Lorelei
Siren of the Rhine
By Melody Calder
.
Title Page
Copyright © 2020 Melody Calder
Dedication
Poem by Heinrich Heine 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
More by Melody Calder
Sinfully Yours
Copyright © 2020 Melody Calder
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Melody Calder asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Melody Calder has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any productor vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
First edition
Cover design by DAZED Designs
Formatted by Rozie Marshall
Poem is by Heinrich Heine
This book is intended for readers 18+.
.
To my late grandmother and late great-grandmother, both strong German women that loved a good romance story. I’ll never know how my grandmother raised fifteen children and still made sure to make her hundreds of grandchildren feel special. Every time I see a bat, I think of my grandma chasing them out of her house with a basket on her head and a broom in her hand.
To my late aunt Kathy, you were always special to me and I miss you so much. You were a spectacular aunt, mom, and grandma filled with so much love. I thought of you when looking for inspiration for Klaus’ aunt.
Poem by Heinrich Heine
.
The seemingly never-ending lines of tourists from the day had long since dissipated and the lights dimmed to a level just bright enough for the remaining staff to see their way through. The cleaning crew passed me without acknowledging my presence. I assumed they were in a hurry to start their job of making the museum shine, as if thousands of people hadn’t come through, a task that would take all night.
My badge prominently displayed, marking me as one of the few that was allowed at the Louvre, after hours. I stared at the painting before me and sadness washed over me. The painting was the one that will be headed to Germanisches Nationalmuseum, the German National Museum.
I fought the repatriation, but it was no use. As soon as I presented my results, the determination that it was of German heritage, it was demanded to be returned to its proper home. It had been the first time in hundreds of years, countless times of declaring the heritage, that the Germans wanted the painting. If I had known that would have happened, I wouldn’t have revealed that much.
The artist remained unknown to everyone, the scrawl of the initials K.H. underneath the title Nixie, meaning water nymph or siren, the only thing that marked the artist. Only I knew who he was, and I was not going to reveal that secret, one that I would take to my grave if I ever could have a grave.
The beauty of the woman in the painting would never get old, no matter how many centuries had passed. I knew how secure the painting was, with the intricate alarms in place for all the priceless artwork, and that knowledge was the only thing that kept me from stroking the cheek of my one true love. A tear trickled down my face as I thought of her last death, one that we had tried so hard to prevent. The look of love, as I held her while she took her last breath, was seared in my mind alongside the countless other last looks that stood prominently in my memories.
I heard the other team members coming my way, the echoing taps of their shoes on the hard floors and wiped the tear from my cheek. I straightened my shirt and turned to begin the many steps that we would spend all night doing in order to properly transport her to Germany.
Giving orders as I checked them off my list, we started the first of the steps, a security check. The guards stood at attention, making sure that once we removed the painting from its place it would remain secured.
The check was done carefully yet quickly, my team having much experience with this. After that, it was my turn to step up and inspect the painting for damage before taking it to be rechecked and then packed up.
I knew every stroke, every imperfection of this painting. I had no need to check for damage because I had stared at it night after night, making sure that the painting of my love remained perfect. The passage of time had been kind, seemingly magical in the way it had survived so much history to end up here. I supposed it was magical, and that it was intended as part of the spell that had kept me tied to this earth, looking no older than the day I first went into the Black Forest with my beautiful siren dying in my arms.
I still had to go through the motions of inspection. I took my time as I made sure to look at every curve. A tedious task for most curators, but not for me. The inspection gave me extra time with her. Time to say goodbye before I had to let her go. I would accompany the painting to Nuremberg before leaving it in the hands of the German curator I had yet to meet, or even speak with.
Holding back the tears, I nodded my assent that it was good to move and watched my team take great care to take her off the wall. Though they didn’t know the meaning she held for me, and their care was the same as they would take for any of the paintings, I still appreciated it.
We moved down the quiet corridors, the guards alert as my team concentrated on the care of the painting. I knew it would survive the trip and thought of how I could sling it over my shoulder and still not hurt it. It was good practice, though, and I didn’t think anyone would believe me if I told them the truth anyway.
Once we arrived at the basement, I again inspected the painting before taking care to wrap it properly. Hours had passed since the team first arrived upstairs to start the process, and yet hours of preparation remained. I was tired in my bones, tired of the life that I had lived, centuries too long.
