Siren Queen: Deep Sea Chronicles, #2

Prologue

The stench of death pushed swiftly through the currents.

It brought blood, bone, and coral with it, the same way a breeze drifted trash and dust down a paved, desolate road.It was on the current that the Siren Queen traveled. The rush of it forced her further and further from the skeletal structure of her throne and the barren graveyard where her race once thrived.

It seemed so long ago now, but it had been but days. One of her own had betrayed the sirens in favor of a human. The siren, Aeliana, had sabotaged the sacred rite of the Blood Moon to protect a humanity that didn’t deserve it.

Now the powers of the sea were waning. The few sacrifices that had been gifted to the Tides that night had not been enough to restore the might of what the sea folk had once been.

But the Siren Queen did not despair. She had another way of achieving her goal, of gaining the strength that she found diminishing within her body and her Trident.

It was a way few knew of, for they did not speak to the waves. They did not understand the whispers and secrets the ocean brought to her ears. They were little pieces of the past, impossibilities, of Gods given corporeal form.

The waves told her where to swim, which currents to take and she listened. Because the waves were her only friends in an ocean where she had none. That much had been made clear when Aeliana’s human scum had knocked the Trident from her hands and it had fallen into the water.

Many of her ‘loyal’ subjects had fought to the death to wield what was rightfully hers, what she had and would killing for. The Trident was the source of her power, a symbol more important than her crown itself. She would always remember what she’d almost lost that day. Tytan had gripped the Trident in his hands, his magnificent muscular body pulsing with power as he held the only thing that mattered to her.

And then he’d given it back to her.

If anyone was loyal, it was him.

And the waves.

She traveled for hours, for days she was sure, though the distance didn’t matter. The Tides guided her, pushed her until she arrived at the place she needed to be.

She rose up in the water, breaching past the surface of the ocean. Salt clung to her skin, her red hair pressing against her cheeks. She took in a breath of air and sunlight and despised everything about the sensation. The Siren Queen thrived beneath the water, and the air felt like a suffocating nuisance. But she bore it, eyeing the waterfall a few tail strokes before her. She held her Trident close, for she knew that this was a place of sacred divinity. It was a place for Gods, a place where the Tides themselves had been borne to the world.

With a powerful push of her tail, she dove beneath the water and passed the waterfall, the pounding pressure of it threatening to pull her under with violent arms, but she was stronger than even it.

She emerged on the other side and into a small pool, a cove. Land lay before her, and the echoing drip, drip, drip of the ceiling splattered onto the water and the earth.

She looked at the earth with distaste marring her beautiful features before she took a shuddering breath and lifted the Trident in the air with slow reluctance. She gripped it, for she wouldn’t dare to let it fall into the wrong hands. Not again.

She loathed to part with it, but it was necessary for what she wanted to accomplish right now. So she held it tightly, arched it over her shoulder… and she threw.

The Trident soared through the air in a powerful thrust, landing forked end down in the earth. The handle vibrated back and forth, the sound a musical whistle that echoed louder and louder throughout the cavern.

All the while, the Siren Queen chanted.

Ancient words, words brought to her by the waves who were older than time itself. Words no mere mortal could utter. Words that were too powerful to be tasted upon the lips of humanity, lest they face their very deaths from the choking force it provided.

And as she chanted, the scent of magic permeated the air. The song of the siren’s lure echoed, beckoned, enticed. The waters responded in kind. They rose high through the air as if from a deep slumber, like the dead rising from watery tombs, and they swirled, coalescing together behind the Trident.

The Siren Queen sang a summoning, a reckoning.

And she called forth her God.

The drain of such ancient magic was immediate. Her skin grew sallow, pale, her cheeks sunk into her skull, her body thinned. The beauty and allure, the illusion that wrapped around her faded. Her hair turned a dull shade of red, her eyes, a bright green-blue, lost their vibrancy. Gone was the creature that would make anyone crave their wildest desires, that would make men drown themselves without a care in the world. In her place was the monster that had sailors screaming in the night.

Teeth that sunk into hearts and flesh and seared through the bones of men glistened. The eyes that had seen power and weakness, the rise and fall of empires, death and life in equal measure, witnessed something that had not happened in eons.

The water flowed as vicious as a waterfall while it gave itself the ethereal form of a man. He was transparent, body composed entirely of the ocean, with twin holes where eyes should have been, and a mouth that twisted up into a blue smile.

God of Tides.

My Master, My God. Despite the pain, she managed to hum the words out and bow low and respectfully to her creator; the creator of all sea folk, and the gifter of the Trident she proudly wielded.

Rise, my child. When he spoke, his voice was the whispering roll of waves. It was water crashing to shore. It was the vicious riptide tearing through life. It was the hopeless, silent pleas as men begged for their lives only to have the waves drag them under. It was voice atop of voices. The siren’s song, the mermaid’s hum, the mermen’s clashing brute force, the selkie’s playfulness.

It was life

It was everything.

