by James Hunter
I stared at the hand, captivated, mystified, hit with manic infatuation. Obsession, even. The force at work within me was an uber-powerful glamour construct, but even knowing what I was dealing with didn’t help. Not a lick. I was addicted to the pleasure. My eyes moved of their own accord, tracing the gentle curves of the limb, following the hand back to its source:
The woman was an absolute vision. Lush red hair—a striking, unnatural shade—cascaded over her shoulders and beautifully complemented the red sequined, 1920s flapper dress she wore. The outfit clung to her in all the right places, cut away to reveal too much in some ways, while not revealing enough in others. Her skin was pale and smooth as alabaster. Her breasts too damn big, her waist too small, and she had a pair of legs that stretched from here to eternity. One of the Sirens—the one who’d blown me a kiss from that rickety stage back in Vietnam so many years ago.
She looked exactly as I remembered, completely unchanged by the passage of the years.
Her fingers eased away from my skin and, as they went, so too did the glamour, wearing thin, though not fading completely. I shook my head, trying to clear away the working the same way you might try to shake off a bad hangover. It didn’t help a whole helluva lot, but enough for me to regain a bit of my bearing and composure.
I noticed a second sister on the other side of our small group, a blonde with one restraining hand on Kong and the other on James. A third Siren—this one with hair so black it was nearly purple—had slipped between our group and the assembled nobles.
“Now, isn’t that much better,” the redhead said, gliding forward and taking Arawn by his oversized mitt. “My lord.” She bobbed her head and gave him a wicked, telling smile. “I really think it’s fitting for my sisters and I to weigh in on the discussion before any final and irrevocable decisions are made. After all, this matter does concern us.”
Arawn smiled at her in turn, the same hazy infatuation I’d felt a moment ago seeping across his features. “My radiant Peisinoe,” he said, “how could I ever deny you such a small request?”
“Thank you, my lord.” She turned and offered the assembled nobles another dazzling smile, her teeth like white, glittering pearls. “And thank you, my lords and ladies, for your patience.” She twirled back toward us. “And to you, our uninvited guests, be welcome as well. My sisters and I know each of you”—her smoky gaze passed over each of us—“Chief Chankoowashtay, Winona Treesinger, Nicole Ferraro, James Sullivan, and of course our two guests of honor, Greg Chandler and Yancy Lazarus.”
She faltered for a moment, canting her head to one side, lips pressed together. “Sadly, I fear you know little of us. Myth and legend, perhaps, but nothing close to the truth. A round of introductions seems appropriate, I should think. I am Peisinoe, eldest of my kin. This is the middle sister, Aglaope—”
The raven-haired women dipped a small courtesy. “Greg, Yancy. It’s so good to see you both again,” she said, her voice the sultry sound of seduction incarnate, “and oh how far you’ve come since then. Please”—she placed one delicate hand upon her chest—“call me Ivana. Aglaope is so terribly first century. And allow me to introduce the youngest of our number, Thelxiepeia.”
“Charmed,” the blonde said, giving our group a wiggle of her fingers, “though I go by Nell these days—no one in this bloody age can ever seem to get my given name right.”
“Quite,” Peisinoe said, frowning in sympathy at her sister’s complaint. “Together, we three are the Sirens: the original divas, destroyers of the mind, breakers of the soul, feared and revered far and wide by beings, both mortal and immortal alike.”
“Can the titles. I’m not interested in shooting the shit with you,” I said, more harshly than I’d intended. Seeing them again slashed open old wounds that I thought had healed long ago. “I’m here for information. Information only you have.”
“Come now,” Peisinoe said like a disapproving mother scolding a willful child. “Is this about those mortals who perished?” She sighed.
“You’re damn straight,” I said, glaring for everything I was worth. “You and your music directly or indirectly took the lives of a lot of good men. My friends. Dead by your hand. And I don’t intend on letting that go. Ever,” I spat.
Peisinoe frowned and placed one hand on her outthrust hip. “You mortal types are always so serious. So touchy about death. All that was simply business, nothing personal. Believe it or not, we’ve always had some unnatural affection for you.” She smirked. “Not in a sexual way—if that’s what you’re thinking, though, that might be an option, too.” She traced a hand over the curve of her hip and offered me a long, slow wink.
