Sirens Unbound

by Laura Engelhardt

  “Amy’s interests or inclinations don’t really matter,” Atlantea responded bluntly. “We always thought that the only way the Atlantic would be drawn into a mage war would be through alliances. And given how carefully I’ve avoided forming any official alliances, it is perhaps through blood ties that we might be bound into the coming conflict. Your daughter may well be the pivot on which the war’s outcome will turn.”

  “I highly doubt Amy could be the fulcrum that changes the course of any war. She is completely fixated on her work. Always has been.” Mira’s heart pounded as she tried to persuade herself that this was a mistake.

  Atlantea smiled sadly. “The Danjou must think it possible, else they wouldn’t have sent their best via-enchanter to work with her. I’m not sure which is worse for her, really: if she is the pivot, or if the Danjou merely believe she is.”

  Atlantea was right. If the enclave believed Amy were the pivot, they would stop at nothing to ensure she swung their way. Even when an outcome was predestined, mages always believed they could change it. “Have you thought about what we should do about this?” Mira asked.

  “I’ve thought about what we shouldn’t do,” Atlantea smiled grimly. “Louisa commands my armies because she eliminates threats. A pivot in the hands of the Danjou would be an uncontrollable risk.”

  “Telling Louisa about the Oracle’s words would be a death sentence for Amy.” Mira swallowed.

  “And unlikely to change the outcome in any event,” Atlantea agreed. Mira kept her face quiet as she reminded herself again that Atlantea didn’t care about any of them as individuals. She was so totally focused on the survival of the Atlantic as a whole that they were all expendable pawns. If Atlantea thought assassinating Amy would reduce the risk of them being drawn into a mage war, she wouldn’t hesitate — despite her quasi-friendship with Mira.

  “I suppose we need more information about what is happening in Amy’s lab,” Mira admitted. She was so worried now that it was hard to think clearly. Losing her daughters was a wound that had never healed. Damn Morgan le Fay to hell! She couldn’t even warn Amy about the risk she was facing. Thomas’ singular transition had changed everything; no siren her age should have to transform with every fertility harvest!

  “We need more information,” Atlantea agreed. “But I’m not ready to share the Oracle’s verbal prophesy yet.”

  “You didn’t bring me here to talk to the courtiers or even to soothe Cordelia,” Mira accused, as she finally realized what Atlantea was about. “You want me in Boston.”

  “Can you think of anyone better suited? This is too important for both of us.” Atlantea’s gaze shifted over Mira’s shoulder, as she focused on a point out in the distance.

  “Someone trained to be your spy,” Mira suggested.

  “We are the only two sirens who know about the pivot. I doubt the Danjou elders shared the prophesy broadly, and the Oracle will only state their words once. Prophetic speech isn’t even written down anymore — not after what happened to Oedipus. Attempts to avoid one’s fate have always rebounded in a worse way. You have always kept my secrets, Mira. This is too important.”

  “Don’t ask me to do this,” Mira pleaded. Lying to her children had been hard, but cutting Amy and Mary out of her life had been even harder. Of course, on specific occasions she had briefly intervened, as if she were their guardian angel. But all of her brief interludes in their lives had been to help them; to keep them safe. Atlantea was asking her to help the Atlantics. She had to know that if asked to choose between her children and the Atlantics, Mira would choose her children.

  “There is no one else I can trust,” Atlantea said bluntly.

  “I won’t choose you over her,” Mira declared.

  “I know,” Atlantea said simply. And indeed, Atlantea knew. That had always been the condition of Mira’s service.

  Neither of them said anything for a moment. The tension that had built in the room slowly faded, now that Mira had accepted Atlantea’s demand and Atlantea had acknowledged the terms under which Mira would fulfill it.

  “Withholding knowledge of the Oracle’s words is prudent,” Mira finally said. “But withholding your reasoning for dismissing Cordelia is not.” There. She had tossed down the gauntlet. If Atlantea wanted her in Boston, she could at least explain why she asked Cordelia to resign.

  “You never wanted Cordelia on the High Court,” Atlantea temporized.

