Songs from the Deep

by Kelly Powell

  At once the sounds of the harbor come blaring back. I don’t let my eyes stray to Jude just yet, but I lend my voice to the commotion. “Why do you still have him by the water?” The men look to me, and I lift my chin a little higher. “Get him to the lighthouse. There should be a key in his pockets.”

  One of the fishermen, Emyr Llewellyn, says, “He’s bleeding, miss.” He tilts his head toward Jude’s left arm, where three long gashes stretch from shoulder to elbow. Blood seeps through the fabric of his oilskin jacket, staining the dock red.

  I swallow and crouch down to study Jude’s face. His eyes are shut tight, jaw clenched, his breaths coming fast and shallow. Blood runs from his nose, smeared across one cheek. I touch his shoulder. “Jude,” I say softly. “Jude, it’s Moira. Can you open your eyes for me? Can you do that?”

  He must hear, because he does as I ask. His gaze flits over my face, the whites of his eyes threaded with burst capillaries. The size of his pupils, huge and dark, turns the stare into something unnatural. He opens his mouth, but no words come out.

  Taking my hand away, I dig in my coat pocket for a handkerchief, tying a rough tourniquet at his elbow. His eyes shut once more, as if to avoid the sunlight, and he keens, a high, pained whining in the back of his throat.

  I look up. “We need to move him.”

  Next to Llewellyn, Gabriel Flint sets his hands on Jude. Hands that might’ve sent Connor and Nell to their deaths. Rage seethes inside me, coating my throat. “Don’t you touch him,” I snarl.

  If anything, his hold tightens. “I’m trying to help.”

  Another of the men, Benjamin Carrick, says, “Can someone turn off that alarm?”

  In the quiet that follows, they pull Jude up. His eyes snap open. His breaths catch in his chest. When he speaks, his voice is strange and reedy. “Get off,” he says. “Get off, get off, get off of me!” He pulls against them, struggling, twisting under their grip.

  I seize his hand. “Jude, it’s all right. We’re bringing you to the lighthouse.”

  He stares, eyes feverish. “Moira?”

  “Yes. Yes, it’s me.”

  He tugs on my hand. “Please, Moira, tell them—tell them to let me go.” Blood drips from his nose, running down his chin. He doesn’t even seem to notice.

  “I can’t give you to the sirens, Jude. They’ll kill you.”

  “No. No, no, no. You… you don’t know that.” He shudders, teeth gritted, the blood on his face only emphasizing how pale he looks. “You don’t understand.”

  I brush the sweat-damp hair from his forehead, feel the burning heat of his skin. “I do understand,” I whisper back. “How much you must want to go to them. How you would dash off the pier if we let you. You’ve got the song’s magic running through you. We can’t let you go until it’s run its course.”

  His next breath hitches on a sob. He thrashes against the hands restraining him, but the men hold fast. “Please,” he says, voice choked. “Please, I’ll do anything. Just let me go. Let me go!”

  He is so unlike himself in that moment, it hurts.

  I draw my hand away, his blood dotting the sleeve of my coat.

  There have always been survivors. As long as sirens have hunted on the shores of Twillengyle, there were survivors. Islanders and tourists, few and far between, escaping the siren’s song. Some who survive and get better, recovering until the attack is nothing more than a faded scar on their past. And some who descend into madness, who waste away slowly, never truly here nor there, never truly living.

  My heart smashes against my rib cage, a terrible fog filling my mind, because in one of these fates lies the future of Jude Osric—and I do not know which one.

  Exhausted by his efforts, he slumps back. His face is grayish white and his eyes roll up in their sockets, unfocused. “They sing to me still,” he murmurs. “I can hear them.”

  It’s the last thing he says before he falls unconscious.

  Benjamin Carrick picks him up as easily as if Jude were a child. “Lead on, Miss Alexander,” he says. “I’ve got him.”

  Flint and Llewellyn follow along as we journey over the moors to the lighthouse. The midday sun hides beneath a patch of clouds, shadowing the way.

  I ask, “What happened?”

  “Carrick saw him by the shore,” says Llewellyn.

