The Crucible: Siren Song Trilogy, #2

By B.A. Blackwood

What if heaven could be entered with a key, and the only one who can keep Satan's Fallen Angels from seizing it and taking over heaven and earth is an undersized girl prone to panic attacks? Caught in the middle of a deadly clash between warring Fallen Angels, college freshman Ariel Robinson should be curled in a fetal position popping Xanax. But she's not.So what if no one but Ariel can hold the key? Or that the key controls the fate of the world? Or that the Fallen Angels won't stop until they nab Ariel and wrest it from her? She's got the protection of her super-hot boyfriend, Michael, with his own army of Good Guys who can match anything the Fallen Angels throw at them. Soon, the Good Guys will figure out how to handle the key, and Ariel can hand it over to them and concentrate on normal freshman college worries. Everything is under control.Or is it? In The Crucible, Book 2 of the Siren Song Trilogy, nothing is as it seems. Just when Ariel thinks she can rely on the Good Guys' protection, old secrets flip her world upside down, pushing her friends and family directly into the Fallen Angels' crosshairs and obliterating the protection she thought she had. It's now all up to her. Can she keep the key out of the Fallen Angels' hands and not die trying?Kirkus Indie Reviews about Siren Song, Book 1 of the Siren Song Trilogy: "An intriguing premise navigated by an affable heroine. The book's fast-paced action is easy to follow while still being suspenseful…[S]olid twists and turns make for a quick, enjoyable read that promises to grow deeper in the next chapters."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Flights of Fancy Publishing House, LLC
• Release date: Jan 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9780990436713

B.A. Blackwood

B. A. Blackwood is a recovering trial lawyer who has loved fantasy fiction ever since she first cracked open The Hobbit. She lives in Dallas, Texas with her husband and their three pugs.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Crucible: 

A severe trial or test

Iclapped my hand over my nose the second I inhaled the odd, rusty smell. I concentrated on not throwing up, while another part of my brain wondered how bad the stench would be if the room weren’t cold enough to drive a bear into hibernation. Was that why they kept this cell only marginally warmer than an igloo? After all, cold air doesn’t carry odor very well.

My brain files away useless factoids without even trying, kind of like when a sports nut can reel off their baseball idol’s batting average without checking the program. I know that smelling anything in chilly air is problematic because the olfactory receptors in our noses burrow in more deeply to protect themselves.  When you couple that with the fact that the speed of an odor molecule moving in hot versus cold air drops from a sprint to a crawl, meaning that fewer molecules ever make it to our buried odor receptors to be recognized, I shouldn’t be smelling much of anything.

So why was I gagging? And no, it’s not like I’m an expert on the olfactory stages of decay. But some primordial part of my brain, the same part that had me running from spiders as a kid before I even knew what they were, told me what the cloying smell meant.

Someone – or something – had died in this room.

I paced from corner to corner, looking for an escape. I stared at the walls, which hiccupped uneven bubbles as though the sheetrock guy charged with smoothing them had partied a bit too much the night before. I poked one of the blobs with my finger and the whole wall jiggled like an underfilled waterbed. I pushed harder, and tiny waves rippled all the way to the corners of the room.

Maybe the walls were thin enough to break through. I pounded on them with my fists with such force that primeval sounds I hardly recognized as mine escaped from my mouth, sounding eerily like Maria Sharapova’s guttural shrieks on the tennis court.

By the way, did you know she’s been recorded at a decibel level of 101.2? That’s two decibels louder than the sound of a chain saw.

Anyway, I digress.

I gave it all I had, but it was like fighting a giant super-puffed marshmallow. No matter how hard or how many times I hit the same spot, the small indentations I made filled back in before I could even land the next blow.

Arms aching, I sank to the floor. Tears rolled down my cheeks and I didn’t bother to wipe them off.  

Minutes passed. Tears dripped. Nothing changed.

I swiped at my face. What a wimp. I forced myself to stand up, pulled my jacket down in back where it had ridden up, and straightened my shoulders.

Okay. So, WWED?

