Mary Weber
Siren’s
Fury
Release:
6/2/15
BLURB
“I thrust my hand
toward the sky as my voice begs the Elemental inside me to waken and rise. But
it’s no use. The curse I’ve spent my entire life abhorring—the thing I trained
so hard to control—no longer exists.”
Nym
risked her life to save Faelen, her homeland, from a losing war, only to
discover that the shapeshifter Draewulf has stolen everything she holds dear.
But when the repulsive monster robs Nym of her storm-summoning abilities as
well, the beautiful Elemental realizes her war is only just
beginning.
Now
powerless to control the elements that once emboldened her, Nym stows away on
an airship traveling to the metallic kingdom of Bron. She must stop Draewulf.
But the horrors he’s brought to life and the secrets of Bron are more than Nym
bargained for. Then the disturbing Lord Myles tempts her with new powers that
could destroy the monster, and Nym must decide whether she can compromise in
the name of good even if it costs her very soul.
As
she navigates the stark industrial cityscape of Bron, Nym is faced with an
impossible choice: change the future with one slice of a
blade . . . or sacrifice the entire kingdom for the one thing
her heart just can’t let go.
BUY LINKS:
GIVEAWAY
EXCERPT
Reprinted with
permission from Thomas Nelson; Copyright © 2015 by Mary Weber
Chapter 2
I glare at the closed door,
simultaneously holding my throat while cursing that illegitimate bolcrane
offspring to come back.
I can’t stop shaking. Exhale. Inhale. His scent is everywhere,
piercing my nostrils, digging down my throat until I’m gagging on smoke and
pulling myself up to scramble around the broken glass and ice. No no no no no! I lunge for the charred
window and push my face out into the night air. The noise below is deafening—as
if my erratic weather bursts only encouraged the people’s frenzy.
I concentrate on breathing. Another
inhale to clear my burning throat.
My body sways heavily and shakes
harder, and for a second I swear my veins seize up.
I frown at my arms. What did he do to me?
“Focus on the atmosphere, Nym,” I
can almost hear Eogan whisper. “It’s yours to control.”
I shut my eyes and lean in,
yearning to feel him against achy skin and chest cavity where, until a few
minutes ago, my world existed. “I can’t focus,” I whisper. I don’t want to focus.
“Nym.”
No!
I can’t do this without you.
But the moment slows anyway.
“Focus on the atmosphere.”
I grit my teeth and open my eyes.
Fine.
I shove my hand toward the sky.
Not even a breath of wind stirs as
the golden candle bulbs rise into the now-perfect, starry heavens.
I try again. And again—this time
with both hands. Then with my voice, begging the Elemental inside to waken and
rise.
But it’s no use.
The curse I’ve spent my entire life
abhorring—the thing I trained so hard to control with Eogan. No. Longer.
Exists.
Just
as Eogan no longer exists.
“Are you jesting?” A scream rushes my lungs
and explodes from my lips, but it’s hollow and heartless, with no thunder to back
it up. Like the voice of a powerless child, it drowns into the party noise
below. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be!”
I turn back to my room, pick up the largest
glass shards with my good hand, and hurl them at the walls, the fireplace, the
door. How this happened I don’t know—I scarcely looked away from Eogan as he
fought Draewulf at the Keep. Only a matter of moments. And afterward—when he
was talking to his generals . . .
Litches.
His skin had looked sallow.
Bruised. Bloody. With that incision behind his neck.
My stomach turns. The thought of
Draewulf slicing him open while I stood feet away—of Eogan dying, his essence
being absorbed by the monster wearing him like a shell of
flesh . . . I fling a thick glass spike into the door. Then
another, and another.
The last one thuds so hard it
creates a crack across the overlay just as a knock sounds on the other side.
“Miss?” a man’s clipped voice calls
through.
I pause.
“I’ve been asked to summon you to
the banquet.”
What?
I look around. Now? An awareness of
what I’m supposed to be doing sinks in, as does the roomful of dissipating
smoke and broken glass and the blood covering my palms that are somehow sliced
like ribbons.
Oh
kracken. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to do this. I bend over
as my head spins, bringing bile up my throat. “Why didn’t you just kill me
too?” I yell at Draewulf.
“Miss?”
“To hulls with your blasted
banquet,” I snap loud enough for the man to hear. But I go ahead and dab my
hands on my dress and step over to the washbasin to dunk them in case he barges
in.
The cold water burns like litches.
