by Kelly Said
The world spun black and gray and blue, dotted with tiny, perfect stars. Her body sank, or did it float, along in the void? Was she too late? Had he gone without her?
She shut her eyes, fanning the space around her with weightless limbs. Conscious of a wide field beyond her grasp, she accepted the limbo her hesitation had sent her into. At least Cam was safe with his family. That was enough.
A hand grabbed hers in the abyss. She let herself be swept up by the motion, cradled in strong arms. Her eyes snapped opened.
Cam.
His blond hair curled and swayed with the smallest movement, framing his face like a crown of gold. Her caramel locks fanned out, twining with his as he drew closer.
Around them, Merfolk swam toward the golden city, each carrying small lanterns glowing green and pink and blue. They sang in unison, a melody more hauntingly beautiful than any church choir she’d ever heard.
“I thought you’d changed your mind.” Cam buried his face in her neck. “Don’t scare me like that again. Ever. Please.”
Tessa smiled.
He glanced toward the bottom of the ocean. “Tess? Look down for me.”
She obeyed. A gasp left her throat as she followed his gaze. A tail with fins as thin as gossamer floated beneath her. The right side slightly smaller, mirroring the weakness in her leg. “Is that real?”
“A gift from my father. My father’s power is a different reality than you’ve experienced,” he explained. “But, yes, it’s very real.”
“Wow. Just … wow.”
His arms wound around her hips, drawing her against him as he had in all her dreams. “You’ll retain your legs while in the city. They are for dancing …” He squeezed her. “… with me. The tail is for the sea.”
“Where is your father? I’d like to thank him.”
“Hmm. Later.” Without another word, Cam bent his head and kissed her.
The Sweetest Song
Claire Gillian
J. Taylor Publishing
Chapter 1
“Three, Circe …” Poseidon, God of the Sea, trailed off with an exaggerated sigh, his fleshy lips in a moue of implacable disappointment. “Three times you have failed to shipwreck the Calypso.” He waved the same number of chubby fingers in the air, an oversized ring on the middle one. “Three! What have you to say in your defense this time?”
Circe shifted from foot to foot on the tiny reef where she stood—a jagged-edged perch from which she sang songs meant to lure ships to their hull-splitting doom.
A part of her couldn’t help but think Poseidon had been waiting for the first opportunity to reel her in. Despite being required to shipwreck more than any other siren in the Pacific—a quota Poseidon upped every year—she had managed to avoid his lascivious clutches. She feared she had reached the end of her tether.
She swung her hip-length mane of ebony hair over one shoulder before bowing her head in penitence. He was right, though. The commercial longliner should not have slipped away from her thrice.
Poseidon shook his head. “You used to be the best, but your botched attempts to shipwreck the Calypso make us all look bad. And, my dear, I really cannot have that. As you know, I have a reputation to uphold.” He bent down to consult with his accountant—a one-eyed merman named Cyrus and the biggest sycophant in the sea. The two tutted as Cyrus produced Circe’s performance evaluation and explained in a low murmur each metric and its benchmark.
Their brief conference concluded, Cyrus shifted to the side of the sea chariot’s step, his merman tail trailing into the water. He squinted at Circe through his monocle, his arms crossed at his chest.
Poseidon straightened. “Beautiful, tender-hearted Circe …” He began to clean under his nails with one of the tips of his trident. “There is no shame in admitting you’re burned out and need a new challenge.” The cleaning stopped, and Poseidon skewered her with his stare. “Perhaps you’ve developed a soft spot for the mortals? Hmm?”
She inwardly cringed at what new ‘challenge’ Poseidon might suggest. “Of course not. I’ve no soft spots, my Lord. I don’t over-think what must be done. I just do it.”
“You need to try a different tack then,” Cyrus said from beside Poseidon. “Have you considered ambushing the Calypso’s devastatingly handsome captain? You’re a pretty little thing, I dare say … for a bipedal. Perhaps a different sort of … hmmm … enticement?” An over-magnified, hazel eye narrowed, more calculating than appreciative, Circe thought.