I scanned the room, trying to think like Ethan Hunt in the Mission Impossible series. No windows, no hidden trap door, no dropped ceiling panel to lift and crawl through, no electronics to short circuit, no object to hone into a knife to kill the guards when they came to get me - not that knives work on them anyway.

Something caught my eye on the far wall. Scratches.

I scurried over and knelt in front of them, peering at the lines. Someone had pressed a makeshift pen deep into the cushiony wall, cutting permanent indentations into it. I squinted at the characters, reading and re-reading them.

I rubbed my eyes and looked again. Nope, I’d seen it right the first time.

If you were being held prisoner by the Enemy with nothing left to hope for except a quick and painless death, would you be working math problems?

CHAPTER TWO

Couthy:

Warm and cozy

Earlier That Day

The air buzzed with secrets. Cyrus and Daniel had been missing in action for days and Barnaby’s face wore a look so smug that he might as well have sung naaa-na-na-naaa-na. Michael just grinned when I begged him to tell me what was going on.

I hate secrets, which is why I’d told Michael when I crawled out of his bed this morning that I had promised to help Barnaby first thing with studying for his Head Doorkeeper exam. 

And, not that it’s any of your business, but Michael was working late and I fell asleep studying in his room while I waited for him. I’d woken up fully clothed lying on top of the bedcovers to find him dressed and poring over papers on his desk.

Am I going to see you later today? I tried not to sound needy.

I don’t know, babe, he said, not lifting his eyes from his work. I’m slammed.

My face fell. I don’t know why I’d bothered to fib about helping Barnaby since Michael was so distracted he probably wouldn’t have noticed if I’d left without saying a word.

I’ve seen the movies where they shoot couples falling in love in honey toned slo-mo. Long meaningful glances, moonlit strolls, whispering secrets to each other, texting constantly when they have to be apart, curling up on the couch together with the t.v. on but being too engrossed in each other to watch it, all set to a romantic musical soundtrack.

That’s not us.

Michael has thrown himself into governing, trying to unscramble the damage done by Achimalech. I’ve been spending all my time either going to class, studying or meeting with the scientists who are trying to figure out how to separate the Piece of Home from me. More on that later.

There’s no time to do the things you’d expect of a couple in the throes of true love. It wasn’t how I’d pictured the thrill of finding my soulmate.

Okay. What else was there to say? I’m not going to beg him to spend time with me. I thought you had to be married for at least five years before that happened.

I hustled to the bathroom and examined my face in the mirror. It could be worse. I gave it a once over with a washcloth, swiped some mascara on my eyelashes, and fluffed my hair. Luckily a sweater and jeans don’t wrinkle when you sleep in them. Good enough.

I walked over to Michael and kissed his cheek. I’ll be back in a little while.

Uh huh, he said, the worry wrinkle between his brows not easing a millimeter.

I left, smiling at the ever-present guards outside his room, trying to quell the growing dread that he just wasn’t that into me, or at least not as into me as I was into him. It’s not like he’s a normal boyfriend, so why should I expect him to act like one?

He’s got serious responsibilities as the new leader of the Descendants, made more difficult by the fact he doesn’t know who might have been Achimalech’s collaborators. As wily and charming a character as Achimalech had been, it would be naive to assume that he hadn’t recruited anyone else to the dark side. For the moment, Michael only trusts Barnaby, Daniel and Cyrus.

I speed walked through the mountain halls, parking myself around the corner from the Great Kitchen. At precisely 7:58 a.m., Lorinda emerged, balancing a tray with a tall mug and a plate of pastries. Although her head is almost as wide as the tray and her eyes are on the buggy side, she’s still cute, kind of like E.T.

Even though I couldn’t see exactly what was on the tray, I knew what she carried - a cup of coffee with four sugars and one cream and two chocolate chip scones fresh from the oven with extra sugar crusted on top.  Daniel is a creature of habit with a voracious sweet tooth, and Lorinda delivers the same breakfast to him every morning at 8:00 a.m. Wherever Daniel was, Lorinda would find him, and odds were that Cyrus would be with him.

