Meraki: A Syren Story (Syren Stories Book 1) by Naomi Kelly

Author:Naomi Kelly [Kelly, Naomi]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-05-01T04:00:00+00:00

Thirteen

Like everything else in this stagnant world, my chambers have not changed in the slightest since I left. The familiarity of my room is not comforting; it’s stifling. I’m not the same girl who once resided here, and the far-away memories of her life smother me. The usual itch in my legs to run sparks once again.

Glancing at my legs, I realise the itch sensation could also be from the mortal pants clinging to my frame in its sodden state. Everyone else is in their finned form besides me, and although I consider remaining barelegged just to be stubborn, the weight of walking through water is exhausting. Instead, I open my coral closet and select my favourite indigo tail-skirted dress. I smooth the hem, pushing out any air bubbles. The fabric lies flush against me, feeling like a second skin.

Without even trying my magic slowly begins to drip feed into the skirt. Once it fuses to my body, it becomes a part of me, forming the much-needed tail for sub-aqua life.

A knocking call is sung outside my chambers and although I cannot see her, I would recognise that delicate voice anywhere.

Dove rounds the corner, beaming her wide smile, “I heard a certain prodigal Princess has returned.”

I dive across the room, leaving a stream of bubbles in my wake, “You have no idea how much I have missed you.”

She reaches out her arms and I immediately swim into her hug. No amount of time can erase this muscle memory. The feeling of how we just fit into each other’s hold. The old gods have a concept of soulmates, and although I do not fully understand the idea, I swear she is mine.

“Wow, those humans have rubbed off on you. Are you crying?”

Her laugh makes me cry even more as she gently prises me from her hold. She pushes a mound of hair out of my face, but it drifts back again.

“Even your hair is rebellious. Sit over here and let me fix this mop.”

Having never seen the mortal realm, she has endless questions for me. I answer as best as I can, sparing no details about how mesmerizing flames and candles are, how acidic pickles taste most importantly how frustrating men are.

“Do you remember the bereaved King who called for his family across the seas? Well, I met his son, and he’s equally as…passionate.”

“How could I forget? You went out nightly for weeks because you were afraid your mother would drown his rowboat. Gods, you were only a child at the time,” she smiles, before her face sours a little, “I mean, of course, we all were children.”

Sailors once coined the nickname “The Cicadas of the Sea,” for syrens, because we don’t have staggered age groups like mortals. Every seventeen to eighteen years new syrens are born like a plague. No one remembers how this tradition started, but the Queen suggests it maximises are harmonies within the choir and promotes loyalty as children are reared all together. The only person who can birth children outside of luring years is the Queen.

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