartbeat. Some things are worth turning evil, and I had a lot to make up for. Not just in failing the Sasq'ets but in all I'd done to the Shining Ones when I was Faenestra. There, in the sand and the blood, beneath a stone sky, and under the chilling gaze of a gargoyle zone lord, I started to feel redeemed.

  Kyanite spoke to me as I fought; conveying messages back and forth between my men and me. They couldn't find the zone I was being held in (there were hundreds all over the world), but at least they knew what was happening to me and that I was still alive. I told them that I was fine; I was winning and as long as I continued to make Slate money, he'd continue to let me live. They were worried, of course, but it was better than being in the dark. At least this way, they could work toward freeing me.

  I had hoped that Slate's name might give them a clue on where to find me, but the Zone Lords were fiercely protected, and although my guys were able to confirm that there was a lord named Slate Devon, they weren't able to discover which zone he ran. They'd finally given up on pinpointing it and decided to just infiltrate every zone until they found me. Tedious, but it would have worked.

  Except the Gargoyles wouldn't let my lovers in. That fucker Devon must have alerted every zone that my men were looking for me. How he knew who to warn them against was baffling and terribly troublesome. Slate Devon must have done his research.

  It didn't matter. Jago told me that if I kept winning fights, in six months, I'd also win my freedom. One week down; twenty-three to go. I know; it was a long stint, but it was better than forever. Through rescue or victory, I'd get free of that damn zone. And I'd fucking obliterate the arena on my way out.

  “It's that time again,” Jago said merrily at my cell window.

  It was the same cell I'd started out in. Every comfort I won, I gave to the Sasq'et girl. Cer wasn't across from me anymore; he'd been winning every battle he fought and had taken the upgrades. He was probably across from the girl now. I hoped so; one of us needed to keep an eye on her.

  I was glad Cer was more comfortable, but I missed having him to talk to. The only conversation I had now was with Jago when he came to walk me to the arena, and with the beneathers I killed. Which was fucking depressing.

  “Am I fighting one or two today?” I asked Jago as we ambled toward the arena.

  He just smirked at me.

  “Come on, give me a hint,” I cajoled.

  “You're up against one challenger, but she's special.”

  “A woman?” I asked in surprise. This would be the first female I fought in the arena.

  “Yep.”

  “Thanks for being so forthcoming,” I said dryly.

  Jago laughed as he shoved me into the arena. The gate rumbled down behind me, and the crowd cheered. I was becoming one of their favorites, though I'd heard that a certain three-headed dog was right up there beside me.

  Then everyone went quiet; all eyes turning to the other end of the arena.

  “Fuck,” I whispered.

  The woman wore a simple cotton dress; no armor and no weapons. Like me, she was the weapon. Or her hair was, rather. The woman who was smiling at me softly, as if we could
be friends, was a gorgon. Nope; there was no way I'd braid that hair while we talked about boys.

  Tiny snakes slithered around her face and shoulders; their sinuous green bodies catching the light like jewels. They tumbled halfway down her back but most of them kept curling up on themselves and shortening their length. From a distance, it looked as if someone kept pulling on her curls. The rest of her was average; her face, her body, even the color of her skin was something between tan and pale. But all she needed to draw attention to herself were those snakes.

  “What a treat!” The male announcer shouted. “A gorgon versus a spellsinger. We have a regular catfight about to happen.”

  The female announcer grimaced at the man. “Or we finally have an evenly matched fight,” she added.

  The women in the crowd cheered. That's right; us girls could be even more deadly than men sometimes.

  I got something prepared, Kyanite said as soon as my collar was shut off.

  “There you are,” I muttered in relief. “Hey, anything from the guys?”

  No progress yet. Hang in there, my love. They won't give up on you.

  “As if there's anything else I can do,” I grumbled.

  Focus! A gorgon is not a joke!

  “I know, I know.”

  Gorgons could turn people to stone—a power that probably gave Slate a raging hard-on—but you had to make eye contact with them first. It was something about the snake magic; instead of charming them, they charmed you. There was an easy defense against it; you simply closed your eyes. Of course, then you couldn't see her coming, and those snakes didn't just stare, they also bit. With poisonous venom.

  Just sing, Elaria; I will watch her for you.

  “You can do that?”

  I am here with you, my love. We will fight this battle together. Trust me.

  “I trust you, Ky. What are we singing?”

  I could feel his pride. Kyanite loved it when I said we and on top of that, I was trusting him as I would no other.

  “Gods of War” by Celeste Buckingham. I assume you are familiar?

  “You know I know it. Just start the intro already.”

  I couldn't attack before the announcers gave the word, but Jago told me I could start my songs; it was the same as stretching my muscles and warming up.

  The music was dramatic; a deep, pounding grind. Kyanite drew out the intro until the announcers shouted for us to fight. Then I closed my eyes and began to sing.

  The crowd gasped. The magic rose inside me. The pound of gorgon feet was a gentle vibration through the sand; I may not have felt it if the audience hadn't been so still. I pushed even that little sensation of the gorgon away; trusting in Kyanite as I concentrated on my magic. The song was a soft drawl, winding itself around and around with words that belied its tone. The magic lashed out, and I felt it connect. The Gorgon gasped; the sound closer than I expected.

  Dodge left!

  I jerked to the left and felt a movement of air beside me. I wondered if she'd make another lunge but she didn't. It was too late for her; my magic had her. She'd had one chance to startle me into opening my eyes and had failed. My spell seeped into her skin with my bold declaration; I was a goddess and even without the power I'd once possessed, I would rule. Blood. Fire. Death. These were my friends, my brothers in arms, and I knew them well. Kneel, bitch.

