Storm Siren

by Mary Weber

  “What the bolcrane? What’s wrong with it?”

  The man utters a low, rich chuckle that fills the space around us with charming ease. “Told you.”

  Then, as if not trusting me to refrain from attempting to touch the horse again, he steps closer. He’s the man Adora was admiring through the window this afternoon. Eogan, if my suspicion’s correct. Arms crossed, sporting a cocky smile.

  And he’s unreasonably attractive—curse him.

  I scoot away, keeping the snapping horse in my perimeter. “So you did,” I say, still catching my breath. But I see no reason to laugh about it.

  His expression shifts to suspicious. “You’re not going to faint, are you?” His tone makes it clear nothing would be more loathsome.

  “You’re not going to squeal like a little girl if I do, are you?”

  “You should leave. You’re upsetting the horses.” He turns to go, and I’m abruptly aware that the horse who tried to eat me is in a rage, gnashing her teeth and knocking against the stall. The other horses are starting to join in.

  But I won’t leave based on some chump-man’s orders. I strike my haughty pose. “What’s wrong with them?”

  “Nothing. They’re meat eaters. You’re meat.”

  “You bred them that way?”

  “They’re warhorses,” he says. And saunters out the door.

  The blood and hair on the floor . . . My stomach turns. I don’t even want to know. The animals’ chorus is growing. Becoming a call for flesh. Chills scramble up my back and hairline as I follow the gorgeous, irritating man outside, my sleeve half hanging off my arm. I yank it up higher, but something must have ripped when I pulled away from the horse because the right side won’t stay up now. Ridiculous dress.

  The man is striding away, across the lawn, beneath the moonlight and swaying lights. Toward the cottage.

  I give one last tug on my sleeve and accidentally tear it off. Crumpling it in my fist, I trail after him.

  My stomping is somewhat dulled by the grass and the slippers on my feet. But he hears me anyway because he tosses out, “Shouldn’t you be at Adora’s party?”

  “I wasn’t invited.”

  A pause. “Shouldn’t you be watching the party, then? Ogling the pretty boys and dresses?”

  “Shouldn’t you be flirting with Adora?”

  We’ve reached the cottage, and he spins to face me. He is tall and broad and has a snarl curving his lips that is begging to be slapped off. His glower lasts a few seconds longer, then relaxes. He straightens and smiles as if I’m a stupid little girl he finds bothersome for the moment. After opening the door, he enters. And casually swings it shut in my face.

  I catch it with my foot before it latches and push the heavy wood open far enough for me to lean against the doorpost. He’s stepped over to the fireplace where a pot full of silvery liquid is boiling and infusing the room with a scent of metal and pine. I wrinkle my nose.

  The place isn’t so much a cottage as a workshop filled with strange contraptions. They’re made of tiny metal parts assembled into toys spanning from the length of my pinky finger to that of my entire arm. They look like boxy versions of animals and people. From the ceiling hang dainty ones with birdlike wings.

  “What is all this?”

  He doesn’t look up, just carries the pot of boiling liquid from the fireplace to the worktable. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

  “Really? You’re in here.”

  “I live here.”

  I peer around. Doubtful. Then I notice the small door by the bookcase. There must be sleeping quarters in the back.

  “Right. So why aren’t you at the party?”

  “I don’t like people.” He tips some of the smelly liquid into another pot.

  “Clearly.”

  He glances up. In the cottage light, I realize he’s younger than his confidence suggests. Four years older than me maybe. Five at the most. The firelight bounces off his dark skin, making it glimmer. It’s beautiful.

  He goes back to his pouring, growling, “You’re not going to win, you know.”

  “Win?”

  “Our little game here. Your little attitude.”

  I raise a brow. My attitude? I slide farther into the room, then plant my feet near the wall. If he wants me out, he’ll have to kick me out. “I don’t have an attitude. You have an attitude.”

  Flashing green eyes rise to settle on mine. “When I want you out, you’ll leave.”

  I look away and fiddle with the torn sleeve wadded in my fingers. When I peek at him again, those brilliant eyes are peering between jagged black bangs, studying the owner circles tattooed on my arm.

