Sirens Unbound

by Laura Engelhardt

  “Take us back to the apartment,” Mira told the driver after they had both gotten in. “And do not hear or remember our conversation,” she commanded. Mira hadn’t been lying when she told Eli her apartment was close by. With their new documents, it had been fairly easy to arrange for a short-term lease in a furnished apartment building that catered to physicians and patients visiting Harvard Medical Center for extended stays. It was a bit further from the seaport than Mira would have liked, but convenient for their purposes.

  “Did you keep in contact with your mundane children after transition, Devin?” Mira asked while they idled in the traffic that seemed to plague every city Mira had been forced to visit.

  “No,” Devin replied. “Not really. I did check in on them from time to time. I went to my girls’ funerals, met my grandchildren. But it felt quite foreign. I was no longer really a part of their world.”

  “It’s difficult to slip in and out of your children’s lives,” Mira said.

  “I think it’s harder for a mother,” Devin replied. “My wife died when our active son was born. It’s hard to say now whether it was from natural causes or the midwife’s intervention. Lots of women didn’t survive childbirth back then. My sister lived in the same village. It was natural for her to take the girls in when my progenitor arrived, and I told them I’d found new work abroad.”

  “What about your son?” Mira asked.

  “There’s an empty grave next to my wife’s with his name on it. I didn’t raise him, of course. But when my grandson transitioned, I took his girl in. It was almost like a second chance.”

  “Your grandson didn’t make it?” Mira surmised.

  “No. I wasn’t swift enough. You might have thought I’d learned better after I lost my Catherine, but I was too far away. Boys are hard to keep safe.”

  “Yes,” Mira agreed.

  “Thomas is lucky.” Devin peered out the window of the car. They were inching along past orange construction cones, as the flagman waved their side of the street through.

  “Boys are hard to save.” Mira thought back to that terrible time. She’d had the benefit of having studied transition intently for years, so had recognized the signs of her power uptick almost immediately. Unlike many sirens, she was also able to accurately guess which of her descendants had made the change and knew where he was. “But finding his children was also hard. We lost one,” Mira said.

  “I hadn’t realized.” Devin looked at her. “Like a punch in the gut,” he said. “A loss that you never seem to get over.”

  Mira nodded. “I heard that the Indian Court is encouraging their latents to use mundane in vitro technology.”

  “That’s what I heard too,” Devin agreed, shaking his head. “Risky. Very risky.”

  “I guess they don’t think they have much to lose. Even with a mundane culture that supports arranged marriages, their population has shrunk more than ours has. Encouraging latents to donate sperm and eggs is fine, as long as they keep track of the recipients.” Mira tried to look on the bright side. But for all their worry about their declining population, the Indians had still not employed sufficient resources for the continuous monitoring of so many potential transitions. Their death rate was frankly appalling, but so far had not dissuaded the Indians from using in vitro fertilization technology.

  “They’d be better off trying to fix their population issue rather than pointing fingers at us. They’re worse even than the Pacifics when it comes to casting blame for Morgan le Fay’s spell.” Devin sounded aggrieved.

  Mira grimaced. “That’s only because the Pacific Court seems to have embraced the Cabal. You’d have thought they’d learn from our mistakes. But instead, they seem to have jumped right in where we left off.”

  “With another mage war brewing, Louisa is especially troubled at their closeness.”

  “I know,” Mira replied. “We need to repair our relationship with the Indian Court.”

  “If that’s even possible,” Devin said darkly.

  “Does Louisa feel the same way about mages as Atlantea does?” Mira wondered, thinking about the dangers the Cabal posed to the foolhardy Pacifics.

  “No one feels as strongly about mages as Atlantea does,” Devin snorted. Mira liked his sense of humor.

  “True. But you’re avoiding my question.” Ever since they had arrived in Boston, Mira had been trying to get a sense of Devin’s loyalties. While the Atlantics would need Louisa’s leadership if they did wind up fighting a war, her uncompromising protectiveness posed a risk to both Amy and Cordelia.

