Sirenz

by Charlotte Bennardo

  “Which I didn’t want, because I knew they would screw it up,” Hades interrupted. “And I was right. They delivered Arkady to me damaged.” Hera shot him a look and he shut up.

  Demeter continued. “We agreed that if the Sirens completed their mission, Persephone would stay with Hades for the additional six weeks, but if they failed, Persephone would come to me.”

  “And?” Hera prompted.

  “And I got to choose the Sirens. I also stipulated that I be near Arkady to make sure Hades didn’t cheat.” She pointed angrily at him.

  I looked at the goddess. “You chose us? Specifically?” I asked.

  “Of course.” Demeter waved a dismissive hand at us. “It seemed so obvious. I thought you two would never be able to work together to get this done. And you’re not exactly smart. I still can’t believe you fell for that train thing.”

  “What train thing?” Shar stepped forward, her eyes narrowed in fury and confusion.

  Hera turned to her. “Didn’t it ever occur to you that the train never stopped? Is that what happens in your world?”

  We both shook our heads, and then it dawned.

  “You mean,” said Shar softly, “this was a setup?”

  “One of my best yet.” Hades’ exuberant grin was almost boyish.

  “Hades!” Persephone punched him in the arm.

  “Oh, I wish we could get a shot at him,” muttered Shar.

  I kept going over what happened that night in the train station—was it really all an illusion? “You mean to say that Jeremy was never harmed? In any way, ever?”

  “Only the Fates determine such things,” said Hera. “Your experience was completely engineered by Hades. I have to admit that he has a way of misleading gullible, slightly dim-witted—”

  “No need to go on about it,” I grumbled.

  “So who’s the cheater now?” Shar gave him a blistering look.

  Hades shrugged carelessly. “I am what I am, ladies. It’s what I do.”

  “And Demeter,” Hera admonished, “the Fates decreed that Sharisse and Margaret would finish in the alley by the clinic, but they didn’t.”

  “They got too close,” growled Demeter.

  “So you arranged to steal him, and then take him on a trip with you, putting him out of our reach,” spat Shar.

  “It is done!” boomed Hera. “Save for a few minor details.”

  Hades cringed.

  “Persephone is not to be in your presence, Demeter, during her time with Hades. And she is not to meet Hades on the mortal plane ever. Yet here you all are.”

  “But—” Demeter started.

  “No interruptions! There are rules, as you both lectured the girls. And there are more infractions on both your parts. Shall we review them?” Hades and Demeter shook their heads contritely.

  “I didn’t think so! Therefore, since both of you had a hand in this situation, Zeus, the Fates, and I decree that Persephone will be spending the next six weeks with neither of you.” With a wave of Hera’s hand, Persephone was dressed in Daisy Duke shorts, western boots, a flannel halter top, and a cowgirl hat. “It’s rodeo season in Texas.” Hera smiled at her, then glared at Hades and Demeter. “Have a burger and a buckaroo on me.”

  Persephone giggled and blew a kiss to Hades. “See you in six weeks, cowboy!”

  Hera flicked a bejeweled arm and all three deities vanished. Then she turned to us. “And you two. Honestly, you wreak havoc on all the planes like I haven’t seen in millennia! I’m exhausted!” She rose. “I’ve had enough of you mortals for one day. It’s time for you to return.”

  Before I could take a breath, I found myself standing in my room at home, alone.

  Disoriented, I turned round and round, then started with surprise. My bed was piled high with clothes, bags, books, shoes, CDs—ill-gotten siren loot. Peeking out from a teetering stack of black was something … pink.

  Shar.

  “Shar!” I practically shouted her name, and scrambled for my bag. Finding my cell phone, I fiddled with the keypad and was about to speed-dial her when the thing buzzed in my hand. Somehow I managed not to drop it.

  “Shar?”

  “Meg?”

  “We’re home!” We said it together and started laughing.

  “We really did it!” she squealed. “It’s over!”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, though not so enthusiastically. It was done, and in a few days we’d be back in school, and then … do we go back to the way things used to be?

  “So,” Shar’s voice crackled in my ear, “what’re you doing now?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Me neither. Maybe we could … ”

  “ … meet up somewhere? I could really use a double mocha latte!” I hoped I didn’t sound too desperate, and it wasn’t about the coffee.

  “Chai for me.”

  “I know,” I retorted, laughing.

  Shar giggled. “I’ll be in front of your building in about half an hour.”

  “I’ll be downstairs.”

  After hiding my new stuff away, I quick-changed out of my shreddy sweats and slipped out unnoticed. Shar was punctual—and polished—as usual.

  “Hera dumped us home at the same time,” I said indignantly. “How the heck did you manage to do all this?” I waved a hand at her shiny-straight locks and deftly coordinated jeans, over-the-knee boots, sweater, and puffy vest.

  “Professional pride,” she said, stuffing her hands into her pockets. We started walking uptown. “It takes me all of five minutes to be ‘meeting BFF for lattes’ ready.”

