I smiled, genuinely appreciating it and wondering which title it would be. The last book they’d given me was Jane Eyre. The genres often varied, though the titles were inevitably classics. Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, Huckleberry Finn, Count of Monte Cristo, Dracula, The Lord of the Rings— all gifts from my foster parents since moving to Whitecrest.
I gently peeled the paper off, revealing a smart leather binding with a stamped swan on the cover. Andersen Fairy Tales it read in gold print. I smiled at the cover wanly. It was supposed to represent ‘The Ugly Duckling’. I could certainly relate to the dirty gray chick today.
“Do you like it?” Susan asked eagerly.
I smiled, “Yes, I do, very much.”
Both of my foster parents looked relieved to hear it, as if a disappointing birthday would have crushed them into disrepair. Maybe it would have. I flipped through the book distractedly. Some of the tales I was familiar with, but others were more obscure. It would be a fun, quick read, I decided. I set it aside on the counter. Hearing the kettle whistle, Susan snapped to attention and diligently poured a cup for herself and one for me.
I had an idea then. “Rick,” I said, “you probably want to drink some of that hot water, right?”
He nodded, “Of course I do. Sue, will you hand me a cup of it?”
The water was steaming, clear, tasteless— harmless, really— but it wasn’t something Rick would ever drink. He wasn’t even a hot drinks kind of guy, aside from the extremely rare cup of cocoa in the dead of winter. Still, he blew off the steam and took a sip, tentatively, then continued to drink until the cup was drained.
I frowned, a thought occurring to me. If I was just really attractive, really charismatic, magically likable, then something like this would happen, siren or not. The test wasn’t effective enough. I was 99% sure that Stacie was correct about the whole thing, but that last little bit bothered me. I knew what I had to do to eliminate the doubt.
I finished my tea and headed up the stairs. Susan and Rick followed behind, both looking eagerly at me. I opened the door to my bedroom, grabbed the case to my dulcimer, and sat on the bed. My foster parents sat down as well— on the carpet. I shook my head.
I unzipped the case to reveal the delicate instrument again. The nerves of the moment seized my gut as though my stomach was held in an icy vice. I inhaled and let the breath out slowly. It was now or never.
I set it on my lap, feeling confidence in my fingers at least. I began to play, keeping my mouth silent. I started with a strum, my hands aligning to form the proper chords. The music tinkled out sweetly. It’s in tune, I thought, at least more in tune than any other instrument would be.
The melody came to me, complex, freeing, drawing the emotions of my day like poison from a wound. Searching the faces of Susan and Rick, I could see they felt everything I felt— surprise, disbelief, fear, and yes, even a bit of happiness and satisfaction, pride of what I had become. I watched my fingers fly, my right hand strumming the strings and my left pushing the frets fluidly. Effortless complexity, effortless perfection. It was exhilarating. I could feel the heat of a flush rise to my cheeks as I played on and on, my gut guiding me to the next step, pushing me towards it.
Doom, my head hissed. Doom.
I didn’t care, the music catching me into a whirlwind. I need to know, I thought back, a thin excuse to the warning. Stacie doesn’t know much about sirens. She isn’t even right. I might not even be a siren. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew it was a lie. The real reason that I needed this test was a desire that had flared up and suddenly engulfed me like a flame. If I didn’t try this now, if I didn’t sing for an audience, then I’d be roasted alive under the roaring, ravenous urge overwhelming my body and mind.
Doom, my head answered back. Doom. Doom. Doom.
I found my mouth opening, surrendering to the frenzied pull, the need to sing out loud, and more importantly, to be heard! It was selfish, I knew, even as I felt the compulsion I knew it, but I sang, softly at first, then building to a crescendo. There were no words— only vowels peppered with emotion. The sound was ethereal. Experimenting with the air striking my vocal chords, I found I could change the nature of the vibration, bringing out a duality. It was as if I’d managed to clone myself into some backup singers, making for a choir-like sound, multiple notes, each echoing in perfect pitch. The notes harmonized into chords, using only my one voice.
