Steel Sirens

by Maxx Whittaker

  “I think you’d know, but maybe not. This is new to me, too. But she’s near, and we need her.”

  “I’m ready. Let’s start with what we have and narrow the others down as we go.”

  “Siri may be even easier than we think. She’s molten. Angry.”

  “If she’s been trapped longer than you, I’m not surprised.”

  “No... this is more. More active, immediate. She’s…” Emeree clenches her eyes shut, lips thin across frustration, “in the middle of something and helpless?”

  “Let’s remedy that.”

  Emeree gives me a small smile.

  “And the others?”

  “Thora, Aleska...” She trails off, worrying her lip.

  I don’t like her look. Her face is a translation of what I feel each time I think of Bri and Kel.

  “Thora, Aleska…” I prod.

  “They’re a flicker. So far away. And Thora at least...fading? Madness. Solitude.” Emeree shudders. “I think she’s been alone a long time.”

  “Siri. That’s a start.” It feels so good to have a plan and to have it be something like useful. “We can do this.”

  She smiles, eyes ahead. “I know.”

  “East, then?”

  “East.” She scrunches her face. “What’s to the east?”

  “Minster Lowe is all I really know of. The duke has men; I was going there to ask for aid.”

  “How far?”

  “I chased the slavers for about a day before we crossed Tarin. Another two days then, at a good ride.”

  Emeree brings us side by side and rests a warm hand on my arm. “You’re doing the right thing. We’re together and we’ll be even stronger in no time.”

  I’ve kept the strain from my voice, forgetting she doesn’t need to hear me to know. Like a horse at its tethers, all I want to do is run for Bri and Kel. Two days, and how many after that? Further from them with each step.

  But Emeree’s right: I can’t do this alone.

  And we’re together.

  7

  The Thief of Opals

  A candle flickers at the turning. This card depicts a tall, bold lass with a jewel-pierced nose. It is associated with lust, conflict, a relationship begun, and a discovery. Inverted, it represents struggle, resurrection, and confusion. The card bears a knife-point hole through its thick paper stock. Its reverse is violet with a hydra at the center. Its border is sewn with a needle and thread.

  I swing wildly, my blade’s weight awkward in sweat slicked palms. Strike after strike is wide, all wrist and elbow. Stumbling saves my arse for a change; I barely avoid a riposte.

  My reverse is too slow. The impact knocks my breath. It runs in a shock through my teeth and into my hands, paralyzing them. My blade clatters over the forest floor.

  I spit, winded, and dance out of range. How far is my sword? I can skirt, dodge. All I need is –

  The ground comes up to meet my arse, bruising more than my pride. Roots bite into my exhausted muscles.

  A boot stamps me prone. Grit fills my mouth. My opponent’s blade crushes a line across my throat.

  I’m dead.

  Or, I would be.

  Again.

  “Better!” Emeree cheers. “You made me work for it that time.” Not a drop of sweat shows on her skin. She’s barely breathing hard.

  “Liar. Help me up.” I thrust up my hand.

  “Fine, be contrary. But you have improved for someone who’d never held a sword two days ago.”

  “Still not much of a threat to anyone,” I say, grabbing my shirt from a branch. We’ve sparred at every stop, each stretch of our legs or nighttime camp setting. My primary achievement is a bruised arse and sore arms.

  “That’s because I’m the only person you’ve ever faced.” She swings her blade wide in an arc that misses me by a hair, so fast I couldn’t dodge if it I tried.

  She tosses her blade high. It cuts afternoon light into shards of brilliance.

  It’s going to impale the ground, I’m sure of it. Emeree grabs it at the last moment. She dances past me in a fluid pirouette, sword extended. Its passing kisses my brow with a gust of air.

  Emeree skids to a stop, eyes dancing, and holds up her prize: A lock of hair. My hair. She slings her blade over a shoulder, smug.

  “In other words,” she says, blowing the hair into the breeze, “You’re at a disadvantage.”

  My laugh becomes a groan when I try raising my arm. I’m injured inside and out. “Understatement.” I whip my shirt at her. “Ready to go again?”

