Stone Singers Bundle (Books 1-3)

By Thomas K. Carpenter

A thrilling fantasy box set about power, privilege, dark magic, and betrayal set amongst the Hundred Halls elite.

THIS BOX SET INCLUDES THREE BEST SELLING BOOKS WITH NEARLY 1000 PAGES OF THRILLING ACTION—AND 500 FIVE-STAR REVIEWS/RATINGS!

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 to stay ahead of a familiar catastrophe that could destroy everyone and everything she's ever known.

The Hundred Halls is a multi-series universe with over twenty-five books and more than 6,000 pages of magical academy adventure. If you enjoy reading a well-written contemporary fantasy saga, or are a Harry Potter, or Magicians fan, these books are written for you! Pick it up and—escape to the Hundred Halls!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Carpenter
• Release date: Sep 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9780463864951

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

Stone Singers Bundle (Books 1-3)

Song of Siren and Blood

House of Snake and Tome

Storm of Dragon and Stone

By

Thomas K. Carpenter

Copyright Information

Stone Singers Bundle (Books 1-3)

Song of Siren and Blood

House of Snake and Tome

Storm of Dragon and Stone

A Hundred Halls Universe Series

Copyright © 2022 by Thomas K. Carpenter

Published by Black Moon Books

www.blackmoonbooks.com

Cover Design 2022 by Ravven.com

Discover other titles by this author on:

www.thomaskcarpenter.com

This is a novel work of fiction. All characters, places, and incidents described in this publication are used fictitiously, or are entirely fictional.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, except by an authorized retailer, or with written permission of the publisher. Inquiries may be addressed via email to [e-mail]

CONTENTS

Song of Siren and Blood

House of Snake and Tome

Storm of Dragon and Stone

Sonata of Shadow and Thorn Sample

About the Author

Hundred Halls Appendix

Hundred Halls Books

Other Works

Copyright

Start Reading Now

Song of Siren and Blood

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 chummy partners offering flat smiles, and single men and women at tables, barking commands over their phones. She even passed a few privacy enchantments—shimmering fields surrounding a table—keeping anyone from seeing or hearing what was being discussed. Minerva wondered how many of them actually needed the discretion, or if some of them were merely conjuring their shield to announce their importance.

Minerva checked the directions twice, thinking she was headed the wrong way. Fourth and Majestic was in the heart of major finance, the headquarters of multinationals like D'Agastine Industries and Pyramid Health, not a residential area. She knew where the expensive neighborhoods were in the district—she'd been invited once when she was a burgeoning star. Gated community was an understatement. Fortress of wealth was what she remembered. There was a time she thought she was on a path to that life, at least until Isabelle.

The bottom floor of the high rise had no metal detectors, but she had to pass a man with brilliant purple eyes and a small gray creature with a ringed tail on his shoulder. She hurried to the front desk near rows of elevators. Minerva was reading the sign that listed the businesses on each floor when the desk agent cleared her throat.

I'm here for a job. Supposed to meet a Mr. Thule?

The woman had frowned when she'd mentioned the job, but at the name, her eyes widened.

You should have gone to the back entrance, but I'll send a message. She turned in her seat. Head past the elevators and down a hallway. You'll see a blue door. I'll ring you through. Then after the second left, there will be an elevator room. Wait there.

Minerva didn't think anything of the directions until she reached the blue door. The runes etched into the frame gave her pause, but she dismissed the worry. Rich people were paranoid. When you had a lot, protecting it mattered.

She found the elevator. It wasn't the stainless steel of the corporate lifts but painted doors showing an idyllic countryside, suggesting that this was a private entrance. Minerva checked her phone again, wondering if there was a clue to the identity of the client. When she'd talked to Mr. Thule, he'd made it abundantly clear that secrecy was of the highest importance and that she shouldn't tell anyone she was even coming to this location. He had a strange accent that she couldn't place, only that it had a rough melody like the way the clatter of a passing train could have a soothing cadence.

The door dinged and Minerva jumped. Her heart was racing and she didn't know why. The open elevator revealed a tall, thin man with chalky gray skin, penetrating dark eyes, and slicked-back hair. Not a man, she thought. A maetrie. City fae.

Minerva.

The way he said her name made her feel like a serial killer had just chosen her to be his victim. She steeled her reaction, maintaining eye contact despite the urge to look away.