“Hey,” Ferraro said, raising her shotgun so it was centered on the Siren’s ample bosom. “How about you back up a step. He’s not a piece of meat—and even if he was, he’s not your piece of meat.”
“Oh how delightful.” She stared at Ferraro, her eyes roving over her body. “Jealousy. Delicious. You could join us then—all of us.” She spread out both arms, motioning toward her sisters, arching one sinuous eyebrow. “But no, another time, perhaps. I fear tonight shall be more business, yet,” she finally said, turning to face the assembled members of the court.
“You see, my esteemed lords and ladies, my sisters and I have something of a history with the mage and one of the other mortals present here today.” She glanced back at the blonde, positioned between Kong and James. “Bring him forward if you would.” The blonde nodded and maneuvered her way over to Greg, placing an arm around his waist before pulling him out, front and center.
“Greg Chandler and Yancy Lazarus. You two were fated to die all those years ago, but here you stand. The two that got away,” Peisinoe said with a sigh, a soft musical whisper. “My sisters and I have something akin to motherly affection for you both. After all, Yancy, it was we three who brought to life that marvelous power within you. In a way, we are responsible for your long, illustrious career …” She trailed off, the smile slipping from her angelic face. “A fact which has been duly noted in some rather prominent circles. But such is life. And, to be completely honest, Yancy, your adventures are endlessly amusing to watch. More than worth whatever trouble you’ve caused us.
“And dearest Gregory”—she beamed at him like a hundred watt bulb—“all the lives you’ve saved and all the creatures you’ve slain in service to the Lucis Venántium. Both blood and salvation is, at least in part, on our hands.”
“Lady,” Greg said, “the only thing you’ve got on your hands is the blood of my brothers. And you mark my words—sooner or later, I’ll see they get some daggon justice.”
“So brave, so bold,” Peisinoe cooed. “Even in the face of death. Just like in ’69.” She said it as though recalling a particularly fond memory. “We’d been offered an invitation to perform for the freshly risen Lord Xuong Cuong, one of the last great Tree Kings of old.” She spoke to the nobles as though reciting a favorite anecdote, instead of one of the worst weeks of my life.
“An honor, as you can imagine,” she said. “Sadly, however, the festivities were cut brutally short by this mage”—she slinked over to my side and ran a finger along my shoulder—“and his associate, who, against all conceivable odds, murdered the weakened Xuong Cuong and his partygoers. Save, of course, for we sisters and our band. Really, my lords and ladies, you should feel privileged in truth. These two men before you not only slew a great Tree Lord, but are also the first mortals to escape our grasp since Odysseus.”
Peisinoe smiled at me again, a look that chilled my blood; this time there was nothing friendly or flirtatious in the gesture. It was a vicious, calculating look—the look of someone with an old grievance to right.
“Matilda,” Arawn commanded, his voice a barking whip crack. “Still the beasts.” He was smiling now, a broad grin reaching all the way to his eyes. “Very well, you have captured my attention, dearest Peisinoe. Now tell me what you would have done with these interlopers.”
“I have a suggestion,” I s
aid. “How about you just tell us what we want to know, we all have a good laugh about this party-crashing mix-up, then me and my friends mosey along and let you all get back to your regularly scheduled viewing? You don’t kill us, I don’t set your shit on fire, the Sirens get to keep on breathing for another day. Win-win-win all around, am I right?”
“Such a charmer,” Peisinoe said, pulling away from my side. “But I’m afraid that just won’t do, not at all.” She pouted. “Why, our esteemed hosts couldn’t very well allow you to walk into this hall, uninvited no less, without reprisals. What should the neighbors think?” She tapped one elegant finger against her full bottom lip. “No, I’m afraid that won’t do at all …” She paused again and shared a long look with her sisters, who ghosted over to her side and leaned in to whisper conspiratorially together.
After a moment there was a round of giggling, which spread out in a wave until the whole court was having a damn good laugh. Pro tip for you: whenever all the bad guys start laughing at your expense, it means someone is squatting over an industrial grade fan with their pants down.