“Oh, do be quiet, Cyrus!” Poseidon’s bellows blew back the shoulder length, ginger curls that lay artfully arranged on the merman’s shoulders. Cyrus slithered off the chariot and into the water.
Anxiety fisted in her gut. “My Lord, with all due respect, if I might try once more to lure the Calypso. I’ve been working on a new tune lately that’s quite catchy. I feel confident—”
Poseidon slammed the staff of his trident against the chariot’s platform. A spiderweb of St. Elmo’s fire leapt from its points and skittered along the starfish crown he wore. “My dear girl, the next time we meet, you will have either delivered the Calypso to Davy Jones, or you will surrender your voice.”
Her hand flew to her throat. “My Lord, no! You can’t! I’ve shipwrecked more than any other siren. You wouldn’t destroy my livelihood because of one aberration, surely.”
Poseidon stood and pointed his trident at her. “I will if you fail me once more. But I wouldn’t fret too much over the consequences, my dear.” He licked his lips and dragged his gaze up and down her body. “I’m sure we can find more suitable employment of your … talents. You have until the next new moon.”
He slapped the reins against the scaly hides of his seahorses, and in a maelstrom of water and foam, disappeared into the depths of the ocean.
Circe dropped her head into her hands. She’d tried nearly every trick she knew to claim the rogue fishing vessel, but nothing had worked. No ship had ever beaten her before. She needed a new plan and soon, or she’d be entertaining Poseidon in his boudoir, where his fetishes were reputed to be quite kinky. That, or be given an even more horrifying job—housekeeping for Scylla and Charybdis, two of the nastiest ladies of the sea.
• • •
Otis flipped through his paperwork—bills, maps, newly hired crewmember tax forms, maintenance records, and his favorite: catch statistics. He held the best record of any halibut fisherman in the region—three seasons, three hauls in the top ten. Some said he had to be half fish, having an almost instinctive ability to pinpoint the best waters. Others claimed he was the luckiest son of a bitch alive but warned his luck wouldn’t last. Otis didn’t know how he always seemed to choose the best spots; he just did, but he feared he had drained his luck to its last drops, and malevolent forces bent on his ruin were gaining the upper hand.
He powered up his laptop and emailed his mother and sister, paid his bills, and caught up on all his business affairs, so he could set out for the season a week later.
The tiny one bedroom apartment in Homer, Alaska, though technically his home, looked more like a budget hotel suite. He’d found the reproduction artwork on the walls in the local thrift shops. Fishing nets adorned with seashells draped the large wall opposite his beat up sofa in a shade best described as mud brown. That was the extent of his decorating efforts and talents. His home, he would ruefully admit if pressed, was lonely and Spartan—as lacking in luxuries as it was in companionable warmth.
Not a single woman, other than his mother or sister, had crossed its threshold. He told himself he had no time for such fluffy pursuits, that he had nothing of value to offer, being defective as he was, that lots of men chose bachelorhood, and of those who hadn’t, far too many confessed to wishing they had.
His occasional trysts tended to be in ports of call, far away from Homer—where he grew up and too many people knew him. The few hometown relationships he’d chanced in the past had mostly led to smothering expectations he escaped on his ship.
The place most like a
home to Otis was his tiny cabin aboard the Calypso.
Only a week remained until he set sail. Seven long days gaped before him like the Grand Canyon. The only benefit of his remaining land time lay in the opportunity to research mythical creatures of the deep, beings and forces that seemed less mythical and more menacingly real the longer he stayed at sea.
Most sailors were superstitious, and Otis was no different. During each of his three prior voyages, he and his crew had had frightening brushes with disaster. The last time, had he not taken the drastic action of knocking his first mate unconscious, and holding the rest of his crew at gunpoint, he would have lost everything. Three different crews, in three seasons, had earned him a reputation as unstable and violent. He knew the locals called him Captain Bligh behind his back, but he would never have behaved that way had his crew not mutinied. Fortunately, his lucrative haul statistics appealed to migrant fishermen more than his reputation scared them away.