Mr. Thule, I presume.

The corners of his eyes creased. No, not creased, his skin was as smooth as a pool of poisoned milk, but something had bothered him. He gestured for her to enter the elevator, which made her feel like a rabbit being invited into a tiger's cage.

She took a spot beside him, facing forward. He pressed his thumb onto a screen, which lit up, then briefly showed his picture, then using his other hand to hide the keypad, he entered a code. When he finished, the elevator lurched into motion.

Minerva swallowed as she thought about all she knew of the maetrie, which wasn't much. She'd seen one once in a bar in the seventh ward. He was the owner, or something, but looking at him made her feel like she was rubbing her thumb over a fresh scar. The only thing she knew was that they came from a place called the Eternal City and were innately powerful. His presence in the home of this family spoke to a certain level of authority.

When she got over her rigid fear, she glanced at an angle, feigning adjusting her shirt. He wore a suit like a gangster. Pinstriped pants, charcoal gray vest over a cream shirt, and a collar on his coat that wanted to rise like dark wings. Her blue slacks and sleeveless cream shirt felt inadequate next to Mr. Thule, even though they'd been a gift from a fashion designer years ago.

The elevator opened and reflexively Minerva moved forward, right into his outstretched arm. Without looking at her, he asked, Did you tell anyone where you were headed and who you were going to be working for?

The quality of his voice wormed into her head. It was soothing. It wanted to be answered. But she was far too jaded, and had worked in the music industry too long, to be lured by a honeyed voice.

That would be a little difficult considering I don't know who I'm working for. When the arm didn't retract, she added, I didn't tell anyone.

With the barrier removed, she followed him into the suite, immediately gobsmacked by the painting on the wall of the mage Invictus. The missing head of the Hundred Halls stared out of the painting with lifelike zeal. She felt reduced by his centuries old, withering gaze.

Is that an Acacio?

A brief grunt was the only acknowledgement she received, but she knew she was right. Minerva wanted to stand and stare at the painting, but hurried to keep up as he zigzagged through multiple doorways, every corner revealing more artwork and opulence to match the Acacio at the elevator. Individual rooms were as large as her entire apartment, and it wasn't until he'd led her down a long hallway that she recognized the scope of their flat.

Do they own this entire floor?

Two floors.

The wealth required to own two floors of a skyscraper in the first ward of Invictus was astronomical. It made her wonder if the fee she was charging for lessons was enough. She heard the murmur of voices coming from other locations, but never saw anyone. He led her into a strange room covered with runes. A single chair sat at the center.

Have a seat.

The direction was a command, rather than a request, but Minerva held her ground.

What is this? she asked, gesturing at the runed walls.

He stared her down, and when she didn't relent, he said, We must confirm that you haven't been tampered with. Corporate espionage, that sort of thing. It won't take but a moment.

This is all a little more than I was expecting. I think my fee has gone up considerably.

He had the flat gaze of a mortician removing an organ from a dead body. Very well.

Mr. Thule closed the door before she could protest. She made a fist and slammed it down as if she were hitting a table.

What am I doing?

Minerva paced the room, ignoring the chair as if it were a trap. She tried the door only to find she'd been locked inside. A quick check of her phone showed she had no coverage. When no one came after a few minutes, she examined the runes on the wall, finding swift brush marks in a style that seemed a cross between kanji and Celtic letters. She dared not touch them in case they had lingering magic. By the time the door opened, she'd half decided she wasn't going to take the job. Everything was too weird. Red flags for as far as she could see.

Mr. Thule, I think I've changed my mind.

But it wasn't the maetrie that had entered the room, but a handsome ginger-haired man with a stern jaw, eyes the color of bright emeralds. The sleeve of tattoos on his left arm formed a blanket of leaves, and he smelled like autumn and wicker.

Hello, lass.

The way he sauntered into the room, blocking the exit, and glowered with hunger had her backing up until the backs of her knees hit the chair and she collapsed upon it.

What are you? she asked before she realized she'd said what rather than who, but the way his mouth twitched told her that her instincts had been correct.

You have a beautiful voice, Minerva. Once in a generation, he said in a lilting Irish accent that sounded false in her ears, growing larger in her vision. It'd be a damn shame to let it go to waste.

She tried to rise from the chair, making it an inch off the surface before invisible hands pulled her back down. The leafy tattoos on the ginger's arm glowed like embers.