  “Louisa sees mages for what they are: weapons. But she’s bound to obey Atlantea, who won’t have anything to do with them.” Devin paused for a moment, as if sensing what Mira really wanted to know. “Mira, you know that Atlantea chose me for this task, much as she chose you? I wasn’t sent here by Louisa.”

  She hadn’t known that, and it did make a difference. But she still wasn’t sure how much she could trust him. Taking people at face value had cost her dearly on Atlantis, and Mira was resolved not to make that mistake again, not when its reverberations could put Amy at risk.

  “Atlantea often sends those she trusts to perform tasks that she doesn’t want to admit must be done.” Mira felt him out.

  Devin smiled, shaking his head in frustrated agreement. It could well be that, like Mira, Devin was one of those sirens Atlantea tapped for her odd jobs, giving vague guidelines and leaving you to intuit what she wanted. Even the transition textbook Mira had written came from Atlantea’s gentle admonition that if she was so unhappy with her own transition, she ought to make it better for others. Mundanes complained about their micro-managers, but Atlantea was impossibly handsoff. There had to be a happy medium.

  The car finally pulled up in front of their building, and their doorman ushered them into the lobby. While Mira had already compelled Matt to treat Devin with courtesy, he nevertheless glared darkly at him; Mira’s compulsions were nowhere near as strong as Devin’s. Matt did smile broadly at Mira, though, and without any prompting, hurried into the backroom to gather the packages that had been delivered for them today.

  As far as Mira was concerned, the only benefit to being in a city was the fact that anything could be delivered here. So much safer. But she had been glad to get out today. The two of them had been holed up in Boston for almost a week, and their forced idleness while they laid the groundwork for their assignment had been more draining than she’d expected. Mira was glad that tonight she would finally meet with Eli, and hear for herself what Amy was actually doing.

  As Mira again wondered how she could possibly protect Amy if she were indeed the pivot, a woman in a dark coat came through the revolving door. Since the doorman was in the backroom, it didn’t strike Mira as out of the ordinary until she dropped her purse and its contents spilled onto the floor.

  “You whore! You devil-spawned whore!” the woman hissed, pulling a pistol from her pocket.

  Mira’s reflexes weren’t nearly fast enough, and Devin was too far from them both. But just as the woman took aim, Devin jumped between them. The bullet meant for Mira ricocheted off Devin’s chest and drilled a hole right through the modernist painting hanging on the lobby wall. Belatedly, Mira dropped to the floor. But Devin hadn’t stopped moving. After blocking the bullet, he grabbed the gun from the woman’s hand, pulling her into his arms in one liquid motion. The woman’s eyes fluttered closed, and an expression of pure bliss came over her as the doorman ran back into the lobby.

  “What’s going on here!” he demanded. “Miss Mira, are you all right?” The doorman moved swiftly around the counter to kneel down next to Mira. Devin was whispering softly, words Mira couldn’t quite make out. The smell of beach roses bloomed, overpowering the acrid scent of gunpowder.

  “Yes, yes,” she stammered, allowing the doorman to help her to her feet. “I’m fine. Thank you. Devin, are you all right?” Mira was astonished that Devin was still standing. Mira had never seen a bulletproof vest that could not only s
top a bullet, but cause it to ricochet.

  “I’m fine,” Devin replied, releasing the woman and handing her back her gun, which she placed back into her coat pocket. “This is Ellen Prine,” he announced in a falsely cheerful voice. “She thought we were those talent scouts from California. She’s some actress!”

  “I’ll say,” Mira murmured.

  The doorman continued to fire off questions, which Devin answered in a calm voice. Ellen Prine appeared shell-shocked, staring at Devin as if he were the only person in the room.

  “Shh. Matt, it’s fine. It’s fine,” Mira’s voice shook, and she cleared her throat, hoping to be able to project the same soothing sound that Devin was casting. “I’m fine. Just a silly stunt gone wrong.” Mira laughed, and her voice sounded far away to her. She needed to sit down in a safe place again. “Matt, I truly am fine. Let’s let Mrs. Prine head out to find the talent scouts. She got the wrong couple, and the wrong building. She’ll never come back here again. Right, Devin?”