It scalds and sears the smoke from my head—enough to register the fact that not
only am I supposed to be at the banquet, but Draewulf left me functioning
enough to attend it. I steady my trembling arms. Bite my lip. Whatever he’s
planning, he kept me alive to watch.
“Miss.” The man’s voice comes again
with a more insistent knock. “Please. We need to hurry.”
Narrowing my eyes, I shove my
blasted feelings so deep that the numb rises and spreads over them in a thin,
fragile layer. Just go see what he’s got
planned.
I grab the drying cloth and stride
to the door. I yank it open find one of the captain’s guards. Tannin, if I
recall, with his brown eyes, brown skin, and hair that sticks up like a
thatched roof.
His expression is full of
admiration as he tips his head politely. “The celebration—” He stalls, and I
watch the discreet slide of his eyes down my white waist-length Elemental hair
to my blood-smeared dress. He makes a shocked noise in the back of his throat.
“I’ll be a few minutes.” I shut the
door and, turning back to the water-basin table, pull one of my knives from its
sheath. Shakily, I use it to shred the drying cloth into strips and tie the
material around my bleeding palms, pressing them hard until the oozing
subsides, then walk to the wardrobe King Sedric had someone fill with the
lavish-type dresses we both despise. Not because they’re not gorgeous—they
are—but because they’re a disgusting waste of money when the peasant population
has spent the last forty years starving.
I pull out a sleeveless black gown with no
layers or buttons, which makes it easy to slip into despite my sliced palms and
my left hand’s fingers that are permanently curled inward almost to a fist. The
fingers that never healed right after Brea, owner fourteen, took a mallet to
them when my lightning strike took her husband’s sight because he couldn’t keep
his anger to himself.
Once on, the dress shimmers and
flows around my frame. A look in the mirror while I carefully drag a brush down
my hair shows the dress does more than flow and cling. The color sets off the
black trellis of owner- and memorial-tattooed markings circling my bare arms.
It darkens them, making them look eerie. Uncomfortable.
Huh.
Good.
I pick up my sheath of knives and
strap the blades to my calf, then tug my dress over them. I firm my jaw. Hold it together, Nym. At least until you
figure out what the kracken to do.
Except everything within me
whispers that I already know what I need to do.
“Miss?” The man taps on the door
again.
I lift my chin and straighten my
unsteady shoulders. And harden my blue eyes before forcing the falsest grin
I’ve ever smiled and walking over to open the blood-smeared, glass-impaled
door.
Tannin’s still standing there. He
doesn’t offer an arm. The veneration in his gaze is shadowed by a flash of
fear. He’s afraid to touch me.
I almost give a caustic laugh. Up
until twenty minutes ago he should’ve been terrified.
Now? “I’m as impotent as you are,”
I nearly tell him.
“Glad you could join us.” His
expression edges back toward that ridiculous awe that the guards and knights
and so many in Faelen are newly inclined to place on me. I frown. He looks
about to say something further but seems to think better of it and waits until
I shut the door before falling in beside me. “King Sedric sent me to persuade
you.”
I nod stiffly.
“He’s requested to see you,” he
prods. “And I must say what an impression your style will make this evening.”
His eyes dip to my wrapped palms. “Very . . . stunning.”
My attempt at politeness falters. I
can’t do it. I clench my teeth and let my glare smolder down the corridor in
front of us, and after a moment he, smartly, seals his mouth like a tomb.
One minute. Two minutes. Three
minutes eke by until we reach the Great Hall. Before he leads me in, Tannin
turns to face me. His cheeks are blushing like berries and suddenly he’s
fumbling a crisp, folded kerchief from beneath his guard doublet and holding it
out to me. “Miss, I was wondering if you’d mind giving a token, a kiss perhaps,
for me to take home.”
I stare at him.
He smiles as if he’s serious.
Is he insane? Up until a week ago
my kiss would’ve been considered a curse. “I’m not a lady for knights to
request tokens from,” I mutter, and go to push past him.
“It’s for my daughter.”
I stall.
“Please.”
I peer at him. Loosen my jaw. “How
old is she?”
“Eight. And she’s real proud of
what you’ve done for us—for Faelen.”
A moment longer and I hold out my
hand for the cloth and place it against my lips in what is the most awkward
thing I’ve ever done in my life. “Tell her it’s the innocent who died in battle
who deserve her respect, not the warriors who lived,” I say, returning it to
him. “Especially not one who was only there because of accidental powers.”
He blushes even darker. “Yes, miss.
Thank you, miss.”