  “I hear you’re a storm siren.”

  I frown. “What?”

  “An Elemental.” He moves to return the boiling liquid over the fire.

  Oh. Right. I study the worktable and the contraptions near the steaming pots. A miniature metal wolf catches my eye. It’s almost an exact replica of the real ones I recall from the snowy mountains I grew up in. Something inside of me wants to touch it, to soak up that reminder of home.

  “Do you have fighting skills?”

  “Is scratching and biting and kicking considered a skill?”

  The briefest smile strains the corners of his lips and then it’s gone. “The name’s Eogan. Adora give you the whole lecture on what we do?”

  “Save the world and that kind of thing?” My voice stumbles into a whisper. “Yeah.”

  He assesses me. “But you’re still deciding.”

  I nod and go back to playing with the sleeve in my hand. “Pretty sure I’m not the save-the-world type.”

  “That’s good, because I’m pretty sure the world’s not worth being saved.”

  Is he jesting?

  I don’t think so. His face is dead serious as he lifts two molds onto the table and begins filling them with the hot, silvery substance from the little pots.

  “But I love a good challenge.” He answers my question before I can ask. “Why are you here?”

  “My other option is the gallows.”

  His expression turns sour. “What makes you think you’re worth avoiding the gallows?”

  The way he says it feels like a smack in the face. An uninvited rush of warmth floods my cheeks and neck. “I’m not.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Why am I here? Is it as selfish as avoiding death?

  “Because I want to learn to control my abilities.”

  He absorbs this, staring me square in the eyes. “A female Elemental is unique. That alone will make it difficult for you to learn control. But”—a challenge emerges in his gritty tone—“combine that with your attitude, and it’ll feel near impossible.”

  I hate him.

  I bite my lip and, ignoring him, walk over to look at the metal wolf on the worktable. With my right hand, I poke a finger toward the animal, careful to keep my crooked hand out of sight, although most likely he’s already seen it.

  The contraption issues a metallic snarl and snaps at me.

  I screech and jump toward the door. “What the kracken is that thing?”

  The unreasonably attractive man doesn’t answer. He’s too busy filling the room with thunderous laughter.

  I stomp out, eyes narrowed, cheeks flaming.

  I’m halfway across the lawn before the strains of waltz music reach me from the house. They flit and dance through the air in an odd synchrony to Eogan’s ongoing hilarity. Blast them all. I bite my lip. My soul twisting, throbbing, begging me to run.

  Not that I’d get far.

  I look back at the cottage. At my one chance of learning to control my curse.

  So he likes a good challenge, does he?

  Pulling the dress skirts higher, I grit my teeth. Well, maybe I’ll give him one.

  I turn and—

  Booooom!!!

  An explosion rocks the ground.

  I hit the dirt just as there’s another, and then I’m up on my hands and knees and scra
mbling toward the house. I listen for another strike, but even as the ground shakes, it suddenly occurs to me that the tremors are originating far away. What in hulls?

  I glance up and see orange fire and unearthly-size embers shooting off one of the Hythra Mountains hovering over us. Like someone dropped a kettle of lava on the scene. The glow lights up the forests and snow like a sunrise. I’m just thinking I should tell someone when above the blaze I catch sight of the most impossible object I’ve ever seen.

  An ocean ship made of metal.

  Flying in the air beneath a giant balloon, the outline unreal against the lit-up sky as it heads away from the blast.

  At the edge of my vision, I note Eogan staring at it too.

  Then he’s yelling at me to get inside, and everything moves so fast, my mind is a blur as Adora’s guests spill out to point and scream that the capital is under attack.

  CHAPTER 7

  I’M GLAD TO HEAR YOU’VE SOME CAPACITY FOR wisdom, Nymia.” Adora puts her pen down and beckons for a cup refill as the windows in the sitting room rattle behind her.

  The vibration grows stronger, until I think the glass will burst.

