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Praise for the novels of
ROBIN D. OWENS

“Strong characterization combined with deadly danger make this story vibrate with emotional resonance. Stay tuned as events accelerate toward the final battle.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Keepers of the Flame

(Book Four of The Summoning)

“Fans of Anne McCaffrey and Mercedes Lackey will appreciate the novel’s honorable protagonists and their lively animal companions.”

—Publishers Weekly on Protector of the Flight

(Book Three of The Summoning)

“[A] multi-faceted, fast-paced gem of a book.”

—The Best Reviews on Guardian of Honor

(Book One of The Summoning)

“The story line is action-packed but also contains terrific characters…Robin D. Owens enchants her readers.”

—Affaire de Coeur on Guardian of Honor

“Owens takes…elements that make Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Darkover stories popular…and turns out a romance that draws you in.”

—Locus magazine

“Owens excels at evocative, sensual writing.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

Echoes In The Dark
Robin D. Owens

To the Song that moves within us all.

“Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present.”

—Percy Bysshe Shelley

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Author Note

Cast of Characters

1

Ghost Hill Theater, Denver, Colorado

Late August, Night

Jikata was taking her last bow on stage and soaking in applause when her great-grandmother died. The odd thing was that Jikata actually felt Ishi Yamuri pass away in one of those increasing moments of hyperawareness. As if the old woman touched Jikata with her stubborn disapproval even as others yelled and clapped.

The bond with her great-grandmother vanished. Ishi hadn’t waited to see Jikata tomorrow, the date Ishi herself had insisted upon.

Jikata had added her old hometown of Denver to her touring schedule because she’d sensed her great-grandmother’s time was near, though she hadn’t heard from the woman in years.

Suddenly the applause, the only thing that had satisfied Jikata for a long time, rang hollow and empty. Like the rest of her life.

Jikata lowered her head, closed her eyes against the lights made brighter by tears. Then she stepped back on the polished wooden stage and let the heavy maroon velvet curtains descend.

The crowd whistled and clapped louder, but she had no more to give. This final event—the reopening of a newly renovated small Victorian theater—was the last in her tour. Fitting.

Her career was skyrocketing. She neared the pinnacle of success for a pop singer, a female half-Japanese no less, and found herself alone and panting after the climb.

Her life was tanking. Fans adored her. No one loved her. No man, no good friend female or male, no child. As her great-grandmother would have said, her soul was withering from lack of nourishment.

Applause came from stage right and the philanthropist behind the renovation strode forward, beaming, accompanied by his wife. Jikata pasted a smile on her face, hoping that it might turn into the real thing since she usually enjoyed the company of Trenton Philbert III. He stopped clapping and held out a hand and she put hers in it. “Great job. Definitely the next star. I’m looking forward to that last zoom to the top.” He squeezed her hand and let it go.

The praise warmed her a little. “Thank you.”

“You did the inaugural event of the Ghost Hill Theater proud. Thanks again for agreeing to perform. We sold out.” He glanced around, the backstage was still shiny with cleanliness and held the faint scent of wood stain. “This place should be good for another hundred years.”

“It’s a lovely theater,” Jikata said. Now. She could remember when it had been a ruin.

He radiated satisfaction. Turning to his wife behind him, he said, “We have a gift for you. Darling?”

Juliet Philbert stepped forward with a large fancy birdcage fashioned like the Taj Mahal. Jikata gritted her teeth…no, please, not a bird. Her great-grandmother had kept finches when Jikata had been younger. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I—”

Then the bird opened its beak and pure liquid notes warbled out, like nothing Jikata had ever heard. As if it were more than song, a communication. The bird didn’t look like any she’d seen before, either. All scarlet red, but with a fancy cockatoo comb of red, yellow and white. About the size of a cockatoo, also. It fixed a yellow eye on her and let loose another stream of notes. This time sounding a lot like the underlying melody of the last ballad she’d sung. Jikata blinked.

“Her name is Chasonette,” Juliet said. “She’s a Lladranan cockatoo and has the most beautiful birdsong in the world. She’s quite rare, but I knew such a lady would be perfect for you. And Trent indulged me.” She thrust the cage at Jikata, so she took it. It was lighter than she’d thought.

Juliet tucked her hand into Trenton’s elbow and he covered her fingers with his own, shaking his head as he looked down at his wife. “I always indulge you. The bane of my existence.” He kissed her temple. “People say I’m going soft.”

Fast footsteps came from backstage and Juliet’s assistant, Linda, who appeared distressed, hurried to them. Jikata remembered, and the small moment of normality shattered.

“I’m sorry.” Linda stopped, inhaled a breath that raised her thin chest. Looked at the Philberts, hesitated and said, “I’m sorry. I have bad news. We should…ah…let’s go to your dressing room.” Linda pulled Jikata backstage, past the greenroom and into the star’s dressing room. The Philberts followed.

The small room was elegant in cream and white, but four people made it crowded. Jikata placed the birdcage on the dressing room table. Chasonette stepped nervously back and forth on her perch, then apparently caught sight of herself in the mirror and preened.

Linda led Jikata to the cream brocade Victorian fainting couch that took up most of one end wall. She figured she had to sit. The moment she did, Linda released her hand—a blessing since both their palms were sweaty.

Linda grabbed a box of tissues from the dressing table and dropped it in her lap. “I got a call. Your great-grandmother has died, Jikata.”

“I was supposed to visit her tomorrow,” Jikata said, still shocked.

“Sorry,” repeated Linda. She was a young intern with the University of Southern California who’d traveled with Jikata during the two-month tour. Though they’d managed well enough, neither of them expected the job to transform into anything more.

“She was an old woman and had a good life.” Isn’t that what Jikata was supposed to say? “I want to be alone,” she choked out.

“Of course. We’ll take care of your crew and fans.” Juliet, patting Jikata on the shoulder, trilled her tongue. Chasonette perked up and warbled a low, soothing melody. “I’m sure you don’t want to attend the opening gala.”

“No, I don’t.” It had completely gone from her mind.

“We’ll make sure your room in the hotel next door is booked for you through the next week. It’s been a gruelling tour for you, I know. You need rest.”

“Yes, I’d planned a long break.” Rote answers seemed to work. Jikata didn’t know what she felt except…empty. Nothing new about that.

“You just go next door when you’re ready,” Juliet insisted.

“Fine.”

The bird continued to croon, soft background scales that tugged at Jikata, reminding her of the chants and chimes that had haunted her. She rubbed her temples.

Trenton squatted down, as if setting himself in her vision. “Jikata, if there’s anything we can do….”

She nodded. “You go on to the gala. You’re the star of that show.”

“All right, but if you need us here in Denver, let us know.”

She watched blindly as the Philberts left. They were the only people she felt she could call on in Denver, and they were acquaintances. All her old ties had withered.

“Um, Jikata?” Linda said.

Oh. The girl had looked forward to the end of the tour and the big party to celebrate the renovation of the theater. With another nod, another blank gaze, Jikata said, “You go ahead. You don’t have to stay with me the next couple of days. Let’s call this the end of the internship.”

“I don’t know, if you need me….” But Linda sounded relieved.

Jikata was prepared. She went to her designer backpack and got the card—with bonus—from an inner pocket. Held it out. “Thanks for all your help. I’ve already turned in my last report. You’re free to go.”

“Thanks!” With a smile showing the job was already history, Linda hurried from the room.

Jikata sat and listened as the theater emptied, then dragged herself into the shower. Let the heat and steam flow over her as she prodded her feelings about her Japanese great-grandmother. Regret, as always, they hadn’t ever seen eye-to-eye. Her great-grandmother had refused to speak to her after she’d legally changed her name to Jikata, had hated that she’d become a pop singer. At eighteen, Jikata had left the dust of Denver for L.A. and prospered.

Well enough that she could buy whatever she wanted, keep her great-grandmother in style. Which, of course, Ishi had refused, liking the little house in east Denver she’d bought a few years after leaving the internment camp in southeastern Colorado. Both of Jikata’s grandmothers had died before she was born. Both her grandfathers had been unknown, a bond between her parents who were killed in a car accident when she was fourteen.

Sad. Jikata felt it, mostly for the lost opportunity to reconcile, though she’d known in her bones that was wishful thinking.

Now she was truly alone. No more family.

She wondered what to do. Knowing Ishi, all her affairs would have been arranged. Jikata was ambivalent about seeing the old house. At the end of a tour, she usually found the nearest bed and fell into it. But lately her sleep had been troubled by dreams that had her sweating and tangled in sheets when she woke. Or, worse, visions that were pure beauty she strove to put into words and sing.

Those songs always bombed. She did much better when she sang others’ melodies and lyrics, and that was a raw spot in her soul.

The pipes creaked and water cooled and she turned the shower off. At least the makeup and sweat of the last show, of the tour, was finally gone.

Wrapping herself in a large towel, she stepped into the dressing room. The mirror was foggy with steam so she opened the door, dressed quickly in jeans and a blue silk blouse and packed a small suitcase, put her backpack in order and swung one strap over her shoulder.

She turned to do a sweep of the room and froze.

The birdcage door was wide open. Jikata blinked—could the bird have unlatched it herself? Apparently so. A very valuable, rare bird.

Her gaze trailed to the open door of the dressing room. Shit! She looked wildly around the room, but it was small and a foot-long scarlet bird was not evident against the cream-and-gold background.

Dammit!

She hadn’t seen or heard the wretched bird leave. No trilling of a goodbye song. No soft whoof of feathers.

Sliding her feet into ballet slippers, she opened the door wider, then heard a tinny chime. She glanced at the table where the chiming-ball necklace Juliet Philbert had given her when they’d met had been. Pretty and shiny on a gold satin ribbon, it was gone, too.