She padded down the glowing corridor towards the east wing. I know it’s the east wing only because I’ve been told so, not because I have any idea which way east is. I have directional dyslexia and can’t find my own dorm without GPS. Okay, that’s exaggerating a bit, but not as much as I’d like. Picture a bat – make it one of those cute, big-eyed cartoon bats, not the scary rabid looking ones – who’s born with no sonar, and that pretty much sums up my navigational skills.

I followed at a distance and saw Lorinda come to a stop before a silver door and knock. A few seconds later, the door opened a crack and she disappeared inside. I scurried past and hid behind a curve in the hallway. Lorinda emerged a moment later and headed back toward the Great Kitchen. Once I was sure she was gone, I tiptoed to the door.

Voices I recognized as belonging to Cyrus and Daniel rumbled on the other side of the door. Yes!

I looked both ways. The coast was clear. I leaned forward and pressed my ear against the door.

...spoiling her. I recognized Daniel’s voice.

Maybe she could...little spoiling, Cyrus’ familiar deep voice said.

I pressed my ear harder to the door. I wish I had a water glass to press against the door but, then again, do those things actually work? 

But if you give her everything, she will think money...on trees. Her ambition will be stunted, and she will ... expecting everything to be given to her. Then one day she will wake up ...with no money and no prospects. We might not be there to help her out, and then what? She will spend ...life living on the edge, just barely eking out a living. Lips smacked. My, this scone...heavenly.

Come now. Do you really think so? Cyrus sounded exasperated. Thank goodness his voice carried clearly. Why can you not just enjoy her, and enjoy giving to her?

Why do you insist on making ... the bad guy? I know you want to be – what does Barnaby call it? Oh yes, you want to be ... Disney Dad, but that is not...Raising a child...responsibility. There was a pause, and then Daniel’s voice continued, sounding muffled. You have to ... affect her future.

You say that every time. Anyway, we are not raising her. We are care-taking. And we are not talking about giving her a diamond necklace or something frivolous like that. It is a computer. I do not think that is over the top. As I understand it, a computer is now a necessity for children.

It is not.

Look around. Every child has some sort of computer from at least the age of five on up. And if we do not have a computer with internet access available to her, she will not spend as much time here.

My heart swelled. They wanted me around. They were trying to find ways to get me to spend more time with them, like the parents who buy all the cool gaming equipment and have a pool in the backyard so that their kid will stay home and invite friends to their place rather than going somewhere else.

Well, I ... just fine without one. Daniel sounded snippy.

Yes, and you have a goblin attending to your every need. I might take you a little more seriously if you hadn’t smeared chocolate on your shirt, which Lorinda will clean for you. You are spoiled on a daily basis.

Humph. After a long pause, Daniel said, Okay. But talk to me...before you buy... Do not even ... a car.

I hugged the door, trying to make out Daniel’s words.

Well...

Cyrus. Daniel’s voice was sharp. ...not need a car.

She cannot keep borrowing Samantha’s car. And the safety ratings on a Volvo are exceptional.

She can... and transport her everywhere else.

You know she hates transporting. And the Volvo has those excellent headlights which are essential for coming up winding mountain roads.

With a click the door opened and I fell into the room. The thing-a-ma-jig that kept the door closed hadn’t been fully engaged. I tried to keep my balance but ended up sprawling on the floor, elbows first.

Crap.

I squinched my eyes shut, like if I didn’t see Daniel and Cyrus, they wouldn’t be able to see me.

Ariel? Daniel’s voice echoed above my head. Are you okay?

I kept my eyes shut a second longer and then forced them open. I scrambled to my feet, trying to ignore my throbbing elbows.

Sorry. My face burned. But... I stopped. My mind raced, trying to come up with some compelling reason to have been pressed against the door. Nothing popped to mind.

I really have no excuse. I cleared my throat. I just wanted to know what was going on.

I knew she would suspect something. Cyrus shook his head at Daniel. You are terrible at keeping secrets.

I did not say a word, Daniel said.

Cyrus snorted. You have been walking around looking like you are about to burst. You perpetually have that supercilious ‘I know something you don’t’ look on your face.

This isn’t my fault. Daniel crossed his arms. The whole thing would have been done long ago if you did not take so long to make decisions about everything. I swear, you spent a week vacillating between silver and light grey, as though there is some big difference. He sniffed.