I go to stride past him but catch
the look as he drops his gaze. I hesitate. “Tell her it’s people like her
father she should respect,” I say softer. “The ones who serve because they have
faith in justice.”
He peers up and his eyes widen,
then sparkle, and I try not to feel ill while turning to enter the shiny
balcony.
The space is already filled with
heavily perfumed people, most of whom are looking down upon the enormous lower
room that’s stuffed to the walls with prominent individuals fawning over food-heavy
tables and a minicarnival.
I shake off the embarrassing
cloth-kissing and dart my gaze about for Eogan-turned-Draewulf as acrobats,
panther-monkeys, and even a baby oliphant prance around on the stage below.
Behind them, giant arched windows and mural-painted walls up against the open
doors and outside patios, giving the room a depth that brings the frescoed
firefly trees and Hythra Crescent Mountains to life.
I search the corners for Eogan, but
only find vedic harpies swinging from cages, humming their songs about the sea.
Their music is enough to trigger a bizarre homesickness for my previous owner
Adora’s home and her parties with Eogan and Colin. I purse my lips. Who’d have
thought I’d miss anything about that woman?
Turning my eyes, I tune them out
even as my stiff shoulders threaten to buckle. Blasted hulls, Eogan, why
couldn’t you have let me shield you?
Find
him and do what you have to, Nym.
“This way, miss.” Tannin beckons me
to the crowd in the center of the loft where he proceeds to weave me around
their warm bodies. The elegant people fall away from us with eager glances and
murmurs. Some are already too full of wine to walk decently, but apparently not
enough to prevent them from noticing my sea-blue eyes and everything else about
me that shouts Elemental.
“They say she took down Bron’s
airships with a single lightning strike,” someone excitedly whispers.
“Two,” another says. “The first
took out the archers.”
“No, no, she used her breath.
Inhaled the wind and blew them back to Bron.”
I raise a brow and can’t help the smirk at
that one. It fades as soon as my chest tightens with the rawness of not having
Colin beside me. He would’ve laughed and never let me hear the end of it. My
breath? I straighten. Keep walking.
“Either way, do you think it wise
having her at the High Court? Look at those bandages on her hands. Are we
certain she’s safe?”
“No, but it doesn’t matter. Rumor
is she’ll be invited to leave for Bron with King Eogan soon.”
“Figures,” a man’s voice titters
too loudly. “Anyone can tell she’s vying to be that man’s queen. Can you
imagine? A week ago she was a slave. As if she’d know the first thing about
court life. Now, if it was that visiting Cashlin princess,
Rasha . . .”
I keep my head up and don’t give
them the luxury of knowing that my ears are, in fact, clearly working even if
the man’s insults are more comforting than any of the praise. I look around. Where is Princess Rasha? Less than an
hour ago she was in my room playing with knives and hinting encouragements about
Eogan. How did she not see this coming
with Draewulf?
Tannin stops and I almost trip over
him onto King Sedric, who’s speaking with men I recognize as part of the High
Council. In their shiny green doublets and pointy-heeled shoes, they remind me
of the garish Adora. Especially beside His Royal Highness who’s as
boyish-looking and underdressed as ever. I curtsy as protocol dictates and nod
at his guards nearby. They visibly relax and my hard eyes soften a bit at this
man-boy who’s two years older than me—nineteen—but seems twenty more, and who
fought without flinching at Eogan’s and my side.
He stops speaking and turns a kind
smile. “Nym.”
“Your Highness.”
“I’m pleased you could make it down
this evening.”
“I’m honored to be invited.” My
throat tightens. Tell him about Eogan.
His merry gaze falls on my
clothbound palms and narrows with apparent concern. “I hope you know this
celebration is as much in praise to you as it is the treaty.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty, but the
gratitude is rightly placed on your shoulders.” My eyes flick behind him,
beyond the guards, in search of Eogan. You
have to tell him, Nym. I clench my fingers and feel the pain from the cuts
shoot up my arms.
Tell
him you’re all in danger.
I open my mouth again.
But my tongue thickens and heat
clogs my throat. I don’t know how to do it. I can’t make the words come out
from my lips that will sentence Eogan’s body to death by the hands of someone
who hardly knows him. Even if Sedric is my king. “You have my respect and
gratitude,” I whisper instead. “Especially regarding your mercy toward my
Elemental race.”
King Sedric grins and glances at
the councilmen who are sloshing the drinks they’ve raised in our direction. He
leans politely toward me. “I’d relish the chance to speak with you about your
heritage as well as the plight of the Faelen citizens, if I may have the honor
of a dance later this evening?”
