by N. D. Jones
After they both regained their composure and redressed, Assefa whispered into the darkness, “I want to be more than your lover, boyfriend, and familiar.”
“You already are. You’re bound to me as I am to you.”
“I know, but I want you to be my—”
“Shh, go to sleep. The future will take care of itself. Besides, I’m exactly where I want to be. No one can come between us.” And no one better even try. Her fire spirit hissed from a secret, dark place within Sanura, a place that held the witch’s greatest fears.
Assefa awoke to the most alluring song he’d ever heard. The notes were crisp, deep, and hypnotic. The tantalizing melody forced him out of bed and to his feet. The pull of the harp strings on his body were strong, but his mind resisted. Slowly, he walked to the bedroom door, toward the enticing song. He stopped. His mind yelled at him to proceed no further.
Cautiously, his Mngwa roused, shaking its mane and snarling a warning. Keen were-cat ears detected the slither of female tongues.
The beast’s warning grew.
“He’s fighting us.”
“No male can resist us, sisters. We must work together to bring him to us.”
“Ah! Sconvolta nell’ordine eterno” from Gioachino Rossini’s Semiramide intensified to a beautifully deadly pitch, its tone sweeter, more inebriating than before. The sweeping melody took Assefa on an inglorious musical journey at a heart-stomping rate. The pulse, pulse, pulse of the crystalline, high soprano voices pushed down on him, moving from a low C to a high F.
Against his will, Assefa plodded along, a zombie prodded and controlled by a powerful necromancer. Walking through the spacious, fully equipped kitchen, Assefa’s trembling hand opened the sliding glass doors that led to his backyard. The acres of grass and shoulder-height shrubs sculpted in a nature-defying square design met his glazed-over eyes.
The crisp night air that blew in from the Potomac River chilled Assefa, who wore only a black T-shirt and green boxers. His mind knew what was happening, but his body was his enemy. Yet Assefa fought every inch of the way, mind versus body, will versus instinct, anger versus fear.
Never before did he have to battle every muscle and molecule in his body.
Tonight, he did.
He fought to still his legs. But it was no use. With each forced step he took, the music strengthened. The aria thrummed between the two American Dogwood trees at the end of the natural, flat stone path that led to the river. The white, hanging blooms served as background for three operatic divas, his backyard their stage, or rather their Convent Garden.
The women stood shoulder-to-shoulder, mouths wide and eyes brilliant in their vicious intent. Each woman radiated a stage presence worthy of a Maria Callas understudy with unmasked contempt and illusions of being the next La Divina.
Waist-length, rich auburn hair, hazel eyes, and bright oval faces covered in taut, white porcelain skin hovered like impatient hyenas, waiting for the prey to walk into their melodious trap. He already had.
Damn them.
But their Botox-free, twenty-something beauty, along with the modern clothing of capri pants with matching feather-print sleeveless tops and jeweled leather sandals, belied their two centuries’ worth of man-killing experience.
His Mngwa smashed into him, a desperate attempt to break the spell.
Slam.
Slam.
Slam.
The confines of the cat’s cage shook but didn’t open.
Assefa’s mind flashed to the division’s profile of four murderous women—sirens.
Blood-bonded females who appear to range in age from 20 to 30. Works at or frequent bars, nightclubs, and other public facilities where men tend to congregate in search of female companionship. They are proficient in the use of knives, organized and cunning in the hiding and disposal of bodies, and very mobile. They do not select victims from the same locale more than once. They are preternatural serial killers who kill not for revenge, glory, nor notoriety, but an innate need to subjugate men. They will kill again.
The three sisters increased their deceptively sweet music, singing in perfect harmony. The song was enchanting and so were they. So enticing, Assefa’s entire body desired more, and he continued to walk farther away from the house and into the waiting arms of the three siren sisters.
“Yes, that’s it. Come to us, you piece of weak, male flesh,” the tallest and oldest-looking siren sister hissed. The other two never wavered, pressing the song deeper into his psyche.