She was not worthy to be before him now.

Legends said Gods could not be given corporeal form. They were trapped within sky, mountains, volcano, tides. When the humans lost their belief in magic, the Gods withered and were stuck.

This was but a fragment of what her God could be.

I know why you have summoned me.

The Siren Queen could not look him in the eye. Her gaze darted below, where the bright green of her scales swayed back and forth beneath the water. The Blood Rite was ruined, my God. The sea folk are a fraction of what we once were.

He prowled forward, his body sinuous and enticing; she was entranced with his every solid movement. The children I created are dying. Becoming... human… He sneered the word with as much distaste it warranted. Because you allowed it so.

Her heart sped up. I did not. It was Aeliana. She--

A true King or Queen is to blame for their subject’s behavior. If Aeliana strayed, the fault lays with you and no one else. His voice was as cruel as a storm.

She bowed her head in submission. Tell me what can I do, my God? How can I fix my slight?

He neared the Trident, his phantasmal fingers stroking the handle of his greatest creation. Of the dull gold corroded with bone and coral. The kelp strings tied with the remnants of her kills. A finger bone, a rotting eye, a string of teeth...

His slick fingers slid up the ridges of it. They promised violence and desire.

She shuddered.

"There is one way to give me back what is mine, he whispered darkly. But everything comes with a price."

I will do anything, my God.

He made a sound, and it took her a moment to realize that it was laughter. So quickly you agree, he murmured, his palm closing around the hilt of the Trident and passing through. He yanked his arm away with annoyance. He could not touch, but that did not make him any less powerful or any less deadly.

I am your faithful servant.

Two gaping holes regarded her. Yes… You are. Very well. To restore me to my strength, and in turn grant it to the sea folk and you, the ultimate sacrifice must be made.

That was it? she wondered. A sacrifice? And what, she purred, am I to sacrifice?

Something simple, really. One thing. To achieve what it is we both want, you must sacrifice that which you love most. His fingers passed over the Trident and he took a step back, the water of his body rolling into a puddle.

It was how she realized the God of Tides was leaving her.

That which you love most…

His echoing words vanished in wispy smoke of steam as he disappeared.

And the Siren Queen lifted her hand in a shaking gesture and the waves obeyed. It lifted up to form into a hand, gripping the handle of the Trident and yanking it out to bring it back to her.

She would never sully herself by going on land.

She stared at the place the God of Tides had inhabited, puzzling out such a riddle, a part of her disparaging at what was required.

For the Siren Queen loved nothing.

And she loved no one.

Chapter 1

Noah Willkie stared down at the waves crashing against the bottom of the ferry. His forearms rested casually against the bars of the little red boat in a relaxed position, though his mind was anything but.

He had vowed to himself he would never return to his birthplace. And fucking fool that he was, there he went, returning to Blood Island, Maine.

He thought he’d seen the last of it at sixteen, when he’d stolen that man’s money, packed a bag, and hopped on the first ferry off the damn island to start his own life.

Away from the torture.

Away from the memories.

And he wouldn’t have come back at all if that goddamn police officer hadn’t kept calling. He thought when he moved far away, he’d washed his hands of this place entirely.

And then they’d dug everything he long kept buried back up.

He thought he’d put aside the nightmares, but one call, one mention of him and he felt like that scared child all over again. Defenseless. Alone.

But Noah wasn’t a fucking child anymore. He was a grown man of thirty.

And no one could hurt him ever again.

His therapist had suggested he face his demons. That he come back to the place he despised and lay his father to rest.

Besides, she’d said, that tight lipped smile in place, he stood to inherit everything the old man owned. That’s what the insurance lawyer had said on the phone.

Noah would have been happy if he’d burned the whole place to the fucking ground. Good riddance. But something had stopped him.

That something was probably the incessant annoying voice of Chief Detective Marx and the non-stop calls from the insurance company, beckoning him to come and settle the estate.

So there Noah was, trying to control the abnormal pounding of his heart as the ferry started jerking to a stop. He picked up his duffel bag from the floor of the deck and slung it over his shoulder, hand tightening around the strap.

He wasn’t looking forward to this, but the sooner he got it over and done with, the better.

As he stepped off the ferry, he took a moment to pause and inhale the sharp scent of the sea. The ocean was one of his better memories. He remembered so vividly what it felt like to walk along the shores with his toes buried in the sand. The freedom it brought…

He shook his head violently from side to side. It wouldn’t do to dwell on that stuff. He was here for one thing, and one thing only.

To put his bastard father to rest.

And with him, the memories of his past.

Hotel Maine was just like he always remembered. Extravagant. Back when he was a boy, he remembered it looking a bit out of his reach for a fisherman’s son. He’d watched the tourists the island attracted walk through those doors often enough. He just never imagined walking through them himself.

But he did, and he checked into a room, dropped his bag, and got straight to business. He hadn’t bothered renting a car when it was a frivolous way of spending money; the island was small enough that a lot of things were in walking distance of each other.

