by Kelly Powell
Standing this close to him, I feel Jude tense. “What is it?”
Peter rests a hand on his shoulder. “There’s been another siren attack,” he murmurs. “I hear the body’s still on the beach.”
“Who?” asks Jude.
“Not sure. Police are down there now, I think. A couple more officers just left.”
I squeeze Jude’s fingers. He looks over, wide-eyed, the laughter dashed from his face. Setting his jaw, he turns to Peter. “I’ll see what’s going on.”
“Right.” Lifting his hand from Jude’s shoulder, Peter rubs the back of his neck. “I thought you may need to write it in some report.”
I watch him edge his way back toward the stage. Jude’s hand tightens on my waist. “Moira,” he says.
I hiss out a breath. “I know.”
Another murder.
Without pause, without letting go of each other, we leave the light of the hall behind us, taking off into the night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
DUNMORE’S SHADOWS PLAY tricks with my eyes. Every alley seems a gaping hole, every reflection off a shop window like the flash of a knife. A gust of wind sends leaves skittering across the cobbles, making Jude start horribly, and the adrenaline in my veins surges in response.
I feel watched.
“Moira,” says Jude. “God, Moira, it’s just… It’s just like…”
“I know.”
“I’m going to be sick.”
“You are not.” I tug on his shirtsleeve. “We can still catch the police if you hurry up.”
Yet once we reach the pathway to the moors, brambles and low-hanging branches slow our progress even further. Jude says, “That’s two people now. Two. I mean—” He stumbles in the dark. As I throw out a hand to steady him, realization hits me.
“The killer wasn’t anyone at the dance.”
“That rules out Warren and Imogen.” Jude ticks them off on his fingers, then hesitates. “Flint?”
“I didn’t see him.” I bite my bottom lip, trying to think. “He was in the back room when I came in, but after… I thought he’d be onstage after me.”
Jude runs a hand over his mouth. We continue walking in silence, the unknown spooling out ahead of us. Clouds shift across the night sky, the moon shining through, casting its pale light onto the long grass and heather.
Softly, Jude asks, “Do you think it’s another child?”
I remember Connor—his body left in the wet sand, his throat stained red—and a shudder travels up my spine. The thought of finding something similar tonight pinches my stomach. “We oughtn’t assume anything,” I say.
Jude swallows. I hear the click in his throat.
We pass up and over hillsides until we reach the flat stretch leading to the cliffs. Picking up my dress, I dash forward, and Jude runs after. We both skid to a stop near the rocky edge.
The police are still there, all right. Five of them—two with lanterns in hand—stand over the crumpled body. They remind me of spirits, ghosts circling the dead, until one of the men lifts his lantern, shedding light onto the lines of his face.
Inspector Dale.
“Aye,” he calls. “Who’s there?”
I start down the wayward path, slow and careful. Jude answers before I can.
“Jude Osric,” he says, “and Miss Alexander. I heard there was an accident on the beach. Came as quick as I could.”
Another of the men, Detective Thackery, turns as we get to the shoreline. His white teeth flash in the darkness. “We’ll have the relevant information wired through to you, Mr. Osric.” He looks at the both of us, and his eyes linger over me, no doubt questioning my presence. “We’re waiting for the coroner. Nothing more to be done, I’m afraid.”
“Who is it?” I ask. From this angle, I can see only a tangle of long brown hair, the twisted fringe of her dress. Lantern light glints off the blood pooled around her body, shades of black and crimson.
An officer, fair-haired and young, replies, “Miss Nell Bracken.”
Beside me, Jude makes a soft oh sound. I set my gaze on Inspector Dale. “And you’ve already determined it was sirens? Were there witnesses?”
I see him look quite pointedly from me, to Jude, and back again. No doubt he’s expecting Jude to do something about me; when Jude remains both silent and unmoving, Dale heaves a sigh. “An anonymous message arrived at the station,” he says, “but that’s hardly any business of yours.”
I fist my hands at my sides. “I believe it’s every islander’s business, indeed, if—” A hand comes to rest on my arm, and I pause, glancing at Jude. He shakes his head slightly.
