Sing the Night (Opera Magique #1)

Chapter 1

Selene took a half step onto the stage, the staccato articulation of her heart a sharp reminder of what was to come.

She sang each precise note and summoned the wind, fluttering the curtains open.

Row after row of empty seats shimmered blue and gold in the flicker of stage lights and the chandelier.

This was her tessitura: what she knew, what she expected, what she was destined for.

In six days, this auditorium would be filled, and Selene would perform for the wealth of Mondreves and the king.

It was the height of opulence and elegance that positioned the kingdom on the cutting edge of art and magic.

Dignitaries would travel from around the world to see their latest innovations and offerings.

They were allowed in selectively—the king guarded his secrets well.

One of the many reasons auditions were kept closed.

Selene was mere breaths away from her chance at the stage, free of nerves or concern that she would make it through.

She was favored to win in all the papers and knew the scope of her talent and ambition.

Competing in L’Opéra du Magician was the only thing she’d wanted for as long as she could remember.

Almost.

There had been a time when Selene wanted to be something new each day.

A pirate, a flower seller, the girl who sang the books back onto the shelves in the library.

She wanted to be everything. But that was a long time ago, before she’d come to live in the opera house, before she’d lost her father.

She’d traded a menagerie of dreams for this singular purpose.

Selene had nothing else. She only wanted this.

Something shifted behind her. A whisper, a flutter, that familiar feeling of solitude breached.

When she turned, the stage was empty. Selene was alone.

The ghost.

A thrill of fear ran through her. The opera house was notoriously haunted.

For decades, students swore they saw a face in the mirrors.

The rumor was a girl grew so frightened that she threw herself from the rooftop.

And so there were no mirrors in all of the Opera Magique—not to protect their vanity, but to protect their souls.

Selene had looked for the ghost in bowls of water and window glass, in any place she could see herself reflected.

She wanted ghosts to be real. She wanted to believe that the people she loved and lost were somehow still here.

That her father stood in the place between shadow and light, watching her.

That somehow, he’d forgiven her for what she had done.

“You’re early.”

Gigi stood behind her, dark, curly hair swept up in a tight bun.

Her cheeks were rouged and eyelids dusted in glitter, lips showing the barest shine.

She turned out her long, sculpted legs in first position.

She looked like she belonged in a music box, spinning and spinning and never growing weary—the kind of pretty that was meant to stay forever, but never would.

Selene relaxed a little. She pulled her father’s watch from the pocket of her dress and ran her thumb over the familiar engraving: a nightingale caught in starlight. It was the only piece of him she had left. “If you’re on time—”

“—you’re already a minute too late.” Gigi laughed through her teeth. “I can’t believe we’re finally here.”

“Nothing left to do but sing.”

And Selene was ready. She knew her aria like she knew the rhythm of her own heart. She’d written it piece by piece over the last three years, making sure it was perfect. Every note filled with meaning. Risoluto. Con fuoco.

The door crashed open. Priya stood in the frame, catching the light, an artist’s rendering of classic beauty.

The hollow of her long neck fluttered with each intake of breath, like a butterfly reposing on a blossom.

Her hair was long and lush, her mouth painted in plum.

It was a shame that someone so beautiful could be so terrible.

That pretty face twisted into a sneer. A flash of cruelty—before it was replaced with a politician’s smile.

“I don’t know why you two even bother.” Priya swung her hips as she walked, each step a performance. “Madame Giroux’s talentless daughter and the orphan of the Mad Mage. No matter how you perform, the king will never pick you. What will the papers say?”

“ ‘Talent surpasses nepotism and bribery,’ ” Selene snapped. “ ‘Priya Ankari seen weeping in her lover’s arms while her fiancé looks on.’ ”

Priya’s mouth flattened to a thin line. “And what would you know of lovers, Selene?”

“Nothing,” Selene said sweetly, trying not to let the barb sting. Once, Selene had thought she loved someone. But it was the folly of childhood, gone as swift as a sigh. “My only love is music.”

“Then I fear you’ll be spurned.”

“Ignore her.” Gigi pulled at Selene’s sleeve.

Selene caught the retort on the tip of her tongue. She’d show Priya on the stage. Gigi was right, Priya wasn’t worth the wasted words. She wasn’t worth the energy hate would expend. Selene needed everything she had today.