Jikata grimaced. She was ambivalent about chimes. She’d included them in her own compositions that hadn’t been successful, then the last one that had made it big. It was hitting the top of the charts now. The strange concoction of bells and chimes and an occasional gong tone. She’d sung—chanted—a mishmash of words in English and Japanese and French and had layered her voice in the track again and again over four octaves. She barely had a full four-octave range and had worked hard on that track until each note was strong and perfect.

“Come to Me” was going platinum.

The tune wasn’t really her composition and that’s what bothered her. She’d heard odd patterns of notes, of chimes, of chants, the occasional gong beat in her head over the past two years. It had started here in Denver, her hometown, two years ago February. A February as dreary as her life. Ishi hadn’t wanted to see her then, either.

She shook the thought away. Stop dithering! Go hunt the bird. She stepped to the door, called, “Chasonette!” Would a bird come to her name? Cockatoos were supposed to be intelligent for birds, weren’t they?

Another chime. Faint. But her hearing was good and she was sure it came from the stage area. She hurried past the greenroom, angling toward stage left, which had more space than stage right. A bird would want more space to fly in, wouldn’t it?

Only a few dim bulbs were on and she moved through light and shadow. She pushed through the curtains to look into the house—even dimmer—and saw a flash of a red wing through the door to the lobby someone had propped open with a broom.

Damn!

So she hopped from the stage and ran up the plush maroon aisle, through the door to the equally elaborate lobby.

Then she heard the wonderful song of a woman’s voice, with the slightest of quavers that made Jikata think the singer was old. An elder and perfect master of her craft. The wordless Song compelled Jikata to listen. Not to hear, but listen, and the mistress of that voice had the range of Jikata’s own, a full four octaves, richer for years of use.

Other music lilted. Crystal singing bowls, chimes, and the jangle of Chasonette’s ball melded perfectly into the whole.

“Chasonette?” she called.

Chasonette chirped. Jikata ran after her, misjudged the distance of the sound and went through the mirrored wall.

No!

That couldn’t have happened. Could it?

She stood in a gray mist. Wind whipped at her hair. There were no walls around her, just an echoing distance. Where was she? Her toes curled in her shoes, felt solid ground through the thin soles of her slippers. Shouldn’t it be new, plush carpet?

She hesitated, but more chimes and the voice and the bowls and the sheer magnificence of the sound drew her. How often did a person hear this sort of concert? Never.

There were cadences and tones to this Song that outclassed all her composition attempts. As if she’d…heard through a mirror darkly…. She chuckled, but she yearned. This, this was what she’d been trying to achieve for the past year. If only…

Another questioning chirp and Jikata realized she was humming her “Come to Me” hit. Light was ahead and walls looked cut from rock. That reassured her a little. Everyone knew there were tunnels under Denver. She’d somehow made it into one of them.

Then the woman’s voice twisted the melody and the notes seemed to hit physical points inside Jikata. She literally felt her heart squeeze. So wonderful, and there was more, she heard the reverberation of the chant she’d included in her own work. Come to me.

The woman’s voice caressed her with a soothing cadence. Jikata blinked, she saw the woman, a tiny, aged, Asian woman standing in light that reflected off mist around her, giving her a glow. Chasonette perched on her shoulder, the ribbon of the chiming ball in her beak. She shook it. The sound shivered over Jikata’s skin. She glimpsed people behind the woman, playing singing bowls.

Stranger and stranger, but not threatening.

Jikata hurried forward, met a thickness in the air like a membrane, surged through it. More wind. In a tunnel or dreaming. She could have fallen asleep on the Victorian fainting lounge in her dressing room after her shower. But she plunged ahead. Then she was with the woman, and Chasonette hopped from the woman’s shoulder to Jikata’s, dug in her claws. Ouch, she felt that!

“Welcome to Lladrana,” the older woman said in English. She gestured and cymbals clashed and chimes sounded and a shudder went through Jikata.

Brightness flared before her eyes, blinding her. She flung out her arms, trying to keep her balance. Another clang as if from a gong, but the percussion was slightly off and she knew it came from many cymbals. What the hell was going on?

A dream. Just a dream.

Hair had risen over her skin, and she’d gone clammy. The air she sucked in smelled like incense and was heavy and humid. She shook her head, trying to think beyond the sound.

She couldn’t.

The music strummed her as if she were a taut string, vibrating through her.

Another clang of cymbals and she fell, panting, to the floor. Starburst. Darkness. Then Chasonette was beside her on the ground, rubbing her head against Jikata’s cheek. So soft.

Jikata could see the bird’s yellow eye and thought she was finally back to reality. She leaned on an elbow, but her support didn’t feel like a padded lounge, or carpet. It felt like rock.

She looked around and saw a large cave, people wearing long robes standing in a circle. Some had small tables holding crystal bowls before them and held the thick glass wands to set them humming. Others held cymbals of brass, silver, gold…?

Her mouth was open so she sucked in deep breaths. The small woman gazed down at her with triumph, crinkling deep wrinkles around her eyes even as her throat moved with renewed song, music that lowered down the scale as if ending a long piece.

We are here! I am back! A warbling voice came in her head and Jikata slowly turned to see Chasonette. She could have sworn the bird winked at her. There’s magic here, the bird said.

Jikata sat up, craned to look around. Just beyond some people she saw the pale pink and deep maroon lobby of the Ghost Hill Theater amidst a blue fog in the distance. Strangled noises came from her throat as she jumped to her feet.

Then that glimpse of known vanished and she was in a cavern, large enough to hold the musicians surrounding her, all taller and sturdier than the old woman, than Jikata herself.

Chasonette fluttered to her shoulder. The bird’s fragrance was the same, as if her feathers held a faint lavender oil.

Once more the bird took wing, and the chiming necklace was dropped over Jikata’s head, rattling to shine silver against her dark blue blouse. Then Chasonette was on her shoulder again, yellow gaze serious. You are where you belong.

“I am the Singer,” the old woman said.

She certainly was.

“Now to test your tuning,” she continued. That didn’t make sense. But she opened her mouth and hit high C with ease. At the same time the cymbals clashed, someone rang chimes and the singing bowls sounded. Every note reverberated in Jikata until she felt like only pure vibration.

She crumpled. She didn’t understand anything.

2

Lladrana, Singer’s Abbey, a few minutes later

Luthan Vauxveau, the Singer’s representative to the warrior Marshalls, stood in the green landing field just downhill from the Singer’s Abbey. He’d been about to return to the Marshalls’ Castle, when he’d felt it, the Summoning of another Exotique from their land to Lladrana.

The soles of his feet had tingled with a joyous outpouring of Amee, the planet, that her last savior had arrived. His winged horse and the rest of the herd had trumpeted.

A shout tore from him, joining other exclamations.

Even as he felt the planet’s joy, his own anger welled and the back of his neck burned with humiliation. He hadn’t felt this stupid since before his father had died. The Singer had manipulated him, used him, played him for a fool. Again.

Soon the vibrations of the act would notify every person with a modicum of Power that a new Exotique had crossed the Dimensional Corridor and entered Lladrana. That would include the five other Exotiques who would demand immediate answers from him. All he had was questions himself.

People from Exotique Terre were supposed to be Summoned by the Marshalls, the strongest team in the land. But the Singer had Summoned her own. Luthan ground his teeth.

He was the representative of the Singer to the Marshalls and all the other segments of Lladranan society. He was supposed to know what she had planned, be informed. He was the one people would come to, ask questions of.

Especially the other five Exotiques.

He’d known nothing. The Singer had kept this Summoning, and other matters, secret from him. This was the last straw, and time to tell her so.

Simmering with anger, he turned back toward the central Abbey. He’d find her in the caverns, a place off-limits to him, but that wouldn’t stop him. Not now, not ever again.

He’d tried his best over the past two years to liaise with the Singer and the Marshalls, the Chevaliers, even the Sorcerers. And over the past two years the old Singer herself, the oracle of Lladrana, had become more secretive and capricious.

Striding to the high wall enclosing the Abbey’s jumbled buildings, he swung open the gate with Power, shaping a bubble around himself so he could not be detained. His force field gently shifted robed figures of the Singer’s Friends from his path as he wound through the buildings toward the towers of the main Abbey.

The Singer’s Friends reached out to pluck at his white leathers, stood in front of him, yet all were moved aside. He was a Chevalier, a fighter, had fought battles against the Dark and its monsters for most of his life. With respect, he’d bent his will under the Singer’s. No more. He could feel the location of the Singer and the new Exotique, could hear it.

A fifth-level Friend, the highest in the hierarchy, stepped in front of him just where the mazelike path narrowed to allow only one person. The man stood his ground, but Luthan’s Power pushed him and he had to back quickly. “Don’t get in my way, Jongler. I must speak to the Singer about her Summoning the last Exotique without telling anyone.”

The man stared at him from under lowered brows. He sighed. “It is done. The final Exotique is for the Singer. It is appropriate that our lady Summoned her instead of the Marshalls.”

Luthan continued walking. “Fine. You tell that to the other Exotiques when they swoop down on this place in a couple of hours.” He smiled. “I estimate that the Distance Magic of the volarans will bring them that quickly.” He hesitated a step. “Of course Bri has the roc, and roc Distance Magic is even faster.”

The man paled, the giant bird liked flesh. “Not the roc.”

Luthan let his sarcastic smile widen. “If you’re lucky, it will be Bri, the healer, riding the roc instead of Lady Knight Swordmarshall Alexa.”

“Not…not…Alyeka.”

