by Lindsey Duga
“Some linguists believe it comes from the Greek verb orinein. It means ‘to stir, to invoke action.’” He paused and looked away. “That’s swell, ain’t it? To know your name means something so powerful?” His gaze jumped back to me.
A shock went through my system—like a low bulb had just buzzed with an electric current while I’d been trying to unscrew it. My hands slipped on the soapy glass I’d been washing.
“Careful.” Quick like an alley cat, the stranger leaned over, catching the glass before it fell and shattered in the sink.
We both looked up, and our faces were mere inches away from each other. He had the same scent as two nights ago—fire and smoke. A little sweet, too, like burning wood.
His mouth hooked into a smirk, and he took my hands, gently placing the glass securely into my palms. He didn’t let go. “It’s not fair, is it?”
My lips were two seconds away from forming words. I was so close that I had to bite my lip to stop them. I’d never had so much trouble keeping quiet before.
What’s not fair? The fact that I can’t talk to you? No matter how much I want to?
“That I know your name and you don’t know mine?” His hands were warm, almost hot, and a little rough with calluses on his thumb and palm.
I nodded. Maybe a little too enthusiastically.
“Here you go.” Stanley all but slammed the mug down in front of the stranger, the hot tea sloshing down the sides to form a ring.
The stranger let go of my hands and gave Stan a full-tooth white smile. “Thank you, sir.”
Stan folded his arms, sporting his best military stare-down. “That’ll be thirty cents.”
While most men would cower like a scared pup under the size of Stanley, this stranger merely reached into his pocket and pulled out two bits. But instead of setting the coins on the wood surface of the bar, he reached across once more and took my hand to drop the coins into my palm. As he did this, he leaned in close and whispered in my ear, “It’s Colt, by the way.”
Then Colt gave me a wink, took his orange pekoe, and headed back to his usual table in the corner. For a moment, we stared at each other from across the bar, then his gaze slid to the band and my little stage.
He was waiting for me to sing.
…
The whole next hour, I worked up my courage. Between mixing drinks and waiting on tables, I wrote out a quick set sheet. Just a few of my favorites.
After the band had their fourth break for the night, I walked up to David and handed him the paper. He set aside his sax and scanned it, then looked up at me, grinning from ear to ear. And David didn’t grin often. “You going to sing for them tonight, Eris?”
Just for one.
I smiled politely and nodded, my hands twisting in front of my stomach.
If I didn’t sing for Colt tonight, he might get bored and leave forever. Since he’d sauntered into my life, I’d had something to look forward to, more than just a dream of escaping this drum that I knew, deep down, would never become a reality. I wasn’t ready to let him go yet. I wasn’t ready to let this excitement die.
Except I was nervous. I’d never been nervous about singing before. I simply let the song flow out of me and followed its whims. I’d never tried to control it, because I’d never needed to. But this time, I wanted to. Maintaining some semblance of control of my voice and this magic inside made me feel like it was my voice, not my gift, that Colt would hear.
Was there even a difference?
“Oy, Eris is singing?” Marv’s voice interrupted my thoughts, and I turned to my left to find him tossing back his fourth drink for the night. “Good to see you got over that…unpleasantness from the night before. Some cats are just bad eggs,” he said kindly, patting my shoulder. “No such reason to keep a sweet canary like you all caged up.”
Marv’s mention of the unpleasantness made me second-guess. What if Colt heard my song and became just like all the rest? He might not resort to gun-slinging, but would it be different because he’d been interested in me before he heard my voice?
What naive thinking. I may hardly venture outside of this speakeasy, but I wasn’t a Dumb Dora. This power didn’t consider such things as feelings. It controlled people. It was a curse.
Swallowing hard, I yanked the set sheet from David’s hands and both men blinked at me, surprised. Quickly I folded the sheet into fourths and then into eighths, my fingers trembling with nerves and regret.
How could I even have considered this?
If I wanted to keep Colt looking at me in that way, in a way that made me feel like a real person, and not some enchantress witch, I needed to keep my voice to myself.
And then he would get bored of our little games and my silence, and he would leave.
But it was better than the alternative.
“You changed your mind?” David asked, disappointment coating his voice.
In answer, I turned away, back toward the bar, but stopped in my tracks when I found Colt blocking my path.
Somewhat startled, or maybe it was just my jumpy nerves, I took a couple steps back—right into a chair. It wobbled dangerously as my knee smarted from the ensuing bang.
Colt reached around me and steadied the chair before it fell to the floor. It reminded me of the moment with the glass just an hour ago, and my chest flushed with heat. “My apologies,” he said softly, his breath tickling my collarbone.
Then he stooped and swiped a piece of paper from the floor.
My heart stopped its jazz-tapping movements and beat hard like a big marching drum. That one loud thump.
The set sheet. I hadn’t realized I’d dropped it—sometime between him walking over and me hitting the chair, I had let go of it.
Colt unfolded the paper and scanned it, his gaze jumping from song to song as my heart did with it.
“I love these songs,” he said softly. Then he lifted his gaze, a new smile stretching across his face that was hard to place—eager, but almost…triumphant? “Will I get to hear you sing them?” His voice was calm and low, but I heard the hope there.
