Song of Love and War

By Jay Di Meo

In the war against the androids, humans have only one hope: elf magic. But few elves will risk their lives for the humans.

When the elf responsible for protecting Thane's squadron allows all comrades-in-arms to die, Thane is crushed. Sent from the horrors of war to a luxury spa resort to recover, he meets an elf, Suresh.

Suresh is beautiful and brave, but also hides painful wounds. The attraction between them is undeniable, and soon Thane is torn between love and war as his feelings for Suresh begin to grow.

M/M paranormal romance with elves and machines. A novella.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jay Di Meo
• Release date: Dec 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386256885

Book preview

Song of Love and War © Copyright 2016 by Jay Di Meo

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, events, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Cover design by Jay Di Meo

Book previously published with Amber Quill

Thane stood duffel bag in hand, at the entrance to the hotel. The high-ceilinged lobby was cavernous and overwhelming. He took a wary step inside the diamond-shaped room, looking for the check-in desk. Posh place, with wall-size screens playing music clips. He located the reception desk, a circular counter at the center of the room, beneath a glass dome.

What am I doing here?

The army doctor had recommended a spa and, after what had happened to Thane’s squad, the top dogs in command had given the okay for this one without protest. Five days to rest and sort out his thoughts, to deal with grief. As if a spa could help with that.

Still, Thane knew he should be grateful. He stared down at his scuffed boots. Yeah. Grateful. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the lobby.

A group of men crossed the space, chattering and dragging suitcases behind them. A cleaning bot zoomed by, squat and beeping, sucking dust and polishing the floor. So much noise and movement.

A voice boomed, Thermal Spa Hotel, have a good time!

Thane flinched. He stepped back as the wall next to him lit up with a giant commercial of the hotel. Mystery of the elf’s betrayal of the fifth human squadron on the Dixon plain remains unsolved, thundered now the voice from the speakers. So said General Ashton today at the press conference in Madison. The elves have refused to make a statement.

Thane’s heart hammered when the video clip started playing. He’d seen it in the transport where he’d lain wounded in a regen unit. Now he dropped the bag and clutched his healing arm as the image filled the wall—one lone elf warrior in all his ghostly, magical armor covering for the entire human squadron, creating a wall of sheer magic, deflecting all missiles. The seven companies of the squadron were huddled behind him, their armor glinting in the falling sun, their supersonic guns pointed.

Then, the elf turned his helmeted head, and fell to his knees, arms dropping at his sides. The magical wall shimmered and vanished. The enemy missiles flew straight through, striking the squadron, felling them like trees. They fell one after the other, as if a wind of death had blown through them.

Thane held his breath, but the clip again ended there. He kept seeing the elf turning his head, as if he’d heard or seen something, something surprising. But he still wasn’t sure if he had seen the elf’s eyes, in the shadow of his helmet, widen.

What could have broken through the elf’s defenses and surprised him so much that he let Thane’s whole squadron die? What excuse was good enough?

All of them gone in a rain of bullets, gone in smoke. Poof. Thane hid his stinging eyes with his hand. Elves were the humans’ only hope. But that elf had no place in Thane’s heart.

A hand fell on his shoulder. With a shout, he staggered away, his heart knocking about in his chest. What the fuck?

A woman dressed in the hotel uniform with a name tag—Lorena—gave him a concerned look, deep wrinkles framing blue eyes. Are you all right, sir?

He forced himself to stop and suck in a deep breath. His chest felt crushed. Yeah. I was just on my way to check in.

She smiled, and several deep breaths later, he grabbed his bag and made it to the reception desk.

A tall, slender man standing at the reception counter caught Thane’s eye. He was talking with the receptionist. His leather coat hung all the way to his knees, and black trousers molded to his long legs. He wore combat boots, marking him as a soldier. His straight, dark hair was caught in a ponytail that reached the small of his back. There was something about him, elegant and yet dangerous, that made Thane’s stomach clench.

He dragged his gaze away with an effort.

Does sir need anything? a receptionist asked, a stout fellow with a mustache and a bow tie.

Bow tie? Ridiculous. I don’t fit here.

The question whether he fit anywhere but in war kept surfacing in his mind. He kept pushing it back down, trying to drown it. He had to fit. He wasn’t going back to war. He had given in his resignation.

My room. Name’s Thane Stewart.

Here, sir. The receptionist pushed the digital print and voice recognition pad toward Thane who spoke into the mike and pressed his thumb in the soft plastic. The receptionist retrieved the pad and plugged it into his computer. Done. Your room number is 478. Have an excellent stay, sir.

Thane nodded and headed to the lifts. As if in a dream, he walked about until he found his room. He slammed the door shut behind him, locked it, and threw his bag on the bed. His mind a blank, images from the clip zipping like bullets through his head, he started unpacking. He took out his most worn T-shirt, a light blue one with the logo of his favorite band. That was the music that had blared in his ears as he’d swung his supersonic guns on the bastard android army and reaped them down about a week back. Just a week back...

The T-shirt fell from his nerveless fingers and he clutched his healing arm. It burned.

Or was it a memory?

He’d been whisked off the field and into the medic transport just a few hours before the news of his squadron’s demise came in. He’d been the only survivor.

Lucky me...

He sat down on the bed and hung his head. He pushed his fingers through his shoulder-length hair, the calluses from the guns catching on the curling strands. Some went to their graves while fighting against the androids, while others, like him, got an honorable. Why me? Why not them?

The army shrink on the transportation vessel had told him that those questions were normal. That nobody ever knew their fate beforehand, and surviving was a good thing.

Was it? Others had families and lovers to return to. Unlike him. Others returned to a home, to a lover. Unlike him.

Unbearable loneliness pressed on his chest like a stone. He glared at the bright, elegant room with its white carpets and double glass doors opening on a balcony he hadn’t yet bothered to check out. Besides, night was falling fast. In darkness, all was the same.

The Jacuzzis in the garden, the receptionist had proudly told him, used the healing waters of the hot springs the hotel was famous for. Spa, massages, disco, healers, food and drink all included.

It seemed ridiculous, or was it outrageous, that he had stepped from the middle of the battle into this white, clean place with its uniformed employees and quiet. His scuffed battle boots looked incongruous against the fluffy wool carpet, his stained gray trousers—was that a bloodstain at the knee?—out of place. Yet he’d worn them for months and years that blended into one another, the only clothes he’d known since he’d been recruited, since his turn had come