Siren's Call
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Published by EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® at Smashwords
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2019 Katherine McIntyre
ISBN: 978-1-77339-976-8
Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Editor: Audrey Bobak
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To the loners and the misfits.
SIREN’S CALL
Discord’s Desire
Katherine McIntyre
Copyright © 2019
Chapter One
The leaves crunched under my feet as I stormed down the street. I clutched my messenger bag a little tighter and lined up by the telephone pole, my shoulders trembling like the brittle tree branches as the gusts of wind blew through.
Two years, but I never complained, even though the pay was crap and the customers were jerks. Fired and all because of Dave. Smug bastard screwed over anyone who wouldn’t screw him. The balding little creep had hounded me ever since Billy and I split up a couple of months ago. Good riddance to both of them.
I rubbed my bare arms as another gust blew through. The town lights were twinkling and stores began to flick their neons on. Where was this bus?
A paper fluttered on the telephone pole, one of those hastily scribbled adverts with a serial-killer scrawl.
A punk show in Jefferson City? Now that was a rarity. These people were either the worst marketers ever or looking to raise hell. I tugged the flyer loose and scanned it. Tonight only, the band Babykiller would be opening for the main act, Discord’s Desire. I lifted the paper, ready to crumple it up, but stopped.
The subtle glow that ringed the paper and the exotic perfume wafting off it sent my supernatural radar into overdrive. The flyer was saturated with a fae glamour meant to reel any average humans in the second they spotted it.
Unfortunately for them, I was the weird rarity.
Magic, glamour—none of that stuff affected me. I’d been seeing weird shit my entire life—fae, satyrs, centaurs, nymphs—everything that walked around disguised as humans. For some reason, their voodoo never worked on me.
Not the best ability when the rest of the world thought you were insane. After my first ten encounters with therapists trying to talk me through delusions and my “cries for attention,” I gave up and bounced from city to city until I moved all the way out here. Biggest perk of living in the middle of nowhere? Less chance of bumping into any of those supernatural weirdos, which meant I could live a semi-normal life.
I stared at the flyer, cursing its existence. Should I ignore this invitation and leave well enough alone? Of course, but now my curiosity was piqued and I had to find out why supernaturals wanted to muck around in Jefferson City.
The bus approached in the distance, the groan and squeak of the brakes echoing over to where I stood. As I stepped onto the bus, I yanked my cell phone from my pocket.
Time to call Viola.
****
The kitchen light cast a couple of dim rays over my living room. A couple of weeks back, the bulb inside my coffee-table lamp had burned out, but I hadn’t bothered to change it. Dark shadows created ample tripping opportunities, from stray heels to stacks of old Heinlein novels.
I fumbled my way to the bathroom, tugging on the pair of boots I’d found in the process. The fluorescent light accentuated the yellow sludge on my walls, a gift from the chain-smoking prior tenants.
I tugged my hair out of its constricting ponytail as my mind raced with all of the problems that came with losing a job. Rent on this shitty apartment? Screwed. Bus fare to go interview for new jobs? Screwed. Food? Unless I start eating roadkill, I’m pretty screwed.
I needed a distraction. A drink, a good tumble, anything—even this sure-to-be-trouble punk show.
The eyes staring at me in the chipped mirror spelled murder. That was what happened when you got sacked without just cause—one pissed-off chica looking to blow off steam.
I picked out a quick ensemble from the piles of clothes stacked around my bed. Low, tight-fitting v-neck, a pair of beat-up cargos, and my combat boots. I figured my thrift-store dreads would fit right in. I ran a comb through my tangled brown waves until the strands were a little less limp and a little glossier. Heavy eyeliner, check.
A knock sounded outside my door.
Had to be Viola. I gargled cinnamon mouthwash and spit it into the sink before stalking the five paces to my door. Before I reached for the doorknob, the door flew wide open. I blinked, staring at the five-foot-tall pipsqueak standing before me. She’d done something to her hair … curled it until her short strands were poodle-perfect, and she’d attached a pair of glittery falsies to her lids, giving her eyes more bang for their buck.
Combined with the neon-pink dress that covered little of her thighs, the magenta leggings, a light-pink sweater, and the pompom earrings, Viola delivered more of a fluffy-puppy look than whatever she’d intended.
I tilted my head to the side, the first smile of the afternoon hovering on my lips. Viola caught my grin and laughed in return.
“Like my outfit? I’m going for counterculture. By showing up to a punk rock concert in the least punk-aesthetic outfit possible, I’m the most punk person there.” There was a mischievous glint in her eyes.
I snorted and poured day-old coffee into an empty mug lying on the counter. Not even a jolt hit me as I chugged the coffee-flavored sludge and wiped my mouth with my forearm. The caffeine kind of stopped working when you drank a potful a day.
“Can I skip ahead to the part where I have a job again?” I ran my hands through my hair, trying to ignore my looming headache from this lack-of-job business.
“Dave’s a twatwaffle. Fuck him.” Viola rested on my chair, boots on my rickety coffee table.