  “But you put her on it anyway, and she has exceeded your expectations many times over.”

  “I have my reasons,” Atlantea said.

  “Close-lipped as ever,” Mira remarked. “Don’t you think Cordelia is entitled to a better rationale than a lack of siren progeny? Even as ignorant as I am of politics, that sounds weak.”

  Atlantea snorted at the idea that Mira was ignorant of politics. “The old guard will find that a perfectly adequate explanation, Mira. Many will take it as a sign that Cordelia finally has her priorities in order — that she has given up her relentless campaign on behalf of the Reconcilers, and is accepting reality and the status quo.”

  “And why is that important? All of your obfuscations simply make matters worse,” Mira declared.

  “It’s time Cordelia grew up,” Atlantea stood up and started pacing. It was a sign of how open she was being with Mira that Atlantea would allow her to witness her at anything less than her usual self-contained demeanor.

  “Being a courtier was good for her. I don’t regret asking for her service, though Zale insisted she was too young. Zale was an old man even when we were both in our first century.” Mira noted that Atlantea strode with the same cat-like grace that Cordelia had. Perhaps Cordelia resembled her much-removed grandmother more than she had previously realized.

  “Zale doesn’t understand that experience can only hone the natural ability you have to begin with. Our Cordelia is blessed with an abundance of natural ability,” Atlantea continued. Atlantea had always claimed Cordelia as hers. While barely acknowledging other sirens in her line, Atlantea had claimed Cordelia practically from the moment of her birth. Somehow, Cordelia seemed oblivious to that fact, though it hadn’t been lost on the rest of the High Court.

  Everyone knew that Cordelia had Atlantea’s favor, and that knowledge had eased her entry into the cliquey and polarized Court. With Atlantea’s tacit backing, Cordelia had built alliances and showcased her clear thinking and sincere service. Her innocence had somehow become part of her charm, as opposed to a source of aggravation to those courtiers who had been less privileged.

  “Cordelia has benefited from her work on the High Court, but so have you. No one else would have been able to act as your lightening rod for the reconciliation movement without being crushed by the old guard,” Mira said.

  “She went too far the other day. I can’t lose the old guard while we’re on the verge of a mage war. And I don’t want to lose her, either.”

  Mira was a little alarmed by Atlantea’s view that Cordelia was putting her life at risk by advocating for the Aos Sí. Perhaps it wasn’t just Cordelia who was naïve; Mira never would have expected a siren to face assassination over what seemed to her, in the grand scheme of things, a relatively minor disagreement.

  “And telling the old guard that she’s having another baby to leave on someone’s doorstep will somehow calm their concerns?” Mira asked.

  “She should have had at least four children by now,” Atlantea snapped, annoyed by Mira’s constant harping over one of the basic aspects of siren society. Sirens didn’t really abandon their mundane babies; they made sure their children were well cared for and deeply wanted by their adoptive parents. Active sirens had no choice, really: it was cruel to separate from the child at puberty, when they began to feel the impact of sirenic magick.

  “And yes, it will satisfy Vincent at least, and Vincent will persuade Louisa to stay her hand, convince her that Cordelia is no longer a threat. Perhaps Cordelia will use this as an opportunity to do what she thinks is right, instead of wastin
g decades talking to people.” Atlantea sat back heavily in her chair.

  “You think she’s too cautious?” Mira asked. “Too bound up in the trappings of politics?”

  “She’s too American,” Atlantea said flatly. “She spent too much time in civics class learning about your style of democracy to be effective. I wish you had come to Atlantis when she was born.”

  Mira didn’t bother replying to that. They’d been through this argument before. “If you would simply tell Cordelia what you expected, she would do it. You know she would.”

  “Telling her would defeat the point of her standing on her own feet. Her instincts are wrong, and I won’t be around forever to tell her what to do. As important as the Reconcilers and old guard seem to think the Aos Sí problem is, ensuring the next Atlantea is strong enough to protect the ocean is the single most important thing there will ever be.”

  Mira secretly thought Atlantea’s ego had run amok a bit, but she would never let her know that. “So you’ve set her up to either act on her own, without the Atlantics’ support, or to hide away for a while, schmoozing with the Mediterranean as if she were Thomas, while the rest of the High Court prepares for war.”