Inspector Dale clears his throat. “I’ll have to ask you to leave the area, Miss Alexander, Mr. Osric. The situation is in police hands, I assure you.” He touches the brim of his hat, his gaze steely as he regards us.
I spin on my heel, making my way back up the path even as Jude murmurs in reply. A moment later he follows after me. On the moors, a cool breeze tugs at my hair, brushes over my bare arms, and I hardly feel the chill. If I unclench my fists, they’ll start shaking; if I speak, my words will hitch. So I don’t do either.
“She’s dead,” Jude whispers finally. “Nell’s dead. I thought—” He stops, takes a breath. There’s a quiver in his voice when he asks, “What are we going to do?”
Something inside me breaks then, like a branch snapped underfoot. I stare down at my boots, dark and scuffed in the moonlight. “I can’t stand it, Jude.”
He says nothing, for which I am grateful. Wonderful, quiet Jude Osric, always the listener. The night is still, and I want to sink down beneath the soil, to sleep for a decade.
Jude’s hand reaches across the space between us, as if to take hold of mine, but he falters at the last moment, stuffing it into his trouser pocket.
“We should’ve kept an eye on her,” I say. “I should’ve known when she didn’t show up at the dance that something was wrong.”
“We’ll solve it,” he says.
“Will we?”
Suddenly I’m not so sure. The threads I’ve spent days lacing together unravel in my mind; loose connections held in fragile balance begin to slip.
Jude stops walking, and I look back around. His face is shadowed, his expression unreadable. “Don’t,” he says, and it’s a voice I’ve never heard him use before. “Don’t start doubting now, Moira. Not when…” He hesitates, only to ask, “Can I trust you?”
I nod, not entirely understanding his train of thought. “Of course.”
Jude nods too, as though steeling himself. His eyes look black in the darkness. “There’s something I need to show you,” he says. “Something secret.”
I pause, thinking of the cracks in the lighthouse walls, running through white plaster, each said to hold a secret. I think of Jude standing on the cliff’s edge, watching as he threw a slip of paper into the sea. I think of Connor knowing something he shouldn’t and someone taking a knife to his throat.
“All right.”
And we continue on, walking toward the glow of the lighthouse beacon.
* * *
It doesn’t occur to me what secret Jude could be referring to until he leads me through the cottage, to the door at the end of the hall. It’s the space below the guest room, one that echoed with thumps and voices in the night. I turn to Jude. His hand trembles where it rests on the knob.
“I heard you that night,” I tell him. “You said you weren’t talking to anyone. That I was dreaming.”
Fear darkens his eyes. “I must confess I lied.” Then he asks his previous question, but in reverse. “Do you trust me?”
“With my life.”
The words surprise me. With my life. It’s true, yet I wonder just how long it’s been that way.
Jude’s gaze falls from mine as he knocks twice, softly, against the wood. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a key. It looks smaller, older, than the one used for the front door. He turns it in the lock. I hear the faint click as it catches. Glanci
ng back at me, he says, “I’m sorry, Moira.” He swallows and lets the door swing open.
I stare into the room.
It is cold inside, and dark, the one and only window shuttered up. Moonlight sneaks through the gaps, sliding across the floorboards in silver lines. Dust hangs in the air, and it’s as if the chamber has been forgotten: an unused space that has fallen through the cracks. The space, however, is not empty.
I stare into the room for a long, long time.
When I look back at Jude, he hangs his head, though I cannot say whether it’s in shame. He seems to be waiting—for me to shout at him, or hit him, or run down the hall and out of the cottage entirely. Instead, I am frozen. Slowly, unwillingly, my gaze returns to the darkness of the room, to the figure cast in pale light by the moon.
Jude Osric has a siren locked away in his lighthouse.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
SHE IS THIN, her skin ghost white, long black hair matted with knots. It is not these features, common enough among sirens, that are unusual about her appearance. It’s the look in her eyes, hollowed and empty—lost in a way I’ve never seen a siren to be. She sits against the wall, atop several quilts laid out on the floor. In the corner, there is a length of rope, the glint of a chain. They must’ve once been used to manacle her. Pale scars mark her face and arms, the long, straight edges of a blade. I turn away.
