Siren Daughter

by Cassie Day

  “Please help her. I must bargain for all of the sirens, but Desma needs to be well first.”

  He sighs. “Promise me.”

  “Promise you what?”

  “Promise you’ll free your sirens. Promise you’ll begin changing Prasinos.”

  A chill ripples across my skin, raising the fine hairs on my arms. Changing Prasinos. His goal or Nyx’s?

  “I promise.”

  “I may be death, but I’m not cruel.” He inspects his nails, bitten to bloodied, jagged skin. “Your Desma will be feeling better. And I suppose—”

  He pauses, face filling with mischief. “I suppose you’ll need some relief yourself for this bargain to succeed. Consider it done.”

  I nearly sob with relief. Not at the ache in my bones dulling but at Desma saved for now. At his kindness. His willingness to forgive.

  Yet he’s staying distant. Why? For my sake or his?

  I shiver. The trick of the light minutes ago...was it real?

  No. Her necklace didn’t shine. Only my tired eyes mixed with imagination.

  “I’m glad we’ve gotten ourselves sorted out.” He claps, startling us. “And here I thought you’d break my heart worse than Heracles did.”

  Heracles? The hero of legend who both suffered by Hera’s wrathful hand and lived to complete more tasks than any thought possible. So many Aunt could spend weeks telling the stories.

  The child Cosmas’ life spared—Zeus’ half-god son. For the first time, I wonder what will happen to him. Will he follow in Heracles’ footsteps?

  “Don’t mention Heracles,” Charon says, scowling.

  “Why not?” I glance between them.

  Charon’s frown deepens.

  “He beat Charon with his own boat oar once.” Thanatos grins, covering it quickly by rubbing a hand over his face.

  Charon growls. “There’s a reason I don’t use one anymore. But you were tricked into chains by him, remember. How did he distract you again?”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  Charon talks over him, grinning with all his pointed teeth displayed. “He took off his shirt.”

  “And I’m leaving.” Red creeps onto his cheeks. Smoke surrounds him in a seething whirlpool, obscuring him entirely. “Tell the idiot siren how you feel. No one can stand being around you two anymore.”

  Charon takes a menacing step toward the smoke. “Screw you.”

  “Go screw your siren!” Thanatos cackles, smoke swirling in wider loops.

  For gods, they’re no better than immature children.

  My throat burns. I cough, waving the smoke away, but it’s no use. With each breath, my head is fuzzier and my senses duller.

  I stumble, bumping into unseen furniture, until plush cushions are beneath my palms. Charon’s bed. I sit and lean forward. My head lands between my knees. I cough until my lungs ache.

  The smoke begins clearing, sucked through the large window against the far wall. A crisp breeze gusts in, lifting hair from my forehead and cooling the sweat left on skin. I gasp for the fresh air like a fish returned to water.

  “Children,” I rasp. “You two act like children.”

  Charon sighs, his silhouette appearing through the leftover smog. Half in shadow, he runs a hand over his hair. “He’s an annoyance.”

  As the smoke clears wholly, he stops a hand-span from my knees. Half of me is tempted to grab him by his rumpled tunic and pull him down. The other half flames pink at the thought. My face burns.

  “The same could be said for me, I suppose,” I say.

  He tilts his head. For the first time, there’s a glimmer of resemblance between him and Thanatos. Something in their avian mannerisms and crooked smiles. Though they’re not related by blood, Charon is born of pure Chaos. Nyx is the same. Thanatos, as her son, is close enough.

  “You’re not an annoyance.”

  I raise a brow.

  He smiles, the crooked one for me and me alone. “Not too often, anyway.”

  But his smile drops. He shuffles away, remembrance to be cold toward me returning. Gods, I can’t bear this anymore; can’t bare his careful distance nor his iced-over eyes. One day since our argument and already I miss him. His warmth, his comfort, his compassion.

  So I listen to the part of me I often ignore.

  I pull him close by his tunic, threading the fabric tight between my knuckles. He stumbles. Our knees touch. Even through two layers of cloth, his warmth spreads as a slow shiver across my skin.