  “You are not to tell her any of this,” Atlantea commanded.

  “I’ll tell her that you were concerned about her safety from the old guard, and stress that you can’t afford to lose anyone with a mage war on the horizon,” Mira countered.

  “Fine, fine,” Atlantea waved her off. “When will you head to Boston?”

  “I’ll leave soon.” Mira leaned back in her chair, looking out over the perfect day outside. She would need the calm of an ocean swim. Atlantea was right; she had to find out what the mages wanted from Amy. Mira watched Atlantea sip her coffee, resolutely pushing aside tomorrow’s problems. Atlantea seemed somehow frail, despite the impossible perfection of her appearance. It showed in the way she held her coffee cup: all of her motions seemed more deliberate than usual.

  Mira hadn’t been on Atlantis in almost a year, but Atlantea was wearing the same visage she had the last time she had been there.

  “When was the last time you left Atlantis?” Mira asked.

  Atlantea snorted. “I don’t remember. It’s been a while.”

  There was a wistful tone in Atlantea’s voice. If Thomas’ transition had ultimately cost Mira her ability to carry on the pretext of being human with her mundane daughters, Cordelia’s birth had cost Atlantea the ability to travel among humans generally. The power surge that had come with it had turned Atlantea’s voice into a compulsive force, whether or not she intended any coercion. Her mere presence in a room with a fertile male was enough to drain him; and any fertile woman who saw her was driven to violence. Mira might have lost her daughters, but Atlantea had lost her freedom.

  “You need a vacation,” Mira said. Atlantea laughed at that. A genuine laugh that quickly faded. Mira reached out and clasped Atlantea’s hand. “You need more friends,” she said. “You’re completely isolated here. I don’t know how you do it.”

  Atlantea took a deep breath. “I have the sea,” she said.

  “Yes. But as much as it talks to you or cradles you or even comforts you, it isn’t your friend or lover. Seriously, this can’t be good for your mental health. At least you used to get out from time to time. You haven’t left Atlantis — even to visit the fae — in over a year. I’m going to Boston for you. I’ll get more information. Let your courtiers take some time to digest the news and present you with some plans for once. You go and traipse through the Taiga, visit Jarl Georg, I don’t know. But get off this rock for a while.”

  “I tell everyone we’re facing a mage war and then head off on a vacation?” Atlantea asked incredulously.

  “I’d hardly view visiting the Siberian fae as a vacation. Ninety percent of your High Court would rather visit the Aos Sí than set foot in the Taiga. Anyway, your courtiers would just think it’s related to war preparations. I know you like Num, and Thomas still raves that no faerie throws a party like Nga.”

  It had been Nga’s disagreement with the Aos Sí that had erupted into the Third Mage War so long ago. Double the size of the U.S., and yet somehow the Taiga’s massive expanse of boreal conifers still wasn’t big enough for a few million fae. Mira may have embraced her duty to preserve the fae, but she found their penchant for self-destruction absurd.

  “You remember the oddest things,” Atlantea said, but she looked out the window into the distance, and Mira could tell she was seriously considering it. “I haven’t thought about Num in decades.”

  Mira thought Atlantea was lying. Atlantea liked Num; over the years, she had told Mira more about him than any other faerie. Num, like Atlantea, rarely made contact with humans. Since Atlantea couldn’t seem to let down her guard amongst her own people, and couldn’t be around humans for long, that really only left the fae and the weres.

  “Think about it,” Mira suggested. It couldn’t benefit anyone to have Atlantea isolated, alone, and stewing in a mixture of her two greatest fears: mages and warfare. “Maybe they’ll tell you something you don’t know. At the least, you’ll have a change of scenery. And perhaps coming back with a strong new look will remind everyone that you are still the Atlantic’s protector.”

