Sundown, International 4: Maneater

by Cat Marsters

  Sundown, International 4: Maneater

  Cat Marsters

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright ©2007 Cat Marsters

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  ISBN: 978-1-59596-681-0

  Formats Available:

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  Publisher:

  Changeling Press LLC

  PO Box 1046

  Martinsburg, WV 25402-1046

  www.ChangelingPress.com

  Editor: Sheri Ross Fogarty

  Cover Artist: Sahara Kelly

  This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  Sundown, International 4: Maneater

  Cat Marsters

  It’s tough to form a meaningful relationship when you have all the dating skills of a praying mantis.

  For Chloe, human interaction is an absolute disaster area, but then she is a siren. Vegetarianism is not an option when you turn into a six-foot eagle with a human head. But in the glittering lights of Las Vegas, she meets the dazzling, irresistible Alexius.

  He’s gorgeous. He’s sexy. He’s perfect in every way. And he’s about to hand her over to the harem of a collector of paranormal beings.

  Alexius is about to find out that when a siren says you look good enough to eat, she’s really not joking…

  Prologue

  “It’ll never end well.” Mother said that about everything, so I ignored her.

  Although, if I’m being honest, things usually don’t end well for me, unless by ‘well’ you mean getting run out of town/off the island/deported by a mob with pitchforks/flaming torches/AK-47s.

  “Don’t be cruel, Molly,” Aunt Raidne reprimanded Mother. “If Chloe wants to live a human life, then let her.”

  “But she’s not human. Chloe, sweetheart, remember last time? When you opened that bar in Mykonos?”

  I winced, but carried on packing my suitcase.

  “How many was it? Forty-seven?”

  “Forty-six,” said Raidne.

  “No, forty-seven.”

  Aunt Pisinoe wrinkled her nose and scratched the floor with one foot. “However do you stay so skinny?”

  “It’s the running out of town that does it. Burns the calories like that.” Mother snapped her fingers. She was in her human form, unlike Pisinoe whose bird-feet tapped on the floorboards as she fussed around, her human head bobbing as she walked. When I was a little girl, I used to call her Aunt Pissy. She was never particularly amused by that.

  “I didn’t eat them all.” I folded a sweater, trying to stay calm.

  “Didn’t you?” Raidne looked disappointed.

  “I hardly ever eat people.”

  “That’s why she’s so skinny,” Leucosia said to Aunt Pissy, who pursed her mouth and glared out the window.

  “But, sweetheart,” my mother tried again. “Las Vegas? It’s too much of a temptation.”

  “I’d like to go to Las Vegas,” Raidne said dreamily.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Aunt Pissy snapped. “You know you can’t leave the island.”

  “Can too,” Raidne argued. “Where do you think I got my shoes?”

  We all stopped to admire the shoes, of which Raidne was very proud. They were bright pink, translucent and glittery and of the kind I believe are called jelly shoes. She’d paid about four euros for them at a beach shop in Crete.

  “Yes, but not very far,” Aunt Pissy said. “And not for very long.”

  “Chloe’s the only one who can really leave the island,” Leucosia said wistfully, and there was a short silence.

  We had satellite TV and Internet service -- hooking those up had been a minor nightmare, since my aunts wanted to devour any technicians who came to the house -- so they all knew what the outside world looked like. Raidne in particular was always ordering CDs and DVDs from the Internet, which (after a few unfortunate accidents) she had delivered to Crete or Rhodes, and I went and picked them up. My aunts didn’t leave the island much. Accidents happened when they did.

  Before I was born, no one really cared about the accidents much. Humans were humans, they were stupid, like chickens, and deserved to be eaten. And then one day…

  Sigh. Then one day, as my mother tells it, they went down to the beach to inspect the latest ‘haul’ of shipwrecked sailors, and while the aunts set about feasting on the meatier ones, my mother spied a young man lying unconscious on the beach, and was so captivated by his beauty that she couldn’t bring herself to even take a nibble.

  At least, not until he’d woken up.

  The young man was named Chrysanthos and was the most glorious creature my mother had ever seen. Managing to fend off her sisters, who were really only interested in whether a man was good eating or not, she took Chrysanthos in and cared for him. And fell in love with him. And created a child with him.

  And then ate him.

  I don’t know. I think sirens are like praying mantises. They get all carried away in the passion of the moment. At least, my mother did, and I, er, confess that it may have happened to me a time or two.

  All I know is, when a siren pronounces that you look good enough to eat, she’s really, really not joking.

  Anyway, the grand result was me. I never knew my father, but I do know he brought about a change in the sisters. Now, thanks to my father, the sirens understood that there were other pleasures of the flesh and, having gone out and experienced them personally, they developed a bit of a conscience about eating people. Well, you would, wouldn’t you?

  This isn’t to say that they don’t ever eat people. If anyone is silly enough to sail by our island, which is pretty hard to find, then they still sing out, and if a sailor washes up against the shores, they still eat him. Because they’re sirens. It’s what they do. You might as well expect birds not to sing, or cats not to hunt.

