Song of Siren and Blood

By Thomas K. Carpenter

Song of Siren and Blood, the newest book from Thomas K. Carpenter, is a tale of power, privilege, dark magic, and betrayal set among the Hundred Halls elite.

Family is everything. Even if it's dysfunctional.

Thrust into a family of grotesque wealth and led by a tyrannical patriarch, Minerva Sune—disgraced former pop star—must navigate a world of cutthroat intrigue and magical scholarship she knows nothing about. Backstabbing best friends, combative professors, and an occult mastermind who knows her secrets keep her rushing to stay ahead of a familial catastrophe which she fears might end in the ultimate tragedy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Carpenter
• Release date: Mar 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005225483

Thomas K. Carpenter

Thomas K. Carpenter resides in Colorado with his wife Rachel. When he’s not busy writing his next book, he's out hiking or skiing or getting beat by his wife at cards. Visit him online at www.thomaskcarpenter.com, or sign up for his newsletter at https://www.subscribepage.com/trialsofmagic.

Book preview

Chapter One

The ten-minute standing ovation dissipated into confused silence when Minerva fled the stage. Blood rushed into her ears, pounding like a bass drum as she threw herself behind the stage left curtain, trying not to pass out. Her band, The Moves, recovered from her escape—normally they would have bowed together first—by waving and offering blown kisses to the packed crowd.

You good? asked Darian, her guitarist, his curly mop of black hair falling into his face. He had sweet brown eyes and a too-kind heart that left him swirling around the B-team gigs rather than riffing in the front of an arena.

Minerva stayed behind the curtain, avoiding the urge to look back at where she'd been standing, as she tried to fabricate a reasonable reason for her behavior. The rest of the band passed, and she managed to give them a perfectly normal smile, a minor miracle considering the spots in her vision and the feeling that her lower body had went numb.

You know, I'm not getting any younger, said Minerva, placing a hand on Darian's upper arm. He'd take it as familiarity, but she needed the stability.

That's a load and you know it. He nodded towards the stage, where roadies had started tearing down the equipment. The post-gig crowd chatter rose up like crickets at dusk, a sign they'd forgotten the strange ending faster than she had. Singers half your age couldn't go as hard and as long as you do and still hit as many beautiful and interesting notes. Minnie, we played three and a half hours tonight. Most kids these days don't even know forty minutes' worth, let alone keep up the energy to sing them. He shook his head incredulously. I've seen the way you take care of yourself. It ain't age.

The cavalier half-cocked smile was a reminder that he'd inquired about being more than her guitarist twenty years ago when they first started playing together, but she'd always told herself she'd never mix business with her personal life again.

That's sweet. She cupped his face, applying a soft kiss to his cheek, before hooking her arm around his. Walk me back to my room. My feet are killing me.

It would be my honor.

The distance between the stage at the Mystic Chord and the dressing room was only thirty feet, but it felt like it was the length of an airport runway. Crew in matte black clothing rushed past, venue personnel chattered into earpieces, and starstruck fans with backstage lanyards around their necks loomed into her vision offering praise and asking for autographs, which she dutifully dispensed with a smile. With every step, the heat of bodies and the smell of stale alcohol became a little more unbearable until she finally reached the sweet relief of her dressing room.

Darian leaned in the doorway as chaos reigned behind him. He had his forearm on the frame.

Need me to hang for a bit?

Without anyone to hold onto, the world teetered around her. I'll meet you at the bar in fifteen for the usual.

He winked before shutting the door gently. The cacophony muted to a low roar. Minerva collapsed onto the ratty lime green couch in a dressing room the size of a bathroom. But she was blissfully alone.

Minerva buried her face in her hands, taking deep breaths until she no longer felt like a helium balloon about to pop. When she looked up, she caught herself in the mirror and almost didn’t recognize herself.

The shimmering gold dress seemed normal enough. Her updo had survived two sets, an encore that could have almost been called a third set, and a pound of sweat that had poured from her forehead. Even the cheap enchanted fingernails that pulsed with the beat of the music—and currently flashed randomly from background noise—had survived the epic show.

When did I get so old?

But that wasn't really the question she wanted to ask herself. Makeup hid the signs of her seventy years, while inside she'd never felt younger.

A knock on the door was almost dismissed with a curt Go away but she'd hate herself if it were a fan or a crewmember with a need.

Come in.

One of the venue crew poked her head in, cradling an armful of roses and other materials that had been thrown onto the stage. She couldn't have been more than twenty.