That first Exotique was considered to be the most unpredictably dangerous. Alexa, pronounced correctly, had no fondness for the Singer and her Friends.

“Wait, you must stay and explain to them!” Jongler said.

“I know nothing to explain.” That nettled him so much he wanted to hit the man. His fingers itched. But he was not his father. After a couple of years of rebellion, Luthan had built his reputation as the most honest man in Lladrana. He would not betray that for an angry impulse, not for the Singer herself.

Shrugging, Luthan said, “You’ll be the one explaining.”

Jongler backed rapidly, by his own feet, bowing repeatedly. “Ah, Hauteur Vauxveau.” That was Luthan’s title and surname.

“I’ve been beyond courtesies for months.” He didn’t slow down, but bared his teeth. “I’ll speak to the Singer in person.”

A quick darting of eyes by Jongler. They’d reached a wider space that curved around a circular building with paths to the left and right between it and others. Luthan swung left.

Jongler coughed. The closest door to the caverns is to your right. Luthan heard mentally, privately. Now when had he become sufficiently connected to Jongler that they could speak mind to mind? Didn’t matter.

Luthan pivoted and stared to his right. A small octagonal tower stood with dark arches below, leading to what he’d thought was the Friends’ meeting room. The arch was matched by the second-story windows, the whole was capped with a conical roof and weather vane. Though the blackness beyond the arches was deep, he didn’t hesitate, moved swiftly and found two doors. One would probably lead to the meeting room.

He glanced back at Jongler, who now smiled with an edge, hands folded at his waist.

“Which?” Luthan asked.

Jongler lifted his nose. “If you have the bond with the Singer that you think you do, you will know how to find her in the maze of the tunnels, won’t you?”

Nodding shortly, Luthan settled into his balance, grounded himself, banished anger and probed. Behind the left door he sensed the dampness of rock walls, the slope downward into the heaviness of earth, the secrecy of the Caverns of Prophecy. The atmosphere behind the right door Sang of laughter and petty quarrels and the range of human concerns.

He set his hand on the left doorknob. Shock! Gritting his teeth he absorbed it, knew the knob was brass that now had left a fancy pattern on his skin…and told the Singer he was coming. Wrenching open the door he stepped inside. The door slammed behind him as if on tight springs. Another security measure. The dark in here pressed on him, whispering, whispering…

He found himself swaying…falling into a trance that would trigger his own gift of prophecy, and by the great, evil Dark, he didn’t want more visions!

“Light!” He snapped the word and the resulting brightness shocked him, coming from a great chandelier dripping with crystals, each one emitting sparkling light.

This anteroom was pretty with a stone mosaic floor and smooth walls of gold-patterned white silk. Three doors were set in it. He knew exactly which one led to the Caverns of Prophecy; dread filled him when he looked at it. Another led to the chapter house, the third resonated strongly of the Singer, probably went to one of her personal suites. The beauty of the room masked the threat of the caverns.

For a moment he considered his options. Going down into the bowels of the planet, subjecting himself to whispers and vapors and misty visions of the future…many futures. He didn’t have to endure this. But he didn’t like giving in to fear. And he didn’t like being used as he had been used for the past year.

He could avoid confronting the Singer in her place of Power, abandon trying to rescue the new Exotique, who was meant for the Singer and her Friends. Might even be the next Singer. He could wait for the other Exotiques to arrive and they could all speak to the Singer herself. He shook his head.

The Singer would be a stone wall to the others, and the more they pushed, the more adamant she’d be.

So he squared his shoulders, opened the door and Sang himself a light spell for illuminating underground chambers—usually hot springs or bathing pools rather than caverns or dungeons. Light flickered along the top of the smoothly worked dark brown stone tunnel twisting downward.

Luthan headed into the depths of the caves, ignoring the susurration of the whispers around him, the vague mists that floated near, sparkling with images if he cared to see.

Hair prickled along his body, and he quashed apprehension.

As he descended and breathed the vapors of the cavern that triggered prophecy, it became impossible to block visions of the future. The first bad one was his brother’s nearly unrecognizable burnt body, skin black and bone white. Luthan fell to his knees, gasped. A broken-fingered dead hand was clasped in Bastien’s, Alexa’s. Luthan’s pain rose as he saw his brother holding what was left of his mate. Beyond them were a pile of dead; he saw the staring blue eyes of Jaquar, and Marian’s red hair. He forced nausea away, his gorge down.

Since they were all planning to invade the Dark’s Nest, ready to die to stop the evil alien being, this wasn’t an unexpected vision, but it hurt his mind, his body, his heart to contemplate such a future.

After a few breaths, the image faded. The cave was dark and echoing with a faint swirl of mist near the top. Shuddering, he rose to his feet, felt clamminess on his face and didn’t know if it was vapor or tears or sweat.

When he came to a three-way fork in the tunnel he closed his eyes and listened. He could hear the Singer, the echo of her words or Song, and the sound told him how to go. More, it seemed like the bond they’d established between them was true, because he could see a link also, a deep blue and occasionally glittering silver thread. She was in the direction of the middle path before him, but it was not the way to her. It was the left-hand path, again, that reverberated with Song, and showed the cord winding between them. So he took the left.

Descending deeper, the scent of weeping rock and incense came to his nostrils, the mists of prophecies became full, iridescent wraiths, tempting him to look and study. The Songs of them increased from whispers to a steady hum. His skin itched. How did the Singer stand it? How had she stood it for over a hundred years? Did it diminish or grow stronger or was it her own strength and control that grew? If so, he was a fool to set himself against such a being.

Concentrating on her, he held off most of the visions.

But not all.

Dark encroached. His mouth dried. The light dimmed, his field of vision narrowed. He set his jaw. The Dark had encroached into Lladrana for centuries, particularly in his lifetime, especially in the past decade.

He drew his gauntlets from where they were folded over his belt and put them on so he could trail his hand against the cavern wall.

Four steps down the corridor his solid steps wavered, the mist pushed around him as if it knew he had the Power of Sight. Wisps curled in his nostrils and he couldn’t help breathing them.

Six steps and the heat was vicious—like that of an active volcano. The Dark’s Nest.

Seven steps and a horrendous explosion occurred, the heat searing his eyes, but not before he saw a mountain island explode flinging bodies into the sky—volaran and human.

One of the bodies wore white leathers like his.

Again his legs gave way and he gasped, fell to the floor, knees bruising.

Endured the horrendous noise of a dying Dark, the screams of volarans and the Exotiques echoing in his brain as they died, too.

Then nothingness.

For a long moment he lay and ached…body, mind, soul.

He rose once more and wiped his arm across his forehead, glad these were his regular white leathers and not dreeth skin that wouldn’t absorb his perspiration. Panting, he staggered through the dank mists and discovered he was humming. The realization jerked him to a stop. Bracing himself on the wall, he converted the hum to a Song and immediately felt better, his vision cleared. The tendrils of mist still lurked, but he’d developed a shield against them. He thought of the words he chanted—“I am fine. I can handle this. Not all visions are true.” Rough words, not harmonious to the ear. But he’d Sing them until he could craft a potent poem.

He was still working on the wording when he saw an ancient door and beyond the door he felt a great cavern where the Singer and some of her Friends waited—Friends who didn’t have any prophetic Power, as she did. As he did.

He heard the murmur of real human voices and the last fading note of crystal bowls. He realized that though it had seemed like a trip of hours, it had been less than five minutes. Nevertheless, his skin was bathed in sweat. He hoped his undergarments were releasing a pleasant scent as they were supposed to. The Singer had a nose as sensitive as her hearing.

When he opened the door the ghosts of prophecy faded. He let out a breath of relief and stepped into the large, rough cavern. The circle of Friends, some behind small tables holding bowls, some with cymbals, the best Singers with no instrument at all, circled a flaming blue-energy-lined pentacle. The Singer, a tiny woman especially for a Lladranan, looked down at a figure.

Then the Singer looked at him, her pointed brows rising high, and pitched her voice so it sounded next to his ear. “You made it all the way to the Summoning Cavern.”

He couldn’t tell whether she was impressed or dismayed or both. Then a slight, secret smile lifted the corners of her mouth. He didn’t ask what she knew. He didn’t want to know. “I was not mistaken in you,” she said loudly.

Luthan looked her straight in the eyes. “I was in you.”

Striding to the outside rim of the circle, he stared down. As expected by all, the Summoned Exotique was a woman. A lovely woman, beautiful more in the manner of his own people than that of Exotique Terre: long, dark hair flowing around her torso, old ivory and gold complexion, lush lips. He swallowed hard and waited for his innate revulsion for Exotiques to hit.

Marshalls’ Castle, the same time

Raine Lindley found her feet carrying her to the great round temple in the Marshalls’ Castle. Again.

There’d been something in the air of her small purple home office that wouldn’t let her settle. Time and again she’d erased the line of the ship’s prow she was designing. When she looked out the window, rainbows seemed to dance on the air and somehow she caught a scent of incense and the reverberation of a gong.

So she’d mounted her flying horse, her volaran, for the short two-mile trip to the Castle and the temple, accompanied by her companion, a young magical shape-shifting being called a feycoocu. This compulsion was more than was natural or healthy.

Because look what happened when she last followed a compulsion. At home in Connecticut she’d been so obsessed with her grandmother’s mirror that she’d stare at it for hours, think about stepping through it, and how strange was that?

Then she’d thought that giving the mirror away to one of her brothers—newly engaged—was the right thing to do. To top off all this foolishness, instead of driving around the inlet, she’d packed the mirror and taken it onto the open sea in a new boat she’d built. In the winter. It was a mild day and the water was calm, but the action had been unwise beyond belief.

