The Siren's Cry

by Jennifer Anne Kogler

  “Fern?”

  Though Fern could barely make out the voice, she knew instantly that it belonged to Miles.

  “Fern?” the voice repeated. “Is that you?”

  As she scrambled over the bamboo lying in the doorway between rooms, Fern hoped that Miles was in better shape than Mr. Lin.

  She put her head through the doorway first, examining the small room. The grate above Miles’s cage was half open. If Miles couldn’t teleport out of there with her, the grate might be their only escape route.

  Miles was sitting upright against the back metal bars of his cage. Fern hooked the bolt cutters through a belt loop in her jeans and ran to Miles’s cage.

  “It is you. . . .” Miles yawned and blinked his eyes as if he was waking up from a long nap. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. His hat was askew, and he adjusted its torn brim.

  “Hey,” Miles said, displaying his crooked smile. He seemed genuinely happy to see Fern, who peered at him curiously.

  “Are you all right?” Fern asked.

  “Oh sure,” Miles said, yawning once more. It was almost as if he was unaware that he was being kept prisoner by a maniac in an underground bunker.

  Fern pressed herself against the door of the cage.

  “Did they just leave?” She asked, taking the bolt cutters from her belt loop and fitting the blades over the padlock. Miles looked as though he was about to doze off. With one swift move, Fern brought the blades together, and the lock snapped in half and dropped to the floor.

  Fern congratulated herself for becoming pretty adept with the bolt cutters. Although she wasn’t destined for a life of crime, knowing how to cut bolts was turning out to be a useful skill so far. Fern dashed back to the doorway and stashed the bolt cutters under the bamboo pile. Then she returned to Miles.

  Fern opened the cage door. She had to duck a little to make her way into the cage as she closed in on Miles.

  “What are you doing, Fern?” Miles said, growing confused. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

  “We’re getting you out of here!” Fern didn’t know how much time she had before the Sirens or Laffar would return, and she still had to find a way to rescue both Mr. Lin and Miles. She was growing more anxious by the second.

  “Out of where?” Miles said dreamily. Fern was now next to him in his cage. She grabbed Miles’s arm and gave it a firm shake.

  “Miles . . . do you know where you are?” Fern spoke slowly and deliberately. “You’re in Washington, DC.”

  “What’s your favorite part of the city . . . what’s your favorite monument?” Miles’s eyes kept opening and shutting.

  “Can you stand up by yourself?” Fern asked, and Miles muttered something unintelligible. Clearly he was still feeling the effects of the Sirens—they must have recently departed. Which meant that they were still close by.

  Fern knew what she had to do. If it meant carrying Miles out on her back, she would do so to get him out of that cage and bunker. Fern put Miles’s arm around her neck. He smelled like a locker room mixed with the breakfast aisle of a supermarket.

  “Miles,” she said, “I’m going to lift you up on three, okay?”

  “I’m scared, Fern,” Miles said, beginning to cry with his eyes still closed. “Silver Tooth made me steal the diamond.”

  “It’s going to be all right. . . . We’re going to get you out of here, right now.” Fern was now squatting. She tried to get as firm a footing as possible, ready to explode upward, hopefully taking Miles with her.

  “Let’s keep chatting, okay, Miles? Keep listening to me. I need you to stay awake.” Aunt Chan had made sure to tell Fern before she left that if she could slowly bring Miles out of his Siren-induced stupor, he was more likely to be able to regain his powers of teleportation. Still, Fern had no idea how long the effects lasted once the Sirens stopped wailing.

  “My favorite monument by far was the Lincoln Memorial,” Fern said, struggling to stand up as she tried to hoist Miles up with her. She leaned against the back of the cage, slowly rising to her feet, straining under the added weight. She gripped him around the waist. She was thankful he was fairly light. She could feel his hip bones protruding. He probably hadn’t had a real meal in a week. “Have you been there, Miles?” Miles’s head hung so that his chin was flush against his chest. He shook his head from side to side, without looking up. “Well, you should go. He’s in this big chair, and it makes you want to climb up into his lap.” Fern thought of all the facts Candace Tutter had enumerated as they stood in front of the large marble Lincoln. As she brought Miles to his feet, she couldn’t remember one of them. She could only remember thinking that she wanted to take a nap curled up in Lincoln’s large lap.