The oldest siren pulled a dagger from somewhere near her waist. The gold casing glistened in the moon’s rapturous light, the sheath as fatally stunning as the bearer. Sirens were known as much for their beauty as for their hatred of men. But this man, who they were slowly pulling in like a rebellious dog on a chain, held a special place in their blackened hearts. Assefa understood this, knew why the women were at his home. Why, after so many years, so many kills, they would risk their freedom, their very lives, by daring to come to the residence of a were-cat FBI agent. I killed one of them, the missing contralto in their bloody opera.
“Assefa!” Sanura screamed, waking herself from a nightmare. “Damn it.” She jumped out of bed, looking frantically around the bedroom but knowing he wasn’t there. Her dream had shown her the danger. Their shared magic pounded against her aura, demanding action.
Not taking time to locate shoes or throw on something over the short-sleeve, black sleep shirt she wore, barefooted, Sanura ran out of the bedchamber, down the hallway, the steps, and out the back door, following Assefa’s aura signature. Once outside, she catapulted her body through the debilitating darkness, long, exposed legs tracking her special agent. His Mngwa roared inside her head, his beast calling to her fire spirit.
Assefa was in danger.
She ran faster, fear and rage guiding her movements.
Sanura reached a clearing and saw Assefa walking morbidly toward three women. She could now hear singing. The tortured melody curled its way through trees, wind, and distance, reaching her like a cross-country slap across her sweat-moistened face.
At this closer range, she had a better sense of Assefa’s inner turmoil, a discordant note against a battered violin. He was resisting the women, but it was a battle he couldn’t win—wasn’t made to win, his XY chromosomes an unwilling conspirator.
“Zareb and I tracked the youngest siren to Anchorage,” Assefa had told her on the drive home this afternoon. “We followed the siren into a house and found her with him.”
In the limo, he’d pulled her close to him, Sanura resting her head on Assefa’s shoulder. It had been one of those embraces in which the holder needed more comfort than the held. Sanura hadn’t minded, especially after he’d described the scene.
“The victim, Jason Vaughn, the owner of the home, was tied like an outstretched starfish to his bed.” He’d stroked her hair and then closed his eyes. She waited, and after a heavy sigh that lifted his chest and her head, Assefa continued. “She’d already drugged him with her song. There’s no other way to explain how a woman, who barely reached the five-foot mark, could subdue a man who exceeded her by a foot and a hundred pounds. He was naked, legs and arms apart and tied to a four-poster bed.”
“Was he alive?” she’d asked, assuming the worst.
“Barely. His breathing was weak, and blood stuck to him like snow to dying winter grass. Through the bloody mess, I couldn’t see a single cut or puncture wound on his large frame, except those sprinkling his face like chickenpox. Those were clear, little knife wounds to his cheeks, chin, and forehead. One, two, even ten would hurt, but nothing more. But there had to be dozens of them, shallow cuts intended to humiliate and torture, drawing out the game of dominance sirens like to play. Eventually, they tire or become bored, swatting the man around as if he were nothing more than a squeaky cat toy to their vicious, predatory paws.”
The image had made Sanura shiver, and she shivered now, but with fury instead of shock. She’d be damned if she let Assefa end
up like that poor, brutalized guy in Alaska. Even if she had to—
Heat and protectiveness shot through her, and Sanura ran the last few feet that separated her from the women who would dare to threaten her man. A spell lingered on her lips.
The oldest siren faced Assefa. “You’ll submit before I kill you. They all do.”
“Never!” he spat through clenched teeth, face as defiant as Sanura had ever seen it.
“I don’t know how you’ve kept us at bay this long, but you’ll be mine.” The siren’s eyes flicked a dangerous grayish-blue, and her tongue came out to lick sultry, red lips.
“He’ll never be yours.”
Reaching them, Sanura glanced at the emotionally battered Assefa. A siren’s song drained men not only of their free will but their physical strength as well. Worst yet, it could cause brain damage, turning otherwise sane men into salivating lunatics.