Thunder, lightning…storm from nowhere. The quilts and ropes around the mirror falling away magically. The glass blazing white like nothing she’d seen. The boat breaking up under her, the wind whipping her into the mirror, then landing her in the cold sea of here—an alternate dimension or universe or whatever. Lladrana.

She’d been Summoned by the Seamasters, who’d done it on the cheap. They hadn’t even known they’d succeeded. Just called a person from Earth and when she didn’t seem to show, they wandered back to a market gathering.

That forced Raine to fend for herself in a strange land where she knew nothing, and, in fact, got sick if she were more than a couple of miles from the sea.

Of course the worse had happened. One of those Lladranans who had an instinctive, irrational repulsion for people from Earth—Exotiques—had found her, been in a position of power over her. Tormented her. She’d lived like that six months before she could escape.

A winged horse had found her, brought a nobleman—Faucon Creusse—to her, and then she’d been tuned to this world and the sickness had gone away. Maybe that was why she was here, in the temple. The ritual to tune her had been here, in this large round building separated into sections by fancy screens.

Now the feycoocu was playing in the pool as a baby seal. Raine glanced at her, then stared at the crystal chimes that had run through her body last month, plucking inner chords she didn’t know she had, and shivered.

There were seven chimes, and her friend Bri Masif, another Exotique, a healer, said they corresponded in sound and color to the chakras. The chimes sat on a large marble altar carved with symbols of the four elements, one on each side. Raine’s, like Bri’s, was water, which was the only thing that really made sense. Because she was a shipbuilder and would create a vessel that would carry an invasion force to fight the Dark.

One fast ship that might escape notice, loaded with the best fighters in Lladrana, and the Exotiques to Sing and trigger a weapon knot that would probably explode the whole damn island.

Raine peeked inside the chimes. She was sure that during her ordeal these had been lit somehow, but there was no candle wax inside. They were probably storage crystals like the ones embedded in the beams above her. She cleared her throat. She was learning all about Power—magic—and how it manifested in music. She hummed, true C. The red chime sounded the same note and lit, staying bright. Raine ran the chakra scale and grinned when all the chimes lit.

Then she stared at the silver gong, nine feet in diameter. Naturally it was suspended in the frame with Power, didn’t have holes in it. She narrowed her eyes. Did it have an aura? Probably from all the magic in the temple, all the times it had been used in ritual, still…She circled the altar to look at it from the back. As she watched she thought she saw it vibrate faintly, heard a soft, trembling note. But when she shook her head it went away. She examined the gong again, there was something about it….

“What are you doing here? Do you have a final model for the Ship yet?”

Raine jumped. She hadn’t heard the doors open. The Castle staff was keeping them too well-oiled. Slowly she turned to face the man who was also a great draw for her to come to the Castle. The sexy guy she’d longed would notice her, Faucon Creusse.

3

Since Faucon had been dumped by another Exotique—okay, the whole lot of them—he didn’t give Raine the time of day.

For some damn reason she swallowed sudden tears, hoped they didn’t show in her eyes. How humiliating. She dragged a silk handkerchief from her pants pocket and stumbled over to the low stone built-in benches that circled much of the temple. Sank down onto one of the fat jewel-toned cushions and sniffled.

I am here. We are fine. Her feycoocu levitated over to her, leaving a dripping wake, then glared at Faucon. The little creature didn’t give Raine any advice, a blessing since she wasn’t very wise.

“Pardon,” Faucon said stiffly. “I shouldn’t have been so rude.” He was cold, which was worse. His face was expressionless, masking the irritation she’d seen the first time they’d met and every time since.

“Is something wrong with the Ship?”

“The ship.” She bit her own irritated words off, tried for the chilled courtesy that he’d mastered. “Nothing is wrong with the ship. I should have a final model this week.” She bent her lips in a smile. “As for my welfare, I am a little touchy since all anyone cares about is my crafting of the ship, but I will get over my mood in a bit, thank you for asking.”

She thought his golden skin tinged red. He inclined his head. “I am sorry to intrude.” He hesitated. “Did you touch the gong? I thought I felt…thought I heard…”

She blew her nose and tucked the handkerchief away in a pocket. “No, I did not. But Summoning a new Exotique seems to be on all our minds. I wasn’t asked to be Summoned.”

“By the Song,” he muttered. “Only Alyeka was asked and came of her own free will.”

“Didn’t know what she was getting into,” Raine said.

“But the others have stayed with us to fight the Dark. I don’t remember them being so fussy during the time they were making that decision.”

He misremembered, she was sure, she’d read their accounts. But what came out of her mouth was, “My family! They still think I’m dead. And I don’t know what’s going on with them!”

He flung up his hands. “Is that all?” Now he strode to her, locked elegant fingers around her wrist in a strong grip, pulled her to her feet.

The feycoocu hissed, had turned into a little snake when they weren’t looking.

Faucon ignored the small being, and said, “Why haven’t you talked to mirror magician Koz about getting a mirror to your family so you can see what’s going on?”

Raine shook her head. “He hasn’t been around, has been in the east studying advanced mirror magic or something.”

“Well, he’s here now. We’ll go see him.”

Turn her over to Koz, Faucon meant.

She shrugged out of his grasp, turned again to the gong. She was sure she’d seen it tremble. A strange push of air popped her ears. She put a hand to her head. Faucon frowned, lines digging into his face, and steadied her with a hand to her elbow.

We must stay until it’s done, said the feycoocu.

Singer’s Abbey

Luthan stared at the new Exotique and waited for the screeching of all his senses into a cacophony. An awful Song that hurt until he learned to know the person behind the pummeling sounds that shrieked “mutant.”

Those who didn’t experience the horrible Song called the effect “an instinctive repulsion” and it was that, but it was more. An assault on his inner ear, his inner sight, his inner self. He’d learned to control it, of course. There was no honor in attacking an innocent person who had no knowledge that their Song was hurting him.

He waited and it didn’t come. Instead he saw the long legs of the woman dressed in that sturdy blue material the Exotiques liked so much. Soft cloth draped her breasts and a harmony ball gleamed against their round fullness. She had equally full lips. Her eyes were as tilted as his own, as his people’s, her skin not as golden as most Lladranans, but not that strange paleness of the other Exotiques, or Marian’s hint of olive.

Studying the length of lovely legs and slender torso, he knew she wouldn’t have the height of Lladranans. Marian would still be the tallest, this one was near to the size of Calli, the Volaran Exotique with the yellow hair. But this woman’s hair wasn’t yellow, or the red of Marian’s, or the browns of Bri and Raine. Nor the black with varying deep colors of his people. It seemed to be a very dark brown with black mixed in, not the other way around.

No repulsion. Had he finally mastered it? Squeezed the hideous moment from full minutes to less than a second? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. He only blessed the Song that this lady brought no instinctive repulsion and following shame.

In fact, her Song was vaguely muffled, heard dimly and not with the clarity of everyone else’s in the world. Odd, but relieving.

A red cockatoo watched over her.

His anger at the Singer had dissipated. It would return, but now he felt only extreme wariness. He inclined his torso to the Singer, not the full bow he had given her when he’d first become her representative two years ago.

“Sweet Song salutations, Singer.” Difficult not to hiss the greeting, to keep the proper rhythm and lilt, but that’s how she judged her Friends, judged him. Irritation would have made his tones hard and he was glad he’d lost it. He’d be courteous until the new Exotique was settled.

When his gaze met the Singer’s, he knew she saw that he doubted her deeply. There was a flash of arrogance there, her own annoyance.

A long glint caught his eye and he peered into the shadows of the cavern wall opposite them and saw a huge mirror, the glass covered with a faint sheen of blue that he thought could be sapphire dust.

He’d taken part in tuning Raine to the vibrations of Amee. Grimly, he said, “I see that you have chimes, and the crystal bowls for additional Song, cymbals to approximate the gong. But not the gong itself. You brought the Exotique by mirror magic.”

The Singer’s eyes flashed Power. She lifted her chin. “Do you presume to think that my Summoning could be inferior than the Marshalls’ puny chanting Song? Especially now that Partis has died and cannot lead them?”

A shaft of pain speared him—Partis had been his loved godfather. Luthan held his ground, narrowed his own eyes. “Your Song is incredibly more Powerful than the Marshalls—”

Her expression relaxed.

“Your voice magnificently trained, your Friends almost as good a team as the Marshalls.”

“Almost!”

“I have fought with the Marshalls, been mentally linked with them as a team in battle, in healing circles after battles. They are the premier team on Lladrana.” He gestured to the people in colored robes around them. “Neither you nor these Friends have experienced life-and-death circumstances that form such a bond. Further, the Marshalls participate within their bond as equals. Your Friends will never be allowed to be equal to you. Could never be equal to the Singer.”

Her expression showed pride mixed with irritation. Not many told her the truth. “But my team must have done well enough. We drew her here.”

Luthan nodded. “She is here, but how tuned are her personal Exotique Terre vibrations to our planet of Amee? You have the chimes, the crystals, cymbals. But you do not have the gong.”

“And the gong is so necessary?”

“I have been at four Summonings and a tuning, have seen and felt and heard what occurred. You have not attended. Yes, I believe the gong is necessary. Unless you want to limit and cripple this Exotique to stay near the Abbey, as the Seamasters crippled their Summoned one.”

Again the Singer’s eyes flashed with Power. Her lips thinned. “If the gong is needed, the gong will sound and be heard!” She raised her hand and fisted her fingers in a snatching, twisting gesture.

The low note of a gong—could it really be the silver gong in the Marshalls’ Castle so many leagues away?—resonated throughout the chamber.

