Spellbinder
Page 4
The Standard: “Genre-bending.”
Rolling Stone magazine: “Simply transcendent.”
The Telegraph: “Sidonie Martel took my breath away!”
A sliver of Morgan’s attention engaged.
But mostly it did not. Once he had been a famous bard in his own right and an advisor to kings, but it had been many, many years since he had played any kind of music.
The desire to play had been burned out of him by the geas, and as the desire to play had faded, so too had his desire to listen to music for pleasure. He had never heard of many modern singers and musicians. Sidonie Martel’s name meant nothing to him.
Still, there was something about the photo that held his gaze. The woman’s stance, her tension, vibrated off the glossy page. She was so full of passion. His mouth twisted in a self-deprecating smile. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt such bright, creative joy.
A young woman at the neighboring table leaned toward him. “Can’t help but notice the pamphlet you’re holding,” she said in a friendly tone.
Morgan’s gaze lifted. “Indeed.”
The woman grinned at him. “If you’re thinking of going, you should try to get a ticket. We went last night, and it was amazing.”
“True, mate,” said her companion. “We’d go again if we ’ad the quid.”
“Thank you for telling me.” The hotel staff had to be done with his room by now. Taking a last sip of his coffee, he gave the couple a pleasant smile, and as he exited the café he set the stack of pamphlets on a table by the door.
Walking back to the hotel, he assessed his injuries. The wound in his biceps was lighter and would heal faster, but the arrow he had taken in the abdomen had gone deep and would take longer. It lay burning in his side, the nagging pain a constant reminder of its presence.
How long would it be before it healed enough for the geas to kick in? Two more weeks? Three? He needed to try to find someone willing to stick a silver knife into him before then, or he would be forced to return to Isabeau’s side.
He already had silver weapons, so that wasn’t a barrier, but he couldn’t approach any of his usual contacts, not with the Hounds searching for him. He had to recruit someone new.
As he entered the hotel, his gaze was drawn to the table of pamphlets, and the Wildfire photo leaped out at him again. This time he paused, head cocked.
He might find a few possibilities worth exploring at the concert. Like his physical strength, his magic was not yet at full strength, but with the right nudge and a subtle spell of persuasion, he might be able to engage someone’s interest and discover just how far he could push the geas before it intervened.
He took another pamphlet with him up to his room, and a quick phone call informed him that night’s concert wasn’t sold out. The performance started at seven. He bought a ticket, rested until it was time to leave, and then took a taxi to the large arena at the Scottish Exhibition and Conference Centre.
As he filed meekly to his seat, just one more man among many, the crowd’s electric, happy anticipation washed over him. It left him unmoved.
Looking around, he took note of the various individuals who seemed like they might be worth approaching—a rougher-looking male working the ground crew near the stage or perhaps the few blokes lounging near the exit.
His sensitive lycanthrope nose had caught the scent of drugs as he’d strolled past them, but as he ran his gaze over his potential prospects, he felt no urgency. The night was young. There would be a concession break and time afterward to make contact if he wanted, and in any case, it wasn’t necessary for him to find someone that evening.
Even though the photo had been of a woman with a violin, the apparatus on the stage looked like the setting for a rock concert. Ah well, the Standard had promised something genre-bending. Bored, he stifled a yawn.
There was a warm-up band. Everyone around him appeared to enjoy it. His sensitive ears felt assaulted, but he endured.
When the opening act finished and the lights dimmed, a few invisible entities flowed into the concert hall. Morgan’s attention sharpened. He tracked the entities with his magic sense as they settled at either end of the stage. Most of the crowd would never know they were there.
More Djinn flowed in until the arena felt charged with the thunderous impact of their presence. There was little that Djinn adored more than music. The presence of so many was high praise all on its own. Despite his ennui, a sliver of curiosity brought Morgan to his feet along with the rest of the audience.
With an explosion of color, the lights flared, and the crowd roared as she blazed onto the stage. Other people followed her, a drummer, a bass guitarist, along with more musicians, but they faded into the background as she, the woman carrying a violin and a bow, captured everyone’s attention.
Even Morgan’s.
She didn’t so much walk onto the stage as dance across it. Or maybe she stormed it. As she conquered the space, seeming barely connected to the ground, she carried so much energy she felt larger than life.
Instinctively, he double-checked his impressions. Even though she wore three- or four-inch heels, the top of her head came to the nearby drummer’s shoulder. She had to be small, no more than five foot two or three.
His gaze lifted to the large telescreens, although he barely registered her features. She was pretty, or appeared to be, but she was wearing so much stage makeup every feature was accentuated, and it was hard to tell what she really looked like. He got the impression of high cheekbones, a full mouth, and perhaps a touch of Asian ancestry in long, elegant eyes.
Then she tucked her violin against her neck and lifted her bow. Expectant silence swept the arena. She began to play.
The first strains raced after each other like hawks lunging through the air, and all Morgan’s ennui fell away. His hatred for Isabeau, the wounds, and his untenable situation were forgotten, all his emotional distance shredded.
He didn’t welcome it. Part of him went into shock. That part of him hated it, hated her for doing it to him.
He still felt passion, but long ago his passion had turned dark and tinged with crimson. It had died down to a single thread, a burning desire to destroy those who had laid waste to his homeland and had enslaved him. That had become his mission in life.
This. This buoyant crescendo of sound.
It had no place in his life. He had other things on his agenda. Important things, blood-drenched things he had longed to do for centuries.