  BFF.

  I smiled to myself.

  “And this isn’t too bad,” she said, assessing my ensemble, tugging at the sleeve of the sweater minidress I’d plucked from my Siren pile. “Is that … purple?”

  “So it is,” I beamed. “Let’s get those lattes.”

  We walked in silence down the rainy street. It was cold and dreary, no doubt a reflection of Demeter’s mood. I guessed she was probably pouting.

  “Did you notice that everywhere we step, a puddle springs up?” Shar asked as she tried to avoid a lake-sized one unsuccessfully. “And deep, too! My poor boots are history!”

  “We probably should invest in some wellies. I have these ones with—”

  “Skulls on them?” Shar raised a brow.

  “Yes,” I answered defensively.

  “Adorable. I should get a pair too—but no skulls.”

  “I’ve seen them with flamingos,” I said.

  “Do they make them in a ten narrow?”

  I grinned. “I’m sure they do.”

  She flashed a smile as a taxi sped by.

  We couldn’t move out of the way and were drenched. But as the car passed us, I caught a glimpse of a dark and blurry face gazing out from the back seat.

  “That—” I sputtered, muddy water dripping off my entire body, including my face.

  Shar looked horrified. “It wasn’t him in that taxi, was it?”

  The cab pulled over a few feet from us. A man exited—tall, lean, and expensively dressed. Wavy dark hair. Chiseled cheekbones.

  We held our breath.

  “Can’t be!” croaked Shar.

  The man turned and stared at us with disdain, then moved on.

  It wasn’t Hades. Just a rude stranger with a resemblance.

  “Hera said it was done.” Shar’s voice was shaky.

  “Right,” I muttered. We stood there dripping. “Now I really need a hot drink.”

  We ducked into the first coffee shop we came to, ordered our drinks, and snagged a cozy table in the window.

  “Oh, this is nice.” Shar cupped her hands around her mug. I was about to take a sip from mine when a husky voice came from the coffe
e bar; it seemed to rise over the chatter around us.

  “It’s hell out there! Give me something hot. And decadent.”

  Shar froze in her seat, and I closed my eyes for a long moment. When I dared open them, all I saw was a stocky guy in sloppy combats leaning over the counter. I nearly died when he spoke again.

  “A triple caramel vanilla mocha. Full fat. Extra whipped cream. And a double shot of espresso. Supremio-deluxo size. Is that the naughtiest thing that you have?”

  The voice did not match the package. I started laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Shar demanded.

  “We are! Look at us. Tensing up like scared cats at every overdressed or oily-voiced guy. And this is barely day one.” I leaned in. “Are we going to keep looking over our shoulders for the rest of our lives?”

  Shar grimaced. “I’m still in shock. It’s gonna take me some time to get over this.”

  I nodded, understanding. “So what’s the first step to sanity, then?”

  She ran a finger along the rim of her mug, then looked at me and smiled widely. “I say we start with the power of positive thinking. It’s over. And he’s gone,” she said firmly. “We’ve come a long way, and the future looks bright!” She raised her mug in a toast.

  Shar was right. There was a lot to look forward to, including Jeremy. And a new BFF.

  “And it looks like you’ve learned something from me—” Shar began.

  “What?”

  “You’ve ditched the undertaker look. Somewhat.” She didn’t succeed in suppressing a cheerful smirk.

  I started to raise my cup, but reflected in the glass behind her, I thought I saw … eyes.

  Dark, smoldering, probing. As I stared, a face started to form.

  “You okay?” Shar asked.

  I looked at her; there was a twinge of concern in her expression.

  I blinked and glanced back at the window. The eyes were still there, except this time I could see the face and the body they were connected to. Mr. Naughty, aka triple caramel vanilla mocha, was sitting at the table behind us. Our eyes locked and he winked at me.

  I gave a him tight smile, then quickly turned to Shar and shook my head. Forcing myself to shrug off dark thoughts and wild fears, I lifted my cup in salute.

  “I’m awesome,” I said, and meant it. Tapping my cup against hers, I added, “Or should I say, we are?”

  Acknowledgments

  Charlotte Bennardo

  No one writes a book alone; there are always people along the way who listened to me cry when I got rejected, offered brutal criticism that was (mostly) good even if I didn’t like it, distracted me when I was on a rant, and promised to buy the book when it got published. And with a co-author you’re never alone. It’s time for me to pony up and say a humble “thank you, love you, don’t leave me ever!” to all those wonderful, brilliant, and loyal people.

  To Nat: more than co-author, you are shopping buddy, personal psychic, dessert partner, straight man, fashion consultant, sympathetic therapist, and most important, my “twisted little sister.” It’s been a rockin’ roller coaster, Dahlink, and I hope it goes on many more books and years!