Darian said you'd want these.

Oh. She swallowed. You can set them over there on the chair.

The girl wore a giddy grin as she maneuvered her load onto its resting place. There's probably three times as much left on the stage, but I couldn't carry it all. She hesitated with her arms still around the flowers. Can I just say, that was amazing. I've been working here nearly three years and I don't think I've seen anything like your show. The crowd was losing their minds and that ovation. We would have had to bring in EMTs if it'd gone any longer.

A glow of pride washed away the black tar that had glommed on to her heart.

The venue was great. I couldn't have asked for a better crew to run the show. I've played much bigger places that weren't as organized.

The girl's expression broke into embarrassed relief as she shifted her arms out of the load that now rested on the chair. Thank you.

The polite exit was interrupted when an object dropped from the pile of roses, clattering onto the floor. Minerva's gut clenched even before she recognized it. The girl crouched down, scooped up the diamond tiara, and held it out.

Did you—

The girl's question died in her throat. Minerva had tried to steel her reaction, but the retracted arm and pursed lips told her she'd failed. The girl looked to the item in her hands.

It's just plastic.

It's okay, said Minerva, forcing the words out. Just tired. You can have it. Please.

Confusion turned to professionalism, and the girl tucked the tiara into her back pocket before slipping out of the room, leaving Minerva to collect herself for a second time.

Remembering that Darian would be waiting for her at the bar, she rose and slipped out of her gold dress, before carefully folding it and placing it in her gig bag. Jeans and a fuzzy pink sweater helped wash away her ill ease, but not as much as the cushioned running shoes that replaced her three-inch heels. A trash compactor might be able to massage the feeling back into her feet later, but for now, a tingling numbness would have to suffice. As she unpinned her jet-black hair, letting it fall around her shoulders, the door swung open, revealing the sweaty club owner.

A knock is customary, Dwight.

He wiped the wetness from his forehead with the bottom of his shirt. Like I give a crap about seein' an old lady's wrinkled bones. He pulled an envelope out of his back pocket and tossed it on the desk. Here's your take.

As soon as it landed, she knew it was light. Minerva scooped it up and riffled through the crinkled bills.

Merlin's wrinkly balls, what's this? The place was packed. This is barely enough to pay for a taxi home. Our cut should be twenty or thirty times this.

Dwight smacked his lips, not bothering to hide the derision in his meaty face. The deal was based on a percentage of regular paying customers. Half the crowd paid discount prices for their tickets, and you didn't cover the threshold for regular cut.

Cover the threshold? The place was packed. Wall to wall. And what are you talking about discount prices? I don't control ticket sales. That's you. She squinted. You did this. You purposely tinkered with the sales so you wouldn't have to pay me what I deserve.

A contract's a contract.

My agent will be having a word with you.

He smirked. Your agent approved the contract. See how far that goes. He tapped his finger to his forehead. Nice doin' business with ya.

The horror that had consumed her before was replaced with unbridled anger. She cupped her hand around her mouth, stared at the old cigarette stains on the ceiling, and tried not to scream, because that would only injure her instrument after an extended show. A buzz from the couch alerted her to a message. Eight missed calls. One hundred and twelve unread texts. Too many emails.

She grabbed her phone, shoved it into her back pocket, and marched to the door. For a moment, she thought about leaving the meager envelope of cash, but knew that it wouldn't bother Dwight one bit, and she needed the funds badly.

After composing herself, Minerva opened the door and strode through the hallways, smiling and greeting everyone she passed. The band was at the far end of the bar with a line of shot glasses ready for the final toast. The weirdness at the end of the show forgotten, everyone greeted her like a conquering hero.

For those brief few minutes, she smiled and laughed with her band. Darian gave her a few raised eyebrows, but she shook him off. No need to ruin their night with the news of how the club owner had screwed them.

The shot of delirium spider–infused whiskey already warming her belly and kneading away the tension in her shoulders, Minerva grabbed Darian at the end of the bar as the band was leaving. She shoved the envelope into his hands. He checked the contents, frowning.

What's this?

Dwight screwed us.

Darian scanned the room. This is all we get? It was a packed house.

I'll talk to Flo. He claimed it was within the contract.

Minnie, said Darian, waving the envelope. This doesn't even pay for expenses to get here. Most of the band doesn’t live in town. This isn't going to go over well.

Minerva closed her eyes. I know. I know. I'm not even taking my cut. You can have it all. I'll find a way to pay out of my pocket. I'm sorry.