That just shows how color challenged you are. Anyone with taste knows there is a huge difference.

I looked around the room while Daniel and Cyrus carped at each other. My mouth fell open.

Silvery sheer curtains pulled back halfway separated a living area from a bedroom. Behind the glistening curtains, a silver puffy duvet covered a queen-sized bed flanked by rosewood nightstands. Glass-stemmed lamps with silver lampshades rested on each stand, emitting a welcoming glow.

Wow, I said, stepping further into the room.

On the other side of the curtain, a glass desk settled into a corner with built-in bookshelves on each side.  A laptop computer rested atop the desk, and the shelves were filled with books.  In the middle of the room sat a curved silver sofa with a cashmere throw draped across its back. A television fit seamlessly into the wall opposite the sofa, and its remote sat on a rosewood side table.

Daniel and Cyrus had stopped fighting, watching me as I took in the room.

Say something, Cyrus said. His bald head glowed bright red, making him look a bit like a human upended match.

Is it all right? Daniel said. We thought you should have your own place here for when you visit, but we did not know what color to go with or style of furniture, so if it is not to your taste, we can always change it. He twisted the ring on his index finger. And we have not tried the computer yet. We think we have it hooked up to...to...whatever you hook it up to, but Barnaby was going to check that later today. And...

Stop, I said. Tears brimmed in my eyes, and it took me a moment to trust my voice. This is the most beautiful room I’ve ever seen. I love it. I can’t believe... I rushed over to Daniel and hugged him tight. I turned to Cyrus and he took a step back, arms raising to ward me off. He’s never been big on physical contact. I stopped, and said, You guys are incredible. Thank you. Thank you so much.

Cyrus beamed.

Let me show you around, Daniel said.

For the next fifteen minutes, they took me through the whole place, explaining in detail why they’d chosen this or that design, fabric and color. Off the bedroom was a sleek bathroom with a walk-in shower. Hidden cabinets in the walls of the main room revealed a clothes closet and drawers of different sizes.

But the thing that brought tears to my eyes was the framed picture on one of the night stands. I picked it up, tracing the image with my finger. It showed me, my parents, and my twin brothers flung over the bottom of a canoe as though the water had decided it wanted nothing to do with us and had belched us out. Everyone was laughing, even Swisbo (She-Who-Shall-Be-Obeyed, aka Mom), and, for once, we looked like a family, and not a family of four with one outsider - me.

Where did you get this? I said, picking up the picture.

We have our ways, Daniel said, grinning.

I remembered that moment. We’d gone on a family vacation to Key Largo. My dad had insisted that we could all fit into one canoe to paddle around the mangroves. What he hadn’t counted on were my twin brothers, hyped up about being in the ocean for the first time and determined to see who could balance on the side of the canoe. Before we could stop them, the boat had flipped over, and the sight of my always perfectly made up mother with her water-slicked hair and a mangrove leaf stuck to her neck had sent my brothers into laughter so infectious that even Swisbo had lost it and giggled right along with them.

We wanted you to feel at home here, Cyrus said.

A lump grew in my throat. I’d spent my life wanting to fit into my family, like the nerdy loner in the lunchroom who stares longingly at the next table over where the cool kids swap stories and giggle at each others’ jokes.

Even though my dad tries to bridge the gap between me and the rest of the family, I can’t help but feel like a bird beating against a glass window, seeing what it wants but unable to break through.

I looked around the room and at Cyrus and Daniel’s smiling faces. This felt real. This felt like family. This felt like home.

I’d finally made it through the glass.

I hate to break up this touching moment, but don’t you have to go to class? The snide voice wiped away all the warm feelings I’d had as quickly as a rat clears a restaurant.

I turned to face my nemesis.

CHAPTER THREE

Bilboes:

An iron bar with sliding shackles used to fasten prisoners’ ankles

Sixteen Years Ago:  Murder Trial, Day One

The accused walked to the defense table with shuffling steps, as though the titanium shackles in which he’d arrived at the domed Hall of Justice still bound his feet. His knees buckled when he reached the straight-backed wooden chair at the defense table and he landed hard. When he raised his head to look at the jury, though, his face was