  To Nick and my boys, Thomas, Alec, and Collin: You inspire my sick humor; be glad, it helped sell this book. Thanks for always asking how it’s going and telling everyone “my mom’s a writer.” And no, no one’s getting a Ferrari.

  To my mother, grandmother, sister, and (miss you!) dad: most of you read my stuff, even when it was stinky! Everyone needs a cheerleading squad, and that’s all of you! But please don’t wear the little skirts. Thanks.

  To my editor Brian Farrey and the team at Flux—Steven Pomije, Sandy Sullivan, and Courtney Colton: smart move! I promise to listen to most of your advice and work hard to make you glad you chose Sirenz.

  To my agent Natalie Fischer: you recognized my late-budding genius. Now we just have to work on selling those other novels.

  To all the friends: the other two of the Writing Wenches Fourum, Yvonne Ventresca and Elisa Roland; to Kathy Temean and Laurie Wallmark at NJ-SCBWI; to the Bunco Gals, and so many other family and friends along the way; not forgotten, but not enough space to thank you all, love ya. And if I’m ever really famous, please don’t give up my dark secrets. Or I’ll put you in my next book.

  Natalie Zaman

  There are so many people who played a part in bringing Sirenz into the world.

  Super huge thanks to the NJ-SCBWI—without the existence of this fabby group of writers and friends, Char and I would never have met. A never-ending hug to RA Extraordinaire Kathy Temean, who works tirelessly to make sure every member of our chapter is given an opportunity to show, improve, and sell his or her work. Lyn Sirota—how can I thank you for suggesting that I join Char’s critique group? Thanks bunches to Leeza Hernandez and Anita Nolan for helping us get the word out about Sirenz through Sprouts—the best SCBWI regional newsletter (IMHO). Ame Dyckman, who supported my projects big and small—love you! (And you still owe me an ice cream trip.) Susan Heyboer O’Keefe, good friend and—whether you were aware or not (you are now)—mentor and role model. Where would I be without my Writing Wenches? To the ladies of the WWF—Char, Elisa Roland, and Yvonne Ventresca—I only hope I can offer you the same support you’ve given me.

  To Sr. Natalie, Mr. Curcio, and Ms. Latschar, thank you for instilling in me a love of reading and writing. Sr. Brigid Brady, Dr. Colette Lindroth, and much-missed Dr. Muriel Dollar—I carry your warmth, wit, and wisdom with me always. I am beyond fortunate to know Joelyn Melzl, Darlene Fraulo, Mari Cifone, Janeen Miller, Dawn Zerfass, and Suna—thank you for your boundless excitement, enthusiasm, and support for me and my projects. And of course, mega-thanks to the countless fellow writers, conference attendees, friends, and editor and agent mentors who read and reread the many incarnations of Sirenz and gave their suggestions, advice, and insights.

  I will always be grateful for the fabulous staff at Flux for taking a chance on us, and to our agent, Natalie (!) Fischer, who made my decade when she said she enjoyed Sirenz as a reader. Thank you to my editor Brian Farrey for making Sirenz really sing and for helping me to hone my craft; I am a better writer for having worked with you. Without Sandy Sullivan, who caught, well, everything, this book wouldn’t be the sparkly thing that it is—you’re the best! Thanks to Steven Pomije and and Courtney Colton for telling the world about Sirenz and listening to our ideas. Our bright, eye-catching, and uber-fun cover is the work of Lisa Novak—thanks for making us stand out in a crowd!

  Jane Reed Wilson, I never thought that I would enjoy having my photo taken, but somehow you changed that—TY! Marissa Miller—thank you for being our guinea pig. And to the best nephew ever, Jesse Davidson, thank you for sharing your time and talent for our little book.

  Moo, Mert, Wink (Asim, Mari, and Vincent, respectively; the world should know you by your real names rather than the loony ones I call you), and Mom, there aren’t words enough to thank you for always believing in me. And Raz—how do you properly thank someone for putting his dreams aside so that you can chase after yours? I love you.

  And last but not least, thanks, Char, for letting me sit around your house that summer—you know, the one where you said, “Hey, we can do that!” and then we started writing that story … Thank you, dahlink, for sharing your amazing talent, your home, your time, your patience (perching!), and most of all your friendship with me. My life is sweeter because you are in it. xxxDimps

  About the Authors

  Charlotte Bennardo

  A moderate shoe freak, Charlotte Bennardo divides her time between writing, her three sons, writing, her family and friends—and writing. When she’s not wearing out her laptop keyboard, she likes to swim, garden, play with her cat, and hang out with her best friend and co-author, Natalie. Married, she lives in Bridgewater, New Jersey. Visit Charlotte online at http:/
/charlotteebennardo.blogspot.com.

  Natalie Zaman

  Natalie Zaman learned that it’s hard—but not impossible—to farm in high heels. When she’s not chasing free-range chickens, she’s writing, or plotting a road trip. She lives in New Jersey with her family—about five minutes from Charlotte. Visit her online at http://nataliezaman.blogspot.com.