“I’ll find a way to you my love,” I whispered quietly enough that no one else could hear, as I carefully covered the last of the painting. The hardest part was completed and all that was left was the long wait for the transpo
rt to the airport and then to Germany.
I slumped in a chair and ran my fingers through my dark hair before scrubbing my face with my hands. There would be very little rest for me tonight. I wasn’t sure I would be able to sleep once we arrived in Nuremberg. The museum would allow me time to rest before my part in the procedure, but I wasn’t sure I would be able to.
It had been a very long time since I last stepped in my home country, not just the memories keeping me away, but also knowing that she would come. Wherever her painting was, her soul would find its way back to it, back to me.
The portrait was finally secured at Germanisches Nationalmuseum and I was beat. I didn’t want to look at myself in the mirror because I knew I looked like hell. Being immortal didn’t take away the need for rest or sleep. I was a normal human in every other way.
My room was in a modern hostel and hotel combination a short walk from the museum. While the rest of the staff that had come with had shared rooms, as the lead curator in my department, I was afforded the luxury of a private room.
All I wanted to do was to strip down and collapse in bed, yet the city that I hadn’t been to in so long called to me. Staying in Old Town, I couldn’t help but look out my window so that I could see how much this area had changed.
It seemed to be a mixture of old and new; different and the same. The church, St. Lorenz, still stood the same as it had the last time I had been through this city. My beautiful Nixie and I were running from her father. The fear we both felt was something I could still feel if I thought about it too much.
We had been traveling for over a month through the edges of the forest, stopping at little villages to stay the night when we could, sometimes trading work for money or food. Other times villagers took pity on us and gave us a meal and a spot in their barn to sleep amongst the hay and animals. We finally made it to the bustling city and stopped to make plans on how to cross the Danube River without her father finding us.
The idea was to save money so that we would no longer have to beg during our travels. We needed to make it far enough south so that her father was no longer a threat, yet still be near the water, a source that my water nymph needed to live. She had weakened in our travels with only small ponds and water from wells to keep her alive, though it was just barely.
She insisted that we marry, the one thing she wanted more than anything. I finally gave in and spent a small amount of our savings on our wedding day, marrying in the church that I could see from my window now. She looked beautiful with her long dark locks flowing down her back and a ring of simple white flowers in a crown upon her head. It was the happiest day of my life, one that I had given up everything for and would never regret.
Memories of the past assaulted me, the image of her spread out on the bed before me, my beautiful wife in all her naked glory. A nix by birth, her beauty could not be matched. I could still hear her voice, the call of a siren that stirred my desire for her even more.
The night of our wedding, so fresh in my mind, I showered her with food and drinks, not caring at the time that I would have to find more work to make up for the money we spent. The only thing that mattered in that moment was that she was my wife for all time, and we would soon be away from everything we feared, so that we could settle down and start a family together.
The time we spent in the forsaken city was extended because of my inability to find extra work. As she weakened, she assured me that she would be fine, and she could make it a little longer. I believed her and continued to work odd jobs until finally my luck changed. It was 1711 and St. Egidien was being rebuilt after a fire had destroyed the original church.
On my first day of work, my nymph kissed me and told me she loved me for all eternity. It was hard to leave her when she looked unwell. She shooed me out the door with the promise of a wonderful dinner that night.
I turned from the window as the memories assaulted my mind. Tears streamed down my face, the picture of her first death as clear in my mind as the day it had happened. I sighed and shoved the memories of that day back in the box that held every memory of every death from the past three hundred years.
I needed to rest before going back to the museum to complete my job. I poured myself a glass of brandy before I sat on the bed, taking my shoes off. I sipped my drink as I readied myself. I didn’t have much more time to sleep before I needed to meet with the museum curator in the evening after the museum closed. That gave me only five more hours and I would need all of that in order to deal with leaving my one connection to her behind.
The brandy had finally worked its magic and I drifted off to sleep with the image of her tanned skin and dark hair, so exotic for Germany, branded in my mind.
.
I awoke to the sound of loud banging on my door, my assistant shouting, “Dr. Hoffman, we have fifteen minutes. Get up!”
“Coming,” I grumbled loudly as I slid out of bed and got dressed as quickly as I could. I took a moment to splash some water on my face to rid myself of the lingering sleep. I straightened my tie and made sure that I looked the part of the head curator from the Louvre. I was a representation of them no matter where I went in my professional capacity.