  “I’m sorry.” I speak to the coarse fabric of his tunic, my head bowed.

  He runs a hand across the crown of my head, fever-hot. “I know.”

  The silence stretches taut. I try not to cry. For all his knowing, there’s still a barrier between us. One I can’t touch but feel regardless.

  His tunic dampens beneath my cheek. I haven’t tried hard enough.

  “You have to let me go.” His hand never stops stroking across my hair.

  My heart fractures into shards. I have one chance. Just one. There’ll be no more half-lies or omitted information. I’ll tell him the truth.

  “I can’t lose you.”

  His throat clicks in a harsh swallow. He hunches over. His arms drape across my shoulders. “Because I’m an asset to your plans.”

  It should be a question, gods it should, but after all I’ve done he truly believes those words. I pull him closer, muffling a sob in his tunic, and breathe in his river water scent.

  “No, to Hades with the plan. I will be Nyx’s pawn no longer.”

  “Then why? Why bother with a mere deity when you stand among gods?”

  I push him away. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. My vision wavers with building tears. I stare at his wide-eyed face. His hands rest on my shoulders, the tendrils of pitch stark at the corner of my sight.

  “You are kind and supportive and loyal. You are enough, Charon.”

  And to his stunned, slack-jawed face, I tell another truth. “Because I love you.”

  Before now, I’ve never admitted it aloud. Never dared think it to myself. Yet the moment I say it, I know the words are true.

  I love him.

  I love him, I love him, I love him.

  “No one has ever said that before,” he croaks.

  I could joke. I could divert his attention. Instead, I look at him straight on. “They should have. I should have.”

  “Agathe,” he breaths, something like awe lacing the word.

  All at once, the barrier is gone. He might not forgive me entirely, not yet, but I intend to whisper I love you as long as he’ll have me.

  I pull him with a sharp tug. He falls. Elbows, knees, and skin; so much I can barely tell our limbs apart when he lands atop me.

  I sink back into his plush bed, the silken sheets, and smile. “What now?”

  He threads a hand through my tangled hair. I wince, hissing. By the time I stop, he’s close enough for our noses to brush.

  My eyes flicker bright. His turn molten gray.

  One blink. Another. Then we’re kissing. I sink into him. His taste, tongue, and the feverish warmth of his mouth. His lips are chapped. Has he been biting them?

  He swipes his tongue against my lower lip. I forget everything. The world becomes the rapid-fire heart beat beneath my hand and his hands bracketing my hips.

  Chapter 31

  DUSK SLINKS ACROSS the room.

  I yawn until my jaw pops. Then roll onto my stomach until my hand hits the still-warm sheets beside me.

  Nothing.

  No warm body. No Charon.

  I bolt upright, heart in my throat. Clutch the sheet against my bare chest in a grip so tight one of my knuckles cracks.

  Where did he go? Surely he wouldn’t leave. Right? He kissed me. He wanted this. Right?

  The gossamer curtains surrounding the bed shift with a breeze from the open window. Shivering, I pull the sheet tighter and clench my teeth. Search for my discarded dress, the necklace still on the windowsill, and my sandals thrown ac
ross the room. I find them but can’t make myself leave the bed. It’s still warm.

  The door slides open. I lean forward, peeking around the curtains. Charon steps into view, a golden platter balanced in one hand and a silver jug carried in the other.

  He smiles with kiss-swollen lips. “Hungry?”

  I flop backwards, bouncing on the mattress, and flip the sheet aside. Throw an arm over my burning face. How could I think he’d leave? He’s Charon. My Charon.

  I grin. “Starving.”

  The bed dips beneath his weight. I move my arm aside. He leans over me, his usually black hair lit with brown highlights from the blazing sun.

  He pecks my lips. A tantalizing brush of lips and heat. Then he’s across the room dividing the food onto two plates.

  We eat in silence, my calf twisted around his. I drape a sheet over my shoulder to combat the dusk chill. The sugared dates are sweet but his smiles sweeter.

  Sighing, I lean back in my chair, running a hand through my wild hair. “I have to talk to Desma.”

