Siren Spell by Cidney Swanson
Author:Cidney Swanson [Swanson, Cidney]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Williams Press
Published: 2015-11-14T05:00:00+00:00
21
ILL MET BY MOONLIGHT
The bronze replica of the Little Mermaid of Copenhagen rested on a plinth set on a large rock, moss covered on all sides. Ten feet away, behind another large rock, Giselle crouched with her dog. Sasha’s tail was down, her ears back, and she refused to sit when Giselle murmured the command.
From her hiding place, Giselle could see James in his car, drumming impatient fingers against the steering wheel. He checked his cell and then exited the car, slamming the door behind him and strolling toward the riverbank of the Multnomah Channel, now bright with the newly risen full moon. Giselle could see his breath when he huffed out a quiet curse. For a moment, he stood, hands on hips. He checked the time again. Then, seeing a bottle lying on the ground, he kicked it, frustrated.
The corners of Giselle’s mouth turned up.
James’s foot hadn’t connected solidly with the bottle and it spun in lazy circles, coming to rest only a few yards away. Muttering under his breath, James strode to the bottle and hurled it into the river where it made a satisfying splash.
A strange sound followed the splash. A low, keening sound.
The hairs on Giselle’s arm rose. Sasha’s ears pricked forward and, very softly, she growled. A moment later, Giselle heard James yelp in pain. The bottle—the same one he’d thrown—had struck him forcefully on the shoulder. It probably would have drawn blood if it had struck him on the forehead.
“Who’s there?” called James. He looked from side to side, then squinted at the moonlit river. “Who threw that?”
“You did, mortal,” said a voice. Rough. Female.
Giselle knew that voice.
The back of her neck prickled, a lizard brain response warning her to run, flee, escape. Sasha growled softly, the sound almost blending with the noise the river made as it hissed past the gravel and sand of the shoreline.
The female voice spoke again. “We return to you what is yours, mortal.”
“Who are you?” demanded James. “Do I know you?”
As James asked the question, Giselle gathered the courage to look around the boulder blocking her from view. She saw them. Sirens. They shook out their long, wet hair, scattering drops over the river, on the shore, on James. One of the cold maidens reached down to choose a comb from the shore. She drew it through her hair. Giselle tried to count the creatures. There were several. A dozen. No, maybe more—there were white shapes in the river. Sirens or spilled moonlight, she couldn’t be sure.
Several of them approached James. Others ignored him, diving and surfacing in the river. Their garments or rags or mesoglea ran the length of their bodies and, when they dove, created the illusion of fluking tails.
“Listen,” called James. “I’m not trying to spoil your, er, fun.”
Was it possible James couldn’t tell they weren’t human? How could he not tell? Giselle wondered if she should warn him.
“But you should know the river is dangerous here. People have drowned in that current.” He was imitating Mr.
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