  I look to the man carrying Jude Osric in his arms. He’s in his early thirties, dark-haired and broad-shouldered, his skin light brown. His expression is tense with worry, and his hands tighten protectively around Jude. “He wasn’t paying attention,” he says.

  “Do you know what he was doing down there?”

  “You’ll have to ask him, miss. He’ll be back to his senses in due time, I’m sure.” He shifts Jude’s weight, glancing at the tourniquet around his arm. “It’ll be a nasty scar, that will. She caught him by the shoulder before I could pull him away.”

  I bite my bottom lip. “I don’t know many others who would risk going so near the sirens to save another.”

  “It was Jude Osric,” says Carrick, as though this explains everything.

  And I nod, because I understand. Jude’s kindness has never been for my eyes only. “Thank you,” I say, words unable to convey just how thankful I am.

  The lighthouse looms ahead of us, and I search through Jude’s torn and bloodied jacket until my fingers close around a large skeleton key.

  The cottage door swings open on its new hinges. I tuck the key into my pocket and take up my violin case I’d left on the step. “He keeps a first aid kit in the kitchen. I’ll get that. His bedroom is just up the stairs, second door on the right.”

  I make my way into the kitchen. I’ve seen the first aid kit brought out many times during my visits. It’s a plain metal box tucked into a cupboard; I flip the clasps and find it well stocked with bandages, salves, a needle and thread. I grip the handle, white-knuckled, and head up to Jude’s bedroom.

  I pause outside his door, just for an instant. Placing my hand flat on the wood, I close my eyes, breathing in. Then I walk into the room.

  Jude is laid out on the narrow bed. Someone had the sense to remove his boots, but he’s still wearing his tattered jacket, his blood already staining the sheets. Oh God, I think. That will vex him terribly, and for a moment panic threatens to overwhelm me.

  Carrick, Flint, and Llewellyn all stand in the middle of the small room. Flint catches my eye as I enter, but he says nothing. I sit at the edge of Jude’s bed, removing the tourniquet from his arm. There’s no saving the jacket, nor the sweater he wears beneath it. Both are wet with blood, the sleeves shredded. I take a pair of scissors from the first aid kit and begin cutting through the cloth. Silence cloaks the room as I work. There’s only the blood rushing in my ears, the quiet whisper of Jude’s breathing. I don’t look at his face, how pale he is, the dark hollows under his eyes.

  “Moira,” Flint says finally. “Do you not think it best we bring him to the hospital?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I can care for him better here.”

  A pause. “No one’s saying you have to care for him.” His tone is all hard edges.

  I finish cutting away Jude’s clothes, leaving him in his thin undershirt. I turn to face Flint and say, “Why not? Do you think me incapable?”

  “No—”

  “Well, then.” I swallow hard. “I’ll keep watch on him until he’s recovered. I’ve seen my father nurse other survivors. Nothing I haven’t done before.”

  “And if he doesn’t recover?”

  Benjamin Carrick glances sharply to him, but I’ve already stepped forward. I tip my face up, meeting Flint’s pale gaze. “You will not condemn Jude Osric under his own roof,” I tell him. “I will not allow it.”

  A muscle in his jaw twitches. He could very well be the killer we’re after, perhaps even the reason why Jude was on the beach. The possibility puts my nerves on edge.

  “Get out,” I say.

  He does so without another word, his footsteps heavy on the stairs
.

  Carrick and Llewellyn linger in the room, their eyes fixed on Jude. I clasp my hands tight to stop them shaking. “Thank you both,” I say, “for bringing him here.”

  Carrick nods. “No trouble, miss.” His gaze falls back on Jude’s sleeping form. “The island would be all the poorer without him.”

  The men take their leave, closing the door softly in their wake. I am alone, and the reality before me settles cold and terrible in my chest.

  No—not alone. I’m with Jude Osric.

  Although I’ve never felt so distanced from him.

  I sit back down on the edge of his bed. I clean his wounds and prepare new bandages. My hands tremble only a little as I stitch the gashes closed. “Mr. Carrick was right in saying these will scar,” I tell him, knotting the thread. “But not to worry. I suspect they’ll look quite dashing.” A tinge of pink flags his cheekbones, the fringe of his hair damp with sweat. I take a cloth and clean the blood from his face, watching his eyes flit beneath closed lids. I hope it’s not nightmares that plague him now. Siren song has a way of addling the mind, racking the body with fever, chills, hallucinations.