Rolling Stone magazine: “Simply transcendent.”
The Telegraph: “Sidonie Martel took my breath away!”
A sliver of Morgan’s attention engaged.
But mostly it did not. Once he had been a famous bard in his own right and an advisor to kings, but it had been many, many years since he had played any kind of music.
The desire to play had been burned out of him by the geas, and as the desire to play had faded, so too had his desire to listen to music for pleasure. He had never heard of many modern singers and musicians. Sidonie Martel’s name meant nothing to him.
Still, there was something about the photo that held his gaze. The woman’s stance, her tension, vibrated off the glossy page. She was so full of passion. His mouth twisted in a self-deprecating smile. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt such bright, creative joy.
A young woman at the neighboring table leaned toward him. “Can’t help but notice the pamphlet you’re holding,” she said in a friendly tone.
Morgan’s gaze lifted. “Indeed.”
The woman grinned at him. “If you’re thinking of going, you should try to get a ticket. We went last night, and it was amazing.”
“True, mate,” said her companion. “We’d go again if we ’ad the quid.”
“Thank you for telling me.” The hotel staff had to be done with his room by now. Taking a last sip of his coffee, he gave the couple a pleasant smile, and as he exited the café he set the stack of pamphlets on a table by the door.
Walking back to the hotel, he assessed his injuries. The wound in his biceps was lighter and would heal faster, but the arrow he had taken in the abdomen had gone deep and would take longer. It lay burning in his side, the nagging pain a constant reminder of its presence.
How long would it be before it healed enough for the geas to kick in? Two more weeks? Three? He needed to try to find someone willing to stick a silver knife into him before then, or he would be forced to return to Isabeau’s side.
He already had silver weapons, so that wasn’t a barrier, but he couldn’t approach any of his usual contacts, not with the Hounds searching for him. He had to recruit someone new.
As he entered the hotel, his gaze was drawn to the table of pamphlets, and the Wildfire photo leaped out at him again. This time he paused, head cocked.
He might find a few possibilities worth exploring at the concert. Like his physical strength, his magic was not yet at full strength, but with the right nudge and a subtle spell of persuasion, he might be able to engage someone’s interest and discover just how far he could push the geas before it intervened.
He took another pamphlet with him up to his room, and a quick phone call informed him that night’s concert wasn’t sold out. The performance started at seven. He bought a ticket, rested until it was time to leave, and then took a taxi to the large arena at the Scottish Exhibition and Conference Centre.
As he filed meekly to his seat, just one more man among many, the crowd’s electric, happy anticipation washed over him. It left him unmoved.
Looking around, he took note of the various individuals who seemed like they might be worth approaching—a rougher-looking male working the ground crew near the stage or perhaps the few blokes lounging near the exit.
His sensitive lycanthrope nose had caught the scent of drugs as he’d strolled past them, but as he ran his gaze over his potential prospects, he felt no urgency. The night was young. There would be a concession break and time afterward to make contact if he wanted, and in any case, it wasn’t necessary for him to find someone that evening.
Even though the photo had been of a woman with a violin, the apparatus on the stage looked like the setting for a rock concert. Ah well, the Standard had promised something genre-bending. Bored, he stifled a yawn.
There was a warm-up band. Everyone around him appeared to enjoy it. His sensitive ears felt assaulted, but he endured.
When the opening act finished and the lights dimmed, a few invisible entities flowed into the concert hall. Morgan’s attention sharpened. He tracked the entities with his magic sense as they settled at either end of the stage. Most of the crowd would never know they were there.
More Djinn flowed in until the arena felt charged with the thunderous impact of their presence. There was little that Djinn adored more than music. The presence of so many was high praise all on its own. Despite his ennui, a sliver of curiosity brought Morgan to his feet along with the rest of the audience.
With an explosion of color, the lights flared, and the crowd roared as she blazed onto the stage. Other people followed her, a drummer, a bass guitarist, along with more musicians, but they faded into the background as she, the woman carrying a violin and a bow, captured everyone’s attention.
Even Morgan’s.
She didn’t so much walk onto the stage as dance across it. Or maybe she stormed it. As she conquered the space, seeming barely connected to the ground, she carried so much energy she felt larger than life.
Instinctively, he double-checked his impressions. Even though she wore three- or four-inch heels, the top of her head came to the nearby drummer’s shoulder. She had to be small, no more than five foot two or three.
His gaze lifted to the large telescreens, although he barely registered her features. She was pretty, or appeared to be, but she was wearing so much stage makeup every feature was accentuated, and it was hard to tell what she really looked like. He got the impression of high cheekbones, a full mouth, and perhaps a touch of Asian ancestry in long, elegant eyes.
Then she tucked her violin against her neck and lifted her bow. Expectant silence swept the arena. She began to play.
The first strains raced after each other like hawks lunging through the air, and all Morgan’s ennui fell away. His hatred for Isabeau, the wounds, and his untenable situation were forgotten, all his emotional distance shredded.
He didn’t welcome it. Part of him went into shock. That part of him hated it, hated her for doing it to him.
He still felt passion, but long ago his passion had turned dark and tinged with crimson. It had died down to a single thread, a burning desire to destroy those who had laid waste to his homeland and had enslaved him. That had become his mission in life.
This. This buoyant crescendo of sound.
It had no place in his life. He had other things on his agenda. Important things, blood-drenched things he had longed to do for centuries.