Donning his raincoat, Otis headed out to the local library. The book he’d ordered, Superstitions and Fables of the Sea, had finally arrived, and just in time, too.
• • •
Circe spied the tall, dark-haired man clutching his trenchcoat fronts together, his head ducked down. Frigid rain fell in cascading sheets, and few souls ventured out that morning. The scents of dead fish and seawater infused even the raindrops. Bruised skies gave no indication they planned to take pity on the inhabitants of Homer or allow any respite for the sun.
Circe hurried to keep the man in sight, but his long legs ate up the ground at a much faster pace than hers. He turned and entered the library. She paused under the canopy of a nearby coffee shop.
A minute later, she strolled in through the same double doors he had and glanced around. She found her quarry standing at the Circulation desk, his head bent forward as he scribbled on a paper. A librarian’s gaze roved over his hair, his shoulders and his hands before meeting the man’s eyes. A huge, toothy grin ushered the transfer of a large book from her hands to his. He nodded, but Circe couldn’t see his face, couldn’t determine if his smile matched the woman’s in its intensity.
The man sauntered to the back of the library with his book in hand. The librarian’s gaze intimately followed his progress, while Circe trailed him in a more corporeal fashion.
He took a seat at an isolated carrel and flipped open the book. Circe paused at a revolving rack of paperback romances a few feet away. She stole glances through the gaps as he turned the pages. A lock of his hair fell over his forehead. He shoved the rogue curl back into place with impatient fingers, repeating the action several times before Circe realized she’d been observing a nervous habit. Maybe the longer she watched, the more she’d discern of the man she knew to be the Calypso’s Captain Otis—his habits, methods and tools—details she could use to her advantage at their next encounter.
She needed a plan to get and stay close. The man she stalked had foiled her attempts too many times to attribute to dumb luck. What had given him the edge? He couldn’t have seen her. Her reef remained nearly hidden from sight. Crews were only supposed to hear her song, to want to move closer to the source. Yet Captain Otis had been able to withstand her lure three times! How?
She had to know. She would know. She no longer had a choice. A shudder rippled through her as she imagined Poseidon naked, crooking his finger at her.
As she moved to escape her hiding position and launch a less covert strategy, her jacket snagged on the revolving bookrack. Her forward momentum transferred to the rack, spilling paperback novels to the floor. She gasped but managed to stop the rack’s fall. When she stooped to pick up the dislodged books, the still ensnared string of her jacket’s hood toppled the rack over onto her.
There she lay, trapped beneath a sea of books and a six-foot high revolving bookrack, the noise echoing through the library. Her predicament had attracted the attention of patrons from even the far side of the reading area.
“Are you okay, Miss?” A ruddy-faced, white-haired man lifted the rack off her.
She rolled to her back, and his dark eyes scanned her face, worry painting a wide swath across his features. For a second, Circe panicked and thought Poseidon himself had taken to land, but the gentle set of the man’s eyes, and the slight lift of his brows, disavowed her of her fears.
A nod and a smile were all she could offer her savior. To any mortal, she didn’t dare speak. Her otherworldly voice would immediately betray her. Sign language communication provided the best cover for her unwillingness to speak. A pad and pen sufficed, too. She signed and mouthed, “Thank you.”
Comprehension flashed across the man’s face. “Do you read lips?” He spoke slowly.
Circe’s hearing was not the slightest bit defective, and thus she mimicked an expert lip reader. The challenge lay in determining when to feign deaf-mute and when to be exactly what she was—mute by choice.
She nodded and signed, “Yes.” Her eyes drifted to her prey, mortified she’d made her first contact with him in a bumbling form that would not only get her noticed but dismissed as disruptive.
Instead, he flipped pages, either too engrossed in his book to witness her fumble and circus-like aftermath, or to care if he had.
Someone touched her shoulder. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head.
The white-haired man helped her sit.
