A Siren's Song

by Saranna Dewylde

  Saranna DeWylde

  Ride of the Darkyrie

  Part Two:

  A Siren’s

  Song

  Copyright © 2012 by Saranna DeWylde

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  All characters appearing in this work are fiction or from classical mythology now in common usage. Any similarities between persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by A. D. Cooper

  http://coverdesign.adcooperbooks.com/

  Sea Goddess Books

  A Sanibel Moon Imprint

  www.sanibelmoon.com

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you so much to my wonderful goddess of a critique partner Jenna McCormick who helped bring this book to life and talked me down from every ledge. There have been many this past month.

  Thanks also to Virginia Nelson for her sharp eyes and continued support.

  A special shout out to the Moonmoth. You know who you are.

  And last, but not least, to all my wonderful readers, reviewers, and friends who’ve helped make this book a success.

  “After asking her a few more questions, I went to the precinct to start on the paperwork for the case file. The building lights were dim and most of the staff had gone for the evening, for all intents and purposes, I was alone, but that suited me fine.

  I needed to figure out what the killer had done to the bodies. Sarita had said that the girls had been waiting in the room for him the night before, so these girls had died in the last twenty four hours. But the mummification puzzled me. I chewed on every theory I could think of, but nothing made any sense. Much like the last day.

  My hand was inadvertently drawn to my chest again, the place where my heart was supposed to be. I felt no steady beat against my hand, and there was no pulse in my carotid. I had the sudden urge to slice open the veins at my wrist just to see what was there. Would I bleed? Spurt copious amounts of blood across my desk and the floor in a sticky crimson syrup?

  There was only one way to be sure.

  I opened my desk drawer and took out the switchblade I’d pulled off a perp and I slit my left arm open from my wrist to my elbow.”

  ~From Waking the Queen

  Ride of the Darkyrie Part I

  * * *

  RIDE OF THE DARKYRIE 2

  A SIREN’S SONG

  CHAPTER ONE

  Strong arms clamped around me like an iron vise and the scent of figs filled my awareness. Not the figs and brine scent from my first encounter with the Cross, but something more sensual and appealing.

  There’d been no pain as the blade sliced into my skin and for a moment, the flesh gaped open—clean and smooth like slicing into a ham. Then something welled blue and viscous, spilling forth down my arm and all over the gray carpet.

  I was more aware of the strong chest against my back than any sensation from the flesh I’d filleted open as we crashed to the floor.

  For the second time in as many days, my body was not my own. I knew lust. Desire. Want. I’d had lovers before, but never understood more than the mechanics of it. I’d never felt this draw to another. Until I danced with Jason. Until The Cross tried to kill me.

  Maybe this wasn’t ascension and I was insane, infected with whatever disease afflicted my father? My lifeblood spilled out of me and all I could think about was the great strength of this thing that wanted me dead.

  “Stupid koritsi.” Large, bronzed hands covered in silvery scars wound material around my arm.

  The play of the neon light on that skin was hypnotic. I wanted to touch the scars, to trace that beautiful topography of pain.

  “You’ll not take away my chance at vengeance by killing yourself before you ascend. I’ve waited long enough for this incarnation,” he hissed.

  “I don’t understand,” I mumbled as the cotton weave absorb the cerulean blood that pumped out of my veins even with no heart to push it.

  “Jason was stupid to leave you alone. Or perhaps this is what he wanted? His final revenge on your father.”

  His words made no sense to me, but suddenly, I heard his voice in my head like my own thoughts. I still couldn’t understand the words, but dark oblivion crept over my consciousness. Instead of the cold embrace of death, it was only sleep in the scalding prison of his arms, and I dreamed.

  I dreamed of fire.

  A raging, hungry beast that ravaged and consumed everything in its wake—yet for all the savagery, it was elegant.

  The fire danced—a prima ballerina dedicated to her craft. Pirouettes, en cloche and maneges flawlessly executed. So perfect that rather than baking the mud brick walls, it melted them.