The siren nearest Assefa looked at Sanura and laughed mockingly. “Oh, I see now,” she said, returning her cruel gaze to Assefa as if Sanura were of no relevance, “you have a little witch protecting you. Well, no matter, you’ll be mine, one way or another.” Then the mad cow grabbed Assefa, slanted her mouth over his and kissed him, taking what wasn’t hers.
The firestorm began to grow. The heat raged, and Sanura fought for control, control that Assefa always seemed to have. The control she knew she must maintain if she were to save Assefa and herself.
The siren smiled at Sanura, beautiful and vindictive. “See, no man can resist our allure. His desire to be with us is what pulled him from your bed and into my arms. He belongs to us, little witch, and your presence here is unwanted.”
Sanura mumbled the last lines of her spell.
The siren laughed again, then, with a wave of a manicured hand, signaled for her sisters to attack.
They didn’t move.
She gestured again, waving wildly and with annoyance.
Nothing.
“Get her!” she shouted.
Sanura’s mouth lifted in a satisfied sneer. “They can’t move, and if they try, the binds will tighten. The more they resist, the tighter the binds will become. The binds can feel like thick ropes, silk scarves, barbwire, or whatever I choose, siren. Either way, their fate is in my hands. Now release my familiar before you really piss me the hell off.” Or my fire spirit comes out to play.
Sanura breathed heavily now, trembling with the effort to stay her anger, to keep her fire spirit calm and inside. She at least had control over two of the three sirens. Partial control, anyway, for the two bound sirens still sang. Their voices no longer carried the compelling strength of the notes from earlier, but it was still effective, keeping Assefa planted and under their spell.
She didn’t want to hurt them, even though they’d come there to seek their revenge on Assefa. Sanura prayed the threat she’d just made would be enough to curb their bloodlust. Yet, they maintained the poisoning cadence of the song, Assefa’s features slack, eyes beginning to fade into bleakness. Gods, no.
A forceful wind blew in from the river, whipping around the sirens in a feverous gallop of cold, icy air. Sanura chanted. Her mouth moved, but no words were heard over top of the howling wind. The ground began to tremble beneath the siren who had kissed Assefa. Yet, the woman didn’t waver, her legs steely, hand still fiercely wrapped around the handle of the dagger.
“What kind of witch are you?” the siren asked, a slither of fear housed in her tone, eyes becoming grayer, pupils dilated, focused on Sanura.
No longer so irrelevant.
“The kind of witch that’ll crush anyone who attempts to take what’s hers.” No bluff this time, just unvarnished fire witch truth. “He belongs to me. Now release my familiar, and I’ll spare your life.”
The siren glanced at her sisters. The binds cut ever tighter into their clothing, their pale skin. Blood streamed down their arms, their legs, and out the mouths that still sang. The notes, still magically deceptive, struggled past quivering lips. Then she looked at the man who had killed the youngest of them. Finally, she met the hardened gaze of Sanura, whose reddish-gold hair blew like wildfire in the wind.
Sanura could see some sadistic streak of realization pass her eyes, and knew, in that instant, the siren comprehended the extent of the bond she shared with Assefa. Sanura’s magic and their bond protected him from the likes of such creatures. That one siren Assefa had tracked to Alaska and killed wouldn’t have been able to use her melodic, manipulative wiles on him as she’d done so many others. This would’ve made her an easy target for the special agent, not even requiring him to shift into his feline form.
In a blinding rage, the siren’s eyes turned battleship gray, and she unsheathed the dagger.
She flew at Sanura.
Long, wide, white wings flashed in the darkness. They hadn’t been there a second ago, but they were present now, allowing the siren to dive toward Sanura like an eagle after a field mouse.
The siren sliced at the air, screaming at Sanura in a foreign language. Sanura ducked, just avoiding the wild lunge. She made to cast a binding spell, but the siren plowed into her, knocking the wind—and the remainder of the spell—out of Sanura.
Now several feet in the air, the siren held onto her waist, then drove Sanura into the ground. The carpet-looking grass did not absorb her fall. The witch’s back and head slammed into the hard ground, sending jolts of pain up her spine and out her eyes.