“Please tell me… you did not do this.”
“My uncle,” says Jude. His voice sounds unsteady. “I didn’t know anything, Moira. I tried to…”
I take a step into the room. The siren watches me with dulled interest, tilting her head to one side.
“How long?” I ask.
“Just… just over a year.”
Another step, and the siren pulls back her lips in a quiet hiss, revealing thin and pointed teeth. I’m afraid to ask why she does not sing, why the shuttered window is not cracked through from the sound of her voice. But I say it anyway. “Why hasn’t she begun to sing?”
Jude is very still behind me. If I didn’t know better, I would think he wasn’t there at all.
“Her tongue was cut out.”
Yes. Yes, that would do it.
I walk out of the room, pausing in the arch of the door. I look at Jude, but he doesn’t meet my eye.
“And you did nothing?”
He looks up at that, indignation sparking in his gaze. “I tried, Moira.” His fingers knot around his shirt cuff, his breath shuddering out of him. “I was sent over to the offshore light for a few months after Mr. Irving took ill. When I came back, my uncle—he showed me what he’d done.” Jude stares past me to the open doorway. “He said he did it to avenge Da, like… like an eye for an eye, but this is the last thing Da would’ve wanted. I know that.”
I swallow hard. “Your uncle is gone, Jude. Why is she still here?”
“That’s what our argument was about. Before he left, I told him we should let her go, give her back to the sea.” He shakes his head. “He laughed, said it wouldn’t matter even if we did; she wouldn’t survive a day. What with…” Jude gestures with one hand, as if trying to convey the damage inflicted upon the siren, everything she has endured. It’s a rather poor attempt.
“When I saw those dead sirens on the dock, it just reminded me of her being trapped in here.” His mouth twists. He scrubs hastily at his eyes. “I bring her raw meat from the butcher’s. I try to… I try to give her a bit of peace.”
I grit my teeth. “She is suffering.”
Jude looks at me with a lost expression. His shoulders sag, as though the heaviness of his burdens is the weight of an anchor, pulling him down into the cold blackness of the sea. “What else am I supposed to do?”
My heart thuds inside my chest, the steady rhythm at odds with the rest of me. I place a hand on his arm. “We’ll return her to the sea,” I say.
“She’ll die out there. We can’t—”
“Sirens are not solitary creatures, Jude. They’ll care for her. I’m sure of it.”
He closes the door, shutting the siren away. His hands are still trembling, but his expression is no longer so bleak. His eyes shine bright and feverish. “And if we’re caught? What then? We’d have to carry her all the way down to the harbor. The police might still be on the beach.”
I tip my chin up. “We shan’t get caught.”
Jude laughs, a single, broken exhale.
I forge on. “We’ll have few better chances than tonight. Most are still at the dance; the harbor will be empty. We’ll go without a light and take your rowboat out.”
Closing his eyes, he links his hands around the back of his neck. I watch him in silence, the downward tilt of his head, the tense line of his shoulders. He swallows and says, “Very well,” before reaching under his shirt collar, drawing out the plain iron ring he wears on a length of cord.
I narrow my eyes. “What are you doing?”
“I’ll not touch her wearing iron,” he says, looking over. “Do you have any on you?”
After a pause, I shake my head, realizing I’d left what iron I had in my coat at the hall. Jude passes me the corded rope. “Take this, then. It’ll have to be enough for both of us.”
I bite my lip, uncertain, even as I slip it on. “Jude, you can’t get into a boat without iron. The sirens—”
“I know,” he says softly, “but I won’t—I won’t hurt her.”
I curl my fingers around the ring. Never would I imagine that Jude might head out onto the water iron-less, as his family did all those years ago. Never would I imagine that I might let him.
My gaze returns to the closed door. The wood looks black as oil, there’s so little light in the hall. I take a slow, even breath.
“We’d best get going,” I say. “We have until dawn.”