  Two women fought among the flames. One wore the silver of Valkyrie armor and the other cloaked in nothing but her hair. Talons grew from her fingers and she clawed viciously at her attacker. The snarling of wolves and the screeching of ravens echoed loudly in my ears. The naked one looked over her opponent’s shoulder. She smiled at me—her voluptuous lips pulled back over a predator’s teeth, the tools of a flesh-eater. Then she made a sound unlike any I’d ever heard. It was terrible and awful—the sound burrowing inside of me, but starkly beautiful as well.

  A flaming wall fell on the little boy curled in the corner and the burning mud clung to him—a death shroud. The rivers of mud falling away from him took his skin with it and his voice was unnatural, the cries of his pain wrenching inside me the way nothing ever had before. I wanted to go to him, to save him.

  But it was only the power of his voice.

  I realized this was the Cross, the round-cheeked child with the bronzed Raphaelite features, the wide green eyes and the waves of black hair, all before the fire had stripped him of his beauty, his family.

  The woman in the armor was supposed to be me. I recognized myself in the cruelty of her smile, the flat depth of her eyes as she forced the other woman into the flames.

  Orange and gold licked at the naked woman’s skin, scorching her in long smooth strips, skinning her alive. She screamed and tall, black quartz monoliths erupted from the earth like daggers, but they didn’t touch their quarry and the power of her voice left the Queen of Hel unaffected.

  The siren looked at me again over her killer’s shoulder and smiled even as her face began to run like melted wax. It was as if she was speaking to me in the present as I watched from this dream rather than Helreggin. “My Stavros will kill you, Helreggin. He will come for your heart and when you ascend, he’ll kill you.”

  Helreggin laughed and drove her sword into the siren’s chest. “I’ve already ascended. I’m the Queen of Hel. Odin is well rid of you. Your bastard whelp, too.” She laughed again and the fire swayed with her amusement.

  She didn’t bother to watch the siren die, but turned her attention to the screaming boy who’d gone quiet. Helreggin lifted him out of the grime, the skin that was left dark and charred. “Well boy, will you kill me?”

  He clawed at her feebly and even from my vantage point, I could see the rage in his eyes.

  “I look forward to it.” She dropped him in the dirt and laughed again as she opened a small vial. The fire howled for a moment before disappearing into a stream of mist and shimmying into the vial and she tugged something from her ears.

  Was this history as it had played out? I still didn’t understand what they had done to deserve this.

  I killed. I did it without mercy and without regret, but I didn’t kill those who were innocent and I’d never hurt a child. And I supposed Helreggin hadn’t hurt him directly. It had been
his mother’s voice that had brought the walls down. Though I couldn’t deny it had been Helreggin’s fire. No, not Helreggin. Me.

  Helreggin dropped her sword in the dirt next to the boy. “When you’re a man, come and find me, little siren.”

  I was jerked back into the waking world, the floor beneath my back solid and real—the Cross bent over me, his black hair a curtain over his ruined face.

  “Wake up, gods damn you.” The power in his voice drilled into me like a thousand needles and I think if I’d actually been dead, I still would’ve had no choice but to open my eyes. “You will not rob me of my vengeance!”

  “I thought I couldn’t die unless you killed me?” My voice was raspy and raw. I struggled to sit up and my vision swam. I reached out to brace myself and the closest thing was his arm. He was so strong; he could have snapped my neck with one hand if he’d wanted to.

  Again, my body knew want. Desire.

  He laughed then, low and bitter. “Your pupils dilated and you smell of heat. I could kill you, Darkyrie. I want to kill you, to watch the light go out of your eyes.” The Cross leaned closer to me, his gaze intent on my face and my every reaction.

  I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t. He’d already said he wasn’t going to kill me. He’d even saved my life. I was still holding onto his arm.

  “You’re a twisted bitch.”