You can't afford that.

I'll find a way.

Minnie...

She inhaled through her nose. I know.

The way Darian looked at her as he left the bar tore a hole in her heart. Music was everything, and without the band, she was nothing. She'd never played with such talented musicians. They sensed when she was going on a run, and could shift into a new song on the fly without missing a beat as if they'd planned it.

Minerva stared at the empty shot glass as fans wandered past, too shy to interrupt. She smiled while inside she wanted to throw the glass at the big mirror behind the bar. In a perfect world, the one hit would bring the whole structure down, shattering every bottle. But she knew it'd probably only bounce off and land impotently on the sticky floor.

When the bartender came over smiling, she thought he was going to comment about the show, but then he slid a bill over to her.

A bill?

Contract states house liquor only, no brands or specialties.

Her mouth tasted like ash. She hadn't chosen the shots. Her band had them ready when she'd come out of the dressing room. The venue morphed into a prison cell. Her thoughts felt like they'd been shoved into a barrel full of rocks and tumbled down a mountain.

The bartender disappeared in back with an armful of empty bottles. No one stood near her. Without considering the repercussions, Minerva ducked under the server entrance and jammed her thumb against the cash register button. As her heart rode up into her throat, she grabbed the larger bills with two fists and shoved them into her pockets before anyone noticed her.

As she hurried out of the Mystic Chord, she remembered her gig bag in the dressing room, but the guilt burning in her pocket kept her from turning back. She barely acknowledged the gate staff and bouncer as she rushed onto the street, the early October evening air like oxygen to a dying woman. She looked down to see bits of cash sticking out of her pocket, and hurriedly shoved them back down as someone touched her shoulder.

Minnie.

Chapter Two

The image of a sweaty Dwight hurriedly chasing her out of the club filled her mind. She hastily shoved the stolen bills further into her pockets as she spun around—

—to find a cherub-faced girl with bright eyes and a pin on her lapel looking at her expectantly. A fan. A young fan. Her heart surged as she tidied up her expression.

That was the best show I've ever seen in my life. The young fan stood at the head of a gaggle of girls, all around their late teens or early twenties, not that Minerva could tell the difference anymore. Really. That was all flare no glare.

Minerva beamed. I'm glad you enjoyed it.

The young woman placed a hand over her heart. "Why haven't I heard about you before? We got discount tickets, came on a whim, but I was looking you up at set break. You were about to be a big star. You are a big star. Your singing made me cry, it was so beautiful. I thought for sure there was magic involved, but that was straight genius."

The gushing praise made Minerva feel as young as the women before her. When she'd caught her big break, they'd called her the Siren of Savannah. More than one music review had tried to claim she had a supernatural background or had paid for enhancements, but she didn't have a speck of magic. Her nonexistent Merlin score was proof of that.

Can I get a picture with you? asked the girl, holding up her phone.

Minerva leaned in and let herself radiate. After the flash, the girl gave a little wave then disappeared down the street with her friends, leaving her feeling empty inside.

She was tempted to use the stolen cash for a taxi ride, but she wanted to save it to pay the band their cut. The nearest train station was three blocks away. The ride from the second to the eighth ward would take an hour.

Her feet and knees ached from the long night on stage, but she strode confidently down the sidewalk. Despite being after midnight, the second ward was as safe as a police station. Crime in the tourist section of Invictus wasn't tolerated.

Sitting on the train with a giant advertisement for Wizard's Coffee as company, Minerva thumbed through her phone. Half the messages were from her landlord reminding her that she was six months past due, while the other half were rejections forwarded by her agent, proof that no one would hire her.

Flo, pick up, she muttered into the phone while she watched buildings flicker past the train windows. Cubes of light floated across the sky as mages rode the gondolas that crisscrossed the city.

Minerva had been prepared to let her agent have it the moment she picked up, and she knew she would because the woman only slept a few hours a day, mostly in the afternoons, but the words died in her throat when Flo answered, Min. What the hell did you do?

The wads of cash in her pockets felt like heavy rocks pulling her down while trying to swim.

I panicked. That bastard stole from me. He screwed us on the contract and now I can't pay my band.

A heavy breath. He did screw you, but I might have been able to fix it, at least get some of the money he owed, but now...he has footage of you pilfering the till. He's offering to drop charges if you give back the money and keep your mouth shut about the contract.