  Her eyes widen. “Not done being walloped yet?” Emeree swings, a quick swipe I parry away.

  “Waiting for you to stop frolicking about and actually fight,” I say.

  “Frolicking was giving you a sapling yesterday.”

  This morning we reached the edge of what I hope is the Minster Lowe greatwood. Beyond a rotted rail fence we discovered a gamekeeper’s cabin. Nothing much inside beyond an iron stove, chipped crockery and a sword that wouldn’t cut a roll of butter. My promotion from the sapling was based on opportunity, not merit.

  Despite the pain, the embarrassment of failing over and over, I realize something:

  I’m enjoying this. Not just going through the motions, but enjoying it.

  A fat drop of rain smacks my cheek. Emeree and I glance skyward, and we begin picking up kindling as we cross the clearing. “Frolicking or no, you put me in the dirt. Many times. My backside was almost too sore to ride when we broke camp this morning.”

  “Really? I can make a tincture. You should have said something.”

  I smack uselessly at my back with a free hand. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

  She’s on me, a quick sequence of strikes that I’ve practiced guarding against so many times in the previous days that I raise my bundle of wood on reflex.

  “Ask for help?” she offers, circling.

  “Not a chance in all the hells!” I lunge with a force that would stagger most opponents.

  Emeree is not most opponents. She flows around my move.

  The ground comes up again. I’m ready to drop my wood and my shirt.

  Her palm smacks my chest and she puts me back on my feet in one quick turn. It happens so fast I rock back on my heels and almost fall again.

  She keeps her hand above my heart, nails softly pressing my flesh. “You don’t have to ask,” she murmurs.

  I drop my kindling on the cabin’s lean-to porch.

  Gray clouds slide into the sky’s dome like an incoming tide. A lightning strike beyond the hills lights her eyes. Rain taps the still green leaves of the Lower Reaches, each cool sting magnifying the heat of her hand.

  “I don’t have to, but what if I want to?”

  Her fingers slide down my skin, losing contact until she drops her hand a hair from my belt. “What would you ask?”

  “If you’re paying attention.”

  I grab my sword from the dirt and swing.

  She weaves, unsurprisingly.

  I’m ready. My kick for her legs is a miss. She’s oil around my strike, a turn I can barely follow.

  This time, I do follow. My tuck and roll is more than desperation.

  I dodge her. For the first time, I dodge her.

  “Yes!” She shouts, her delight in competition with a steady rain. I throw down my pitted blade and throw open my arms, ready to celebrate.

  She spins her sword and rests its point in the hollow of my throat.

  I’m a few inches taller than Emeree; that’s my only advantage.

  So, I do what any warrior would: grip the thick knot of hair atop her head.

  Her sword flinches against my flesh. “Let go of my hair!”

  “No.”

  “That’s not sporting. Let go my hair and pick up your sword.”

  “Hm mm.

  “I promise I won’t pull another dirty move.”

  “Not a chance. Lower your limb splitter.”

  She laughs. Her expression says I can’t be ser
ious; she doesn’t have to do anything I say. Her free arm swings. I shackle her wrist.

  Rain drops trickle in rivulets along both sides of Emeree’s slender nose. Her eye twitches. She’s dying to wipe away the water.

  “We can stand here till we both catch fever. Up to you.”

  “That’s fine with me.” Her arm relaxes against my grip. “I can stand here till –” Her body twists, tenses. She aims a boot for my knee.

  I’m not letting her off without a fight, not this time. Our legs tangle. I tighten, not letting her loose. We roll across wet loam and twigs.

  Another half turn puts her face almost in a shallow puddle. Not dangerous, but fantastically dirty.

  “Don’t you –”

  “Surrender!” I shout, triumphant.

  “– Dare!”

  I nudge her over another inch.

  “You win, you win!” She goes limp, shaking with laughter. “Can we go in? I’m frozen.”

  “We have a truce.”

  Emeree jumps up and offers her hand. “C’mon, hero. I’ll make a fire and find us something to eat.”

  “What am I doing?”

  She wiggles her brows. “Loser cleans the weapons.”