  Fern was now standing up straight. “All right, Miles, now we’re going to take three big steps forward and get out of this cage.”

  Miles’s eyes popped open. He looked at Fern as if he was seeing her for the very first time. It was as if he was finally out of his trance.

  “You have to leave!” he exclaimed, almost screaming.

  “Miles, keep your voice lower. He’s going to hear you.”

  Miles pushed Fern’s arm from his shoulder. “Get out of here! Now! Silver Tooth’s going to kill you. He told me! He knows you’re coming back.”

  Fern tried not to panic. “Do you think you can teleport? Can you teleport back to your house?”

  “NO! I’ve tried. Fern, get out of here!” Miles’s face flooded with dread.

  “I’m not leaving you. Come on!” Fern motioned to the open cage door. She heard pounding in the ducts above the room. Someone was approaching the grate.

  “He’s going to make me steal one more thing tomorrow night and then he’s going to let me go . . . I promise.”

  “No, Miles!”

  “Teleport now! He’s GOING TO KILL YOU.”

  Reaching into her jacket pocket, Fern fumbled for the harmonica. She signaled for Miles to be quiet, then held the harmonica close to her lips and began to play the first few bars of “Amazing Grace.” The thumping from above got louder, drowning out the warbling tune coming from the harmonica. Something moved the grate above Miles’s cage until the entire opening was uncovered. Fern’s hands trembled as she clutched the harmonica. But she kept playing.

  A pair of denim-enclosed legs appeared first. Someone was lowering himself through the opening where the grate had been. Fern couldn’t tell if she was shaking from her own fear or because of Miles’s trembling body next to her. She kept playing, trying to think of what to do. She couldn’t just leave Miles.

  A man dropped from the ceiling, landing with a thud as his steel-toed boots hit the concrete floor. Fern eyed him, staring out over the top of the harmonica. He wore dirty jeans, a leather jacket, and a bandanna around his head. He had a short beard and a weathered tan face.

  The man smiled, revealing a silver tooth, as soon as he saw Fern and Miles huddled together in the cage. He put his rugged hands on his hips, shaking his head in disbelief.

  It was definitely Silver Tooth. Which meant that the man standing before Fern was her own father, and the same man who had killed Phoebe Merriam—Haryle Laffar.

  “Teleport now,” Miles whispered. “Before it’s too late.” Laffar strutted toward the open cage door. Moving swiftly, he slammed the door shut and latched it. Then he reached inside the cage, ripped the harmonica from Fern’s grip, and tossed it across the room.

  Fern watched it slide across the concrete floor until it hit the opposite wall.

  “Well, well, well . . . sometimes things fall right into place, now don’t they?” Laffar spoke with a slight twang and sounded as though he had gravel in his lungs.

  Fern felt simultaneous bursts of anger and panic suddenly overtake her.

  “Why are you keeping Miles here?” Fern demanded.

  “The legendary Fern McAllister, as I live and breathe. Somehow, I thought you’d be a bit taller . . . but I guess they say that’s always the case with famous peopl
e,” Laffar said sarcastically, revealing his silver-accented smirk once again.

  “I don’t know what you’re taking about,” Fern retorted.

  “Oh, now surely you must know that Otherworldlies far and wide are calling you the Dracula Destroyer. I mean, when a little girl causes a ruckus on a beach that results in the capture of an infamous and violent vampire, it starts people buzzing.”

  Laffar looked the girl over. Rollens, he thought, were so predictable. Always trying to be heroic. Fern McAllister might be the latest edition of the breed, but she was no different.

  “There are people coming to look for me. They’ll find us, and they’ll catch you!” Fern screamed.

  Laffar shook his head and laughed, gripping two of the bars to the door of the cage. Fern focused on the harmonica in the corner and began imagining it moving across the room.

  “Well, aren’t you a feisty little thing!” Laffar chuckled again. He looked at Fern, realizing that she wasn’t looking at him, and followed her gaze.