Maybe it’s better to end this on my terms. After all, if he became like all the others it might be easier to watch him go. Besides—I looked back at him mournfully—it’s not as if you’ll stay forever.
I held out my hand, and he placed the folded sheet on my palm. His fingertips brushed my exposed wrist, and I steeled myself against the thrill that small touch brought.
Soon, he’d have the same stare, the same eyes, and the same slurred words as all the rest, and I would feel all alone again.
Let’s get this over with.
I turned on my heel, back to the band, and shoved the set sheet against David’s chest. He caught it with a fumble, and the band glanced around in confusion as I pulled out the mic and nudged my little “stage” into the bright lights with the tip of my shoe.
I straightened the mic, wrapping my fingers around the cool metal of its stand and looked out at the crowd. All folks were silent, their eyes on me, holding their breath. Many came to hear my voice, and my silence the last few nights had probably been disappointing.
But I wasn’t singing for them.
My blood rushed in my ears as I was highly aware of my every move being followed by the gaze of the elusive, mysterious, and handsome Mr. Colt.
I would sing for him.
Sing, and then move on.
As the piano began to play the beginning few notes of the first song from my set sheet, I found Colt had returned to his usual table, watching me. Waiting. His dark eyes were so focused and intense that they seemed to heat my skin.
I knew the melody by heart—it wove through my veins and thrummed in my muscles like the strings of a harp—and yet I let the intro pass, missing my entrance.
My pulse was loud and my knees were shaking. I can’t do this.
Quickly, Marv and David began to play, although it wasn’t technically their time to come in. Their brass wove in the melody where my voice should be. They were saving me, and I was grateful for it.
With wobbly legs, I got down from my whiskey crate and looped around for the bar, hoping to slip into the kitchens and storeroom. I tried not to imagine the disappointment on Colt’s face.
“Eris?” Stan said gently as I edged behind him and hurried past the rows of bottles, parting the curtain and ducking behind the wall.
Sliding down the cold brick, I pressed my hands over my mouth and attempted to breathe normally, my pulse still trying to jump from my skin.
Stage fright. That had never happened to me before.
Shame and embarrassment wrapped around me like a python, squeezing out what little courage I had. I wanted to stay there forever, but I only managed ten minutes before Stanley poked his head around the door.
“Eris, hon, I hate to ask, but it’s pretty busy up here?”
Without a word, always without a word, I stood from my crouched position on the floor and dusted off my apron.
Careful to keep my gaze away from Colt’s corner, I went to a table, taking out a pad of paper and pencil from my apron and giving them a pleasant smile…which fell away instantly.
The table held a couple, but not a happy one. Not like the one earlier where they’d been so wrapped in each other’s arms they barely knew anyone else existed. This one had a brute of a man and his girlfriend. A brute not because of his appearance—a clean white work shirt, gray pants, and a jacket—but because of his girlfriend’s. She was covered head to foot in bruises. Her thick makeup attempted to cover a black eye. Dangling bracelets hung over dark purple patches on her thin wrists. Cherry-red lipstick tried to hide her busted lip.
This girl was a walking punching bag.
“Excuse me?” the man drawled, raising an eyebrow.
The girl flinched at his words—and they weren’t even directed at her.
“Are you going to take my order?”
The girl looked up at me, pleading with me, as if to say, please don’t make him angry.
The lead of my pencil broke with a snap against my pad of paper.
Over the years I’d seen signs of abuse and mistreatment. Working at a bar showed you a side of people you wished you could unsee. But you couldn’t, and tonight…there was something about seeing this girl that made my restraint just…snap.
All thoughts of Colt, my songs, and my own curse flew out of my mind, and a seed of justice took its place.
The man slapped the table, and the girl recoiled. “Excuse me, miss!”
I returned my gaze to the monster and smiled prettily, disarming him entirely.
Leaning down, I placed my hand on his chest and it stilled him, maybe with surprise, maybe with excitement. Moving close, I whispered in his ear. I whispered actual, real, purposeful words. Words I would not regret.
“You will never touch another woman, ever again.”
The man reared back. His eyes flashed in a moment of glazed confusion, then they cleared, and his brow furrowed. “I’ll do whatever I damn well please, you bitch. C’mon, Margaret.” He stood, grabbing his girlfriend’s wrist and yanking her to her feet.
But for once, it was not she who cried out in pain.
The man stumbled backward, letting out a shriek of agony—an inhuman sound that cut through the music of my little band and the dull murmur of the patrons’ conversations.
Twisting his wrist like he’d just touched fire, he stared at his hand in confusion and disturbance. But there was no burn on his hand. It looked completely normal.
I hugged myself, glaring at the man.
His gaze returned to me, eyes widening as if he was just realizing what I’d done to him.
He reached for me and grabbed my arm.
I let him.
He roared in pain, his whole body twisting and recoiling against the mental agony of this torture. Of touching another woman when I specifically told him he never would. Cradling his hand as if he had just broken every bone in it, he practically ran out of The Blind Dragon.