“My Lords of the Unfettered,” Peisinoe said, “given that the humans Yancy Lazarus and Greg Chandler have slighted us in the past, we believe it only fair that we should be allowed to dispose of them—and, by extension, their companions—as we see fit. Since my sisters and I absolutely adore a good game, however, we would propose a competition. A competition the likes of which has not been seen in over two thousand years. Not since the days of Orpheus.”
She looked at me, her beautiful violet eyes locked squarely on mine. “You’ve heard of Orpheus, the great bard of old, no? We played such a game with him once, long, long ago.” An almost wistful look of nostalgia flashed across her face. “You remind me of him, in your way. Both such rebels. Both so willing to defy the odds. You should pray for your sake, you fare so well as he.”
I knew the story alright: Orpheus was a Greek poet and musician. As legend told, he journeyed with the Argonauts and beat the lovely-crap out of the Sirens—thus saving his pals—by drowning out their clarion call with a jam so gnarly not even the Sirens could compete.
Jason and the Argonauts.
I reached toward my jacket pocket, feeling the two candles through the fabric. The stamp at the bottom had read Odyssey Candle Company. Aside from escaping the Sirens and capturing the Golden Fleece, Jason and the Argonauts also made a brief appearance in Homer’s The Odyssey, an epic poem which told the tale of cunning Odysseus, a Rube hero who also managed to best the Sirens. Though Odysseus—being a tricksy little hobbitses—did the deed by using some magical wax to plug up his ears, blocking the effect of the Sirens’ alluring song.
That had to be it, nothing else fit. Fortuna had given us an emergency ace in the hole, a way to temporarily block the effect of the Siren song.
“Yancy,” Ivana, the raven-haired Siren, said, “I’ve heard you are quite the accomplished musician—is it true?” Something excited and ravenous seemed to lurk behind her gaze.
I hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, I’ve been known to tickle the ivories a time or two.”
“Excellent,” Nell, the blonde, said, clapping her hands as her sisters broke into another round of giggles. “Well, we think it only fitting that we have, how is it you mortals say it—a battle of the bands.”
That sure as shit gave me pause. I didn’t know what to say. “Sorry, come again?” I finally replied. “I could’ve sworn you said we were going to have a battle of the bands?”
Nell nodded and clapped again, bouncing up and down, her … well, let’s go with assets, moving in some interesting ways. “Yes, precisely. Should you best us, we will tell you what you want to know, and you and your friends will be granted safe passage from this kingdom. And if you fail, the Lord of the Hunt shall have his sport. Does this please the Court?” she asked, turning her lovely gaze to the assembled nobles.
“This is new,” Arawn said, grinning like the utter loon he was as he rubbed a hand across his chin. “I like new. New is interesting. After five thousand years, there is little which interests me.” He paused, nodding his head from side to side as if considering closing arguments from opposing lawyers. “Very well,” he finally announced, breaking the uneasy silence. “On behalf of the Court, we shall abide by the guidelines set forth by dear Thelxiepeia: win and live, lose and die. Painfully. What are the rules of this competition to be?”
“Very gracious of you, my lord,” Peisinoe said. “I can assure you, you will not be disappointed. As to the rules. These instruments behind us”—she waved a slender arm toward the assembled band at the far end of the hall—“are exquisite creations. Each crafted by the finest artisans and imbued with a portion of our, not-inconsiderable, power. They can control the mind and move the soul. Provided, of course, the player is accomplished enough to employ them properly. You, Yancy, will choose an instrument and will take up a position at the other end of the hall.” She motioned toward the far side of the ballroom.
“Our respective forces will line up, ours in front of us”—she glowed at the guests dotting the dance floor—“and yours in front of you.” She scowled at my guests, giving Ferraro an extra-long dose of hate. “Though, naturally, the great lords will sit out, so as to give your side a sporting chance.”
I rolled my eyes. This was maybe the most asinine thing I’d ever heard of. Stupid supernatural beings, always doing things the most ass-backward way possible.
