by Mary Weber
“What?”
They both just smile as the airship starts up its engines, and I pull Rasha to me one last time for a hug. “You’re a good person too,” I whisper.
“Well, this is touching, but it’s clearly time for you to go,” Myles says. “So sad. We’ll miss you. Now get out of here.”
I turn on the man who is looking refreshingly like his old self these days, minus a bit of weight and his creepy obsession with hissing. And his blackened hands. Apparently the dark power within him dissolved along with Draewulf. How exactly, no one seems to know. Rasha’s theory is that because it originated from Draewulf’s early experiments—and then his wife’s later ones—the minute they both were dead, the power died off with them.
I watch him actually extend Eogan a hug as he, too, winks at me.
“The door is always open.” Sedric lifts his hand to grasp mine.
I grin. “In that case I suggest you find a wife and start filling the vacancy.”
“Good advice.” He laughs. “Maybe one of these days.”
I squeeze his hand and give a small curtsy.
“Please don’t do that,” Sedric says with sincerity in his eyes. “Or I’ll have to start doing the same to you.”
I smile, then swallow. And look again at Myles, whom I’ve saved my last embrace for. Except he’s not looking at me or Eogan or even King Sedric. He’s looking at Rasha.
I frown, until it occurs to me she’s looking right back at him.
I’m awkwardly aware I’ve no idea what happened between them this week other than Myles has been standing noticeably straighter, taller, and if I think about it, I could swear there’s even been a dignified air about him.
He continues staring at Rasha with the strangest expression until I clear my throat. “I guess I should be going?”
He jerks his gaze my direction, and it’s as if his mask goes back on even as he turns the slightest shade of red. I raise a brow and look at Rasha, but she’s either acting or else impossibly ignorant to the fact that the man she despises totally just blushed at her.
I grin. I’d buy her ignorance if she weren’t Luminescent, and the most powerful one, to boot.
“Don’t you dare.” She leans into me. “I still hate him.”
“Uh-huh.” I lick my lips and try to bite back my smile.
“I’m serious. He’s despicable.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I hate you.”
“Clearly. Which is why you still can’t take your eyes off him,” I say with a chuckle. Then, moving away from her, I interrupt their staring fest by lunging at him with a huge hug.
He stiffens, more in shock than discomfort by the expression on his face, before softening and wrapping both arms around my waist and squeezing me back.
“You going to be all right, my dear?” he murmurs against my ear.
I nod. “You?”
“She’ll keep me in line.”
“Oh, I’m planning on it.”
I laugh. “It’s the only reason I’m leaving you, you know.”
He chuckles and kisses the side of my cheek. And when I pull away, he’s blinking and his eyes are wet.
“Good-bye, Myles.”
“Good-bye, Nym. And . . . thank you.”
“For ruining your world-rulership dreams, I assume,” I say with a smirk.
“Oh, my dear, I think those might still be in the running.” He flicks a glance at Rasha.
“Ha. More like spouse to a world ruler.”
He shrugs and grins. “Like I told you, a good woman’s hard to find.”
CHAPTER 45
WE ARE FLYING, SKIMMING SOMEWHERE between the Elisedd Sea and sky on our way to Bron.
I hold out my hand and watch the buttery sunlight trickle through my fingers with the wind. Warming my skin as it spills across my arms and face through the airship window. Like the foamy ocean spray wafting from below.
The ship rises and dips on the air currents just as Eogan steps in front of me, blocking my view of the distant coastline as he runs a hand through his hair. “What do you think?”
“Of?” I crane to see past him at the rows upon rows of shimmery metal buildings that look like they’re pumping out fire and steam on the horizon.
That self-assured look in his eye glints his amusement even as I swear his tone sounds nervous. “Of . . . us.”
As if he doesn’t know? “I don’t know. Give me some time to think about it.”
“Really?” The self-assurance deflates.
“No, you bolcrane, not really.”
“Oh.” He gives a lopsided grin. “Well, good.” Then squints at me. “Are you sure you don’t want some time to think about it? I mean, now that you have your freedom, perhaps you’d prefer—”
The crack of thunder that splits the sky three terrameters out the window actually causes him to duck. And laugh. “Just checking. But in that case . . .” He pulls me to him, lifts my arm with the owner circles, and caresses it between his fingers. “How would you feel about ruling a small kingdom that’s half covered in wraith corpses and completely lacking in delicious food with me?”
I’d speak if I could, except my heart just dissolved in my mouth and my brain’s no better. So I do what any normal, functioning person would do—I choke on my own spit, which leads me to cough and, in turn, causes the man in front of me to laugh a rich sound I love so much.
He kisses me once upon the forehead, then whispers against my skin, “Can I show you something?”
I raise a brow. “Is this the part where you give me a ring?”