  No iron ring hangs about his neck. I’d left it, unthinking, on the bedside table in the guest room. If only I’d handed it to him—if I’d simply tucked it into his jacket…

  Had there been a moment when he realized he wasn’t wearing it? Had he tried to turn back before the sirens happened upon him?

  A crease appears between his brows as he dreams. I bandage his arm and smooth his hair back. “I know I’ve asked much of you,” I whisper. “More than you’ve ever asked of me. But if I may ask one other thing, I ask that you survive this.” The words scrape my throat. I rest my head on his uninjured shoulder, my eyes burning hot with tears. “Please, Jude. Please don’t leave me.”

  Only last night, he’d returned a siren to the sea. Now they wish to steal him away into the darkness, to fill his lungs with salt water and sink their teeth into his skin. The sea takes what it wants, and perhaps the sea has wanted Jude since the time he’d fallen out of my father’s rowboat. Yet the siren we saw that day had not taken him.

  His quiet voice echoes inside my head. I’ve never blamed them, Moira. The sirens.

  I feel as though something inside me is splintering. I love the sirens as I love the island. They are a link to my father, my childhood, an integral part of myself. They are a double-edged sword, and I admire them for it.

  Sirens are not the ones I have given my heart to.

  When I look at Jude Osric, I can still see the young boy who showed me the lighthouse, pointing out and explaining everything in sight. I see the wild expanse of the moors and two children, running and stumbling after each other while their fathers were away. I remember Jude, twelve years old, bowing his head during his family’s funeral, when he wanted no one to see him cry. And just a few years later, when he stood among the gathering at my father’s grave.

  Then I cut him from my life, heedless of the consequences, fixating on music and siren watching so that I might fill the loss. Now, I realize, Connor Sheahan’s death came as things often did in Twillengyle—as a blessing and a curse. For it brought me back to Jude Osric before I even knew how much I needed him.

  Sitting up, I wipe the tears from my cheeks. I go down to the drawing room, open the linen chest, and find a quilt I haven’t seen in years, stitched by Jude’s mother. The needlework is beautiful, precise, the patchwork blue and white like the lighthouse. I shake the dust from it.

  When I take it up to Jude’s room, placing it over him, he makes a small noise, a soft sigh in his fitful sleep. I press my fingers to my mouth, but he looks no closer to waking.

  In the kitchen, I light an oil lamp as twilight falls. Wind howls its way across the moors. Before I know it I’m fetching a lantern from the desk and unbolting the door.

  I shiver as a breeze catches at my open coat. Clenching the lantern, I tug my collar up. The evening air carries all the scents of autumn: burning leaves and dried grass, the sharp smell of salt and brine. I head for the path down to the beach, my boot heels sinking into mud and peat.

  On the shoreline I take in the height of the dark cliff wall before surveying the length of the beach. My eyes alight on the nearest crevice, a narrow fracture in the rock. I duck into it, press back against the hard, damp surface, and snuff out the lantern’s dim light.

  If Jude were here, he’d tell me I was mad to be doing this. Except he’s half the reason I’m here to begin with—and I’ve always been a little bit mad anyway.

  So I wait, the last shreds of sunlight disappearing into the sea. I’m reminded of Jude’s hand in mine as we danced, of his warm, dark eyes, and the look he gave me, like I was the most remarkable thing in the world.

  Leaning forward, I peer out at the beach, and there they are.

  Two of them step from the shallows onto the wet sand. Their heels kick up foam, but on the beach they are soundless, pale nymphs slick with salt water. Adrenaline sharpens my eyesight, and I press back into the crevice when their gaze slides to the cliff. My heart races as indigo eyes flick to where I stand, their enlarged pupils dark as midnight. The sirens move on, and I swallow, wondering if it’s the same pair who lured Jude earlier.

  The thought makes me reckless, pulls me out of hiding. It’s then I remember I threw my iron charm into the sea. The sirens have only to turn around to notice me.