  Since my birth, however, things have changed. My mother came over all maternal (the great siren Molpe, maternal!) and declared that since my father had been human, she was going to bring me up human. It was a nice idea. But while I’m half human, that still means I’m half not…

  Chapter One

  It would be both honest and accurate to say I was probably the oldest virgin in Greece, outside of a convent anyway, when I first left the island. I was seventy-four. Of course, thanks to my mother’s genetics, I’ve never looked much older than eighteen, which can be a problem when I want to buy a drink. But The Voice generally takes care of that.

  Also thanks to my mother’s genetics, I’ve never been short of male attention -- and, when I went to Lesbos, female, too. The thing is, I grew up on an island with five women who were the absolute epitome of female beauty, and being half-human, I’ve always considered myself the less attractive one.

  It’s not something I’d ever admit to in human company, but when you’ve grown up believing that it’s normal to be so beautiful the angels weep, it comes as a hell of a shock to see a Greek beach in summer.

  Anyway. After that first foray into the unknown, when I bedded a soldier and accidentally ate his penis -- well, I wasn’t to know, was I? -- I’ve tried to be a little more circumspect. I don’t drink in human company, because I need to
keep my wits about me. I don’t dress provocatively, because the one time I went out in a bikini I caused a seven car pile-up. And I try really, really hard not to eat people. I really, really do.

  But accidents… happen.

  Why the hell I’d got Vegas stuck in my head, I’d no idea. Especially after the Mykonos incident, when I opened a gay bar on the island in the hopes of socializing with people who weren’t going to be coming onto me. It worked incredibly well for the first few months, and then I took a weekend off to visit my mother and aunts, and when I came back my second-in-command, Nikos, had installed a karaoke machine. Quite apart from the caterwauling of drunken tourists, I was terribly afraid someone would try to get me to sing. Which they did, and I used every single excuse I could, until finally I could put it off no longer.

  Well, they’re gay, I thought, and besides I’m singing Kiki Dee, and opened my mouth.

  Big mistake. Huge.

  After the first two lines, there was a pile of men at my feet. Gay or not, the music took them and they just wanted me. They started fighting each other. And I, er, well, lost control a bit. Come on, all that toned, buff male perfection, most of it shirtless, throwing itself at me…

  Well, it wasn’t pretty. I had to tell the authorities it had been a wild animal attack. It certainly looked like it.

  After that, I hid out on the island for a while, but there’s this thing about humanity. It gets under your skin. And after another few years of my bickering silly aunts, I had to get away. And I wanted to go far away. Further than I’d ever been. Away from the Mediterranean, far from which I’d never strayed before. I wanted to go to the place Elvis said set his soul on fire. I wanted to see Sin City. And yeah, okay, I wanted see the Sirens of Treasure Island.

  I won’t bore you with how exciting it was to travel to an airport and get on a plane. Truth be told, the excitement palled after the toddler three rows away had been screaming for four solid hours. I swear, I was five seconds from eating the damn creature when the captain announced our descent.

  My hotel was right in the middle of town, on The Strip (a name with definite potential, I thought). Hey, I have a broadband connection, I can research these things. And no, money isn’t a problem for a siren. A couple of hundred years ago a prince deeded some extremely lucrative property to my Aunt Thelxiepia in return for her not eating him. Every now and then someone gives me a yacht or a fast car for no apparent reason. Since I live on an island with no roads, I don’t generally keep the cars; but they do pay for an awful lot of shoes.

  The guy at the hotel reception desk gave me a gooey smile when I checked in. “Chloe Sirenaea,” he said, lovingly caressing my passport. “That’s such a pretty name.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “Wow, you look great in this picture. Most people look really bad in passport photos.”

  “Is that so?” I was trying to be polite. He had greasy hair and wore a polyester shirt that made him sweat, and I’d been on my first transatlantic flight with a screaming baby and really wanted to sleep.

  Actually, I really wanted to unfold my wings, get out my claws and eat someone, but not this guy. Too greasy. Hell on my arteries.

  “But you look beautiful. Are you a model?”

  “Only of propriety,” I said, which he didn’t seem to get. Anyway it wasn’t true. I refer you to the Mykonos incident. “Is my room ready?”

  “Huh? Oh.” He looked at his computer. Hotels I understand pretty well. Whenever I leave the island, I have to find somewhere to sleep. Sometimes, er, at short notice. Most countries still take a dim view of people having sex in the street.

  “You’re booked in a standard room,” the clerk said, frowning. “That’s not right.” I opened my mouth to say that it was what I’d booked, then shut it again when he went on, “You should have something better. The best. Our honeymoon suite is available.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly…”

  “Free of charge. In fact, I’ll just… there. Whole stay, on the house.” He beamed at me.

  See, I told you. People just give me things.

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “Do you need any help finding it?” he asked eagerly.

  “No, thank you, I can --”

  “I’ll help you with your luggage.”

  “I can ma --”

  “Those idiots at the bell desk don’t know what they’re --”

  “No,” I said firmly, in the sort of voice I rarely use in public. “Please.”