At least three other men gathered around and began reloading the righted rack with the paperbacks.
Another glance in Captain Otis’s direction yielded no change in his focus—still engrossed in his book and seemingly oblivious. Circe blew out a puff of petulant air and stood with the assistance of all the males, except the one whose attention she wanted most.
Well, maybe his tuning out of my ignoble fall was for the best.
The youngest man, of about twenty years of age, gave her a thumbs up with a question lifting his brows. The white-haired man had told them she was deaf. She’d let them hold on to that assumption. Even if they discovered the truth, she’d never actually told them she was deaf; they’d assumed it without asking.
She nodded, grabbed a paperback, and took to a lounge chair near her target. Only then did the man lift his head—almost as if in alarm.
His sharp intake of breath when their gazes met gave her new hope. He angled his head as if trying to place her but merely offered a polite smile before returning to his book.
Circe released the breath she’d been holding. Up close, and not in his usual yellow rain coat, Captain Otis looked completely different. Her attention had been drawn first to the full, sensuous mouth, pursed slightly during his perusal of her face. Inky black lashes framed eyes the color of shallow waters much farther south. The lines of his face were strong, angular, with high cheekbones and a nose slightly broader than it ought to be for classic perfection.
The smile he’d offered had been closed-lipped, tentative, but unable to conceal the spark of appreciation.
A riot of warring thoughts zinged through her head. How might she take his ship from him? What new ruse would distract him when her most powerful weapon, her voice, had failed?
Lost in her thoughts, while staring at the open pages of her book, she discovered her quarry standing directly in front of her. She looked up at his face and blinked away her surprise.
Captain Otis raised his hands and signed, “Are you deaf?”
She stared as she pondered her answer. A man who signed was either deaf, taught or worked with the deaf, or had a loved one who suffered the affliction. Which one fit best?
She signed, “I’m mute with limited hearing. How did you know?”
“I read the lips of the men over there.” He lifted his chin toward the scene of her catastrophe. “They said you were deaf.”
“Are you deaf?” Circe signed.
He nodded. “Since I was ten, after an illness. How long for you?”
Her jaw dropped as she realized Captain Otis himself had handed her the reason for all her failures. �
�My whole life. I was born this way.” She tacked on a shy smile. Her mind wanted to process the new piece of critical information, but the rest of her urged her to stay to learn more, to divine his Achilles heel. “No wonder you missed my battle with the book rack.” A soft snicker trickled from her lips, sounds of mirth he’d never hear.
His brows shot up, and he mouthed, “Oh?” but his eyes, shining with what she hoped was good humor, held her fast.
“I’m Circe,” she signed before extending her hand for a shake.
“Otis.” He took her hand and held it.
She should have let go. He should have let go, but neither of them did. A warmth originating where their hands touched snaked up her arm and pooled in her heart, her lungs, her belly, before trickling into her other limbs.
When he finally released her hand it was to ask, “What do you do, Circe who wrestles book racks in public libraries?”
A wicked twist of her lips had her signing, “I’m a singer.”
Otis laughed, showing his teeth, perfectly straight and white. Beautiful. The sound of his laughter, though closer to the barking of a seal, tugged the edges of her mouth into a broader smile.
“Kidding. I’m a …” she paused for a plausible lie, “a writer.”
Otis’s eyebrows shot up. “Why are you here in Homer?”
“Peace and quiet. To get away.” She shrugged.
“Get away? Where are you from?” Otis’s fingers and arms moved with practiced rapidity, his features animated in accompaniment.
“I’m from Greece originally … my family is, anyway. I’ve been in Alaska for several decades.”
Otis quirked an eyebrow up. “Decades? You can’t be that old.”
Circe dropped her head and shrugged. She had better be on her guard. He was too easy to talk to, too easy to relax with, too easy to like, and she shouldn’t like him because she needed him and his ship to sink to the bottom of the ocean. Shouldn’t and couldn’t were two different mindsets, and hers was sightseeing on stolen time in Shouldn’t Land.