  They need only sing a single note.

  It would be a quick death. Once they got hold of me, I’d be dragged down into the depths. Dizziness from blood loss would make drowning almost pleasant. I wouldn’t struggle—not with their song pressed against my eardrums.

  And there is a part of me that wishes to hear it, to feel it in my heart and in my veins, a cacophony of salt water and blood.

  But I think back on Jude Osric.

  Jude, who is a steady hand in the dark, a compass, surefire and true. He has stood by me, lent patience when I had none. I cannot, will not, abandon him now.

  I take a step out of the crevice, just as one of the sirens turns.

  And everything in me freezes.

  We stare at each other, unblinking, both uncertain of the other. Behind her the second siren carries on down the beach. I hardly dare breathe as my thoughts become a whirlwind. I try to remember how fast sirens are—fast, but slower on land, surely? Can I make a dash for the path before she starts to sing? Unlikely. It’s several feet away. I’ll be caught between the cliff wall and open sand.

  If she takes a moment to call for the other siren, I might have a chance. A slim chance. Will they follow me up the cliff path? How far inland will a siren follow her prey?

  But I pause, hesitant, when I notice the siren hasn’t even opened her mouth. I take another, careful step out from the narrow crevice. The siren tips her head to one side, watching me, her eyes wide-open and dark.

  But she does not sing.

  My hands ball into fists. “Go on,” I whisper, knowing her sharp ears will hear perfectly. “What are you waiting for?”

  She takes a step toward me, and my breath quickens. It’s as if I’m enchanted already; I can’t move. Caught in siren eyes, they say, like a rabbit frozen in the arc of a lantern’s light.

  A breeze off the sea sweeps back her dark tangle of hair. Her face is pale and colorless, except for the red flush across her cheekbones and at her lips. She’s beautiful like only a siren is, beautiful like dangerous things so often are.

  And she just looks at me.

  “Why did you sing to him?” I ask. At a whisper my voice still cracks. “You spare me and not him? He’s dying—” I swallow against the lump in my throat, tears pricking my eyes. “You took his entire family and he never raised a hand to you.”

  The siren tilts her head once more, her eyes flitting over my face. Then her gaze drops. She turns away, and her bare feet scarcely leave a print on the shifting sand.

  I let out a shaky sigh. It takes a minute before my fists slacken, before I let my ey
es look from the beach to the cliff path. With numb and unsteady footsteps, I make my way back up to the moors.

  * * *

  They say the sea can grant wishes. For the price of a secret.

  I stand on the cliff’s edge, under the night sky, and glance in the direction of the lighthouse. The beacon light is still burning. It turns in a slow circle over the hillsides, out to the black horizon, the darkness of the deep.

  They say the sea can grant wishes, and I’m in desperate need of one.

  My fingers hold tight to the piece of paper folded in my hand. Closing my eyes, I whisper, “May Jude get well,” and let the paper flutter from my grasp. I watch as it drifts downward—until it’s a speck that vanishes against the white-capped waves. In tidy cursive letters, I’ve printed out the secret of my heart. A secret I now murmur, quiet and breathless, to the clouded moonlight and distant stars.

  Because I love him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I WAKE, HEART POUNDING, to a knocking at the door. Pale morning light marks the floorboards, and I realize I’ve fallen asleep on a chair at Jude’s bedside.

  I stretch, stiff neck cursing me. Last night’s dream returns in jerky flashes: thunder and lightning over a dark sea, Jude holding fast to my hand before the waves tear us apart, watching him drown…

  I look over to where he lies in bed. His face is shiny with sweat, his chest rising and falling beneath the quilt.

  During the night, he cried out in his sleep, restless and feverish. He said my name, an anxious edge to his voice, as if he were looking for me. Yet when I placed my hand over his, when I told him, I’m here, Jude, I’m here—he only pulled away, turning his head against the pillow.

  It was worse when he called out for the dead. He shouted for his sister, and I can’t remember a time he’s said her name since the funeral. I set a damp cloth across his forehead, hoping to bring his temperature down, but it did nothing to ease his flushed cheeks. His body burned with the song’s magic; I’d kept watch in fear he’d leave this life before the sun rose.