The woman, who’d sat up, flung back her head. A cry came from her throat, but the sound held music.

The Singer’s gaze snagged his again. “How many times?”

She knew, he’d reported the damn ritual five times, hadn’t he? “Three.”

Another clench of her hand, pull of her elbow. This time the gong note held longer, echoed loud against the cavern walls.

Another long wail from the woman, a thrashing of her limbs. By the time her body finished shuddering, she’d changed her position, sat cross-legged and hunched. She raised uncomprehending eyes and stared at him. He was watching her, but the Singer’s gaze had not left him.

“She felt the tuning with my cymbals thrice already,” the Singer said in her musical voice. “Now you insist that she experience the gong. Do you think she will be pleased with you?”

He forced his stare from the beautiful woman to the Singer. “Doing what is pleasant isn’t as important as doing what is right.”

The Singer lifted both of her hands, fingers straight. She nodded. “As you will, then. And three!” She closed her hands.

The sound was massive, clanging against his ears. He staggered a step, saw Friends fall from the corner of his eyes. A long, ululating cry came from the woman, matched by the warble of the bird.

There was a tinkle of chimes, and the mirror in the cavern faded—was it real or illusion? How much was truly needed for a portal between the worlds?

Marshalls’ Castle

Raine staggered away after the third sounding of the gong, her ears still ringing despite her hands over them. Faucon had kept her upright with a grip on her upper arms.

The huge wooden doors from the courtyard burst open and Alexa, the first Exotique, and Bri, the healer, shot into the room, along with their men.

Raine stared at them in surprise.

Alexa, hands on hips, with the aura of the most Powerful warrior in the country, small and silver-headed, examined the large room in one whirling turn. “Where is she? Why did you do it?”

“What are you talking about?” Raine asked.

Bri, medium-brown hair gleaming, creamy complexion pale, rubbed her hands up and down her upper arms. “I felt it, a great change in Lladrana, in Amee. I heard the gong!” She glanced at Alexa, who was nodding.

“A Summoning,” Alexa said. “Just a little while ago, and now the gong has sounded.”

“No Summoning here.” Raine and Faucon spoke together. He released his grip on her and she missed it. But Raine knew about sounding gongs, at least. “Tuning an Exotique to the world,” she said between dry lips.

“Ayes,” Alexa agreed. “But you didn’t sound the gong.”

“No.” Then in Lladranan, “Ttho.” Raine swallowed. “What’s going on?”

“I can guess,” Bastien, Alexa’s husband, said grimly, towering over his mate. “The last Exotique is for—”

“The Singer!” Alexa shouted. “And that sneaky old woman has Summoned her!” She broke from Bastien’s grasp and ran into the courtyard, yelling for her flying horse. Bastien followed.

Bri sent Raine a look and said, “Sevair and I rode the roc up from Castleton, we’ll get there quicker. Are you coming?”

Everyone had been overprotective of her, and the Marshalls’ Castle nearly a cage. Now, to leave it in the dark and fly south to the Singer’s Abbey that she’d only heard spoken of in awed tones, seemed scary. Still, Exotiques stuck together. “I’ll come,” she croaked. Blossom! she called her own winged steed mentally. Prepare for a flight to Singer’s Abbey.

Bri drilled a look at Faucon. “You?”

He shrugged. “Ayes.”

Bri nodded and ran out, hand in hand with her serious husband.

But Faucon wasn’t as casual as he seemed. Just standing near him, Raine could feel his tension. He strolled to the door, threw her a look from over his shoulder. “Come along, though I’d wager that this will be a futile quest. Despite everything, we won’t wrest the new Exotique from the Singer’s clutches.”

Raine was cold and her throat too tight to reply.

As they flew away, the Castle alarm sounded, calling warriors to battle. Raine saw Alexa and her volaran flinch, but she didn’t look back.

Knowing that Chevaliers and Marshalls were running through the Castle to their volarans, rising in a cloud to the North to fight monsters, Raine didn’t look back, either.

She’d learned that looking forward was always best. That way you sometimes saw doom coming.

Singer’s Abbey

Jikata was barely aware of what was going on around her. She thought there was a big, gorgeous Asian man looking down at her, wearing white…leather? Then he stepped out of her line of sight and she was surrounded by the people in rainbow robes. Most of them were smirking and she didn’t like it.

A couple of them had looked at her in horror and disgust, had trembled and shrunk away from her gaze, pressing themselves against the cave walls.

Cave walls?

She had an uneasy feeling that she wasn’t in Denver anymore. But she was more than confused, she’d just begun to figure out her surroundings when wave after wave of sound ran through her, electrifying her nerves. It felt as if she’d been struck by lightning. By the time it was done she could only lie quivering.

The older woman who’d said she was the Singer gestured to two women and they lifted Jikata gently, set her on her feet, steadied her as if she were a precious child learning to walk. She wasn’t sure she liked this extreme care any better than the revulsion. Looking around for the one being who was slightly familiar, she saw Chasonette on the man in white’s broad shoulder, staring at him. He was staring back at her in surprise, then he turned and met Jikata’s gaze with a dark chocolate one of his own that made her tremble in more ways than she understood.

Then the elder was in front of her, demanding attention. “This cavern and the tunnels leading to and from it are filled with the tunes of prophecy. I am the Singer and have Summoned you!” She spoke English.

Jikata saw White Leather Man’s grimace and an odd expression flicker on his face. She’d seen him come from that door to the tunnels, right? Now that she scrutinized him, he looked a little worse for wear, lines around his eyes and bracketing his mouth that she didn’t think were usually noticeable. There were also smears of grime on his forehead, his face, his white leathers and gloves.

Chasonette warbled and again words sifted through Jikata’s mind. Let Luthan escort you. Best for you both. The bird tugged a strand of the man’s hair from a tie in the back and Jikata realized it was longer than shoulder-length. A good look for him.

She took a steadying breath. “Luthan?”

The Singer frowned, the man strode forward, lifted his arm and Chasonette walked down it to his wrist. Keeping that arm raised, he bowed, brown eyes never leaving Jikata.

“Luthan Vauxveau,” he said. As he straightened he rolled a gesture from himself to her and spoke more words. Frenchlike. She knew some French from songs and thought he said something like, “I am at your service.” He held out his opposite arm in a formal offer of support and the women’s hands on her tightened. The Singer’s eyes narrowed and her lips pursed.

Jikata didn’t know what was going on, but the emotional currents around her spoke of power plays. From the sheer force of the Singer, Jikata thought she was the major player in this situation, the turf was hers, the…minions. And the Singer had such life force, such ki, that Jikata could literally feel it.

Best even things out a bit, though the man, too, was a presence to be reckoned with. Jikata had been dealing with movers and shakers in the music world the last few months and knew authority when she saw it. This Luthan Vauxveau must represent another faction. Of what or whom, she didn’t know, but it couldn’t hurt to follow Chasonette’s continued murmurings in her mind to go with Luthan. So Jikata put her hand on his arm and the cockatoo warbled approval even as a small shock went through Jikata. The hard muscles under her fingers tensed and she became all too aware of him, most particularly the melody coming from him. As if he had a personal theme in the soundtrack of her life.

Her fingers curled hard around his arm, but he didn’t falter. The women who had been steadying her let their hands fall away. Everything—everyone—around her was…giving off…sound, from a ripple of notes to Luthan’s harmonic melodies, to the Singer’s full orchestral symphony. Jikata thought the cave itself issued long, deep tones.

She did have a soundtrack in her life now, and the thought was daunting.

Luthan took a small step toward the door and Jikata followed. Her stomach clutched. She stopped and looked around, peered back where she’d seen the theater, hesitant to leave this place. A slight mist hovered in that direction, beyond which was dark, no sheen of a mirror or electric lights.

Nothing but rock walls arching to roundness above her. Excellent acoustic chamber, but…not Denver? Couldn’t be, if she listened to both her mind and her heart. Did she dare leave?

How could she stay? There was nothing here. She had to go with them to get answers.

The Singer had glided beyond them to the door, along with a woman in a royal blue robe who opened the door. Luthan hissed through his teeth and began singing. He had a strong tenor. Beautiful. Great breath control. His chant was simple and strong. The Singer had begun her Song, too. Intricate and forceful but with a delicacy, and, again, a slight quaver.

A sense of impending change flared in Jikata. Her life would never be the same again, and the moment of decision had passed by so quickly she hadn’t been aware of it. She wanted to slow events down, felt the edge of a tide of exhaustion lapping inexorably to her. Maybe she had fallen asleep on the chaise lounge in her dressing room and this was all a dream.

Chasonette fluttered from Luthan to Jikata’s shoulder, and she felt the small prick of claws. Then the bird Sang, too. So much music from everyone overwhelmed her as she tried to sort it out. The others were lining up behind her and Luthan, the Singer was no more than a small pace ahead.

The tunnel was larger than Jikata expected, with a smoother floor though the walls remained rough. When they stepped into it a mist coalesced around them, wisping into faces she knew—the major record producer, her agent, other singing stars—and with all of them came more tunes that seemed to suit their personalities. And they seemed to be leaching the heat from her.

She blinked and saw herself singing with a huge Grammy behind her. Fabulous!

When they turned a corner the mist formed into five women in front of them, Caucasian women—a small white-haired one, a redhead, a blond, two brunettes. They all scowled at her, gazes hot. The sound they made was incredible, going beyond Jikata’s hearing range in each direction. Waves of heat rippled around them, reached out to lick her with flames, and she was almost glad, she was so cold.

“We trusted you!” they snapped in chorus. “You betrayed us.”

The heat of the anger and the cold of the tunnel and the tide of exhaustion was too much. Jikata slid into blackness and blessed quiet.