He smiles and shakes his head and continues caressing my arm. “I was thinking more of removing them, actually.”
And with that he presses his large fingers against my wrist, extending to me his calm and ability stronger than I’ve ever felt. And this time there’s not merely a soothing, there’s a rippling that sends goose bumps up my arm.
I look down. The next moment I’m gasping as the owner circles that have been the circumference of my world since the age of six—that have marked who I’ve belonged to and so much of what I’ve been—begin disappearing.
One.
Two.
Ten. They’re dissolving. And in their place is fresh, smooth skin—as clean as the day before I was purchased.
My throat tightens and my eyes warm at this man who, even in this moment, offers me freedom from everything—even the ties of my broken past.
“That thing Rasha told me back in the courtyard?” he breathes. “She told me who I am.”
I flutter an eyelash against his cheek. “And? Who are you?”
“A Median.”
I widen my eyes. “A healer?”
He nods and removes the fourteenth owner circle.
“How’d Rasha know?”
He smirks at me.
Oh, right. She read it.
I slip a finger across his. “And how does it work exactly?”
“Draewulf’s blood. And your song.”
I wait.
“You know the blood Draewulf took from me, and I was so concerned he left me some of his . . . Apparently he did. Not enough to damage but enough to reactivate what his daughter had blocked all those years ago.” He runs a hand down my hair. “Then at the battle when your song broke out . . . I felt it. Like a breaking in me. My body isn’t just made to block or calm. It’s made to absorb and release wounds.”
I plant a soft kiss on his chin. “Which
is how you healed me.”
He grows serious, more serious than I’ve seen him all day, and traces his hand down to remove the final. The fifteenth. The one he himself placed there.
I stop his hand before he can take it. “Not this one.”
He raises a brow. “But it’s—”
“It’s the one you gave me. I want to keep it.”
He frowns. “Why?”
I shrug. “You gave it to me out of protection, and it’s the first time I can ever remember someone doing something to save me.”
He leans in until he’s mere inches from my face, my cheeks, my lips. “As I recall, it’s you who saved me.”
I smile at this wondrous person who is beyond the incredible power he possesses. Does he even know how unfairly attractive he looks right now?
He smirks and winks at me and swags a hand through his hair.
Hmm. Yes, clearly. I snort. “Your arrogance is magnanimous.”
“I was hoping you’d eventually accept it as one of my qualities.” He chuckles and pulls me close and traces a finger over my memorial tattoos.
“Are you going to take those too?” I frown.
He shakes his head. “Those are yours. Your memories. Your scars. Your journey.” With each word he leans down to kiss each one. “Your cutting.” His lips land last of all on the little bluebird above my elbow. The one I carved in grief for the little girl my powers killed and in my hatred toward him for carving my final owner circle. And for once there’s no itching. No ache. No hunger to carve up my skin.
“I swear I will never own you,” he says.
“And what if my freedom means me wanting to be yours?”
He cups my cheek in his giant palm and traces a thumb down my nose, my lips, my chin, all the way to my throat.
“Silly Storm Girl. I will always be yours.” And before I can say more he leans in close again, flashing me that unfair smile. To which I chuckle and present him with a kiss.
He raises a suggestive brow, causing me to laugh, and in that laugh to truly inhale a world of beauty. Every smile, every friendship, every bit of goodness I’ve seen. Every bit of goodness I’ve hoped existed within me. And just like the ship I am fluttering, dipping, soaring.
And then we are kissing . . .
Kissing . . .
And kissing . . .
.
.
.
.
.
Until a small boy’s voice mutters through the ventilation grate, “Blasted hulls, are you two going to make babies now?”
The End.
MY POCKETFUL OF THANK-YOUS
DEAREST READER,
My earliest memory is of snuggling on my mom’s lap in the late-afternoon sun while she rocked and sang to me in a giant, plush rocking chair. In that moment it didn’t matter what the rest of the day held, or that I was too small to play well with friends, because she was rocking and singing and holding me.
My second memory is of waking up in my dad’s arms as he carried me to the car on a dark, noisy night—and rather than feeling frightened I simply felt his strength.
That, above all, is the defining thread that has impacted my life. The continuum I will never recover from. The thread of incredible people taking time out of their worlds to hold my head up when I’ve felt so small, and to invest reassurance and strength when I’ve been at my most raw and vulnerable. Beautiful people who’ve gripped my hands, and even more so, who’ve steadied my heart and allowed me to mature into some semblance of the souls they all are.
This trilogy is for them.
This trilogy is for you.
If you’ve picked up these books and even attempted to put your face between the pages to see if I have anything remotely interesting to say—you’ve completely blown my heart away. Thank you for your time. Thank you for your e-mails and comments and kindness. More than anything, thank you for sharing this world with me. I am unbelievably humbled and honored.