Minerva shifted forward onto her knees. I...it was the best damn show we've played in a long time. The bar had long lines. He made a killing from us. How can he just do this? Flo. I need the money.

The silence cut like a knife. Min. You're the client I've served longest. Hell, you made my career. I owe you everything, and if there was something I could do, I would. Dwight is a weasel and I told you that up front, but you wanted the gig.

A singer who doesn't sing...

Yeah, I get it, said Flo.

Are there any other shows we can do? I'm sure I can sweet-talk Darian and the rest of the band to play again.

There are no shows.

It's Ian, isn't it? He's been poisoning my career since the day of the divorce. The absence of response was proof enough, not that she needed it. Come on, Flo. There's gotta be something that he can't block. A bar mitzvah? Smaller clubs in the Midwest?

"There's a job that could earn you some cash. Enough for rent."

Job? I don't want a job. I want a gig, a show, I want to sing.

There's some rich socialite that wants singing lessons. The pay is a little mind-boggling.

Minerva held the phone to her forehead before answering. I'm not a babysitter. No. I can't. It's hard enough knowing that it was all taken away from me. I'd rather get a job as a barista than have someone pity me.

Min, I'll send—

She stabbed the red X and leaned back. An older man with tufts of white hair on his head stared, squinting as if he recognized her. She got up and hurried to the next car, even though she wasn't due to get off for three more stations.

Minerva pushed into her apartment around three in the morning. The city lights made it visible enough to maneuver. She pulled the wads of cash from her pockets, threw them on the kitchen table, and opened up the refrigerator. Three spoonfuls of fried rice in a delivery carton was the only thing edible besides her pathetic display of condiments. She found a mostly empty box of corn flakes in the pantry, poured a bowl, along with a shot of whiskey, and sat before the big window that looked out over the city.

There'd been a time that her view of the Spire, the tallest building in the world, and the hub around which the city of sorcery ran, was a source of pride. Now, the wealth and opulence of the Hundred Halls was only a reminder that every chance she'd had at a better life had been snatched away.

When the view became too much, she left her meal and stumbled into her room, but the faint illumination reflected on the Minerva's World Tour poster on the wall. The tour that had never happened. She ran her fingers along the frame, then onto the shelf covered in awards and memorabilia, thinking about how much she could sell them for. Maybe it'd give her a few more months in the apartment before she was evicted.

Minerva pulled the wig from her head, careful with the pins that had been holding it in place, then ran a hand through her sweaty white hair. A baby wipe removed the concealer that hid the liver spots and wrinkles, a task that didn't need a mirror after all these years.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Florence about that job she'd turned down. Minerva quickly deleted it and then curled onto the bed to sleep, watching the strange lights of the floating gondolas drift across the sky, wondering what it'd have been like to have been a member of the Hundred Halls.

Chapter Three

The next day, she snuck out the side exit of the apartment building like a thief, running right into a heavy guy in a shiny black suit. The landlord, Gus, squinted, his bushy eyebrows connecting into one long hedge of hair across his forehead. He blocked her path out of the building.

No more extensions!

Minerva adjusted her dark glasses. Daylight had been turned to a high beam.

I'll have the money. I promise. By the end of the day.

Gus leaned on the open door, even as the alarm beeped incessantly to remind him to close it. He bared his teeth. The offer still stands to ignore a few months of rent for a private concert.

The thought of his private concert upset her stomach, but unfortunately not enough to make her vomit on his expensive leather shoes—she'd actually have had to eat something to produce a projectile.

Bone yourself, she muttered as she pushed past Gus, ignoring his complaints.

The energy she'd felt last night had evaporated. Making the journey to the fifth ward with a big bag over her shoulder left her feeling her age. She visited six pawnshops before she found one that would even make an offer on the old awards and memorabilia from her early career.

The old lady behind the counter had an unlit cigarette hanging from her bottom lip. She held up the metallic statue as the doorbell tinkled with the entrance of newcomers to the store.

The Silver Siren for Best New Artist. This you? asked the woman, eyebrow raised, the cigarette dangling perilously.

Minerva forced her stomach to unclench and raised her chin. It is.

The woman clucked her tongue. I remember you. Loved your music. She tapped on her lip, suddenly removing the cigarette and staring at it as if she'd forgotten it'd been there. What happened? I remember you were everywhere, and then nowhere. She pointed at her, using the cigarette. Didn't you have a kid or something?

The mask nearly fell off. Minerva placed a trembling finger along the side of her sunglasses to push them center.