  He looked a little taken aback, but as usual when a siren speaks, he did as he was told. I took my key and started to carry my case, but three bellboys rushed over to help me and I didn’t have the heart to stop them.

  “The honeymoon suite?” said one as he checked my room number. “Boy, ma’am, your husband is a lucky man.”

  I didn’t correct him; for one thing, I just didn’t want to explain why I was checking into the honeymoon suite all alone. “Thank you.”

  “Uh, where is he?”

  “He, uh --” My gaze darted around the room as I tried to think of an answer. And then a strange thing happened.

  My eyes alighted on a man leaning against the far wall of the swanky lobby, a spotlight gilding his golden hair. His blue eyes sparkled. His skin gleamed and under his casual shirt, muscles flexed as he straightened and looked right at me.

  And then he started moving toward me.

  There was a sort of glow about him. I mean that, seriously. A golden aura surrounded him. For a crazy moment, I wondered if this was how my mother felt when she first saw my father.

  The three bellboys followed my gaze as I stood there, dumbstruck for the first time in my life.

  “Well, shit,” said one of them.

  “Figures,” said another.

  “Sir, you are one lucky SOB,” said the third, throwing out his hand for the golden man to shake.

  “I certainly am,” he replied, and even his voice was golden. My knees began to tremble. A low throb set up six inches south of my belly button and I wished he was shaking my hand, touching me.

  I’d never wanted anyone like this before.

  Was this what it was like for men when they saw me?

  Was there such a thing as a male siren?

  Before I could get my brain in gear, the golden man had slung his arm around my waist and squeezed me against his side. I nearly passed out.

  “Come on, darling,” he said, a low rumble in my ear that had my nipples puckering, “let’s go and see our room.”

  Somehow, I made it over to the elevator. He was holding me up most of the way. When the doors opened, I stumbled inside, saw the three bellboys and the reception clerk staring open-mouthed, and leaned against the back wall as the golden man followed me inside.

  “Who the hell are you?” I gasped as the doors closed, and he smiled.

  “Your husband, apparently,” he said, and cupped my cheek in his warm, dry hand.

  Well, that was too much for me. Overwhelmed, I grabbed him and kissed him, hard, pressing my body against his, drinking in his taste. Damn, he tasted good. I’ve never been so addicted to a man’s kiss before. I wanted to drown in him. I think I was drowning in him.

  His shirt was linen and crumpled beneath my fingers as I clutched at the muscles beneath. He had damn fine muscles. As his arms wrapped around me, his quads and biceps flexed and a little moaning sound escaped my throat.

  My breasts were flat against his chest, separated by stupid layers of clothing. I had one leg wrapped around his waist, and could feel the bulge of his erection pressing against me. Tightening the grip of my bare thigh on his hip, I rubbed my pussy against that hard ridge, my underwear already damp with wanting.

  There was a pinging sound, and the doors slid open. A woman stood there, mouth open, staring at us.

  “Honeymoon,” the golden man said.

  “Ah,” she replied.

  The doors shut.

  Blue eyes met mine, and I couldn’t stifle a grin. He grinn
ed back, and he was somehow even more breathtaking when he did.

  His lips met mine, and then there was another ping and I snapped, “What now?”

  “Your floor, madam,” he said, and I blushed hotly as I realized he was right.

  My knees were like jelly and he had to hold me up again as we made our way down the corridor. There was no question in my mind whether he was coming in with me or not. If I had to unleash my siren voice to do so, I was going to see this man naked.

  Even if the sight might be so beautiful it’d kill me.

  Falling into the room, I took no notice of any of the surroundings as he held me again, kissed me, slipped his hands inside my shirt and began easing it off. All I cared about was a bed. Hell, I didn’t even care about that. The floor would do. A chair. A wall. Anything.

  I tugged and pulled at his shirt until it came free of his jeans, then yanked at it in frustration, needing to feel his bare skin against mine. Needing to see those muscles of his. Needing to run my hands over his hot skin.

  He laughed and pulled the shirt over his head, and I swear, he was even more glorious than I’d thought. Just sheer perfection, every muscle honed to flawlessness, from the curves of his biceps to the ridges of his stomach.

  Speechless, I stared, and it was only when he came back to me and deftly unfastened my bra that I remembered how to move.

  And how I moved. Thrusting my breasts into his hands, I wrapped my arms around his neck for more kisses. He didn’t disappoint. His tongue dancing around my mouth, he caressed my heavy, aching breasts, teased the nipples, splayed his fingers against my ribcage and held me as my hands explored his back.

  “More,” I cried against his mouth, “more.”

  Grinning that white-toothed grin, he swung me up into his arms and carried me, like a bridegroom, through a doorway and laid me down on a huge bed. Restless, desperate, I watched him strip off the rest of his clothes and come to me.

  “Merciful Zeus,” I gasped, my eyes taking in the size of his cock. As to whether the rest of me could take it in, I wasn’t really sure. Hot damn, I’d never seen anything like him.