  “Mrs. Prine is leaving,” Devin agreed. “Ellen, you will never threaten Mira or me or anyone else ever again.” The sound of waves crashed in the distance, and Matt frowned.

  “Matt, you won’t report this to anyone,” Mira commanded. “Just a silly stunt. In fact, isn’t there security footage?” Matt nodded. “Why don’t you get us our packages, then go and erase it. It wouldn’t do for people to think something happened that didn’t really.”

  Once Ellen left and Matt had handed Devin their packages, they were finally able to get into the elevator. As the doors closed, Mira exhaled sharply. “I’m shaking. No one has ever gotten this close to me before.”

  “Never?” Devin sounded surprised.

  “I usually avoid cities. But being in Boston is a lot more dangerous than I expected,” Mira said, swallowing. “I could use a drink.”

  “Me too.”

  Their apartment was decorated in a bland modernist take on corporate chic. The white walls, white chairs, and white sofa seemed far colder and less friendly now than when they had first arrived. There wasn’t even a colorful throw pillow or modernist painting to soften the starkness.

  Mira went straight to the window in the living room, yanking the blinds open. This was the main reason they had chosen this particular apartment. Even though the building was in the middle of the city, they could see the harbor and ocean beyond from every window. The floor-to-ceiling glass may have presented a challenge to mundane furniture placement, but it made Mira feel like she could step out into the sea.

  It was too dark to see more than a glimmer of light on its moving surface, but Mira watched the lights move with a numb intentness as Devin opened the packages in the kitchen, then poured their drinks. Mira turned around and tried to smile, though it she knew it was weak. Some agent she was; well, she had warned Atlantea that she wasn’t right for this. While she had lived for almost two decades in mundane society, she had never actually been attacked before. Not like this. Either the world had changed, or Atlantea’s protection all those years ago had been far stronger and better hidden than she had realized.

  “Irish whisky,” Devin said as he came around the counter with two glasses. “It’s a long pour, but I think we both need it.”

  “I certainly do,” Mira agreed, taking a long sip. The liquor burned in her throat. She could tell that this body had not yet built up any tolerance to alcohol. “How were you able to stop that bullet?” Mira asked, feeling more centered now that they were in a safe location, and she could at least see a glimmer of ocean.

  “I brought some of the guards’ toys with me. Just in case. A good thing, right?”

  “Right. So, what kind of toy?” Mira asked, a rueful smile on her lips, “And do you have one for me?”

  Devin laughed then, and Mira joined in, feeling a sudden giddiness as the adrenalin from their near-death escape drained away and the buzz of the whiskey took hold. “I brought three,” he said.

  Mira raised her eyebrows quizzically.

  “In case we need to do an extraction,” Devin answered her unspoken question.

  Mira felt her eyes begin to tear up at his thoughtfulness, and she pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth to stop them from flowing. While it was highly unlikely she would even need to meet with Amy, let alone extricate her from some kind of danger, Mira was nonetheless touched. “So, is it something you’re wearing? It’s some kind of magick, certainly,” she speculated.

  Devin spun in a circle. Without his overcoat on, Mira could see that what she had originally thought was a priest’s cassock only resembled one. While the mandarin collar had a white underlay, the cut of the black, vestment-like robe was actually quite different. It was straight on top, with loose, but not voluminous sleeves. When Devin turned, she could see the inserts of fabric that made the skirt full; a priest’s robes were typically not so voluminous.

  “This is bullet-proof. No, there isn’t any metal woven into the fibers, so it’s safe to wear around the fae. The Möngke who live north of the Gobi ruins make them. From what we hear, their spell-weaving techniques are unique. These robes can stop most but not all bullets — an M4 at close range will shred it — but they are the best modern armor we have.”

  “And here I thought you were smart to wear a priest’s collar, since it might cause a man to pause for a moment before attacking.” Mira moved closer to get a better look.