“I’m sorry, is there a problem?” Ivana hissed. “Are we boring you, mayhap?” A halo of darkness gathered around the sisters, a nimbus of black oozing out and bleeding into the air around them.
Okay, so this was asinine, but it was a helluva lot better than taking on the Sirens and the whole friggn’ court in a straight up brawl, which was a battle we absolutely couldn’t win. Not in a million friggin’ years. “Nope, no problem at all,” I replied, reining in my inner asshole. “Believe me, you’ve got my complete attention. Please, tell me more about this game.”
The darkness gathering around the trio of singers vanished, dissipating like a bad dream on waking. “Excellent,” Peisinoe continued. “Now, as I was saying, our sides will line up and do battle, and we will provide the score for the dance.”
“Wait,” I said, “so what, we’re going to just sit on the sidelines, doing a little dueling banjos while my guys and your guys slug it out?”
“Don’t be silly, little boy.” Peisinoe’s grin was as wicked as sin. “Of course we shall take part. Why, we shall be the generals. And the music shall serve as our commands, our orders, our air support and artillery.”
I thought back to Vietnam, to my final, fearful days in the dense bush.
That damn music had bled right out of the jungle itself. Colorful strands of light and power, drifting through the night like low hanging fog. It’d been eerie at first, but also kind of exciting: both beautiful and mystifying in turns. At least until it started to change us. Clawing at noses and eyes, boring inward through ears and mouths, eager and hungry to get inside, to burrow deep.
Moody and Lewiston had been first to turn. Anger consumed them as the music twisted their minds until they couldn’t tell who was friend and who was foe. They’d shot Jackson and Cortez, murdered ’em in cold blood. Ox, the dumb, good-hearted oaf, had gone next. But he turned the weapon on himself instead, unable to kill his friends, yet unable to live with himself and the things he’d done in the musty, humid jungle.
It’d even changed me: I remembered the music surging through me, pumping in my blood and beating in time with my heart as a team of crazed Dac Cong—Vietnamese Special Forces—pinned down our squad. I remembered nodding my head in time to the music, unleashing a gout of flame that ate ’em alive and left nothing behind but bone and ash.
She said we would be the generals. We would play and our teams would dance to whatever groove we laid down. Anger, fear, madness, despair. I began to understand.
“Alright, hotcakes.” I nodded. “Let’s do this.”
The nobles sniggered as the sisters swayed, looking hungry for the bloodlust to come.
“I love bold men,” Ivana said, then licked her lips, a lion eyeing a fat, slow water buffalo. I was struck with the sense that what she really loved to do with bold men was slaughter them painfully and pick the meat from their bones.
“Now, sweet-pea,” Nell said, turning toward the band arrayed at the far end of the hall, “choose your weapon.”
TWENTY-SIX:
Dueling Banjos
I sat behind a beautiful grand piano, though beautiful doesn’t really do the musical work of art that was before me justice. Majestic, maybe? No, even that wouldn’t work. Calling the instrument beautiful or majestic was akin to saying that da Vinci’s Mona Lisa was a nifty doodle. This piano transcended all that shit. Honestly, there needed to be a new word, designated solely for this instrument: beaut-ajestic, maybe. A Fazioli—arguably the best piano of the modern age. Cutting-edge technology married to the old-world charm of a sleepy Tuscany hamlet—complete with cobblestone streets, quaint bakeries, and a kindhearted, elderly chap named Francesco.
This puppy was made from the finest spruce anywhere. Ever. End of story. The wood for this musical machine of asskickery hailed from Val Di Fiemme—the rarest grove of spruce trees in the world—and was the very same wood used to craft Stradivarius violins. The bridge was without equal, sporting three different types of timber—maple, hornbeam, and boxwood—ensuring flawless sound transmission and a tone that could melt even the icy heart of Old Man Winter himself.
Well, maybe not him. That withered old assbag would probably bang on the wall, shouting for me to turn down that infernal racket!
Oh, also, did I happen to mention it was entirely covered in gold? Seriously. You’ve heard of the Devil’s golden fiddle, right? This piano was its bigger, badder, 24-carat gold-leaf brother. I’d never seen anything like it, not in my entire and utterly strange life.