Luthan swung the new Exotique up into his arms, the bird fluttered around them, making soothing sounds, a lilt of encouraging notes. The Singer took the lead.

Oddly enough, his muscles eased. The muffled quality of her Song held most of his visions at bay. But he’d seen the future again: a wondrous ship, rough seas, the looming volcano of the Dark’s Nest in the distance. The battle. Monsters against Chevaliers and Marshalls. The Exotiques and their mates Singing the Weapon Knot loose, the City Destroyer spell.

Death and destruction. Again and again. Only one thing remained the same. Calli, the Volaran Exotique, and her bondmate, Marrec, lived. For that Luthan gave thanks. If even one Exotique lived the outcome was good. Usually the Dark expired, too; when it didn’t, it was too wounded to rise for generations. Good.

He plodded after the Singer, trying to keep his mind shielded from the prophetic wraiths.

Luthan, what the hell is going on! Bri, the healer, demanded, and he sensed her within the Abbey proper, arriving by the roc sooner than the others. She and her husband, the formidable Citymaster, Sevair Masif, were spiraling down on the roc to the main courtyard. They would sense Luthan, come to him, might even sense the new Exotique.

For years Lladranans had fought invading monsters sent by a great Dark until the magical northern boundary began to fall and the Marshalls had dared to Summon the first Exotique, Alexa. She’d found the way to mend the fence posts, but had set them on a course to defeat the Dark itself.

Marian had come then, for the Circlets—the Sorcerers, Tower community—had discovered that the horrors invaded to regain some specific item. Marian agreed that the battle should be taken to the Dark. And she’d found the knot that would be their greatest weapon.

Then Calli was Summoned for Luthan’s own portion of society, the Chevaliers, and the volarans. She’d scouted the Dark’s Nest.

When a sickness sent by the Dark had swept the country, the Cities and Towns had paid the Marshalls to bring a medica from Exotique Terre. Twins had arrived, Bri and Elizabeth, and had fulfilled their tasks…and Elizabeth had returned with the Snap, when her home planet called her, opening a portal in the Dimensional Corridor, giving an Exotique the choice to stay or return.

Unknown to the rest of Lladrana, the Seamasters had tried a Summoning—Raine—and had thought they’d failed, and left. Now she was to build a great Ship to carry an invasion force to the Dark’s Nest itself and kill it.

The fractured communities of Lladrana were combining for that one purpose. To kill the Dark.

To send one swift and stealthy Ship to the Dark’s Nest, manned with the best warriors of Lladrana to fight the horrors and the Master defending it. There the Exotiques would untie the mysterious Weapon Knot Marian had found—the City Destroyer—with Song and…and leading the Song would be this last woman.

The sixth and final person to be Summoned to battle the Dark.

4

A cold wind whipped around Luthan, whistled through the tunnel, some of the Friends’ voices broke and were silent. Luthan drew on his Power to keep going, to protect the woman in his arms, as the bird shrilled a distress call.

The Singer remained untouched and serene, her pace regular, her Song soaring.

But she knew, like everyone else, that all their lives hung in the balance.

When they reached the white-and-gold anteroom, her Song faded. She turned toward Luthan with a flinty gaze. “I will not let you take this one away. She is mine to train! Her voice is not sufficient, yet, to master the spell Circlet Exotique Marian discovered to destroy the Dark. This one must develop her full range, as I have. She is the key. She will lead the others.”

The Singer gestured and a hefty man hurried from the rest of the Friends’ to stand before him, arms outstretched to take the burden of the new Exotique. Luthan held onto her.

The door to the caverns was still open, the room was small and not everyone could crowd into it. Friends in the tunnel whimpered. Then their ranks broke and a line of them hurried by the Singer and Luthan and the large Friend, through the door to the chapter house. The Singer ignored them. Luthan couldn’t, he sent what Power he could to soothe their fears. They didn’t acknowledge him.

He’d made the right decision. He would no longer represent the Singer.

“Look at her,” the Singer said, pointing at the woman in his arms. “The shadows beneath her eyes, the gray tone to her skin, she is exhausted.”

Luthan? Bri called. She, Sevair and the roc were just outside the octagonal tower door that led to the caverns. He was connected to her through his bond with his brother, who was pairbonded with Alexa. All the Exotiques except Raine were strongly linked to Lladrana men—and to each other.

“Summoning is hard on a person, she’ll recover, better she be with her own kind,” he said.

The Singer’s smile was knife-edged. “My Song has reverberated in her life. She was fated for me, will probably be my successor. That means she has prophetic Power, untapped and untrained. Can’t you sense it?”

Focusing now on the inner woman and her Power—her great Power—instead of her outer beauty, Luthan studied her. He’d never heard such a complex Song, and as the Singer had pointed out, there was a well of Power within her that appeared to be trapped behind a door just cracked open—recently. She’d seen visions in the caverns, he realized. His gut tightened.

“You can take her from me—” the Singer’s voice held a mocking note “—but her Power for prophecy has already been unlocked. Will you take the task of training her? Do you forget, then, how it was when you had your own first visions?”

He suppressed a shudder. He would never forget the visions that had come to him as he’d gone from boy to man. Terrible to experience that alone, to fear for your sanity.

Luthan, I know you’re nearby! Bri kicked the outside door.

“So, what will you do, Luthan Vauxveau?” the Singer asked.

His lips firmed as he considered. If he broke ties with the Singer now, he’d be leaving an Exotique solely in her Power, with no connection to the others from Exotique Terre.

Or he could let the Singer think he was yet her dupe, come and go freely in the Abbey. So he bowed his head. “Very well.”

“You’ll explain to the others?” She smiled again.

He wanted to refuse. “I’ll do my best.” But his loyalty had changed, from the Singer to the…Not the Marshalls, even though Exotique Alexa and his own brother Bastien led them. Not the Chevaliers, he’d outgrown them and their specific concerns.

He’d serve Lladrana itself, the planet Amee, and the Exotiques. They were the spearhead against the Dark.

He would double-check all the Singer’s statements. Reluctantly, he transferred the lovely new Exotique to the burly Friend. Chasonette settled on the man’s head and he winced.

Bri, Luthan said mentally, keeping his tone calm and un-hurried. The Singer has convinced me that the new Exotique should remain here.

But—

There are good reasons. The last Friend sidled through the chapter house door. The Singer went to her own door and flung it open for the man holding the Exotique. There was a tinier room that Luthan understood was a box that moved between floors. The Singer stepped in, watching him.

“She will be taken to a luxurious suite that has been prepared specifically for her,” the Singer said, her smile turning satisfied.

Luthan didn’t like any of her previous smiles, nor the smug one she sent him now. She lifted a hand. “You have been an excellent representative. Take care of the problem of the other Exotiques. We will talk later.”

Anger welled again. She’d held great Power—the Power of the Oracle of Lladrana—for too long. And her secrecy had helped separate the factions over the past decades.

He had much to discuss with the Exotiques and they didn’t totally trust him because he’d been the Singer’s man. He’d have to talk fast.

If he were clever and lucky enough, he could speak with them one at a time and convince them to let the new one stay with the Singer. Save himself grief. Not a good position for a man who’d once been called the most honorable in Lladrana to be in.

Luthan opened the door to Bri and Sevair. The healer’s husband had a grip around her biceps and she shifted from foot to foot. She’d cut her brown hair again and it was shorter than most men’s, some standing out in spikes at the top. In style, she was the most outrageous of all the Exotiques, but at least the purple streaks were gone. She wore a medica’s red travel tunic with a white cross.

The roc had moved to a spacious courtyard within earshot, eyes gleaming and wicked beak slightly open as if ready to pounce.

Bowing, Luthan addressed them, “Salutations.”

Bri frowned. Sevair had taken to carrying his stonemason’s hammer as a weapon in a sling on his hip. His fingers touched the handle, but he inclined his head. “Salutations, Luthan.”

Luthan raised his voice. “Lady roc, if you are hungry, the Singer’s cattle herd is to the northwest.”

Thank you, Chevalier, the roc said, projecting her thoughts into all their minds. Her tone, too, was mocking and Luthan was getting damned tired of that, but he’d brought this situation upon himself by trusting the Singer and following her orders.

Using the common link between the Exotiques and their men, Luthan spoke mind to mind. Perhaps we can adjourn to my home estate? It’s not too far from here.

Sevair frowned. Castle Vauxveau is far northwest.

Not my father’s home, but my own, Luthan said. It was the house he’d inherited from his mother’s aunt that he’d claimed as soon as he could leave his father. Not that he’d made it a home then. He’d run wild for a couple of years until he realized his younger brother was following in his footsteps.

Past mistakes, he’d made a couple of bad ones. Then he’d done fine for years, but recently…

He waved toward the entry station of the Abbey and the volaran landing field beyond. “While the roc is feeding, we can fly to my home. I’m sure the Singer won’t care if you use a couple of her volarans.” Not if it meant getting disruptive people away from her domain.

Bri’s face went stubborn. She crossed her arms under her breasts and adopted a militant stance that looked more than a little like Alexa’s. Habits were rubbing off. “I’m the Exotique Medica, I want to examine our new addition.” Bri shook her head. “Summoning is tough under any circumstances, but by the Singer—”

“The most Powerful person in Lladrana,” Luthan ended smoothly. “I saw the lady myself.”

“Female?” asked Sevair.

“Ayes, one who looks more like our people than the others.”

As expected, curiosity lit Bri’s eyes, but she stuck to the topic. “She appeared well, and tuned to Amee?”