  “Well, certainly that’s why I stuck in this white insert.” Devin smiled tightly. “It wasn’t part of the original design.”

  “How do they work?” Mira asked, reaching out her hand. Devin obligingly raised his arm so she could feel his sleeve. The fabric didn’t feel any heavier than it appeared. It seemed slicker than pure cotton, but didn’t have the sheen of silk.

  “They’re the same as bullet-proof vests. Just put one on and pray that the Möngke weaver mage is still alive if a bullet heads your way. I hadn’t anticipated the ricochet effect, though. Going forward, we should both wear them in case a deflected bullet bounces like it did downstairs.”

  Mira winced at the thought of another attack, and worried at potentially injuring a bystander by trying to protect herself. She hid her discomfort by focusing on the design. “Why robes?” she asked, and Devin shrugged.

  “It’s wasteful to buy anything tailored for those of us who transform. The ones I brought are the kind typically sold to the Arabians. The Australians prefer fussier styles. But fashion aside, I think these are better than the Aussie ones. The Arabs insist on multi-mage spells, so these robes probably won’t totally fail if one of the casters dies.”

  “I’m surprised I haven’t heard of them before. Shouldn’t all our people be wearing them?”

  Devin drained his glass and set it down before responding. It suddenly occurred to Mira that he was paying very close attention to her; sizing her up, perhaps. But she had endured transition; an attempted murder was nothing compared to that.

  “Louisa has been stockpiling for the apocalypse, and most sirens never venture into a mundane city. Look at you — after Cordelia was born, you high-tailed it out of New Jersey and into that tiny island town in the Carolinas. Now you’re holed up in an isolated fortress on the Brazilian coast when you aren’t running errands for Atlantea.”

  “You seem to know a lot about me,” Mira said.

  Devin looked at her scornfully. “I’m a professional; I do my research.”

  Mira looked at Devin levelly. He was standing directly between her and the door at parade rest. It wasn’t just his preternatural agility, no matter what form he took on, that made him a soldier. More than just a soldier, certainly. While there was no official rank in Louisa’s cadre of warrior-spies, Devin was a leader, to be sure.

  Whatever his loyalties, Mira was suddenly spectacularly grateful that he was here. She downed her drink and smiled broadly at him, the alcohol making her a little unsteady on her feet. “Could I have one of them now? After all the incidents today, I don’t even want to open the door to t
his apartment without wearing it.”

  It was nearly six, and they only had an hour before Dr. Eisner showed up. Mira was betting that he’d be able to tell her all the details of Amy’s research. Maybe he’d even know something about her life. She sat down on the couch while Devin went to get the robe. Looking out at the dark sky, Mira felt a wave of homesickness so strong, a sob caught in her throat. Of course, she had left the home she missed so desperately a lifetime ago. But she didn’t want to think about that; get the info and get out. That had to be her priority.

  Part Two

  Siren Surgeon’s Sight

  Genetically, sirens are more mage than fae, but as with all constructs, they are limited by the confines of their constructing spell. Sirens cannot perceive magick, and active sirens are only able to cast the spells bequeathed to them as part of their original design. Similar to all other mage-constructs, mages cannot counter-spell the effects of sirenic magick. However, sirens are unique in that their fae heritage renders the fae unable to counter the effects of their magick also.

  – Sirens: An Overview for the Newly-Transitioned, 3rd ed. (2015), by Mira Bant de Atlantic, p. 34.

  Chapter 12

  A knock on her office door startled Amy out of her deep concentration on the monitors in front of her. She rubbed her eyes, which blurred as she changed her focus from the MRI images on her screens to the doorway ten feet away. “Come in,” she called out, and was extremely glad when Ted Riccie opened the door. “You’re back!”

  “I am indeed. Elder Simon finally let me leave.” Ted made a face.

  It was the Monday before Thanksgiving, and Ted had left well before Halloween. Amy had started to wonder if he were ever coming back. She was gratified that Ted seemed to be almost as frustrated with his absence as she was.

  “How’s our patient?” Amy asked, standing up to clear the papers off her guest chair so Ted could sit.