I nod before retreating so he can
return to his conversation.
“Good luck, miss,” Tannin says,
and, with a grateful wink and a half bow, leaves me alone in a sea of people I
barely know who’re full of blatant gawks and wearing giant, poofed hats that
look exactly like the black-and-red Bron airships. Complete with larva-shaped
balloons.
I swallow and head to the balcony’s
ledge and glare over it. Colin and Eogan should be here with me, mocking the
ridiculousness of the outfits, of the luxury, listening while I scream that
Draewulf is not dead.
Instead I swear I hear their ghosts
whispering that he’s going to wipe out this entire room and take Faelen. Just
like he tried to at the Keep.
I grit my teeth and lean over the
gilt railing to peer down below to look for him.
The lights flicker oddly, urging me
to hurry my scan of the faces. Where is
he?
Nervous chuckles break out as the
candle lights blink again. I straighten and look up just as the glow flickers a
third time and the crowd’s laughter ceases.
“What’s going on?” someone
whispers. “Who’s putting out the lights?”
STORM SIREN
Book 1
BLURB:
"There are few
things more exciting to discover than a debut novel packed with powerful
storytelling and beautiful language. STORM SIREN is one of those rarities. I'll
read anything Mary Weber writes. More, please!" -Jay Asher, New York
Times bestselling author of THIRTEEN REASONS WHY
"Storm Siren is
a riveting tale from start to finish. Between the simmering romance, the rich
and inventive fantasy world, and one seriously jaw-dropping finale, readers
will clamor for the next book--and I'll be at the front of the line!"
--MARISSA MEYER, New York Times bestselling author of the Lunar
Chronicles
"I raise my
chin as the buyers stare. Yes. Look. You don't want me. Because, eventually,
accidentally, I will destroy you."
In a world at war, a slave girl's lethal curse could become one kingdom's weapon of salvation. If the curse - and the girl - can be controlled.
As a slave in the war-weary kingdom of Faelen, seventeen-year-old Nym isn't merely devoid of rights, her Elemental kind are only born male and always killed at birth - meaning, she shouldn't even exist.
Standing on the auction block beneath smoke-drenched mountains, Nym faces her fifteenth sell. But when her hood is removed and her storm-summoning killing curse revealed, Nym is snatched up by a court advisor and given a choice: be trained as the weapon Faelen needs to win the war, or be killed.
Choosing the former, Nym is unleashed into a world of politics, bizarre parties, and rumors of an evil more sinister than she's being prepared to fight . . . not to mention the handsome trainer whose dark secrets lie behind a mysterious ability to calm every lightning strike she summons.
But what if she doesn't want to be the weapon they've all been waiting for?
Set in a beautifully eclectic world of suspicion, super abilities, and monsters, Storm Siren is a story of power. And whoever controls that power will win.
In a world at war, a slave girl's lethal curse could become one kingdom's weapon of salvation. If the curse - and the girl - can be controlled.
As a slave in the war-weary kingdom of Faelen, seventeen-year-old Nym isn't merely devoid of rights, her Elemental kind are only born male and always killed at birth - meaning, she shouldn't even exist.
Standing on the auction block beneath smoke-drenched mountains, Nym faces her fifteenth sell. But when her hood is removed and her storm-summoning killing curse revealed, Nym is snatched up by a court advisor and given a choice: be trained as the weapon Faelen needs to win the war, or be killed.
Choosing the former, Nym is unleashed into a world of politics, bizarre parties, and rumors of an evil more sinister than she's being prepared to fight . . . not to mention the handsome trainer whose dark secrets lie behind a mysterious ability to calm every lightning strike she summons.
But what if she doesn't want to be the weapon they've all been waiting for?
Set in a beautifully eclectic world of suspicion, super abilities, and monsters, Storm Siren is a story of power. And whoever controls that power will win.
BUY LINKS:
About the Author:
Mary
Weber is a ridiculously uncoordinated girl plotting to take over make-believe
worlds through books, handstands, and imaginary throwing knives. In her spare
time, she feeds unicorns, sings 80’s hairband songs to her three muggle
children, and ogles her husband who looks strikingly like Wolverine. They live
in California, which is perfect for stalking L.A. bands, Joss Whedon, and the
ocean. Her debut YA fantasy novel, STORM SIREN, is available now
in bookstores and online, and SIREN'S FURY (book 2 in
the trilogy) will be out June, 2015 from TN HarperCollins.
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