  At first all he could do was stare at the harmonica, floating across the room toward the girl. It took him a few seconds to react; then he snatched it cleanly out of the air.

  “If my brother made one mistake . . . it was underestimating you,” Laffar snarled. “I’m not going to do that.”

  Putting his thumb and index finger to his mouth, Laffar whistled. Almost immediately, something was thundering in the ducts again, and soon Fern heard a high-pitched whine.

  Her arms and legs felt heavy, like they were turning into lead. She couldn’t keep her head up, and her mind filled with dark clouds. No! she thought. It was the Siren’s cry. She didn’t have much time. She screamed but suspected she could only be heard inside her own head.

  Fern tried to think of a place where she could teleport. Her mind drew only blanks. She couldn’t focus on anything. Yet she must.

  She had to imagine going somewhere. Someplace other than the cage.

  Nothing came to her.

  She bumped into Miles before slumping to the ground.

  “What do you mean, Fern’s sick?” Mrs. Lin demanded, trying to remain calm even though thoughts of her missing husband made this a difficult task.

  Mrs. Lin, Sam, and Lindsey were gathered in the far corner of the lobby, all fully dressed. At first, when Can-dace Tutter approached them, they assumed that the girl had snuck out ahead of Fern, fulfilling her role as self-appointed shadow. They had no idea that Candace was about to claim to be Fern’s official messenger.

  Candace had arranged her flaxen hair in two braids and was wearing a matching flannel pajama set that pictured different kinds of breakfast food—pancakes, eggs sunny-side up, and strips of bacon. She’d almost brought Morris, the small stuffed otter she’d gotten when she was six years old on a visit to the Monterey Bay Aquarium, but decided that bringing him along might be overselling it. She was trying to look as if she’d been asleep for the past few hours instead of burglarizing janitors’ closets and hatching rescue plans with Fern in the bathroom.

  “Fern said for me to tell you that she’s very sorry, but you’re going to have to wait a little while longer. She should be okay in a couple of hours. She’ll call one of you when she feels better.”

  “But the Sirens will be back by then!” Lindsey was less able than her mother to control her anxiety over her father. “We can’t wait.”

  “The what will be back?” Candace asked, cocking her head to the side, faking confusion. Of course, in reality, Candace Tutter knew as much about the Sirens as any of them did.

  Mrs. Lin peered at the small girl in her breakfast pajamas. Would Fern actually send this child to talk to them? From what she knew of the McAllister girl, there was nothing that would keep her from trying to save Mr. Lin and Miles. With anyone else, Mrs. Lin would have chalked the no-show up to fear. But she’d seen Fern McAllister in action.

  She was fearless.

  “I suppose your natural inclination will be to want to check on Fern,” Candace said to Mrs. Lin. “I’ve read a lot about maternal instincts. But I would not recommend it. Are you aware that gastroenteritis kills between five and eight million people a year? It is highly contagious and, of course, I’m no expert, but I believe that the proper diagnosis for Fern is that she has been hit by the norovirus, which is about as infectious as a virus can be. In fact, I may already be a carrier. I suggest you take a few steps away from me.”

  Candace put her hand up, signaling for Lindsey, Mrs. Lin, and Sam to back away. She read the confusion on their faces, so she plowed on.

  “Of course, it could be salmonella—we all know how unreliable hotel food is. I mean, I saw a Dateline episode recently where they had these hidden cameras installed in the kitchen of a hotel, and the cooks were actually using dirty plates and linens to prepare the food. If that doesn’t have salmonella written all over it, I don’t know what does!”

  Mrs. Lin’s head was spinning. The little chatterbox had her completely flummoxed. She tried to collect her thoughts. They could certainly attempt going without Fern, but it would be dangerous for any of them to descend into the bunker with no one able to teleport out and get help if danger arose.

  “Is Fern throwing up?” she asked.

  “Big-time. When I left, her, the count was up to six. She may even break my record of eleven times in twenty-four hours,” Candace said, pausing to take a breath. “You know, it’s nice that you’re taking some of the students on a night tour of Washington, Mrs. Lin. Though I’m surprised that Headmaster Mooney gave you curfew clearance for such an activity. You must be very persuasive.”

  “Night tour?” Sam asked.