  There was no denying that, so I didn’t bother, but instead leaned forward my hands braced on his shoulders. “Maybe I just recognize my own, assassin. You kill, and you like it. Your own pupils dilated, too, when you talked of killing me, of watching the light die in my eyes. I can hear your heart thundering in your chest.” Shit, there it was again. That thing that made me push when I should stop, but this time, I didn’t want to stop. He’d pushed me, I wanted to shove back. “And I bet you’re hard. You can’t separate sex and death anymore, can you?” My whisper ghosted across his ruined lips and he slammed me back down on the ground, his great weight crushing me into the floor.

  “Don’t fuck with me,” he roared.

  “Or what? You’ll kill me?”

  “I’ll give you the fucking you’re begging for and then I’ll kill you,” he spat.

  His words sent shivers of anticipation and want down my spine. Images of his hands on my body made me ache. It didn’t matter that he wanted to kill me. It didn’t matter that he hated me. Not in that moment. The only thing that mattered was getting closer to him.

  “Maybe I want to fuck with you,” I said, turning his words against him, “because you’re the only one who is stronger than me. Species imperative.”

  “We aren’t the same species,” he hissed, but made no move to get off of me.

  The new power inside of me screamed for him. It tasted his blood and it wanted more. Yes, he hated me. Wanted me dead, but his body responded to my words. This was his weakness. His dark thing. He felt guilty for his want, was disgusted by it, but it didn’t change the fact he wanted me.

  “Yes, we are.” I was suddenly reminded of my conversation with Jason at the Policeman’s Ball. Cold daggers shot through my spine and for one horrible moment, I thought that must be what guilt felt like. But guilt implied misdeed. I had done nothing wrong.

  “Even without your memories, you’re still Helreggin to the core.” He said as he released me, all the rage gone from him.

  “How is that?”

  “Your lover. Baldur. He should hate you for what you did to him, but instead, he worships at your feet like a dog. That’s what you get off on. Walking the edge with someone who wants you dead. Turning them, destroying everything they stand for, their honor.” The words were so obviously sour on his tongue, his ruined mouth twisted with his disgust.

  Baldur was the Norse God of Beauty and Light, and some say of warriors too. Only the Norse would combine such things, would see the beauty in war. He’d been murdered by mistletoe, all by Loki’s master plan. After his death, he’d been bound to Hel until Raganorak. Helreggin would have been his jailer and his enemy.

  “I have no lover, siren.”

  “Don’t you? He follows you everywhere, guards you like some precious jewel—until tonight.”

  Was he talking about Jason? Was Jason a god?

  “How is it you know nothing?” Incredulity stained his tone.

  “It is a little fucked up that the only one I can get any answers from is the assassin who wants me dead.” I glanced at my arm where I’d sliced myself open. There wasn’t even a scar.

  “There is a book. Your lover has it somewhere in his collection. A lost Edda about the Hel Cycle. Read it.” He turned to leave and rather than walk out the door, he was absorbed by the shadows.

  I suppose I could have asked him why he was helping me, but I already knew. He wanted me to be the same Helreggin from the vision when he killed me.

  So I had to go to Jason’s. I didn’t want to ask him for shit though, not after he’d lied to me. I’d tell him I wanted to talk about the case.

  I picked up my cell and dialed him.

  “Grimes,” he answered.

  “You find anything?” I tried not to think about what had happened with the Cross and that strange, sharp feeling in my spine.

  “Yeah, I did. The woman who works the sex shop across the street thinks she saw our guy.”

  “What about you? Did you get anything from the maid?” Jason asked.

  “Yeah. Our vics’ names—“

  “Why don’t you just come over?” He sounded so tired.

  “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

  “Bring coffee.”

  “If I have to get the coffee, you better have some donuts.”

  “Better than that. I have cupcakes with Nutella frosting.”