  “Great! I sure hope this gets easier,” I mutter, recovering my shirt on our path back to the cabin.”

  “It will! You’ll get faster, defter. Beyond what nature allows.”

  “Now?” I rub a stiff shoulder. “Now would be great.”

  “Soon. Our powers are difficult to master, for mortals. And dangerous if you’re not ready.”

  Moving faster than an eyeblink sounds gods damned useful. “When? How do I know?”

  “You won’t. I will...hopefully.”

  “Reassuring.” I nudge her into the cabin, shutting the slat door against a wet breeze.

  My kindling feeds banked embers with a hiss, a furious ignition of heat and energy.

  Emeree unties her hair, shaking out damp waves. There’s something in the unhurried way she does it. She holds all my attention, unstrapping her armor a piece at a time.

  What I felt days ago in the clearing has faded, but it hasn’t gone. Now it floods in. I don’t know who I am in this chaos, where my destiny lies… Or if I have even one. How far do I let myself go?

  Emeree stands stripped to her small clothes, damp skin glistening in the firelight. She drinks from our canteen, lips parted around its neck. The smooth slope of her throat draws my eye down her body. White silk clings to her breasts and thighs like second skin.

  She smells like rainwater and the last green herbal scents of a forest before autumn succumbs to frost. She stoppers the bottle, looking surprised to find me still standing here.

  I take the strap from Emeree’s hand and hang my canteen back on its peg. “How far do I let myself go?” This time I ask her.

  She ducks her face. I can feel her breath on my bare chest.

  “I haven’t been touched by human hands in half a century. You’re asking the wrong woman.” Her nails rake soft lines from my belt to my throat. “But if it helps, I’m willing to go as far as you are.”

  I reach for the hem of Emeree’s camisole and she reaches for my buttons. Our hands fight a soft fight, batting each other away, sparring like we did outside for the right to be first. Her arms slide against mine and we find each other’s clothes at the same time.

  Tangled-up limbs and cloth make me swear, frustrated and anticipating. We twist and grip. Emeree’s camisole peels free and I throw it aside.

  She digs thumbs into the waistband of my breeches, pulling at wet homespun until it burns my skin.

  We stand naked and out of breath in a heap of cloth and armor. Our eyes lock. We don’t look each other over. This is a measuring up; I’ve done the same with prey down the length of an arrow shaft countless times. When the tension breaks? Chaos.

  Thunder shakes the cabin walls. We’re at the edge; the next move from either of us will ignite chaos. I’m ready for it, aching for it, but drinking it in, too. Tense, hungry, prolonging the inevitable. I see it in Emeree’s eyes, and my face reflected there.

  I want to be the hunter this time.

  Her arm pricks with gooseflesh under the path of my fingers. My hand slides around her waist and I pull her close.

  She melts against me.

  I bury my face in the warm, herbal-scented skin of her neck. We kiss, hands wild. Blinding flashes through the oilcloth window light the cabin, exposing us.

  Emeree’s caresses fall along my chest, my belly. She clutches my hip; my cock jumps at her pressure.

  Emeree fists my hair, urging. She pulls me down to the blanket.

  The impact of our bodies stirs air around us. Clean rain air magnifies incense-wood smoke and the scent of musk from our bodies.

  She nuzzles my navel. Her thumbs press into my gut and long fingers frame my cock. She wraps it with both hands, thick in her palms, dusky head straining above her grip. The tip glistens. She flicks away the small, bead with her tongue.

  A groan tears from me.

  My heartbeat pounds against the brush of her tongue.

  She follows the corded vein down the backside of my cock, prodding where it disappears into my body.

  I want to hear the noises she’ll make when I return the favor. I want to keep feeling this.

  She draws me out, draw him out and roll my tongue around the head. His knees buckle.

  I hardly know her and yet I’ve known her for years. Or she’s known me. Maybe that’s why this feels good. It’s like fucking a stranger and a lover all at once. Our hands know the way but hearts and minds…barely on the table.

  I thread fingers in the cottony-damp waves of her dark hair and drag. “Gods, Emeree. Not yet. I’m not ready, not yet,” I murmur.