I didn’t bother with words only because I felt an indifference to it. Had I needed to, I was certain, stone-cold positive, I could’ve supplied lyrics that would fit the music like stars on a moonless night.
The simple act of playing the dulcimer felt as though it drew upon my emotions; singing was the same concept only magnified. It was like I was reliving the moments of the day, certain that I was affecting my foster parents in kind. The feeling was delicious— being filled to the brim with the emotions, only to empty them out and feel a quiet contentment replace it.
I let the music envelop me. Five minutes, ten minutes, twenty minutes— I wasn’t sure how long the song lasted— but eventually the day’s emotion finished dripping from me. The well was finally empty, replaced by a muted happiness and the warm glow of satisfaction. I ended the song, strumming one more chord on the dulcimer in culmination, leaving me breathless, flushed, exhilarated.
At first, I didn’t even remember that my foster parents were in the room, that I had concerns prickling at my mind before I’d begun. It was like the hard edges of my day melted away. I chuckled to myself, thinking it was so similar to Susan’s verbal dumping of emotion. The thought snapped my focus back to Sue and Rick.
They were staring at me, eyes shining, smiles upon their faces. I sighed with relief. Doom, indeed. The moment passed and their smiles began to fade, causing worry to bloom within the pit of my stomach.
“Encore,” urged Susan slowly.
Rick’s eyes were panicked, “Don’t stop!”
I laughed nervously, “No, you guys, I was just messing around… I… I think I’m done.” The exhilaration I had felt playing and singing had transformed into frantic anxiety. A chill rippled down my spine.
Susan and Rick sat, dejected for a moment, their eyes blank. It was Rick who reacted first. I saw his eyes shine up with the gloss that tears bring, finally spilling over. He started to cry, and I felt like vomiting. Rick didn’t even cry when his father died last spring. He was a ‘man’s man’ and didn’t show emotions like this. Susan once told me she wasn’t sure he was capable of tears. She’d never seen it in the twelve years she’d known him.
Rick was breaking down emotionally, his whole body shuddering, wailing, sobbing— a complete transformation of personality, of who he essentially was. But I only had a moment to process this before I remembered his wife.
Orderly Susan was frantic, panicking. “What do you want?! What do you want?!” she repeated, trying to make some sort of sense of the whole scenario. “My ring?!” she yanked her wedding ring off, her most prized possession, and threw it on my bed. “My body?!” she began to tear her clothing off, literally ripping the fabric away until she caught sight of my disgusted face and changed tactics, “My flesh! It must be the flesh, all gods need sacrifice,” and she began to bite, claw, scratch at the meat of her own arm until blood ran down in great pools. I felt the bile rise to my throat and forced it down.
“Stop! Stop! Stop!” I cried, squeezing my eyes shut, “Both of you. Just— sleep!”
The two fell over, sleeping as quickly and effectively as if I’d sedated them with tranquilizer darts. I slumped down in relief for all of one moment, squeezing my eyes shut and taking a deep breath. It wasn’t enough to calm me. I ran to the bathroom and retched up the tea I had earlier in the afternoon. I sobbed hard and openly in the silenced house.
I had no doubts then, none at all, as to what I was, what I could do. I was a siren, and there was a reason that humanity’s mythos had determined my kind to be dangerous monsters.
After several mome
nts, I blew my nose and dried my face off with the tissues in the bathroom. I felt heavy, weighted physically by my new body and intrinsically by my conscience. I dragged myself upright.
A glance in my bedroom told me that my foster family was still asleep. Perhaps they wouldn’t awaken until I gave them permission. Under the circumstances, letting them sleep seemed the better option.
I woodenly made my way over to Susan, bringing with me a basic first aid kit from the medicine cabinet.
Rick was traumatized, his mind broken as much as Susan’s, but he hadn’t tried to hurt himself in the process. Of course, I was sure he’d wake up with the worst kind of headache after so much crying. There wasn’t much I could do for him, though.
I set the kit down and walked to the bathroom again, grabbing two washcloths, wetting one down and wringing it out until it was just damp.