  He was trying hard to make me forget what had happened. As if some piece of cake would soothe my hurts away. If he wanted to think that, fine with me. It would be easier to work with him if he wasn’t constantly up my ass about forgiving him.

  I did need to let go of it anyway. I’d promised myself I’d shut off the emotions connected to him, those feelings of comfort and safety. I didn’t need them. I wasn’t human. So I shouldn’t be angry or hurt by how he’d lied to me. I should be indifferent.

  And remember to keep him at a distance and never flip that fucking switch back on again. I’d learned my lesson before. Loving Thora. Wanting to be a mother, having human feelings. Nothing could ever hurt like that had, so Jason’s betrayal shouldn’t have even scratched my armor. But if I was honest with myself, it hadn’t just scratched the armor, it had pierced it right through. It shouldn’t have hurt me, I had my own secrets, after all.

  After I gathered up my files, and left a note for the cleaning crew about the spilled “ink” on the carpet under my desk, I left the precinct and drove to Jason’s apartment.

  He lived on the Country Club Plaza—an upscale neighborhood in the middle of everything. I always liked his apartment and the amenities. Jason didn’t actually need me to pick up coffee; the complex had a valet service that would provide him with anything he wanted.

  But this was our routine when we worked a case. We spent hours poring over files, doing research; we were rarely at the precinct. Jason could access the database from his laptop and we got results, so Stratovich never gave us grief about it.

  He opened the door before I could knock. The first thing I noticed was that he was barefooted and the second thing was that he was wearing sweats. Gods didn’t wear sweatpants. Did they?

  Jason smiled and it struck me that he was as beautiful as the Cross was ugly. I found both extremes attractive. How had I never noticed how strong Jason was, too? There was as much restrained power coiled in him as the Cross. If he chose, he could have put me on my ass at any time. How had I convinced myself I was stronger? Because he’d let me?

  That pissed me off, too.

  I should have gone to the bar before coming to Jason’s and picked up some guy I’d never have to look at again to get this need out of my system. My b
ody was obviously going through something I didn’t comprehend. I wondered if all strong men would make me feel this way or if it was just the Cross and Jason?

  Either answer was awful because they both took away my control.

  “Are you going to stand there or come inside?” The corner of his mouth turned up in the beginnings of a smile.

  “I’d come inside if you’d get the hell out of the way.” I couldn’t help but return his smile.

  Jason stepped to the side and as soon I’d sat down, he shoved a book at me. “Happy Birthday.”

  It was the Hel Cycle the assassin told me about.

  I refused to feel like an asshole because he’d just given me the book I’d come over to steal. “Thank you.” I traced my fingers over the elegant gold filigree lettering and the ridges and valleys where the leather had been tooled by ancient hands. “It’s lovely and exactly what I wanted.”

  “Was it?” The corner of his mouth turned up in a beginning of a smirk.

  “Actually, it was.” I bit into one of the cupcakes, the rich Nutella frosting melting on my tongue like a decadent snowflake. I was tempted to lick all the frosting and just leave the cake part. I didn’t want to face immortality with a dumpy ass.

  “Oh yeah? Did your father tell you about it in his last letter?”

  I paused mid-lick. I’d seen the Cross since Grimes had shot him with the ash bullet. If he was still just Jason Grimes, I would have already told him everything. But he wasn’t. He was a stranger.

  He’d lied to me.

  The Cross had never lied to me.

  I wondered again if I was insane because I put my faith in the one who was sent to kill me rather than my partner who I was supposed to trust with my life.

  But the Cross was more like me than Grimes would ever be, even if he was a god. The Cross was a killer, just like me, and Jason, he was… I tried to imagine telling him what happened to some of the perps in cases we’d worked. How with the Liberty Monument Strangler I’d managed to get him to meet me on one of those river cruises and I’d lured him to the engine room with promises of a young boy I’d procured for him. Then I bashed his head into the gears until he’d had no face and dumped his body in the river. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t envision Grimes’ reaction.