  “Isn’t that why you’re all gathered down here? Fern said you were all going on a special night tour,” Candace responded, upping the ante of her innocent act.

  “Oh yes, of course.”

  The elevator dinged as it reached the lobby level. Someone else had arrived. The doors were only partially open when Mary Lou McAllister stormed between them. She was wearing sweatpants and a St. Gregory’s sweatshirt. Clearly she had dressed in a hurry. Her face looked haggard, and she was gripping her cell phone.

  “Mom?” Sam queried.

  The Commander saw the group of familiar faces gathered in the corner of the lobby and let out a large breath.

  “So you heard?” Mrs. McAllister questioned, her voice frantic. Worry swamped Sam’s thoughts as he looked with trepidation at his mother’s face. In his whole life, he’d only seen his mother look that anxious once before.

  “Heard about what?” Sam asked.

  “Fern!” Mrs. McAllister responded, anguished.

  Chapter 20

  Naptime

  Fern was being prodded. One sharp jab to the ribs followed another. She wanted to open her eyes, but was unable to. She was very cold—her body was quaking uncontrollably. She heard a voice, faintly, as if it was an echo. As she tried to place it, everything came rushing back to her: stealing the bolt cutters, meeting Haryle Laffar face-to-face for the first time, failing to rescue Miles, and the horrible wailing of the Sirens.

  “Wake up!”

  Fern listened more carefully to the faraway voice. She expected the gravelly twang of Haryle Laffar. But the voice was different.

  “Wake up, please.”

  The lights around Fern slowly brightened. She began to see the fuzzy outlines of things. She blinked her eyes rapidly, as if willing her sight to return. A large white object came into focus in front of her. She felt another sharp jab to the ribs. This time, she could hear herself groan.

  The object became clearer and clearer. Fern realized it was a white marble pillar, with the circumference of a large sequoia tree. She shifted her eyes to the left and saw several white marble columns, all in a row. Had she transported to some kind of temple?

  Gathering her wits about her, she realized that she was elevated—on some sort of platform. She looked down and saw more white marble. There was a sharp incline below where her head rested—as though she was p
erched on the edge of a white marble cliff.

  Fern was still shivering.

  She flipped her body over, attempting to move away from the ledge. When she saw the huge eyes looking at her, Fern let out a gasp.

  She had seen this face hundreds of times before. His beard and elongated countenance remained unchanged. Staring down at her was the famous marble gaze of the sixteenth president—Abraham Lincoln. She reassessed her surroundings and realized that somehow she had teleported right onto the lap of Honest Abe in the Lincoln Memorial.

  Fern was shocked by how high she was, suspended on the legs of the supersize Lincoln. “Are you okay?” a voice below her said. “How did you get up there?” Fern peered over Lincoln’s knees. Standing at the base of the president’s magnificent chair, a uniformed policeman looked up at Fern. He’d stretched his arm toward her but could barely reach her, even with his baton fully extended above him. That explained the pokes to the ribs, Fern thought. She slowly rose to her knees, carefully maintaining her balance. The last thing she wanted to do was crack her head open as she tumbled out of Lincoln’s lap and onto the marble base of the memorial.

  “I’m not sure,” Fern said, finally responding to the officer.

  “Well, let’s get you safely down, all right?” Fern sensed the concern in the officer’s voice. She knew from watching television that there were two kinds of cops—the aggressive ones who threw people in jail first and asked questions later, and the friendly ones who wanted to help people whenever possible. She only hoped that this one was not the throw-you-in-jail type. She spotted the velvet rope that surrounded the statue and remembered the signs posted everywhere warning tourists not to cross the rope. Though Fern technically had not “crossed” the red velvet rope because she’d teleported there, she was certain this explanation would not satisfy the Capitol police officer beckoning her down from Lincoln’s lap.

  She was still in a state of disbelief. At the time her mind had gone blank and then black, she’d been trapped in a cage with Miles at the mercy of Laffar. Thoughts of the Lincoln Memorial must have entered her mind at the last possible moment. It wasn’t the most convenient spot to land in DC, but it was certainly preferable to listening to the Sirens’ cries and being immobilized inside a cage.