Disheartened, I stumbled next to Susan and poked at her softly, trying to determine if she was going to wake up in the midst of first aid and try to hurt herself again. No response, although I could see her rhythmically breathing. I poked harder, then harder still, until I was finally convinced I could tend to Susan’s self-inflicted wounds without her stirring.
It was strangely routine, dabbing out the ragged scratches and cuts. She’d successfully gouged herself ten times, and had pulled out four chunks of flesh, each roughly the size of a marble, from her arms. The fingernails on her right hand had skin and bits of meat jammed beneath them. I carefully pulled out a nail file and probed them clean. My stomach fumbled about in protest the whole time, but I managed to avoid gagging again. I gently washed the corners of her mouth with the cloth, knowing that the biggest gashes were from her biting off the flesh. I cleaned the wounds carefully, added some antibiotic ointment, and wrapped both arms in bandages.
When I’d finished, I paused, assessing my options. The only person I knew who could even remotely aid me was Stacie. Although she’d been helpful so far, she was still Stacie, the queen bitch of my school. Under the circumstances, I didn’t suppose I had any real choice.
I sighed, pulling on my shoes, which remarkably still fit my feet at size seven, and flopped down next to them both.
“Sleep through the night. Sleep until I tell you to awaken,” I repeated for good measure. I wasn’t certain that it would work, but it was worth a shot.
I grabbed Susan’s jacket— mine was much too small— and began to run frantically towards Stacie Robinson’s house. I could only hope she was home.
CHAPTER SIX
Damage Control
You can’t miss the Robinson house. It’s a Whitecrest landmark. The largest home within twenty miles, it was built around an old lighthouse that gave it the appearance of a castle with towers. The original structure had been renovated many times, its various spires rising and falling over the years.
The estate was known for two things: its enormous size and its clandestine expanse of coastline. It was concealed from prying eyes by an enormous wall of rocky cliffs, which also prevented entry. The beach had a reputation— privacy was heavily enforced, and trespassing was met with zero tolerance. If Stacie really was a mermaid, the security made sense.
The walk was less miserable than I expected. The poor weather we’d been having made me wary of the two mile trek, but the evening was surprisingly balmy. The air hovered in the upper sixties or even the low seventies. The wind was a bit brisk, but with Susan’s jacket I hardly noticed. Despite the calm weather, I wouldn’t be inclined to call the journey easy. My mind weighed heavily with guilt. Beneath that lurked the thrill of performing, and somewhere even deeper, a sense of pride that Susan and Rick idolized me.
I squashed the feeling down, unwilling to admit it to myself.
I reached the door to Stacie’s home, and my hands twisted at the jacket’s cuffs nervously. I took a deep breath and rang the doorbell. Less than ten seconds passed before the door opened a small crack, and a tan woman stared at me suspiciously. I flicked my eyes down. She wore a gray maid’s uniform, which didn’t faze me. I had no expectations, but somehow this came as no surprise.
“I’m a friend of Stacie’s,” I mumbled. Her brow raised. She wasn’t transfixed by my tongue, which was a relief. I plowed on, “Will you tell her Sarah’s here, please?”
She nodded and closed the door. This surprised me. In the books I’d read, hospitality usually dictated that a visitor be let inside to stay warm, dry, and comfortable. Shutting me out felt rude in contrast, but I tried not to fidget while I waited.
About five minutes passed before the door cracked opened again.
“She’ll see you,” the maid said. Her eyes were unnervingly bright gray, and her hair was deep ebony. The contrast was strange enough that I wondered if she was a mermaid, too. She widened the door’s opening from a crack to a couple feet, allowing me to step inside.
Stacie sat in a pink silk kimono-style robe, eating a plate of strawberries. One leg dangled lazily over the chaise lounge she sat upon, the other was curled beneath her. My mouth dropped. This felt like complete opulence. Stacie was not daunted by my reaction. She almost looked bored, as though this was just a typical day for her.
She dropped a leafy stem down on the plate and sighed, “So you must believe me to come all the way here.” She brushed her hands together before continuing, “It’s about time, too. Now that we’re past that nonsense, we can find your proper place with us.”