You're a strong one, he said, tilting his head as if he were just now seeing her. But not strong enough. The world collapsed around her, darkness surging in from the edges of her vision until nothing remained.

Chapter Five

Minerva managed to force her eyes open. Heavy chains seemed to be welded to her eyelids, yanking them closed with the gravity of a thousand suns. Voices came in from the ether.

...sure that this is the one? She has a lot of fight in...

Darkness rose up like floodwaters. She strained against the chains, but they dragged her deeper. The effort to fight drained from her limbs until she heard a familiar voice.

...this old crone? What a trip. I saw her pawning her baubles the other...

The voice of authority intruded.

...are you certain there's no danger to my daughter...

Minerva managed to push her right eyelid open for a brief moment, only to see the chalky Mr. Thule staring right at her. She fled back into the darkness to avoid his penetrating gaze.

...this old twat should be a pushover...

In the depths of her mind, Minerva knew she was in grave danger. They were discussing her death. She knew that much, even if the method and reason were unknown. The words of the ginger man frightened her. It'd be a damn shame to let it go to waste. Go to waste, as if it were a gift that could be transferred.

...What do you recommend, Mr. Thule?

Bright lights burst into her vision. Mr. Thule had used his forefinger and thumb to pry open her left eye. His gray complexion took up her entire world, until he let her eyelid snap back closed.

She has not a spark of magical ability, yet...

Yet?

I recommend caution...

...see, she's not a danger. Let's get this over with, I'm nervous enough about having that old bitty inside my head, even if it's just her voice...

My voice? How can they take my voice? She struggled against the chains, realizing there were no chains, but she was being held by magic. No wonder Mr. Thule had agreed to her increased price. They had no intention of paying her, and those with the money to pay for such a service could easily get rid of the body. No wonder they'd ushered her in through the servant's entrance.

...it is settled...

Her eyes were closed but she could see the ginger man approaching just the same. The version she saw with her mind's eye wore matted blood-soaked leathers and held a curved knife as he approached after descending from a throne of wicker. He reached his hand inside her chest—

She screamed.

A bonfire had been placed in the cavity that had once held her heart. Flames consumed her. The world tore in half, a great ripping sound that blasted her tender ears. She felt like a rag doll being shaken by hellhounds.

The desire to let go, end the suffering and pain, made her limbs shake. It would be easy to allow herself to be flung into the void. But her voice was everything she had. It defined her. To remove that part of her from her soul was akin to total annihilation even if she'd be dead and would never miss it.

The ginger man, the wicker god, had his hands around her soul as she clung to it like mountains to the earth. Disorienting nausea that went on forever was followed by spinning darkness, and then a sudden and horrifying stop—

Chapter Six

Minerva fought for air as if she'd been buried alive. Stifling suffocation. She reached to her face but found she had no mouth. No hands either. Only formless void, bumping against another shape, crammed in a space too tight for both of them.

She'd once had a medical test during which they'd pumped her full of a warm liquid to be able to see her guts in the MRI more clearly. The claustrophobic uncomfortableness of not being able to escape the heat had been horrifying.

That experience was a gentle breeze in comparison. She had no limbs, no mouth, no extremities, yet she felt that they were entangled with another, a cold, frigid chunk of a being that fought her for space. Ins were outs, and outs were ins. She was trapped in a sack of hungry rats, or maybe she was the hungry rat clawing and biting her away out—or through.

It felt like she'd been thrown into a crowded lake, where everyone fought each other to reach the surface, pushing each other down, a scramble for air, for life. Except there were only two of them, and only one of them could truly fit.

Her opponent had the upper hand. A knowledge of the space, and a stickiness that made the knifeless knife fight a struggle.

But her opponent was weak.

A pampered life that never provided obstacles to struggle over. Instead, those problems were wiped away with wealth and power. Her opponent had never known true pain. True exhaustion. Only the minor inconveniences of existence.

Minerva placed her mental foot on the girl's head. Moriganne. Her name was Moriganne. For a brief moment, she considered letting her win. It was her body. Why should she take control? But the crass remark in the pawnshop, the naked contempt that she'd been shown by the young woman, hardened her efforts. They'd paid a man to kill her, rip her soul out, and deposit it in the young woman so she could have her voice and knowledge. This wasn't an innocent act. Screw them. Screw her.