She had no time to think, only to react.
The siren came at her again, demonic wings fanned out, the torn shirt from her transformation gone, white-pink breasts swaying.
Sanura rolled, the agile siren passing overhead. The edge of her right wing caught Sanura’s bare leg. A thin line started where her sleep shirt ended and extended to her knee. Blood flowed, hot and wet, the cut more painful than it looked, deeper, too.
Then the siren was back, the sparkle from the polished knife dull in comparison to the shine in the siren’s murderous eyes. Sanura attempted a faint move to her right, but the siren was there. Instinctively, Sanura raised her arms to block the attack, screaming when flesh met steel—flesh losing. Another cut, more blood, and a smiling siren.
Sanura stumbled back, using her hands and arms defensively.
Block. Strike. Blood.
Block. Strike. Blood.
Block. Strike. Blood.
The siren’s arrogantly wicked smile grew every time she scored a blow and Sanura screamed. Sanura’s mind raced, while uncontrollable emotions flowed through her. Must focus on a protective spell. Can’t let her keep cutting me.
She was losing, bleeding, and those goddamn sirens were still singing, the pulsing beat a wretched symphony—Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District—the growling siren hunting her, Katerina Lvovna Izmailova, a woman who took a lover, killed her husband, and spent his money. Karma got her in the end, an icy river her reward.
And there had to be ice in the siren’s veins. Blood, pain, and death, key ingredients in her sadistic pleasure stew.
Bleeding and exhausted, Sanura stumbled, and the siren advanced. She grabbed Sanura’s hair and drove her to the ground again. Sanura’s vision blurred and weird sparkling lights formed. But she didn’t have to see to know exactly where the siren was. The woman was straddling her chest, legs pinning Sanura’s arms to her side.
The witch began a chant. She had to get the homicidal bitch off her.
The knife slid to her throat.
Sanura stopped, mid-spell.
The siren sneered down at her. “I’m going to enjoy slicing off bits of your pretty little face. Then I’ll drag you before your male, so he can see how hideous you are. But I won’t kill you.” The siren licked her lips as if the prospect of mutilating Sanura was a treat she couldn’t wait to devour. Perhaps it was. “No, I won’t kill you. I’m going to make you watch what we do to him. He’s a big, strong man. I wonder how many cuts it’ll take to make him scream, make him drop to his proud were-cat knees and beg for mercy. I bet not as many
as you think. Men simply aren’t that tough.”
The blade dug deeper, just piercing Sanura’s skin. Blood trickled down her neck.
“I think I’ll take the tongue first. You have a smart mouth. And while screams are my favorite music, I prefer baritone to contralto.”
The siren replaced the knife with her hand, long nails digging into Sanura’s throat, the pressure forcing her mouth open on a ragged gasp. The blade came to her mouth, sliding over lips and teeth.
“No!” Sanura screamed. But it was too late. Too late for me. Too late for the siren.
The knife pierced her tongue.
Blooded spurted.
The siren cackled.
Sanura’s magic erupted, twisting and twirling, and then spiraling upward and outward. An inferno unleashed. Rage and heat mingled, a fire spirit cocktail that promised doom and death. To the siren. To them all.
Then the blade was gone. The crushing weight on her chest and arms had also vanished. Sanura opened her eyes, fire flickering around the edges. An inhuman snarl followed.
She stood. And with her movement, the winds returned, howling and squealing. A frenzy of invisible arctic binds held its prize aloft. Red eyes lifted and narrowed on the screaming form dangling fifty feet above her.
White wings battled, sought freedom. But none was to be found. Not now. Not ever. Too late. Tried to warn you.
Sanura lifted her hands to the sky, connected with the electromagnetic energy, and let the power flow into her, become one with her.
Now!
Thunderbolts materialized, vaulted through the clouds, bringing the dark sky to life with their heated beams of light. Sanura flung her arms wide, a general commanding her troops. Off they went, spreading outward and locating their targets.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
Lightning.
Raw, unleashed fire witch of legend magic.
Boom.