“Ayes. The Singer Summoned her through mirror magic without my knowledge. There were the chimes, and cymbals to approximate the gong.” He raised his hand when Bri opened her mouth to speak. “When I refused to accept that the cymbals would be effective, the Singer drew the sound of the gong to us.” He shook his head. “Amazing.”

Bri huffed a breath, her stance softened. “We heard it.”

“I’m sure everyone did.”

Fingers drumming on her opposite arm, Bri searched his face. “She was well?”

“I give you my word. She appeared as if she was weary before she arrived, and the Singer immediately sent her to bed to rest. If we petition the Singer now to see her, she may deny us simply because the new Exotique is sleeping.” He paused. “She is meant for the Singer, you know.”

Bri seemed unconvinced. Luthan saw a man in the shadows. “Jongler!” he called. The man hesitated, shuffled forward. He bowed briefly, looked at Bri’s hair, glanced away. “Ayes?”

“The Singer has Friends who are medicas?” Luthan asked.

“Of course.” Jongler’s forehead lined. “She has been ill and is of a great age. We have the best medicas in the land here, two came from the Marshalls’ Castle last year.” He bowed, deeper, to Bri. “I should say the best medicas other than yourself, Exotique Medica.” A gleam came to his eyes. “If you would stay with us, I guarantee that you would be well paid.” He turned to Sevair. “And there is always work for a skilled stonemason and architect on the Abbey buildings. The Singer is delicate, and the person of the greatest importance in Lladrana. Her visions are so necessary for the future, please stay—”

But Bri was backing away, hauling Sevair, who was studying the conglomeration of buildings within the compound. “Thank you.” She glanced at Sevair, then planted her feet, raised her chin and stared at Jongler. “I insist you have a medica examine the Exotique…Singer tomorrow morning and send me a report at my tower in Castleton. You do have a crystal orb?”

Jongler was bowing again. “Of course, of course, the very best crystal, bespelled by the great Circlet Sorcerer himself, Bossgond. We also have mirrors, though none of the new, advanced ones. Yet. Still, they will do.”

“Crystal,” Bri said firmly. “You know my address?”

“The ancient Ronteran’s Tower in Castleton.” Jongler breathed the name reverently. “Ronteran was not only a Circlet Sorcerer, he was a Singer’s consort.” Jongler waved. “He designed a few of the buildings.”

“Thought I recognized his ornate style,” Sevair said. Luthan followed his gaze to a row of gargoyles.

There was a belch overhead and the scent of sweet grass—from the roc. A magical creature indeed. The great bird fluttered down. Jongler sent its bloody beak a glance of abject terror, scrambled back, still bowing to Bri. “If you ever want to change venues…” He vanished around a corner.

I flew around the compound, the roc said, eyes glittering a rainbow of dark colors. The new Singer is Powerful, healthy, resting. She is where she must be.

Bri and Sevair matched Luthan’s sigh. Magical creatures were usually cryptic.

Bri stared at Luthan. “Have you had any visions of her?”

He could feel a prophecy coalesce, didn’t want it. “No.” The vision came in a flash anyway. Despite his wishes he’d become expert in deciphering flashes of prophecy. “Only that she and I will meet you on a road, still summer.”

After searching his face, Bri nodded. “Then we’ll leave.” Again she shifted. “This place makes me nervous. I don’t want to be kidnapped.”

Luthan’s jaw flexed before he said, “I did what I had to do.”

Wincing, Bri said, “I didn’t mean—Before my time. Anyway, let’s go home. I’ll contact Calli at her estate and give her the info.” Bri took Sevair’s hand and led him to the roc.

Sevair still scanned the buildings. “Perhaps some time in the future we can visit….”

“Maybe.” Bri mounted the roc, then Sevair settled behind her. With a short, “Bye!” they flew away.

Luthan’s home

Luthan flew, intercepted Alexa and Bastien, Raine and Faucon in the air and led them to his home. A few minutes later they all landed in the yellow cobblestone courtyard between the small manor and the moat.

Alexa and Bastien went inside, but Luthan lingered to talk with Raine and Faucon, neither of whom had dismounted.

He convinced these two that all was well, he’d explain everything to Bastien and Alexa. Raine and Faucon could return to Castleton. He sensed they were glad to go, and didn’t want to spend any more time together. Faucon would grimly escort her to the Castle, flying with Distance Magic, and they wouldn’t need to converse or interact. Their relationship was interesting, and he made a note to tell the Singer—No, he would not be reporting anything of importance to the Singer.

Faucon had the opposite reaction to Exotiques than Luthan. Luthan had never spoken to the man about his innate attraction to Exotiques, could only imagine that Faucon heard a siren’s song of love where Luthan experienced a painful clash of sounds screaming “wrong.” But of the two of them, so far Faucon had been the one most emotionally hurt.

Raine looked back over her shoulder, frowning, as her volaran rose into the sky. Wanting again to be reassured that she wasn’t abandoning her friend, Alexa, or the new Exotique. Luthan sent her mental soothing—All is well, I promise. This is not like your own experience, the Singer will cherish the lady.

And you are an honorable man, Raine replied, her expression easing. She waved.

He waved back, then entered his home, passing his housekeeper, who’d brought brandy and tea to the shabbily masculine sitting room where Bastien and Alexa waited.

Now to convince Alexa not to storm the Singer’s Abbey.

5

Luthan strode in. Bastien lounged in his chair, sipping brandy. It was good to see him there. During the two years they’d lived together, after Luthan had put aside his wild ways, the seat had conformed to Bastien’s butt. That was years ago and Bastien was a hardened warrior now. He was even a Marshall like their father, not a troubled young man with strange and spiking Power that went with his striped black-and-white hair.

He was grinning, watching his bondmate pace the room. Since Alexa was an Exotique and smaller than Lladranans, and the shortest one, too, it took her more paces than it would have anyone else. Luthan noted that Bastien watched her butt. “So what’s so wrong about the Singer Summoning the next Exotique?” Bastien prodded his wife.

She scowled and stopped in front of him, fingering her jade baton, her best magical weapon. That would have made Luthan nervous except Bastien was a good judge of his wife’s moods. Bastien continued, “You just wanted her to bond with you and the rest of the Exotiques first, before you handed her over to the Singer. Raging curiosity, lover.”

Alexa pouted then plopped herself on Bastien’s lap. He wrapped an arm around her, and Luthan felt a stinging surge of envy.

Bastien met Luthan’s eyes, his expression unusually sober. “Fact is, we Marshalls have been working as a group on the complex Summoning spell. We had the chorus harmonies right, but…” He shrugged. “We lost Partis, and his was the voice with the strength and timbre and heart that brought the Exotiques through the Dimensional Corridor.”

Luthan froze as he noticed tears dribbling down Alexa’s cheeks. He didn’t think he’d ever seen the strong woman cry.

Bastien cradled her against his chest, gave her a cloth.

“It was Partis’s voice that drew me,” Alexa said between quiet sobs. “He comforted me for the loss of my friend. He was so strong and so gentle. Such a serene man.”

“An amazing quality in a Marshall. They tend to be fierce and passionate,” Luthan said, pouring her a cup of the tea she favored and that he kept on hand, dumping in a couple of lumps of sugar and stirring it.

She sniffed, took the cup with watery eyes, steady hands and a crooked smile. “A compliment, thanks.” She drank, then sighed. “We Marshalls are determined.” She patted Bastien’s cheek. “Even him.”

Bastien’s arm tightened on her. “Determined that you aren’t going to face the Dark alone. I am your Shield.”

The Shield was the defensive person of the Marshall Sword-Shield pair, though Bastien had many years of outright battle as a Chevalier himself. He tucked her head under his chin. “We were training Marwey for the main solo, but she didn’t have the range. There’s a young Chevalier we were encouraging to test for Marshall.” He rubbed Alexa’s back. “Just as well the Singer brought her over. Mirror magic, you said?” He raised his brows.

“From what I saw.” Luthan squinted to bring details back. “The Singer called the cave the ‘Summoning Cavern’ so—”

Alexa continued, “—Other Singers have brought people through. She had some sort of crystal that showed Calli this world when she was growing up on Earth.” Alexa shot Luthan a dark look. “I’m still mad at you for hurting Calli and Marrec.”

Luthan closed his eyes.

Bastien said, “It was more than a year ago, give it a rest. And he made a mistake, didn’t you?” he asked Luthan.

Luthan opened his eyes and stoically met Alexa’s frowning gaze. “No. It wasn’t a mistake. I followed the Singer’s orders.” He walked to a table and poured himself a short brandy, downed it. His jaw flexed. “I am sorry for any upset I caused—”

“To Marian and Jaquar and Bossgond and me and Bastien—” Alexa obviously still kept a list and a grudge.

“I didn’t upset Bastien,” Luthan protested.

“You upset me. My upset disturbed Bastien,” Alexa ended frostily.

No way to escape this. Again. “I am sorry for the upset I caused, but looking back, I believe that Amee, and destiny, was well served by my actions.” He sank into a large, comfortable chair. “The Singer was right in that instance.”

“I don’t think so,” Alexa said. “I think that if she, or you, had considered the matter, you’d’ve found a better option.”

Luthan shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps.”

“It’s past,” Bastien said.

“But, I am done with being her representative,” Luthan said.

Both Alexa and Bastien straightened. Bastien nodded. “Good.”

“Good!” Alexa echoed.

“When she first requested I become her liaison to the Marshalls and other segments of Lladranan society, I thought it was good the Singer and Friends would be less isolated in the Abbey. At first she kept me well informed and I knew why she gave the orders she did and followed them, even if I did not agree totally with her. The past year or so, though…” He shrugged. “After that last illness…she’s become secretive, autocratic. I’m done with her, and will tell her so…soon.”