Minerva pushed.

The sound of the girl's soul dislodging from its hold had no equivalence in her memory. Squelch was as close as her mind could fathom. It was the sound of screaming in a vacuum. Of the madness of confined spaces.

The world rotated into view.

But she was looking at it as if she were peering through a telescope.

She pushed again and the world grew nearer. The screaming grew both louder and more distant. More demanding. Frightened. But Minerva had leverage now. The worst was over. The struggle for the last bits of control was like being born again. The world was distant, and then, suddenly, it wasn't—

Chapter Seven

Three sets of eyes stared at her from three points on a triangle. The tugging of gravity against her spine confused her until Minerva realized she was lying on her back. Two of the three sets of eyes she'd seen before. Mr. Thule and the ginger. The third was an aged man with hard, red-rimmed eyes.

Mori?

A snatch of stolen memory crept in. Her father. Victor. Victor Charmer.

Father?

She hated the way the word had come out as a question. He frowned. She'd said something wrong. Three sets of frowns. She was sure it wasn't what she'd called him.

Vic?

The wrinkles smoothed into a smile. A hand offered to help her sit—

—facing the cut-string marionette of her own body. She swallowed. If she'd been an actor, she might have known how to react, but she was a singer, she was used to emoting her feelings.

Mr. Thule stared at her from the doorway, arms crossed, the sneer of suspicion on his lips.

A bit tricky, but I managed it, said the ginger. The residue of his soul-touch made her shudder. He shot her a wink. Try it out. I think you'll be pleased.

The try it out confused her at first. Try what out? Then she remembered why she'd been brought to this place. Her voice. She cleared her throat. A bottle of water was shoved in her hands. The cold hurt as it rushed down her throat, a raw newness that had her staring at the bottle to check that she'd been given water, then at her hands: smooth, slender, manicured nails. Young hands. Not a wrinkle or hint of liver spots on them.

Remembering the three sets of eyes, she offered a hesitant smile. More frowns. Do they know?

She belted out a perfect G, followed by a quick riff and run. The tone lacked the imperfections of her old voice, the nicks and scratches that gave her the quality of honeyed whiskey, but it was pure. The upturned corners told her she was on the right track.

Was it alright?

The old man, Victor, nodded towards Mr. Thule, who extended a hand. Standing was a treat. Her old legs were strong for her age, but seventy meant a lot of years on those joints and muscles. Aches that became background noise.

This girl. Moriganne. She'd kept herself fit. She glanced to her old body, discarded on the floor like an empty food carton.

What will happen to...?

Victor grunted in the back of his throat. He studied her. He was a handsome man, older than she was, with a well-kept white mustache on his upper lip that framed his mouth along with the goatee. For his age, he looked to be the paragon of health, except for the red-rimmed eyes.

He placed his hand on the ginger's shoulder.

Is everything as it should be?

Green eyes sparkled with mirth. I never fail.

The first question had been asked calmly, but the follow-up comment came out like a knife to the gut.

If I find out that a whiff of that old bitch is still in there, Rütsch, I'll hire a team of Coterie mages to track you down and burn you on a wicker pyre, and none of your soul magic crap will mean a thing.

The confident smile faltered. He looked like a beaten dog the way he avoided Victor's gaze. The creature that had been named Rütsch inclined his head towards her. His voice shifted from Irish to a guttural speech that sounded Germanic in origin.

Aye, if there are signs that the old one still lives inside, I will wither her. Rip her out, root and bough. The way he stared at her suggested that he knew he hadn't removed the voice only, but had shoved her whole into the new body. He licked his lips, glancing surreptitiously at Victor. And the payment? You promised—

I know what I promised! I'll let you know when we've reached that phase of this endeavor, Victor growled.

When he looked to her, she felt like she was expected to say something, but she had no idea who Moriganne was, except an entitled brat who'd bad-mouthed her in a seedy pawnshop in the fifth ward.

There should be a verification, said Mr. Thule, his nostrils flaring as he stared through her. Confirm the identity of your daughter.

Victor looked like he was about to bite Mr. Thule's head off, but then he lifted his chin and the anger smoothed away as he checked back with her, squinting with interest.

An excellent point, Mr. Thule. Please, what do you suggest?

She thought they would ask about a childhood memory, or a bit of family lore. She was almost relieved—almost—when Mr. Thule said, Security.