  Here it comes. I scan the sky and still-burning mountainside for another one of those Bron floating ships. The carpet beneath my feet starts rolling, then shaking. It’s the fourth time in the past fifteen minutes the earth has quaked beneath the house, and Adora hasn’t even flinched. After the first tremor, she made it clear it wasn’t from an explosion like last night but didn’t elucidate. I steady my gaze on her. If she’s not nervous, I refuse to be either.

  The rattling subsides.

  “I’d hate to think of you hanging from the gallows,” Adora continues, as if nothing’s happened. “It’s such an unbecoming way to die—makes a woman’s face look so puffy and unattractive. Something you deserve, but still . . . so hideous.” She stirs the cup set in front of her by the nervous-looking maidservant, then takes a sip. The maid and I both crinkle our noses. Whatever the foul-smelling broth is, it’s not working fast enough to cure the hangover effects of last night’s party and late after-hours with the king and High Council spent assessing the “new development” in her chambers. The poor lady looks terrible.

  Green tendrils of hair shoot every which way in puffs from their curly perch atop her head, as if running for their lives from the frog hat. And the butterfly paint on her face is smeared. Like she threw the bug back up after she ate it. Perhaps she should bathe her entire body in the stinky broth.

  She takes another drink, and the smashed butterfly wrinkles. “I see Breck put you in the appropriate clothes.”

  I glance at the blue-dyed leathers Breck tossed me this morning—pants, shirt, and calf-high, lace-up boots. Even their casual wear here is glorified.

  “You’ll wear that outfit every day. When you need more, you’ll request them from me. If I agree with your need and approve of the use you’ve made of your current leathers, I’ll send Breck to purchase more. The only time you’ll dress in something else is when I’m hosting a party, in which case you’ll make a background appearance in a dress. Long-sleeved to hide your . . .”—she makes a distasteful face—“markings. Aside from the gown I generously gave you yesterday, I’ll send Breck up with three more. Don’t ruin them.”

  Apparently Breck didn’t tell her about the torn destruction of last night’s gown. I’ll have to remember to thank her.

  “You will take your meals with Colin. You’ll not take advantage of my charity, nor will you waste my time or resources. Inside this house, you will display yourself as submissive. However, you’ll also remember you are being trained as a . . .” I wait for her to say weapon, but she seems to catch herself. “As a defender of Faelen. And as such, I’ll not have you moping like a pathetic servant. Outside of my presence, you’ll display the attitude of one protecting my house and estate. You’ll train fast and hard until bruised and exhausted because, as we saw last night, we haven’t got time. Understood?”

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  She looks closely at me. “Can you read?”

  I nod. “My fifth owner, a schoolteacher, taught me.” He believed teaching a slave to read was no different than teaching a child.

  She seems surprised. But pleased. “Is that where you learned to speak properly rather than in the common peasant tongue?”

  I nod.

  “Well then, all free time will be spent reading the war strategy books you’ll find in the library.”

  A slight tremor shakes the windows but doesn’t continue on.

  Another slurp of her stinky drink.

  “You may go. You’ll find Eogan and Colin out back. They’ve already begun for the day. Breck will show you out.” She gestures me toward Breck, who’s appeared against the back wall. Then Adora settles in with her drink and closes her eyes over a desk full of notes, which, from what I’ve deciphered, confirm the rumors that Bron airships do, in fact, exist—a feat of impossibility leading to questions of how far advanced they are beyond us. Although the council’s not clear how many there are or how far they can reach. They think last night was a test run.

  “You decided to stay,” Breck says once the door is shut behind us. She directs us down the now-familiar passage, then toward the exit I used last night. She hesitates before opening the door. “An’ I’m just goin’ to warn you now that Colin says Eogan’s a hard one. But ’e knows ’is stuff.”

  Hard? Hard doesn’t even begin to describe that man’s personality. But she’s right about him knowing things if last night’s “storm siren” comment was any indication.

  Then, as if an afterthought, she adds, “An’ the housemaids all say he’s quite a looker, so I’ll warn you now not to get all silly ’bout ’im. Adora’ll ’ave none of it. She’s got her own interest in ’im.”

  “Eogan? Isn’t she a little old?”