The girl stared at me in wonder and then a slow smile formed on her busted lip. She picked up her coat and made her way out of my speakeasy, head held high.
I’d made the mistake of watching her, because it was then, out of the corner of my eye, that I noticed…Colt was gone.
The Blind Dragon closed early in the morning, or late at night, depending on how you looked at it. Around three thirty a.m., I carried the final crate of empty bottles out into the darkened alley, reflecting on that night.
I was sure I’d never see Colt again.
He must’ve been disappointed that I’d chickened out and then left as soon as I’d rushed from the spotlight. I didn’t blame him. What reason had he to stay? It wasn’t as if I was the most stimulating conversationalist.
Sighing, I tilted my head back to look up at the moon. It was full. Just a few wispy clouds passing in front of it. Blowing out a breath, a cloud of steam issued from my mouth caught in the cold air like I’d just taken a drag from a gasper.
I didn’t regret what I’d done. Telling the man that. Forcing him to live without ever being able to lay his detestable hands on another woman.
What I did regret was not telling Colt my own name. To even just say…
“Hello, I’m—” A cloth pressed over my mouth and nose.
Lungs shriveling in shock and fear, I sucked in, and a strange scent caught me in the face. A chemical, evil scent.
A strong arm wrapped around my waist, clamping me against his body, and I tilted my head back, my hair dragging down the attacker’s chest.
Just as my vision grew dark, I managed to make out his face against the backdrop of the full Boston moon.
It was Colt.
Chapter Six
The Agent
When she had run away from the mic and the music, I suspected then that Sawyer was wrong. A siren resistant to a song? It wasn’t just strange, it was practically unheard of. What little we knew of sirens, we knew that music always drew them in. Like moths to a flame. So more than likely Sawyer had made a mistake.
I’d come to Boston for nothing.
But I didn’t leave. I stayed. I told myself it was because there could still be a sliver of a chance. If I was being truly honest, though, I stayed because I was—maybe just a little—worried about her. She’d seemed so distraught up there.
When she emerged, I watched her carefully, looking for signs of tears. Wondering if there was some way to cheer her up. As she moved to her first table, I ran through jokes in my head. Little flirtatious anecdotes to bring out that radiant smile again. Maybe even get her to laugh. If she laughed loud enough and rich enough, would I be able to detect siren magic?
I was wondering just that as I watched her lean down to the customer at the table. Watched her press her hand against the chest of the man. Watched her whisper in his ear.
And then the man screamed, and screamed.
She looked on at him with no remorse.
Dear God. I’d found the lost siren.
From there, it was as easy as waiting for closing time. She’d bring out the empty bottles like she’d done the night before, and the night before last. It seemed to be her small reprieve from the smoky bar to get a breath of fresh air. Or as fresh as the air was in Boston.
From the shadows, I’d watched her lean against the brick wall, sigh, and then slip her feet from her heels and massage her toes. Her curls would fall in a curtain around her face as she’d bend down. After a few minutes, she’d go back inside.
But not tonight.
Tonight I moved behind her, slipping from my hiding place in the adjacent alley, and pressed the cloth to her face. She struggled for only a few seconds—which made my stomach twist—and
managed to lean her head back to give me a look of terror…and betrayal.
My jaw hardened as I gritted my teeth, her body falling limp against mine.
I couldn’t feel sorry for her. If anything, I felt just a little betrayed. She’d seemed so sweet and gentle that even without her voice I had begun to fall under her spell. But then her true nature came out. She had tortured that man. She could do worse with her powers.
It was my job to take her in, but more than anything else, my conscience wouldn’t let me leave her unchecked.
Bending down, I easily scooped her up into my arms. She felt like she hardly weighed a pound, small thing that she was. Her head rolled back, exposing her thin white neck wherein lay her deadly, monstrous vocal cords. Where, with just a whisper, she’d ruined a man’s life forever.
Shifting her so that her head rested against my shoulder, making it look like she was some dame half-seas over and I was a concerned boyfriend, I set off into the dark, empty streets.
When I came to the alley behind my hotel, I slung her over my shoulder and climbed the fire escape. I didn’t need anyone, not even the most likely asleep bellman, to see me carting an unconscious girl to my room. I opened the window and hoisted her inside, laying her on the bed. Then I bound her hands and feet with rope. The area between my shoulder blades ached with that familiar, haunting pain as I tightened the knots. But, as usual, I ignored the feeling and left the room, locking it behind me.
Downstairs, I used the desk phone to make a call. Then a cool female voice said over the receiver, “Hello, operator, how may I direct your call?”
“Andromache epsilon five-zero-twenty-two.”
The female voice paused, then, “One moment please.”
There was a dial switch, a tone, and then more ringing. I waited, rather impatiently, until I heard the other end pick up and my boss’s groggy voice answer, “McCarney.”
“Sir, I’ve got her.”
Instantly the sleepiness was gone. There was a bang and some shuffling. “Her, as in…?”
“The siren. I’ve got her in my hotel room now, knocked out.”
There was a sigh, a crackling over the phone. “Well done, Colt.”