“Hmm.” Alexa finished her tea and set the cup on a side table. “Now the new Exotique will be the one to integrate the Singer and her Friends into the rest of Lladranan society. What did you say her name was, again?”

They hadn’t been introduced, but Luthan thought back, recalled the trilling of the bird’s mental voice. “Jikata.”

Alexa gasped. Her mouth dropped open. She put a hand on her heart. “The Jikata?”

Luthan frowned. “It’s a title?”

Alexa was shaking her head. “No. She’s a singer.”

“Of course,” Luthan said.

Alexa hopped off of Bastien’s knees and strode over to Luthan. “I mean she’s a popular singer in our world.” Her hands waved. “A local star going national—international.”

That was gibberish to Luthan.

Alexa began pacing again. “A…a well-known troubadour?”

Luthan shared a glance with Bastien, for Alexa to be impressed meant the lady was someone.

“Wait, wait,” Alexa muttered. “Didn’t I hear…yes!” Her eyes went bright. “I read that she had a four-octave voice.”

This time they all shared a glance.

“The requirement for the City Destroyer spell while unloosing Marian’s weapon knot,” Bastien murmured.

“Wait ’til I tell the others! Especially Marian.” Alexa settled onto Luthan’s lap, looked up at him with a winning smile. “She’s from Colorado, too. How did she look? Tell me all about her.”

He met Bastien’s gaze over Alexa’s head. His brother smiled and raised his mug to him.

So Luthan told Alexa all he knew of the Summoning.

Luthan waited up after Alexa and Bastien went to bed, prepared to convince Circlet Marian and her husband Jaquar that Jikata should remain with the Singer.

He sat in his firelit study. Like all the other rooms in the small manor, it was comfortable but worn. The walls had faded to an even duller color than the original beige. The sturdy wood and leather chairs showed nicks and scratches. Occasionally there was a settee or couch with a dim pattern reflecting his great aunt’s taste.

He still liked this place. Couldn’t imagine living in the great, cold castle where he and Bastien had been raised by a whining, disinterested mother and a dictatorial father.

Since Bastien had formed an unexpected bond with their father before his death and told Luthan about their father’s foreknowledge of his own death, Luthan understood the man better. Luthan didn’t despise his father anymore, but he would never be able to respect his sire.

Tonight the Sorcerers—Circlets—would come, Exotique Marian and her bondmate Jaquar. Since the weather was clear with only a few drifts of mist, they wouldn’t ride lightning, but fly on volarans. He didn’t know what experimentation they might have been conducting when they felt the Summoning, but they’d been on their island in Brisay Sea. His stable master had been alerted.

Luthan would wait for them, get the confrontation out of the way when there were only two of them, no matter how formidable. Taking the Exotiques one at a time was the best strategy.

Besides, he didn’t want to go up to bed. Bastien and Alexa tended to be noisy in their lovemaking. He didn’t begrudge them that, but it did remind him of his loneliness, his single state. The invasion of the Dark’s Nest was preliminarily scheduled for less than three months from now, perhaps as little as a month, determined by the building of the Ship and the trip. Though they hoped they’d survive, they were all prepared to die.

He’d never thought he’d die single, always had believed he’d find a bondmate—was that fantasy or wishing or a vision that had gone awry?

It was near midnight when the doorharp sounded. He rose from the chair where he’d been dozing and went to the door. Beyond the thick wood he sensed great Power. Marian and Jaquar were here.

With a low whistle, he set the spell torches lighting around him in the entryway, then opened the door and bowed. “Salutations.”

Marian, the Exotique Circlet, was tall and voluptuous with long, dark red hair, blue eyes and a slightly olive tone to her complexion.

“Salutations,” Jaquar said. He was tall with silver streaks of Power at both temples and eyes a little darker blue than Marian’s. Some old strain of Exotique blood was in his background.

Neither of them appeared angry, but both looked as if they had prickly questions.

“Come into the sitting room,” Luthan said. “I have brandy and mead.”

“Prepared as usual,” Marian murmured. “I don’t sense the new Exotique here.”

The skirmishing had begun.

Luthan continued to the sitting room, poured brandies for Jaquar and himself—he was drinking more tonight than he did in an entire month—and Marian the mead she favored. As the couple sat together on a loveseat, Luthan caught a half smile on Jaquar’s face. The Exotiques’ men were enjoying him trying to handle their women, and Marian could literally be a force of nature. She was a weather mage like her husband.

Thankfully, she began sipping her mead. She leaned against Jaquar and closed her eyes for an instant. Like the new Exotique, Marian had shadows under her eyes. Ayes, she was interesting with her blue eyes and red hair, but not lovely like the new Exotique. Jikata’s delicate features, long dark brown hair with black, tilted brown eyes and complexion close to the golden of the Lladranans appealed to Luthan more.

Best to begin. “There are many reasons why the Singer Summoning the last Exotique was best. Time is of the essence and the Marshalls were not prepared to do the Summoning, since they’d lost Partis.” Luthan lifted his hands as Marian sizzled a glance at him. “No, I did not know the Singer was going to do so. She did not inform me, nor did she ask me to participate. My taking her orders is at an end, but I haven’t cut the association yet.”

Frowning, Marian said, “I’ve been concentrating on the City Destroyer Weapon Knot and the Songspell to untie it, training my voice with others. I knew Partis was the lead singer of the Marshalls, and of course knew of his death, but I didn’t…” She shook her head, and a distant expression came to her eyes, recollection of when she was Summoned, Luthan supposed.

“He was a strong, quiet man, a Shield to his Lady’s Sword, more important than we all knew,” Jaquar said.

With a watery sniff, Marian nodded. “I should have paid more attention to Alexa, or she should have told me. The Tower community has several good teams now, including good Singers…between all of us, the Castle and the Tower and the Chevaliers and the Cities, we could have forged an excellent team.” She shrugged. “Well, the Singer took advantage of our distraction and inaction.”

Jaquar put an arm around her waist and squeezed. “It is our duty to figure out the Weapon Knot.”

“And you have?” Luthan asked.

“Pretty much,” Marian said. “It’s for an ensemble of at least three and no more than fifty, and the lead solo must have a four-octave range.”

“The Singer would Summon no one with less,” Luthan said. “And she’s the best to train such a range since she has it herself, and since the spellsong will be complex and difficult—” he raised his brows in question and Marian nodded, “—the Singer is the best to train anyone in Power made by the voice alone.”

Jaquar shifted. “Her voice isn’t the only Power of the new Exotique, is it? All the signs indicate that the lady will be strong in prophecy, too, like the Singer herself. And you.”

Luthan didn’t want to recall the visions he’d had in the caves. “The new Exotique is Powerful, and like all the other Lladranan communities, the Singer would have requirements for the one she Summoned.”

“Which would include prophecy,” Jaquar pointed out.

“Which would include prophecy, though I wasn’t with the lady long enough to gauge her Power,” Luthan said, then told them every detail of the Summoning, his talks with Bri and Raine and Alexa.

“Hmm,” Marian said at last. “This Lladranan cockatoo, I’ve never heard of one.”

Another squeeze from her husband. Jaquar said, “You all have animal companions, why shouldn’t she?”

“If you consider the feycoocus animals,” Marian said. “They are more beings of pure magic.”

“Who take various animal forms,” Jaquar added. He looked at Luthan. “Was this cockatoo a real bird or a feycoocu?”

Luthan hadn’t considered the matter. He went with his gut. “A real bird.”

Marian sighed. “Looks like my feycoocu will be mostly bird in the future, along with his mate and the baby, since Bri has the roc. I must admit I prefer mammals.”

“Birds may be more useful during the trip,” Luthan said. “A Lladranan cockatoo comes from the forests of the southeast, a beautiful, intelligent bird.”

“Ah.” Marian yawned, stretched and rose.

“One last thing,” Luthan said. “Alexa recognized the name of the new Exotique.”

Marian tilted her head.

“The new Exotique’s name is Jikata.”

Marian stared at him for a long moment. “I can’t believe it,” Marian said. “What is she doing here? And why would she possibly want to stay?” She seemed shocked.

Jaquar stood and put an arm around his bondmate’s shoulders. “With that attitude, perhaps it’s wise that the Singer has charge of her.” He glanced at Luthan. “For now.”

“For now,” Luthan agreed.

But tears shone in Marian’s eyes, and she clutched Jaquar’s biceps with both hands. “But we all know that the Snap to return an Exotique home doesn’t come until after she finishes her task. If she’s a four-octave Singer who’ll lead us in the City Destroyer spell, that means her task—”

“Is to go with us when we invade the Dark’s Nest and kill it,” Jaquar finished.

“The most dangerous task of any of us. Does she have any free will at all?” Marian asked.

Singer’s Abbey

Jikata awoke, stretched luxuriously, smiled at the velvet canopy above her head. The Ghost Hill Hotel was lovely and she had the Presidential Suite.

But what was truly excellent was the music. She didn’t know what radio station the hotel carried, but it was primo, something she thought she’d never find in Denver, though that public station in Greeley came close.

The piece was new-age ambient, full orchestral with rich, intricate melodies, and the acoustics of the room were wonderful since the sound surrounded her. Better than her home system. She’d get her sound engineer here to talk to the management.

She frowned, rubbed her face. She had ended a tour yesterday, that meant the crew was officially on vacation and—

She was due at her great-grandmother’s at ten! She scrambled up, shoving the binding covers down, bad dreams again.

Weird dreams—

Ishi would never forgive her for being late.

Ishi was dead.

That came flooding back, along with all the regrets and emptiness of her life. She fell back against fat pillows.