  Even if I dread it, I don’t say.

  But he must see something in my expression. He leans forward and nods. “I can go with you.”

  I'm shaking my head before he finishes speaking. “I should do this alone. An apology is much more genuine without my lover menacing nearby, don’t you think?”

  He grins. “Menacing? I do no such thing.”

  I pout. His eyes drop to my lips. “You know you do.”

  He leans forward. I inhale, waiting for another of his drugging kisses, but he only wipes sugar from the corner of my mouth with a thumb.

  “I do,” he says, leaning back. “And you’re right.”

  “Can I have that on paper? With your signature?” I snort a laugh. “It’d be useful when we argue in the future.”

  His smile softens, suddenly bashful. “You thought so far ahead?”

  “Of course.” I reach a hand across the table. “I do love you, you know.”

  Our fingers tangle together, palms fitting neatly together. “I know. I love you too.”

  I point a thumb over my shoulder, toward the bed and its mussed sheets. “I figured.”

  I try for humor but know my face fills with the warm rush of affection sweeping through my chest.

  The sun has settled completely behind the vast shroud of night sky when Charon settles the shoulder pins of my dress back in place. His chest leans fully against my back. I shiver beneath the play of muscle against my skin. His hand scrapes against my neck with each pin slotted into place.

  I inhale, trying to stave off the worst of my desire.

  He leans closer to settle his mouth beside my ear. “You have to leave.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or.” He turns my face through a gentle grip on my chin, enough so I see him nodding at the bed.

  My face flames even as I grin. “Would that be so bad?”

  He sighs. I shiver at the sensation against my ear.

  “You’re putting this off,” he says.

  I’m tempted to banter and push at his patience until he throws me back onto the bed. But I remember Desma—her tense shoulders and pointed silences.

  I groan. “I know.”

  He steps away. The cold night air from the window freezes my skin. When I linger, trying to lean back into his warmth, he swats me away with a shove to the small of my back.

  I pout the entire time I collect the necklace still on the windowsill, clasp it on, and strut to the door. If I put more swing into my hips than usual, well, he doesn’t call me out on it.

  “Agathe,” he says, gaze pointed at the ceiling.

  “Fine.” I huff, opening the door. A smile lingers on my lips.

  I told him I loved him. He said it back. Desma won’t believe me when I tell her. Or maybe it’ll be like we’re children again: me talking at her while she ignores me with deliberate silence.

  I run a hand over my face.

  “Go,” Charon says.

  I glance back, sticking my tongue out at him. He laughs. The boyish light it brings to his face, how his nose crinkles upward—I’m helpless. I rush back and steal a kiss.

  He deepens it for one long drag of his lower lip. Then I’m shoved away again. I grin, turning. He swats me on my bottom. I hop forward, squawking like a startled bird, and he starts laughing all over again.

  “Go!” he says through his laughter.

  “All right.” I try my hardest not to look back.

  Still, I glance back once. His eyes, warm and sparking with affection. He furrows his brows, mouth trembling with another laugh, and waves me away.

  I grin. It falls into a smile the further I venture from his room.

  Though I know these halls, the statues and the turns, my stomach cramps the closer I get to our room. By the time I’m standing in front of the door, the back of my knees are slick with sweat. My hands aren’t any better. I wipe them on my dress to no avail; they’re instantly damp again.

  Hours ago, I stood at the door to Charon’s room expecting the worst. Yet he forgave me. Here I stand again, though at a different door, and I can’t imagine Desma lending me an inch of forgiveness. Charon was fond of me at the start. I can’t say the same for her.

  Unbidden, her kelp forest cave flashes in my mind. My mother writhing in pain from labor. How long since I remembered? How long since I grieved? Between grasping for my wants and losing more, always more, I think I forgot how.

  Despite everything, despite all of my loss, I’m happy.

  Isn’t it strange? How, in the midst of living a life with death stamped clear across it, can I find happiness at all? I can’t say if my mother would be glad. I can’t say if she would approve. My mother is dead.