  My song went on long after the gorgon stopped screaming. I wanted to be certain that she was dead before I risked a look. When I opened my eyes, I saw her burning corpse laying beside me. Her snakes were blackened cords around her face and neck. The scent of roasting meat filled my nose, but I kept singing. I promised Slate I'd make every match entertaining after all. So, I sang as her corpse cracked open and the ashes started to blow away. I had to be sure that this gorgon hadn't died for nothing. She died for a little Sasq'et girl with flowers in her fur. Fair trade in my opinion.

  I turned in a circle—my arms out wide—and sang to the crowd. Every eye was on me, every face filled with wonder. The lyrics proclaimed my victory and dominance despite the collar I wore. I let the power of that fill me even though it couldn't seep past the ward to impress them. I didn't need to spellsing to amaze these beneathers. They all listened to my song raptly, and when I finished, they applauded like humans at a concert.

  Shit, maybe I was Russel Crowe. Nah; I was far more than a gladiator.

  I took a bow and then saluted Slate; a real salute this time. I, who have just killed for your entertainment, salute you. He bowed to me mockingly.

  Chapter Nine

  “Take it to the—”

  “The girl,” Jago finished for me. “I know, I know. She already has your damn dinner.”

  I lifted my brow at that.

  “I don't get you,” he grumbled. “You're a fucking bloodthirsty bitch in the arena and then you come back here and give your dinner to a kid.”

  “I'm a bloodthirsty bitch to save that kid,” I snapped. “Haven't you ever fought for someone other than yourself?”

  He scowled at me. “The boss wants to see you.”

  “I haven't showered.” I smirked. “I don't want to offend his delicate sensibilities. He looks a little metrosexual.” I flopped my hand loosely. “You know what I mean?”

  Jago burst out laughing and looked over his shoulder. “Oh, I hope you heard all that, Boss.”

  I followed his gaze, but I couldn't see the camera he was obviously talking to. Great; not only were there cameras I could see, but there were also some that I couldn't.

  “Is he seriously up there listening to every conversation we have?” I gave Jago a disgusted look.

  “Fuck if I know.” Jago shrugged. “He can't be watching everyone all the time—he's not that good—but he always seems to know the shit he needs to know. You know?”

  I blinked at him and said dryly, “That's a lot of knowing going on.”

  “Yeah; it's like playing Russian Roulette with cameras,” he went on. “Best to just keep yourself in line and outta firing range, you catch?”

  “Whatever.” I sighed.

  “Come on.” Jago started walking away but stopped when he realized I wasn't following. “What the hell?”

  “I don't feel like it.”

  “Don't make me get out my bug zapper,” he growled. “Get the fuck over here.”

  I sighed deeply and started following Jago. At least he didn't grab my arm anymore. He escorted me out of the cells and straight to Slate's office, but he didn't stop there. Jago opened the door on the left and went down a hallway to the second door on the left. The right side was all windows; a continuation of the ones in the office.

  I followed Jago into an opulent dining room. My dirty boots crushed sand into the crimson wool rug as we walked to the end of a mahogany dining set that could seat twenty. A priceless vase sat in the center of the table; no flowers in it, it was decoration enough. I noted its reflection in the polished wood and followed its hazy length to the watery image of the man seated at the head of the table. Slate Devon.

  I wanted to punch his smug face.

  Except it wasn't looking so smug tonight. Slate's reflection had been warped; making him appear cold and jaded. When I looked up at the man himself, he was more pensive than pompous. There were lines of strain around his eyes and his lips kept pressing together as if he didn't trust himself to speak. The silver in his gaze caught the gleam of the Art Deco wall sconces and in the warm light, they softened to honey. Slate smoothed a hand through his thick hair, and I realized that its color matched the table; a rich, auburn-brown.

  “Sit down, Elaria.” Slate waved a hand at the seat on his left. “You can go, Jago. I'll take her back myself.”

  Jago gave me a warning look as he shoved me into the seat and then booked it out of there. I scowled from his departing back to Slate's face. He wasn't looking at me; too busy passing me a plate of food. I glanced down as it was set before me; lamb smothered in demi-glace, mashed potatoes and butter, and sauteed vegetables cut into fancy shapes. Wh
at the hell?

  “Eat,” he said crisply.

  “You don't have to tell me twice.” I set to work on the food. Days of only bread and water had taken their toll. “Hold on.” My fork hovered above the fancy china. “This doesn't mean that the girl isn't eating, does it?”

  “Cease this ridiculous fiction!” Slate snapped; his eyes narrowing on me.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You can't possibly give a fuck about that girl,” he snarled.

  “Is she eating or not?”

  “She's had her champion's meal an hour ago,” Slate growled. “Eat the fucking food.”

  I scooped a spoonful of potatoes in my mouth and watched him as I ate it. What the hell was his problem?

  “Are you going to tell me why you're pretending to care about a sasquatch?” He snapped. “What's your angle?”

  “They prefer 'sasq'et,'” my voice was even and low; the angrier he got, the calmer I'd become. “And why exactly would I pretend?”

  “That's my question.” Slate leaned forward and stared hard at me.

  “What do you care?” I cocked my head at him. “We made a bargain, and I'm keeping my end of it; I'm filling your damn seats. What does it matter to you how I feel about the girl?”

  “Do you even know her name?” Slate asked.

  “No; I never had time to ask.” I chewed my lamb. “I was too busy trying to save her from the dickhead who grabbed us.”

  “That would be one of my men,” Slate murmured as he watched me. “A hunter.”

  “Hunter,” I scoffed. “He's a fucking coward who had better pray that I never find out his name.”

  “He was acting on my orders; so you have your name. But you're a little tied up at the moment to cross it off your killing list.” Slate leaned back in his chair and waved at my collar. “Can't do much of anything to anyone.”