  She leans back on her hands, taking me in. “Then what? It’s been so long, I’m willing for anything.”

  Anything.

  This word defines what’s between us. She’ll do anything. I’ll do anything to keep this feeling kindled.

  “You’re so beautiful.”

  “You say that...” She slides further onto the blanket and falls back, knees parted to show just a hint of the dark line between her thighs. “I’m want you to show me.”

  My body stumbles over hers, my arms and her knees fitting together.

  Thunder shakes the walls. A single icy drop of water breaches our roof and strikes the small of my back like a tapping finger. Remember?

  No, I didn’t. At least not for a few minutes, not on the surface of my thoughts.

  You’re not thinking of your family. Every second should be devoted to them.

  My guilt is small and distant but bright, like a star. I don’t want to feel alone in its light. “Do you ever feel like you’re abandoning the others?” I ask, kissing a path up the skin of her inner thigh.

  “I feel like I’m living, and as long as I’m living-” She gasps. I’ve reached the crease between thigh and backside, “I’m doing all I can to save them.”

  Absolved, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I cradle Emeree’s soft lean bottom and raise her.

  Tongue, taste, sensation, memory.

  She tightens fingers in my hair and moans loud enough to cut down the storm. She twists under me, idle passes of her foot brushing my cock. Each pass is a momentary relief followed by small agony.

  Electricity runs through me in wave after wave, each time my tongue parts her quim and her foot moves.

  My palm maps the plane of her stomach, the faint ladder of her ribs. Her breast is a perfect fit to the cup of my palm. She bows up from the blanket, gasping. My scalp burns from the desperate tension of her hands.

  She’s so close. I feel it in her body, smell it on her skin.

  I pull away.

  Emeree’s eyes snap open, wide, silver, and disoriented. “Wait, wait…”

  “Don’t worry,” I whisper, slipping over her. “I finish what I start.”

  One side of my body is warmed by the fire, the other p
ricked by storm gusts. When the head of my cock parts her, the impact of sensations makes me shiver.

  Emeree sighs, breath cooling the sweat of my neck. Her eyes closed, she snuggles under me and opens her thighs completely. “I feel so connected to you right now,” she murmurs, raising, begging with her hips. “Just imagine…”

  I hit deep inside her like a fist, dizzying us both.

  I feel it, too. We’re losing ourselves through the gaps in our existence. I’m inside her in more ways than one.

  “Come, Emeree. I want to hear it. Come for me,” I whisper raggedly against her throat.

  She kisses the line of my jaw, lips finding some of the last sensitive skin on my weathered body. Her palms grip days of unshaved stubble. Emeree uses this to draw my face to hers. Our lips slip together gentler than our bodies.

  Small moans vibrate along her tongue like a tuning fork, high fraught notes. Her thighs close vice-like against my hips. Her body is an adversary, pushing, grinding.

  I twine our fingers and drag her hands above her head. My weight crushes her down, chest against breasts, hips in a wicked offset. The small tongue of her clit licks the root of my cock each time I drive in. It’s a self-destructive cycle; the secret ridges and folds of her work over my length the deeper I go. I want to make this last, but the sensation is too good. The harder I chase this feeling, the closer I come to the end.

  She feels so good. There’s no helping it.

  A drop of sweat falls from my nose, into the cleft of her breasts. Emeree’s head falls back and she cries out my name. Her quim wrings out my cock. Her neck arches and my sweat rolls into the hollow of her throat.

  I lick my sweat from her, feeling her come against my mouth, around my cock, and in a deep place that isn’t my thoughts or my feelings.

  Emeree threads her fingers in my sweat-slick hair and sucks my sweat and the taste of her quim from my lips. Our flesh smacks unabashed, crazed.

  My body tightens, and I snap. The ridge of bone above my cock grinds the softness of her belly. Emeree grips my buttocks and lashed like wreckage we come at the same time.

  Emeree holds herself up for my last ragged thrusts. We slide against each other, both selfish, and collapse to the blanket. Our breath fills the cabin, a small storm. It’s magnified by the after-rain stillness outside.