I opened my door and Sergio, my assistant, was leaning against the wall with a cup of coffee in one hand and a breakfast sandwich in the other. “Thank you. You always know exactly what I need,” I told him honestly, and had even managed a small smile.
“It’s an exciting evening,” he answered. “This is my first time being a part of an art transfer. And this area is every history buff’s dream!”
Sergio had recently finished his degree and had hoped to one day take over my job. The enthusiasm he brought reminded me of myself when I first entered the art world. It was several generations ago and I had reinvented myself many times over since then.
As far as everyone knew, I was a part of a dynasty of Hoffman’s that were the most respected curators. I went to great lengths to age myself by using hair products to give myself grays. Once the invention of the camera came around, I started to change my look each time I came back as the son of the previous Hoffman curator. Time had made everything easier and harder at the same time. While I could no longer hide my face from the cameras that recorded history, I could use the technological advancements to forge the proper documents I needed. This time around I was still young enough to not have to deal with the makeup of aging and as late as I was, I was very thankful for that.
When we arrived at the museum, I had already wolfed down my sandwich and drunk most of my coffee. I slipped the wrapping in the garbage can outside and went in to find this museum’s curator, a man I had never met before.
I was shocked when I was taken down to the basement and introduced to Lorelei Nixen, the head curator of the Germanisches Nationalmuseum.
It wasn’t just that she was a woman, but she was my water nymph, my Nixie born of King Nix, ruler of the River Rhine. I stared at her, not comprehending what she was saying, until Sergio bumped me when I didn’t take her outstretched hand.
I knew every plane of that hand as if it were my own. It was cold, yet it filled me with warmth. I wondered if my heartbeat could be heard by those that surrounded us and if my hand was sweaty. “It’s very nice to meet you Dr. Nixen.” Somehow, I managed to make my voice solid and clear, not shaking like I was on the inside. I would have thought that after so many centuries, I would not have this reaction to her anymore.
“Please, call me Lorelei,” she spoke in English, her accent placing her as an American, still holding the first name that she was born with. It happened every single time, yet it never ceased to amaze me. “I’ve been very excited to see this piece of German history that I’ve heard so much about. Unfortunately, I have not been able to get a look at any pictures of it. What’s contained under this wrapping will be quite a surprise for me.”
It made me happy to hear that my efforts to keep this painting offline had paid off. Among other things, I claimed that the age was too great for u
s to chance the damage a flash would make. In my shocked state, I had almost missed that she had given me the perfect opening to pry for information without sounding like a stalker. I have made that mistake in the past and it was one that wouldn’t be repeated. “You can call me Klaus. I think you will love this as much as I do. It’s a stunning piece that I’ve dated to be around three centuries old. The use of what are possibly local materials is mystifying. Correct me if I’m wrong, Lorelei, but your accent places you as an American. What made you interested in German art?”
Lorelei’s laugh filled the room and caused my heart to soar. “Very perceptive, Klaus. I can see why you are the most respected in our field. My parents were the first generation of our family to be born in America. They were big on our German roots. It created a love of culture and history for me, which eventually led me to a love of art. I had found out accidentally through a colleague about this position. It seemed as if the fates had a hand in bringing me here.”
If only she knew how right she was. Every time she was reborn, she was fated to find her way to the painting, my painting, her soul bound to it in an effort to save her life. I was amazed at her voice, still the same as it was three hundred years ago, yet it was different without her accent. My assistant again had to elbow me covertly as I was lost in her eyes. “Yes, well, are you ready to see the painting?”
“I was born ready,” she laughed. “I’ve been told you’ve been doing quite a bit of research on the origins of this painting. I’d love to learn everything you know so that I can continue your research. If you don’t mind, that is?”
“Yes, of course. I brought some of it with me and the rest is in my head,” I replied before turning to Sergio for the gloves he carried for me. Though the painting was indestructible, I had to keep up pretenses. I tore the paper off carefully, starting the process of revealing what was underneath to Lorelei. My stomach did flips as I waited to see her reaction of first laying her eyes on it. I lost track long ago of how many times she had lain her eyes upon it and was stunned by looking in the mirror reflection of herself. This was, however, the first time I had been in such close quarters when it happened. I usually stood back and let the weight of her discovery sink in before approaching her.
Lorelei Page 1