It only took him a ten minute walk to find himself at the local diner. The place looked exactly the same, he thought with wry amusement. Small towns didn’t welcome change, that much he knew with certainty.

The little bell over the diner dinged as he stepped through it and found himself a table. A waitress came over to take his order, smiling at him with exaggerated friendliness that he interpreted as flirtation.

Christ… he ran a hand over his face, scrubbing at the shadow along his jawline. He no doubt looked a fucking mess. He hadn’t shaved, hadn’t showered. It wasn’t like his reasons for being there were suit and tie worthy, precisely.

When the waitress came back and set the food in front of him, he gladly dug in, building his energy in the form of a burger and fries. His eyes darted slowly around the place, seeing if he recognized anyone he knew. Overall, faces here didn’t change. The old looked older and the young looked naive.

His eyes settled over an older man with a white beard and bald head who was eyeing him intently.

He quickly looked away, hoping the man hadn’t recognized Noah, because Noah had recognized him.

Hey, the old guy hollered. Hey, aren’t you Zachary Willkie’s boy?

Noah’s shoulders stiffened. He didn’t turn. Just pretend you didn’t hear him, he said to himself. It was better for everyone this way.

But the old man was relentless. He got up from his own table and came over to sit in front of Noah, his eyes practically boring holes through his face.

Aren’t you Zachary’s boy? he asked again, his voice gruff with accusation.

I—

What was your name again? Kyle? Corey? I heard your old man died. Sad day it was in the fisherman’s community…

He spoke, and all Noah saw was his mouth moving. And all he smelled was the stench of fish. It was a pungent odor that had his stomach tightening into knots.

Hands, rough against his skin. Pain… It was too much…

I think you have me confused with someone else, Noah managed to grind out past the rolling of his stomach and the pounding of his heart.

The old man squinted. You sure? You look a lot like Zachary. I could’ve sworn he had a boy who ran away…

Sorry, Noah cut him off. You’ve got the wrong man. He picked up his burger and took a bite, though it tasted like ashes on his tongue now. He couldn’t get past that fishy odor, tried to ignore the piercing glare of the old man’s eyes as he scrutinized Noah, from the hard angles to his face, to the sharp jawline and blond hair…

I don’t look like him, he said to himself. I don’t.

My mistake. The old man got up and gave Noah a pat on his shoulder. Thankfully, he didn’t flinch. Welcome to Blood Island, boy.

Never had he heard more unwelcome words.

You’re a hard man to track down, Mr. Willkie. Bright eyes regarded him from behind tiny spectacles. Smooth, long fingered hands shuffled through paperwork, pulling things out and sliding them in front of him. Your father didn’t have many possessions in his name. The house is insured in your mother’s name, and as you’re the only living next of kin, it belongs to you along with his truck and… Her eyes scanned a page. His boat.

Noah had been ready to sign papers and bolt. He hadn’t counted on the lady talking so fucking much. But at those last words, he leaned forward. Boat?

She nodded. "A trawler named The Reyna. He sought out a loan from the bank to pay for the fishing boat and came to us for insurance. He was able to pay it off right before he died. That now belongs to you as well."

The Reyna was still… well… alive? That boat had been as much a part of his childhood as the cruelty, as the sea itself, and memories of the helm, the deck… they’d followed him when he’d left the island and stayed to this day.

And it was his.

No.

He stopped his train of thought, cleared his throat.

He didn’t want it. He didn’t want any of it.

All you have to do is sign these papers to get everything transferred over to you. She set the pen in front of him.

He stared down at the dotted line. Then he looked back up into her face. No, he practically growled.

She blinked. No?

He shoved the papers away. I don’t want any of it. Let the bank have it.

His heart beat fast in his chest at his own words. The Reyna… that boat had been more a home than his actual house… But he had self-respect. He would wash his hands of everything from his past. Especially that.

But, Mr. Willkie, it all belongs to you, and the bank—

Burn the house to the ground, sink the boat to the depths of the ocean for all I care. I’m done here. He made a move to stand up, planting his booted feet firmly to the ground.

Mr. Willkie, please sit down.

No.

She pulled the glasses from her face. Without them she looked younger, prettier, the kind of woman Noah liked to fantasize about tying him to a bed and sliding her mouth over every inch of his body.

I understand this must be hard for you. It’s only been a few months, after all, but there’s no timeline for grief.

He fought back a snort. He was feeling something, and it wasn’t grief.

In fact, when he’d heard of his father’s death from that phone call so long ago, he’d expected to feel… relief. Instead, all he felt was hollow and empty.

I’ve seen people do rash things when they grieve. I’d hate to see you lose these things just because of rash decisions…

There was nothing rash about this. It was decided. He’d not sign the damn papers, and she and this whole island could go straight to hell.

But the woman leaned forward knowingly, compassion in her eyes. Take your time to think. Then she procured keys from a bag and slid them straight towards him. "Take the boat for a spin. It’s stationed at the docks.