She gave him a derisive smile, silently wishing she knew her relationship with the city fae. Were they friends? Was she a total bitch to him? Did she flat-out ignore him because she was a self-centered twat? A fragment of the girl's speech floated up from her memory in the pawnshop.

What a flope, Mr. Thule. Of course I'm me. But I can do it if you want, she said, cringing inside at the attempted use of slang. She didn't even know what flope meant.

Mr. Thule extended his arm. Lead on.

She stuck her tongue out at him as she walked past. What am I, twelve? Then hitting the hallway, she hesitated. She heard the snort exhaled through his nose. Which way? She darted to the right, checking back covertly to judge whether or not she was headed the correct direction.

There was a big room on the left with a long mahogany table surrounded by chairs. It overlooked the city, staring directly at the impossible tower that was the Spire. She willed herself to keep moving even though she wanted to press her face against the glass and stare at the top of the building, but she had to find the security system.

She turned, and turned again, passing priceless works of art and single pieces of furniture worth more than her entire apartment, frantically searching for the security system.

Victor, said Mr. Thule in the dry voice of judgement, I think we might need to return to the room.

The old man speared her with his red-rimmed eyes. Mori?

She feigned a headache, placing her fingertips against her forehead. I don’t feel well. All her thoughts are bubbling up, confusing me. I'd like to sit down.

She doesn't know. This isn't your daughter, but the old lady, said Mr. Thule.

Victor studied her again.

Vic? Come on. It's me.

She searched her memory for something that might have rubbed off from the real Moriganne, but she was as blank as a fresh canvas. His gaze narrowed.

Then why haven't you taken us to the security system?

She glanced to the left, down the hallway, catching sight of a black box sticking from the wall.

You guys are...

She was about to say paranoid, or something equally eloquent, but she remembered she was supposed to be nineteen or twenty. The words of the fan outside the Mystic Chord popped into her head.

You guys are all glare no flare.

The blank stares were the desired effect. She marched down the hallway to the black box, hoping she was right about it being a security terminal. The place for a thumbprint sat next to a keypad.

Victor and Mr. Thule stood at her shoulder, while the ginger man stayed in back, a private smirk on his lips with his arms crossed. He was enjoying the show.

She placed her thumb against the pad. Her face appeared on the screen. The dislocation of seeing a face she'd never laid eyes upon had her staring in disbelief. She was an effortless blonde beauty with amber, gold-flecked eyes.

With her thumb removed, she hovered her finger over the keypad hoping that muscle memory would provide the answer. But with the three sets of eyes on her, the world dialed down to a pinpoint. If she couldn't figure out the code, they'd know she was an imposter and send her back into the room.

She closed her eyes briefly, digging down deep to where the real Moriganne was buried. Come on, what's the code? There was a presence down there, curled into a ball, sobbing without a body to quiver. Come on, come on, come on. She let her fingertip drift over the numbers like a prospector divining for water.

Mr. Thule's cold hand collapsed around her wrist. His black eyes wanted to swallow her whole. His grip was iron.

Come with me. I think it's time to return.

The words that came to her lips did not require channeling a young, rich socialite. She'd been in far too many venues over the decades when sweaty older men thought they could intimidate her into doing what they wanted.

"Get your hand off my wrist, Mr. Thule. I don't like it when you touch me. I'm having a hard time getting started with you all watching me. It happens. I'm sure you've sat at the keyboard trying to remember a password that you've typed in a million times before."

Victor grumbled. Remove your hand, Mr. Thule. You heard my daughter. Then to her. But if you can't remember, then we're going back to the room. Quietly and politely.

She exhaled through her nose, staring at the keypad as if it was the Rosetta Stone. She reached without thinking, her finger falling upon the eight key. A hesitation. She pressed the four, then feeling more confident, the two followed by the six and then five.

Nothing happened.

She was sure that it was the code. The numbers formed a diamond pattern.

Victor reached towards her, his finger hitting the enter key on the bottom right. The security pad lit up with a green light, giving her access to additional commands.

She fixed Mr. Thule in her sights, applying all her years into a withering stare. See? It just took me a moment to remember while having to suffer your creepy gaze.

His nostrils flared, but he turned and marched the other way. She should have realized that a young woman would hate the imposition of a disturbing city fae, one that looked like he enjoyed sucking on the bones of young children for breakfast.