  “All’s fair game when it comes to the ol’ crazy. Rumor ’as it, last year she orchestrated a kitchen maid’s death who was gettin’ too invested in ’im. Doubt Eogan even knew the girl existed, poor thing. But he’s in some league of ’is own in her mind. Not that I can see why. Obviously.” She chuckles and shoves on the thick door, and we’re abruptly immersed in a smoky morning breeze and toasty sunlight.

  “Neither can I,” I mutter. But for some reason I’m suddenly glad Breck can’t see my warming cheeks.

  She points in the general direction of Eogan’s cottage. “Go behind there into the forest. Just make sure an’ kick my brother’s hindside for me, will ya?” Then she’s gone and shuts the door behind her.

  I tramp across the damp yard, coughing on the haze and gaping at the eerily burning mountainside, until I round the cottage and stumble into a clearing. It’s surrounded by a giant, frothy-branched pine-tree forest, and the air is filled with their homey scent. Eogan’s lithe, broad-shouldered frame is standing in the middle of the arena, wearing green leathers and scowling at the bald man I saw out the window yesterday. Except the man’s not really a man. He’s my age, maybe a year older, with the same freckled skin and brown eyes of his sister, Breck. He’s got his shirt off, showing muscles hardened through what must’ve been months of training.

  “Oh c’mon, you’re hardly even trying,” Eogan says in his low voice.

  “What are you talking about? I’m better than you!” the boy yells. “You can’t even—” His argument drops when he sees me. His gaze starts at my legs and moves all the way up to my hair, settling on the odd way Breck tied it up this morning. It looks ridiculous, but she was in a mood and insisted. I meant to take it down once I came outside but forgot. Drat.

  The boy grins, and I’m pretty sure he flexes his stomach muscles for me as he strolls over. He sticks his hand up in a flat-palmed salute. “Hello, pretty lady. It appears you’re a pet of my sister’s.”

  He reminds me of the rascals in the marketplace who flirt with the servant girls, pretending each one is the love of his life. Until the next girl comes along. Usually it annoys me. But this one
. . . something about his eyes is so sincere that I find myself approving. I like him.

  “Nym.” I give a half smile.

  Eogan steps behind him and cuffs him on the back of the neck. “Quit flirting, mate, and show me.”

  I open my mouth, but Colin doesn’t seem to mind. ‘Quit flirting and show me,’ he mimics as he skips to the far end of the clearing.

  I smirk.

  Eogan pays no attention to me, his gaze trained on Colin. “Your stance is still wrong,” I hear him mutter.

  Colin has his feet a pace apart, with one knee bent, his weight resting on it. The other is stretched taut to the side. He glances up and gives me a quick wink, then dips his body down and places both hands flat out in front of him, level with the ground, and shuts his eyes.

  The earth beneath us begins to rumble.

  Is that him?

  The ground shakes.

  He’s causing this?

  Then it’s quaking so hard that the trees around us are swaying and tipping at dangerous angles. There’s a great ripping sound, and a crack in the earth opens in the middle of the clearing. It begins to spread out, growing deeper, wider, until it’s headed straight for Eogan, the earth crumbling away into a six-foot chasm.

  Eogan doesn’t move. He just stands there evaluating as the perfectly aimed fissure shoots for him.

  I start to back up. Horrified. Fascinated. I glance at Colin. Is this his way of getting even with Eogan?

  Seven feet to Eogan. Six feet. I scramble toward the cottage. If Eogan wants to die, that’s his choice. But he doesn’t even bat a black eyelash. If anything, he looks bored. I bite my lip.

  Five feet in front of him, the crack slams into something and stops, sending dirt clods and pebbles up in the air, tossing sand all over me, Eogan, and the clearing.

  Colin laughs. “That good enough for you, Master Bolcrane?”

  Eogan runs a hand through his hair, ruffling out the dirt, which just ends up making his thick, ragged locks unruly and boyish looking. “Better. Now seal it back up.”

  I pause from wiping my face off with my sleeve to look back and forth between them. Just like that? It’s some kind of game for them?