And to my incredible husband, Peter, and my children, Rilian, Avalon, and Korbin. My heart gets all verklempt just thinking of you. <3
My parents, sister, brothers, and their families, as well as my in-laws and relatives who’ve been so exceedingly supportive.
Every friend, mentor, and fellow author who has continually fed and inspired me to no end.
Jay Asher for your friendship. And for editing the final chapters into Eogan’s voice.
Marissa Meyer, for your beautiful soul that is such an encouragement and example.
My better-than-any-author-possibly-deserves Thomas Nelson publishing family, with extra special thanks to Daisy and Becky and my agent, Danielle Smith. Because you make magic happen. Again, and again, and again. I love you rabidly.
Lee Hough. I totally hear you laughing like a schoolgirl up there.
My Father’s House family, youth, and leaders. I love you guys forever.
Every dear blogger who has written and talked about this series, and who’s allowed me the honor of interviews and online chats and has given JUST SO MUCH KINDNESS. I adore you guys.
Jesus. Because you are all this heart exists for.
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
Warning: Spoilers Ahead!
1. When Nym was a child, her father admonished her to “Never destroy what simply needs taming. Mercy grows hearts more than bitterness.” What do you think he meant by this? What types of people in today’s society often get labeled as “bad” or in need of “taming”? What about them is different? What would change if we viewed each other with more mercy and kindness?
2. Going off the previous question, it seems like the current culture we live in often revels in bullying and tearing others down (especially online). Have you encountered this? What do you believe is the cause? How could our world benefit from extended acts of compassion?
3. That said, there are also sometimes people in life who aren’t the safest for our hearts to allow too close. Is there someone in your world who might not be the safest in their treatment or influence of you? Is there a safe person you know whom you can talk to about them and how they make you feel?
4. Throughout Siren’s Song, Nym continually faces the reality that (1) she shouldn’t actually exist, and (2) she should never have survived. And yet she did for a reason. Do you believe this is true for everyone—that, no matter how seemingly insignificant or great we feel we are, we each exist for a purpose? In your own life, what might that purpose be? Do you believe some people’s purposes are greater than others, or do we all contribute a powerful part? Do you believe impacting just one person around you can have a bigger effect than being “famous” or “well known for your contributions”?
5. At one point, while Nym is in Cashlin, Queen Laiha indicates how the dark power Nym previously ingested still resides within Nym’s blood. “You feel it,” she says. “Because the choices we make have lasting consequences.” Do you agree with this? What kind of choices in your own life have had (or could have) intense consequences? And what future decisions could bring about positive results for your life?
6. What do you think of the queen’s statement: “No one escapes this life, nor do they escape war, unscathed”? Is it possible to grow stronger or become better because of those things? What would a person need in order to do so?
7. In Storm Siren (book one in the trilogy), Nym wanted nothing to do with saving Faelen. Partly because she saw herself as more destructive than the danger coming at them, and partly because the people needing saving were the same who’d enslaved her. However, by the end of Siren’s Song, Nym sacrifices h
er life for those very people. What do you think brought about that heart change? What types of challenges or altered perspective might lead someone to defend a person who has wronged them?
8. At the start of the trilogy Nym privately struggled with self-loathing, fear, and self-harm. As she grew in appreciating herself and her abilities, as well as in developing healthy relationships, her confidence increased, as did her capacity to overcome cutting. Are her insecurities or struggles anything you or someone you know can relate to? Are there things that have helped you, or perhaps actually made it harder? If so, do you have a safe person in your life to talk to about them? There are incredible resources and hope available to anyone struggling with depression or self-harm, including To Write Love on Her Arms (http://www.TWLOHA.com). Just please reach out. I promise you are never alone.
Standing with you and cheering you on, because you are so extraordinarily precious.
~M <3
THE ORIGIN OF THE BOLCRANE
A gift for you, my preciouses . . .
THERE’S A STORY WHISPERED OVER THE HEARTH-STONES of certain Faelen hovels on storm-squallish nights. When small children have curled up against the legs of their papas and the mums hold scalding mugs of tea. A legend that long predates Draewulf’s own hideous history.
A legend about the bolcranes of Litchfell Forest.
“Won’t the storm upset the bolcranes, Papa?” the son asks.
“Bah. The monsters are always upset. That is why they are monsters.”
The father adjusts his legs as his little girl wilts beneath her blanket. “Will the monsters come here though?”
He smiles and leans down to ruffle her curled locks. “Not tonight, love.”
“What do they look like?” Her brother’s face flickers eager in the firelight.
“Like giant lizards,” Papa says after a moment, glancing at their mum. “Black and oily and bigger than a horse, with scales for skin, strong poison for spit, and teeth as sharp as a sea dragon’s.”