I grabbed my purse from the table. “Yeah, well, the not-fucking thing is what got me canned.”
“Eh, not worth the nasty. He was a creepy little worm. Although it couldn’t hurt for you to hit the town for some tail. What’s it been, like twenty years?” Viola glanced my way, swinging her legs onto the floor. “Your claptrap’ll get dusty, darling.”
I gave her a level look. “Thanks. Times like this I remember that friendship is masochism.”
Her grin widened as she strolled to the door, curls bouncing with her walk. “That’s why you love me, Liz!”
I followed her out and locked up. As we walked down the corridor, our footsteps echoed all around us like the marching of a thousand angry men.
****
One of the pluses and minuses of living in a small town was … well, how small everything was. Of course, there was one place that featured real music outside of the banjo and twangy crap played in barns.
The Red Door was our one decent music venue and most times of the year, local bands clustered there looking for ever-elusive fame. Like any talent scouts would be out our way.
A bright-red door marked the place and the wide windows displayed their café, which was swarmed by the teenagers of this town on a regular basis. On weekend nights, some tart would be wailing away on her acoustic guitar, but on rare occasions—and I mean rare—there’d be a variation to the music, like a metal or punk rock band.
With the umber streaks of fading suns
et mingling with ashy clouds, the night was dark. Darker than usual, at least. I, for one, was glad I’d chosen pants after watching a gaggle of girls giggle as they clicked across the street in their heels.
Viola strolled with me, looking poodle-tastic as we marched our way to see which one of these bands dabbled in fae business.
Viola strode in first and the overhanging bell clanged with our entrance. A couple of slim guys sat at one of the tables, books out but no one reading. One look at the titles and I snickered. Of course—Hemingway, Salinger, and the sort. These were wannabe elites who, once they popped on big-boy pants, would be infiltrating New York with their pretentiousness.
The floorboards vibrated to the beats pulsing downstairs. Jamie sat behind the counter, hunching over in his seat and not paying attention. He stared at something below the countertop with the same intensity a librarian would read their favorite book. “Hey, jack off on your own time,” Viola called out.
His head whipped up, long strands of hair covering his face. The reddening of his cheeks incriminated him. Ugh. And Viola wondered why I hadn’t gotten laid in so long. With champions like this all across town, I had slim pickings.
Once every month or so, Viola made the hour-long trip to the city, widening her dating-pool options, but for me—well, I’d moved to the middle of nowhere to avoid cities. Cities bred strange sights that led to counseling sessions and padded rooms.
“The show going on in the basement, Jamie?” I palmed a couple of crinkled dollar bills and shoved them his way.
Still trying to recover his shredded dignity, he chewed on the filter of his cigarette as he gave me change. No eye contact, of course. Viola wasn’t so keen on letting him off the hook.
“Any good spreads at least? Please don’t tell me you’re jerking it to Playboy, because that’d be a disappointment.”
I bit down on my lip to hide my smile. Jamie gritted his teeth, took her money, and ignored her. We walked toward the music pulsing from the basement.
“You didn’t have to torment him like that.” I nudged her shoulder once we were out of sight.
“Oh, but I did. Who could waste the opportunity?” The dark steps down to the basement cast her face in shadows, but there was still enough light to glimpse the mischievous gleam in her eyes. At least with a friend like her I was never bored.
Voices threaded raw with half-screams and shouts to the audience assaulted my ears the second we hit the final steps. Jamie must’ve pulled out the dark-red lights for ambiance, coloring the rusty basement the color of old blood. I blinked in surprise once I turned the corner to face the crowd.
Packed. Was that possible in this town? All young folks too, not the normal smattering of old drunks lining the bar and the few people my age halfheartedly fist-pumping to the music.
Shows in this town ranged from awkward to just pathetic. Unless the band was country, in which case most families turned up and stupid broads lip-synched all the words.
The smell of Old Spice mingled with body odor and bourbon, creating one confusing inhale. Babykiller was the opener and this much of a crowd had already shown up? I’d thought I’d caught a whiff of messed-up juju from the flyer and many of these people backed up my theory.
Viola and I snuck in, elbowing past a couple of people to lean against the wall. Folks with armbands, good leather jackets, and neon-dyed hair crowded most of this place.
I could guarantee half the crowd wasn’t from here. The townies stood out like sore thumbs with their rolled-up flannel shirts and torn jeans. Even better still, a real live mosh pit had formed, filled with thrashing guys and flying fists. My heart skipped a beat with the excitement of violence, of anything new. All my pent-up anger and frustration pulsed in my chest, throbbing with the music and rising with the crescendo of the guitars.
I ordered a beer and popped the tab, knocking back the watered-down sludge as if it were nectar. This, this was what I needed tonight, regardless of what general weirdness was going on around here. Viola stood there with a smirk on her face as the general populace gave her a wide berth.
The punk rock community couldn’t process her pink poodle-y self.