Gigi’s fingers tightened on Selene’s arm.

Priya stood with a poisonous grin. She held a small, silver mirror in her hand.

It caught the light. A glimmer, a glint, a slip of reflective glass. Anywhere else, it would have been a worthless trinket.

In the Opera Magique, the mirror was a knife.

“Selene.” Gigi’s fingers dug into Selene’s flesh. Selene knew the shape of Gigi’s nightmares—had been with her through those sleepless nights. The ghost had terrified her since before she could remember.

“The only monster here is the one holding the glass,” Selene seethed.

Priya curled her lip. “What do you think it would take to get your mother here, Gigi? Shall you cry, or do you think she’d come quicker for Selene?”

“That’s enough.” With a few steps, Selene positioned herself in front of Gigi.

“As if you could tell me what to do.” Priya bared her teeth. “Are you scared, Gigi? Scared enough to jump from the roof ?” She lunged forward with the mirror.

Gigi staggered back, forgetting the rope that coiled like a snake beside the velvet wing. Selene grabbed for her hand—but she was too late. The sound of Gigi’s body slamming into the stage echoed through the auditorium. Selene dropped down beside her.

“It’s fine.” There were tears in Gigi’s eyes. She looked past Selene to Priya.

Selene’s heart thundered con furore. She could accept Priya’s viciousness on her own behalf—had been for years. But for Gigi, she would let the world burn.

Priya’s face was marred with rapture. “What are you going to do?”

The options were endless. Selene could sing the air from Priya’s lungs. She could summon fire and spark that fine dress into flames. She could grow vines to wrap around Priya’s pretty throat and squeeze until all the light was gone.

Except.

Magic was never to be used as a weapon. Magic was art and entertainment—beautiful, impractical, and privileged. It required years of study, careful attention to technique, and could turn dangerous quickly on a technicality.

And maybe it was hubris or recklessness or the privilege of never living in fear.

Selene had been raised on the wild idealism that magic and art existed in the everyday.

She had not been held to the standard that magic was only meant for this higher form.

Selene didn’t understand why magic couldn’t be more.

Her father had taught her first how to pull water from the sea into a bucket, how to hush out a candle with a breath of wind, how to find the heart of a flower and make it grow.

It wasn’t until she’d lost her father and been sent to the opera house that she’d learned a fear of magic.

Rumors abounded of magicians who tried to light a candle with the power of their voice and instead set themselves ablaze. Ruined for a flame.

Selene knew of ruin. She knew what magic could be. She didn’t care about candles or clouds. Those were simple, small things. There was so much worse magic could do. Selene had tasted the sweet poison of destructive power. There was already blood on her hands.

There could be blood on her hands again.

She banished those violent delights, breathing slowly and deeply.

Priya wasn’t worth it. Selene wasn’t one of the silly dilettantes seeking a hobby before they shackled themselves to a wealthy spouse.

Those practitioners weren’t here to win, not really.

They wanted the prestige and stories to tell at parties.

This didn’t matter to them like it mattered to Selene.

Priya—despite her engagement to a viscount—actually seemed to want this.

At least she wanted it badly enough to destroy anyone who stood in her way.

And because of that, Selene knew exactly how to hurt her.

Her smile was the sharpened edge of a blade. “I’m going to be better than you.”

Worry flickered in Priya’s eyes before it was replaced with pity.

“It’s a shame the Mad Mage didn’t finish what he started.” Priya angled the mirror to reflect Selene’s throat.

The high collar of Selene’s dress had shifted, revealing the tips of the silver scars that circled her neck. Without thinking, Selene adjusted the lace to conceal them. She regretted it immediately. Priya’s smile curled at Selene’s show of weakness.

“Did your father lose his mind before or after he tried to rip out your throat?”

It was all Selene could do not to be crushed by memories of that day.

She focused on the music—power building under her skin.

She’d pull the moisture from the air and freeze it into a sharp shard.

Priya would bleed, all the evidence melting into the red.

The placement of the music lifted the back of her throat. High road be damned.

No.

She wouldn’t throw away her chance to be the King’s Mage for Priya. She wouldn’t give everything up for vengeance.