Victor clapped her on the shoulder as if he were commending an ambitious subordinate.

Well done, Mori. Now, give yourself a bit to adjust, but this should help with school. Don't hesitate to tell me if you need anything else. He paused and glanced over his shoulder at the ginger man. What the hell are you looking at? Get out of here. Your work is done. Mr. Thule will handle the compensation.

You'll return my property to me. Rütsch licked his lips. I need it to be whole, the bridge...

You'll get what I give you and nothing more, or would you prefer I call Mr. Thule back?

The ginger man took a long look at her with his nostrils flaring. He knew. She was certain of it. After all, he'd been the one to place her in the body. Without taking his eyes off her, he said to Victor, If there are any issues, the old woman surfacing, or old memories interfering, send for me, and I'll exorcise the bad bits like a priest after a demon. He held up a finger. But, over time, around six months, what is left of the two souls will fuse, and removing one without destroying the other will become impossible.

Victor faced him. Piss off.

With the ginger man gone, the anger disappeared and the handsome older gentleman returned. Victor placed his hands on her shoulders and gave her a smile that almost felt genuine.

Do great things. I'm counting on you.

He left her in the hallway, in a strange flat at the top of a skyscraper in the wealthiest district in the world, in a body that was entirely not her own, a member of a grotesquely wealthy family, of which she still didn't know a single bit.

She floated down the hallway, fingers caressing the walls, examining paintings and sculptures that should have been in a museum. She came upon a newspaper article from the Herald of the Halls. Front page. It showed a smiling family of eight including her, but much younger, maybe only ten or eleven. The title of the article read: Charming the World: How the Charmer family conquered the business of connection.

I'm a Charmer. The name was vaguely familiar, only in the way the world's richest were. Moriganne Charmer. Mori to my father. And if I can't impersonate their daughter, then they'll send me back into the room and have the ginger man rip out my soul.

Chapter Eight

The first thing she did was search for her room. The soul at the bottom of the well had no hints for her, so Minerva wandered the halls like a ghost, keeping her face carefully neutral in case there were security cameras, humming softly as if she were testing out her voice.

The lower floor contained meeting rooms, a grand ballroom, and a huge kitchen run by servants that couldn’t make eye contact. She found the boardroom with the mahogany table. It all seemed so impersonal. There were stairs going up. That was probably where the individual rooms were located.

She crept up cautiously, fearful of running into anyone who knew her. What would she say? She'd known true divas in the music industry, singers that kept everyone at arm's length. Maybe it'd be as simple as that.

The doors on the upper floor kept their secrets from her. Every one had a security terminal. Certain that Mr. Thule was likely watching her from a hidden room, she let her fingers drift across the handles, hoping for a spark of recognition. At the fourth door she tried, her feet shuffled to a stop. Minerva faced the security panel.

The terminal flashed green when she pressed her thumb against the screen and punched in her code. When the door swung open, she choked on her own spit.

What the—

Minerva quickly shut the door behind her, hoping that private quarters were not monitored. She couldn't imagine that would be allowed.

The entryway to her section of the floor was as big as her apartment. She hurried through the rooms, finding a small kitchen, a lounging area, a room with a massive canopy bed, and a small library and alchemical laboratory. She ran her fingernails across the titles on the shelves: The Art of War, Ways of Invictus: A Guide to the Wizard's Conquering of the Known World, Fist First Founding, Seven Alchemical Agents for Advantage, etc. There were numerous spell books and study guides for the Merlins.

The presence of magical equipment and tomes had her rushing through her quarters. She found what she was looking for in the bedroom. A framed picture of Moriganne standing next to her father at the entrance to a massive building in the shape of a stone flower. Stone Singers.

Minerva sucked air through her teeth. She was a member of the Hundred Halls.

The awful experience of having her soul pulled out of her body and deposited in this young woman seemed almost mundane compared to the realization that she was a member of the magical community. It probably didn't help that her mind and body were still in shock about the soul transfer, but the Halls, that was a completely different level of weird. She'd never had a magical bone in her body, so considering the Halls had never come up.

But it explained her murder. The vanity of a pretty singing voice wasn't worth the effort. As a member of Stone Singers, the expense and risk became clear. She ran her fingers across the embossed plate at the bottom.

Congratulations on entering the Acoustic Architectural Institute of Design!

Minerva