  Born sirens differ from transitioned sirens in several key ways, including a more gradual maturation process that extends through childhood and adolescence. Siren ‘puberty’ occurs around the ages of twelve or thirteen, when a born siren first develops the ability to take and bestow fertility. This is a dangerous age, the time when the siren’s effect on fertile members of the opposite sex changes from one of almost paternal adoration to unbridled lust. It is highly discouraged to bring adolescent sirens into mundane communities. Born sirens need time to adjust to their changing powers, and in this modern age, affected humans often struggle against any feelings of desire for a child. Such humans may even seek to harm the object of their desire, rather than experience what they consider to be an ‘unnatural’ sensation.

  – Sirens: An Overview for the Newly-Transitioned, 3rd ed. (2015), by Mira Bant de Atlantic, p. 79.

  Chapter 10

  “I hope you drained him,” Devin spat in disgust when he saw Mira’s new appearance.

  “Of course,” she said, scowling. She looked like an underfed twelve-year-old girl now, with long, white-blond hair and enormous blue eyes that were almost cartoonish in their size. Mira reminded herself to be grateful for finding this mark. Perhaps it was divine intervention.

  At least after encountering her, he would never be troubled with the urge to have sex again. In this instance, perhaps, Aphrodite’s spell was a blessing for more than just the fae. Ever since Thomas had transitioned, Mira had become powerful enough to consume more than her mark’s fertility: with some effort, she could also completely suck all sexual desire and drive from him. This was not the first time she had been grateful for that added ability.

  “I need to change again before we leave.” Mira felt incredibly vulnerable. Arousing men in the guise of a twelve-year-old, while simultaneously stoking violent hatred in women, was perhaps the most dangerous situation she could be in. Transformations were always shocking to one degree or another, but this was the worst transformation she had had in a while. No siren could control what form they took, and she didn’t yet have the knack for predicting what kind of deep-seated fantasy a man might have. She didn’t know whether a mark dreamed of the girl next door, a porn star, or a child. Hence this debacle.

  Devin had transformed first. They had arisen from the water, to the shock of a middle-aged woman seated not five yards away. She had been perched on a foldable stool in front of an easel, painting the sunrise, when they emerged. She froze, her brush mid-stroke, her mouth gaping like a fish.

  Unlike Mira, Devin didn’t have any compunction about taking fertility. Humans had stolen the Earth from the fae; the least they could do was to give back such a small thing. Mundane fertility was legendary: while all other sentien
t species struggled to reproduce, mundanes flourished to the extent that they risked overpopulating the planet. In any event, Mira assuaged her guilt by reminding herself that the woman was nearly forty and unmarried. It was possible, but unlikely, that she would have wanted a child anyway.

  But Mira’s new form, more than her need to aid the fae, necessitated that she change again, and quickly. Devin took her hand in an effort to seem more fatherly than predatory to any passersby. Despite being one of Louisa’s warrior-spies for over fifty years, he seemed anxious. Cautious, perhaps. They were effectively behind the lines, in enemy territory, and Devin was well-aware of the risks.

  Mira adjusted her wool shawl while she hiked up her loose (and now extremely oversized) wrap dress she so she could walk. After most transformations, this dress style typically hit her new figure anywhere from an inch above to three inches below her knee. This time it was floor-length, and she was tripping over the hem in her far-too-large flip-flops.

  They were in Pope John Paul II Park in the Dorchester neighborhood. It was a weekday, around six-thirty in the morning, and the park was sparsely populated; only a handful of joggers and cyclists had crossed their path so far. Last night they had crossed the Atlantic, arriving in southern Boston via the Neponset River. Given the amount of time Atlantea expected them to spend here, they needed to exchange favors with the local fae to help them build their identities. It was too difficult nowadays to breeze into a Western city without identification, credit cards, or any form of electronic paper trail, and get a decent hotel room, let alone an apartment. Fae glamours were ideal for passports, driver’s licenses, credit cards, and even cash.

  The sun glinted off the river to their right. It was a cooler morning than they were used to in Atlantis, but unseasonably warm for early November in New England. A male jogger in a color-blocked gray and yellow windbreaker and leggings finally emerged from around the bend in front of them and started to slow down as he approached. When he drew closer, Mira could see that he was middle-aged and wearing a wedding ring. Perfect.