  But Desma isn’t. I swallow, throat tight, and open the door.

  The hearth fire leaps at the gust of air from the opening door, blazing hotter before settling into a dull roar. A log succumbs to the flames. Embers leap onto the marble floor, smudging it in shades of glowing orange and soot gray.

  Sweat drips down my back, sticking my dress to my skin.

  The sickness returned to Desma with its biting, constant cold. While I won’t suffer the early signs, Desma thinks she can. She hasn’t noticed Thanatos’ help yet.

  I’m across the room, banging on the bathroom door, within three blinks. Something is wrong. If she hasn’t noticed, something is wrong.

  Pounding at the hardwood until my hand aches, I shout. “Desma!”

  Silence. Complete silence.

  I wait. My heart thunders in my ears. Then I brace my weight against the door, shoulder first, and shove. The door doesn’t budge. The lock remains firmly in place.

  If Charon was here, he could slice through the handle with his claws. But I can’t leave. My feet are rooted to the ground.

  “Desma.” Shouting, “Desma!”

  A whisper of fabric against the floor. The door creaks beneath my body. Another weight settles on the other side.

  “Go away,” she says on a yawn.

  The fight leaves me all at once. I’m left with trembling hands. Sweat soaks my dress at the back of each knee. “Are you okay?”

  She grumbles. Her weight lifts off the door. The distant sounds of her shuffling feet. A splash of water. Then nothing.

  “Can we talk?” I ask. My heart thuds to fill the silence. “Please?”

  She groans.

  “Desma, please,” I say.

  I try saying her name again. And again.

  She never answers, even when my voice goes hoarse. Or when I try increasingly ridiculous variations of her name. Dede gets a sigh; a veritable prize compared to the complete quiet the others are met by.

  I pace in front of the door, biting my nails until blood coats my tongue. An idea strikes. If pleading won’t work, if annoyance won’t work, how about anger?

  “Cousin,” I croon. My voice turns to sneering disdain. “Stop hiding, you fish-bellied coward.”

  A rustle of fabric against the door. It’s
more than I’ve gotten in the past hour. I grin. Tamp it down. I don’t want giddiness flooding my voice.

  “Desma Dede the fish-bellied coward.” I grimace.

  Am I five years old? I can do better.

  “That’s what the others will call you when you don't come back.”

  Another movement against the door. She’s listening!

  “All the sick and starving you left behind, they’ll say.”

  My breath quickens. I’m baiting her with horrid words. Each one stings like tears locked behind my eyelids.

  With a sharp inhale, I continue. “You abandoned them.”

  My lip curls. Not in a sneer but in disgust at myself. At my words. I swallow against the burn of vomit at the back of my throat.

  “You left them to die.”

  Nothing happens.

  “To die like my mother.” I gulp, shoving my shaking hands into the folds of my dress. “To die like your mother.”

  The door opens. I stumble backward. Her fist swings at empty air. Keeps swinging while I dodge, stumbling around the room.

  “I was kidding!” I say.

  She grunts. Her swings become wilder.

  “Not like that. I wouldn’t joke about that.”

  I duck, narrowly missing a fist to my cheek.

  Her hand slams into the canopy post of the bed behind me, rattling the wood. She shakes out her hand in jerking movements. Lunges forward again.

  Cursing, I move in zigzagging steps—an attempt to throw her off. But she follows with a flush high on her cheeks.

  Her fist slams into open air to my left. A whoosh of air against my temple. She falters, stumbling to one side.

  I back away quickly, reaching for the bathroom door behind me. Maybe if I hide, she’ll calm down? But instead of a metal handle digging into my skin, there’s smooth stone. I curse again.

  Desma straightens. She raises her fists. Her knuckles are scraped.

  The stone is hot against my back. Heat sears the back of my legs. I cornered myself against the hearth. Even if I try to move, she’s too close for me to get far.

  Every muscle tenses. She pulls her right fist back.

  “I’m sorry!” I yelp.

  Her fist slams into my stomach. Pain explodes. Sharp.

  She pulls back.

  I double over, groaning. Try not to vomit.