The air was heavy, humid. It reeked in the perfect way, giving the atmosphere much-needed gravity amidst the chaos. The door shut again as a couple more guys wandered in.
I scanned the audience, surprised by the amount of eye candy in here tonight. A normal walk around town gave me a scope of long-haired hick guys, older toothless jerks, and overweight or over-muscled slouchers. Tonight, however, I spotted lanky limbs, shaggy hair, and intelligent eyes everywhere I went. All the things that sparked my interest.
Babykiller wrapped up their set with one final blaze of the guitar and the crowd roared, fists flying in the air and shrill whistles piercing through the noise.
I chugged the remainder of the beer and crushed the can on the wall.
Viola flashed me a smile. “Getting into the spirit, Liz?”
“You betcha. If I get to punch a manic, lanky jerk in the face, my night will be complete.” I gave her a fierce grin, still riding off the energy of the crowd.
The folks settled to their regular chatter while the band dissembled their equipment and made way for the headliners. No one made any motion to leave, though, so these folks weren’t Babykiller’s audience. Everyone was here for Discord’s Desire. If my senses were correct—and they always were—these guys would also be the ones bringing their weirdness around town.
Viola eyed me. I knew she was curious about what was going on in my brain. The girl had a sixth sense when it came to my feelings and with the way my jaw clenched, I broadcasted tense like crazy. I was hoping she’d chalk my nerves up to my lack of a job.
When I’d first met Viola, I’d thought she was like me and could see supernatural stuff, but when I probed a little, I hit the obvious roadblocks about New Age crap, energy healing, and all that. However, those factors made her more open-minded than most when I got caught staring at a horned fae that no one else saw, or refused to talk shop with the sluagh—spirits of the restless dead—hell-bent on causing problems in the town. Not like I saw much out here.
Even though the stage was dark, the shadowy figures drew my attention the second they emerged. The guys bustled in and out as they set up the stage. Their metallic equipment flashed when it caught the light.
This would be Discord’s Desire. I sniffed the air, still getting the aroma of sweat and woodsy fragrance—nothing changed except the lighting, which mingled blues in with the red beams that breezed through the audience.
Their lead stepped in front of the microphone and did a sound check. “Test, test, one, two, three.” The man had one of those dark, deep voices, the kind that made men listen and women shed their clothing.
However, his vocals had a different effect on everyone else. The room quieted. It went from chatter, shouts, and hollers to pin-drop silence. I leaned against the wall again and crossed my arms over my chest.
This should be different than your average punk show.
Four guys stepped onto the stage—a drummer, a bass player, a guitarist, and a vocalist—a usual set for a rock band. My senses were sharp at this point. I’d been on alert for the strange ever since I stepped in here, but witnessing my first helping, I wasn’t going to miss anything.
What would they be? Fae? Nymphs? Dryads? I’d seen them all and left most towns because of them. This was the first place I’d been in for a long time where I hadn’t had a single sighting.
Tension that had been building in my chest all day intensified. It wasn’t enough that I had to lose my job for unjust reasons but now my peace was at an end—at least if these folks planned on sticking around. Because I refused to be the crazy person amidst all the normals again, unable to tell anyone about all the weird crap I was seeing.
The spotlight flashed onto the band and the humidity in the room skyrocketed. Not only that, but the scent changed. Still Old Spice, still sweat, but now a distinctive smell permeated
the room—sex. It was as if every person in this room—male, female, straight, queer—got flipped on and the pheromones were suffocating.
I snuck a glance over to Viola. Eyes wide, hands clenched, and bracing herself against the wall. Yep, Miss “I’m so sensitive to energies” was in heat.
An annoyed groan slipped from my lips and I turned my focus to the stage.
The men shifted back and forth between forms like a jigsaw puzzle of half-glamour and half-real. Their guises were beautiful, of course. Sharp, angular chins, strong noses, dark, soulful eyes. These men wore drop-dead sexy suits. As I stared at them, the shifting between forms began to fade, as it always did when I saw them for what they really were.
The singer was some type of fae. Shaggy, dark hair that reached his chin, and his ears were long and pointed, his teeth sharp. The drummer was a satyr, planted behind the Yamaha custom build with his drumsticks in hand. His horns gleamed under the spotlight and his eyes danced with wicked promises of what he’d do if he got you in bed. The guitarist stood at the ready, straight out of GQ with silver hair that gleamed, wisps of some aura radiating off him. His appearance was a bit off, though—maybe it was the predatory gaze he swept over the crowd, or how his teeth appeared too perfect.
In the back, their bassist—who was at least six feet tall—hunched over his bright blue bass. I squinted, trying to discern what he was.
The sleeves ripped off his t-shirt displayed muscled arms, the lean kind a swimmer would have. His dark hair fell in waves to his shoulders, curling around his ears. The greenish hue to his skin could’ve been from the blue lights, but I didn’t think so. He had color that the others didn’t and along his throat, I caught slits opening and closing. Gills? His light-blue eyes roamed over the audience with a hungry curiosity that made me shiver.
Siren's Call Page 1