* * *
Before we set off, Jude tends to the light. He disappears into the tower to check over fuel, trim the wicks, wind the clockwork. While he does, I collect a thick wool blanket from the drawing room, then wait for him in the kitchen. I stare out at the darkness beyond the window glass, his iron ring like a weight around my neck.
Jude enters the kitchen wearing his wool sweater over his dress shirt. He has his oilskin jacket with him and offers it to me. I have to roll back the cuffs a couple times to free my hands. Together, we walk through the cottage and stand before the door at the hall’s end.
I pass Jude the blanket. Taking it, he opens the door, stepping into the room. I watch from the doorway—as the siren tips her colorless face up to his, as Jude kneels in front of her.
“Hallo,” he says gently. “It’s me; it’s only me.”
He wraps her in the blanket, taking her into his arms.
“Are you all right with her?” I ask.
“Yes.” Jude’s voice is hollow as he turns to me. “She’s very light.”
The siren’s eyes are wide-open and dark in her pinched face, but she remains quite still in Jude’s arms. I look away, heart hammering, and make a start down the hall. Jude follows after, and we step out into the damp night air.
This past evening, I’d left the lighthouse with my violin in hand, Jude Osric at my side, the sunset warm and lovely along the horizon. Now I’m here as mist carpets the moors, bundled up in Jude’s jacket, while he stands holding a scarred siren to his chest.
Fear splinters my bones. We head for the stone walls that mark the way to the harbor, and I imagine the police coming upon us, someone waiting on the docks. Reaching the cliff’s edge, I survey the beach, but I see no lanterns in the darkness. I hear only the rush of the surf, the breaking of waves against the rocks.
I say, “They’ve gone,” yet I whisper as though we’re not alone. I glance back at Jude, and he looks as pale as the siren, his eyes just as wide.
We take care on the wooden steps down to the docks. Jude’s boat is tied neatly to a cleat; I fetch the oars from inside the boathouse. Jude gazes out at the stretch of blue-black sea, his breaths quick and uneven in the quiet. I can see the beat o
f his pulse at his throat.
His grip tightens around the siren. “Moira, if you would…”
I nod. “I’ll row us out.”
Settling into the boat, I untie the rope from the cleat and lock the oars into place. Jude sits facing me, and I’ve some childish, desperate urge to grab him by the sleeve, as if my hold could protect him as well as iron, as if I could keep him in the boat once a siren sang to him. The siren in his arms shifts, her attention fixed on the water. What a strange thing it is, seeing her so close. Her clawed hands curl around the edges of the blanket, her lips parted to show her needle-like teeth. She could scratch Jude’s eyes out from where she sits, but perhaps she isn’t strong enough for that. I imagine she’s been kept on land longer than any other living siren.
We push away from the dock, and I row out into the bay. The oars scrape my hands, but I concentrate on keeping them balanced, the heavy thwack as they hit the water in time with each other. My arms soon tire, sooner than they would had I not spent so much of the evening playing violin. In front of me, Jude has his head down, whispering to himself or to the siren; I can’t hear him over the wash of the breakers. I pull the oars from the water, resting them against the gunwales.
“Quickly,” I say. “Release her here.”
Panic crawls up my throat, lacing into my words. Our boat in the otherwise empty bay surely hasn’t gone unnoticed by sirens. Now that I’ve stopped rowing, I’m all too aware of the night, of the dark depths below us. I wonder if they already realize Jude is iron-less, if they’re watching him…
He lowers the siren over the side of the boat. She pulls free of the blanket, flitting into the deep, swift and silvery as a fish. It happens so fast, both of us are left staring down after her, motionless even as the boat begins to drift.
Jude moves first. He gathers up the blanket, the wool now soaked through and dripping. Looking to me, he says only, “I’ll row back.”
I pass him the oars. He steers us back toward the island, toward the beam of his lighthouse on the cliffs. I put my arms about myself, pressing my fingers into the cotton of his jacket. We dock at the harbor, and Jude helps me out of the boat before securing it to the cleat. His expression is unnervingly blank, but his silence is what truly worries me.