I nodded. There was a lot I needed to say, but nothing I was eager to tell.
“My father has been notified. He’s quite interested, of course.”
“That’s—” I intended on saying something like ‘nice’ or ‘good’ or really anything except what came out. “— Stacie, I’m such an idiot!”
“Yeah, I already knew that… but I’ll bite, why do you think you’re an idiot?”
I squeezed my eyes shut and forced my breathing to come out rhythmic, slow, and even. “I had to… I had to see. So I tested it, like you said.”
“So…?” she dragged the word on. “What’s the problem?”
“I… they… they heard me sing.”
She shrugged, biting into another strawberry, “Is that all?”
I stared at her incredulously. “You told me they’d be doomed, Stacie!”
“Yeah, well…” Clearly she wasn’t going to lose any sleep over the drastic mistake I’d made.
“Is it just not as bad as I think?” I asked, pressing her.
“Who knows? Honestly, the situation is what it is. As far as I know, time control is impossible. Damage control is what we should be more focused on. I thought it would be worse than this. Two people we can handle. Two people go missing, go insane, fall ill… unfortunate, but explainable.”
My stomach dropped at the ideas Stacie suggested. It felt dirty, like a mobster killing someone for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The guilt I felt seared at me like a branding iron. I’d developed a stitch in my side— possibly from anxiety, possibly from the walk. I fell hard onto the chaise next to Stacie, sinking into the cushions. It was more plush than it appeared.
She turned to me with wide eyes, “You really are bothered about this, aren’t you?”
I nodded stiffly.
Stacie let out a low whistle. She brought her gaze to the maid standing at the door and jerked her head to the side in a ‘get lost’ motion. The woman bowed her head and left the room immediately.
Stacie’s warm hand caressed my hair gently. I never would have expected a gesture so comforting from her until this moment. I brought my eyes up to her.
She was still pretty, still perfect, but with genuine worry etched on her features. Her brows were knit close together, and her normally generously full lips had been pursed to a small line.
It almost was enough to make me want to smile, this amount of transformation from her. As soon as I felt my mouth twitch, my mind echoed back Susan and Rick’s madness. The way they both needed the song was chilling.
When I was a kid
, only six or seven, a police officer came to our school to talk about drug and alcohol prevention. Back then, the way he described addiction made me think of a frenzied need: something that would break you, something that would ruin you. You’d kill for it. You’d steal for it. You’d do anything to get the fix.
It wasn’t until I was older, had a bit more life experience, that I’d decided addiction usually seeps up like a slow fog. You do something a few times, and eventually it becomes an itch you need to scratch. I’d been shuttled around enough to know the signs. Sometimes, it was a housewife who needed her caffeine to make it through the day. Sometimes, it was the husband who cracked open six beers every night. Sometimes it was wine, or prescription pills.
It was never as frantic as I imagined. It was always subtle. None of my observations suggested the frenzied insanity I’d pictured as a child. Until tonight, that is.
“Where are they?” Stacie asked.
I exhaled a breath. I didn’t know I’d been holding it. “Asleep, home… I ordered them to sleep.”
“Interesting. It worked?”
I nodded, “Susan didn’t even wake up when I was bandaging her.”
“Bandaging her?!”
With that question I had to explain. I told Stacie everything: the song, the elation on their faces, the responses that had repulsed me. Stacie listened, perhaps a bit too eagerly at the gritty details, stopping me when she had a question.
When it was all over, she looked thoughtful, cupping her chin with one hand. She said, “Huh, so that’s what happens, then?”
“That’s what happens,” I responded numbly.
She stood up, “I guess I’d say… we need to go back there.”
“What?!” It felt like my heart stopped. Going back to face my foster family was the last thing I wanted to do. I was hoping Stacie would have a magic fairy-godmother SWAT team to take care of it. Something for emergencies.
“Look,” she said, “spells, enchantments, whatever, it’s generally pretty specific. Casters can be interchanged, but you should break spells within your own race— that’s the most effective. You’re the last siren, ergo, you should be the one to break it. Or at least try.”
Prelude (The Rhapsody Quartet) Page 4