Josephine's voice kills any man who hears it-except for the assassin sent to capture her for the king that's been chasing her all her life...but what happens when he decides he doesn't want to hand her over and keep her for himself instead?
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The wind howled to a symphony unheard of, the drum beats in the Summoning circle near deafening as the thrum of music forced me to move, to writhe my body in tune to the melodic sounds rushing through the clearing atop the rocky outcropping that jutted out above the surging depths of the glittering ocean below.
Energy zapped through my body, undulating underneath my skin as a song tore from my throat, its lyrics familiar to my ears.
Lord of winds,
God of air,
free my sin,
claim your share
"Fel-bech de vings, Loch de ere, nuuon el byks, ilkne uoro regea."
"Fel-bech de vings, Loch de ere, nuuon el byks, ilkne uoro regea."
The words blurred together until they became nothing more than a chant, urgently delivered by the tongues of frantic Sirens swirling and twirling in a ritualistic dance that dated back millennia, the owl feathers adorning each head in a sacred crown interwoven with bay leaves and lavender.
There were no tears in the eyes of my fellow sisters this night.
There was no mourning on our tongues.
Only the sweetly bitter taste of sour vengeance.
Revenge to be delivered to the king of Valencia and my uncle who mobilized his forces on us.
Inala's eyes burned with white moonlight, as did the rest of the Sirens, their eyes unseeing but still performing the song and dance to summon Nicos, God of the north wind and ice.
My stomach burned with the intensity of my rage, quelled only slightly just minutes before the ceremony began by Oren, who I spied on the outer edge of the circle of fire, looking for all the world terrified out of his mind—either for me, or for what we were summoning I had no idea, but it was enough to strike fear into even the bravest of hearts if Oren of all beings was scared.
Even being in his beast form wasn't enough to keep him away from the Summoning, it seemed.
I had barely remembered getting dressed, or placing the wreath upon my head.
I hadn't even worn shoes as my feet squelched in the sodden grass and muck from the earlier storms.
Embers from the fire pit containing the ashes of all the fallen Sirens from the battle beforehand began swirling upwards in a funnel, a fire tornado of ash and gleaming, glowing cinders.
The white flowing sleeves of my ceremonial gown that reached the ground swayed precariously close to the growing tower of flames until I feared that they would catch fire, but still we circled and swayed and danced and sang until the fire was in my throat, pouring out of my mouth onto the ground by my feet, the milky white color of my flames spilling out of my mouth the same shade as the blinding white of the eyes of Inala and the rest of the Sirens.