Are you interested in purchasing them? she asked as calmly as she could.

The woman looked at the Silver Siren and back to her, then peeked into the bag. Give me a few minutes to figure up a quote.

The relief of getting away from the store owner had Minerva hugging her arms around her midsection. She found a spot in the corner next to old battered guitars and brass instruments, wondering if she knew the former owners. She was running her fingers along the guitar strings, relishing the roughness, when she heard a young woman's voice cutting through the shelves.

"Did you see that old crone? What a flope. If I were her, I'd throw myself off a building. Selling her old useless crap like that. This whole place is a monument to sadness. No wonder I never leave the center ring."

Minerva peeked through the shelves. The only thing she could see was golden cascades of blonde hair and an aquamarine jacket that shimmered like a mirage. A Maltesque. When she felt sad, she'd head to the third ward and peruse the fashion displays. The jacket probably cost as much as a year of her rent. Maybe two.

I told you these places were weird, said the girl's friend. But we should go, don't you have class in twenty minutes?

Who cares? I'd rather paint that old crone's gnarly toenails. These classes are so boring. No spark. Nothing but duty and civic responsibility. Gah.

The girl gave an exaggerated shiver before heading out of the pawnshop. Minerva resisted the urge to follow her out and yank her stupid blonde hair, but it would only get her into more trouble. Instead, she wandered back to the front.

The woman had a figure on a piece of paper. There weren't as many numbers as she would have hoped, but it would cover what she owed the Moves. With a few more bills in her wallet, Minerva left the shop, found a bench, and pulled up her phone. The text from Flo was a reminder that the singing lessons job was still available and that she'd sent an email detailing instructions. She deleted the text and the email and pulled up her contacts.

It took ten minutes of hovering her finger over his name before she finally made the call. She quickly fixed her hair and adjusted her sweater as the phone rang, feeling inadequate, even though it wouldn't be video.

Min? came the lilting British voice.

She swallowed. Hi, Ian.

Can't say I was expecting a call from you.

She used her fingers to smooth away the knot at the middle of her forehead. How are you?

A pause. Cut the crap, Min. Why are you calling?

Minerva looked into the distance as people walked past her bench on their way to their jobs and lives.

I need a gig, Ian.

"Why would I help you?"

She bunched her hand into a fist. I don't know. Old times' sake?

You're the one that ruined it.

Minerva licked her lips. He wanted her to grovel. She could hear it; even after all these years, she knew how he ticked. A rotten clock that always managed to tell time even though it was broken.

Ian. I'm not going to apologize for what happened. There was a time you wanted a family too.

"I have a family."

Ian, please. I need a gig. You're still a big player in the industry. A few kind words would open a lot of doors that have been closed to me for a long time. I'm not asking for anything big. I killed it at the Mystic Chord. Small venues, enough money to get by for me and the Moves. I'd be happy.

I heard about the Mystic Chord.

The tone in his voice meant he wasn't talking about the wild standing ovation. If she'd needed proof that he was behind Dwight's dirty business, this was as close as she would get. She didn't want to believe it. Better to think she had bad luck than a vindictive ex-husband.

Ian...

She could hear the hardness in his voice, even before the first word was spoken. Patterns that never really went away. She should have known.

"You ruined both our lives. It was your bloody fault. I had to claw my way back into the good graces of the industry, make a career out of the ashes."

Those weren't ashes. That was our family.

Goodbye, Min. Don't call again.

The phone went back to her home screen. She sat with her elbows resting on her knees for a long time.

As she picked at her fingernails, a family of five walked by. The father had a little girl on his shoulders. The mother pushed a stroller with a baby while a young boy walked behind, each step a whimsical skip. Their happiness felt like a knife against her heart. A fleeting reminder of the past.

Minerva dug through her deleted folder and found the email about the singing lessons job. The contact was buried in Flo's rambling message. A quick tap brought up the number.

Hello, yes, I'm calling about singing lessons.

Chapter Four

On her way across the city, Minerva sent the money to Darian with a note to disperse it to the band. She even sent the money she stole, because damn Dwight and damn Ian. Better to spend a night in jail for what she'd done than suffer the satisfaction that it would give them.

The instructions for the lessons took her to the first ward. A green-line train followed by a quick jaunt on the red brought her to the towering financial district. Glass buildings reached to the sky. She maneuvered around the suits, craning her neck. She'd never been in this part of the ward. No reason.

The cafés endured countless business meetings, with