The Harvest: Call of the Sirens Book One

by KB Benson

  The Harvest

  Call of the Sirens Book One

  Copyright © 2019

  KB Benson

  Undaunted Publishing

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of Undaunted Publishing and the individual authors involved.

  Permissions can be obtained through d_sidd@undauntedauthors.com

  All characters, places and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real places, events, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  First Edition

  KINDLE

  version 1.0

  Published February 2019 by Undaunted Publishing

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  The story continues...

  Want even more?

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  PROLOGUE

  It wouldn’t be as bad for them if they didn’t fight so much. But this one will; I see it in his eyes.

  Moonlight bathes the sand as waves crash up onto the shore. The sand shines brightly against the darkness, sparkling next to the murky ocean. The spray hits my face, refreshing and cool, and familiar. Lately I find myself missing that spray more often than not—the musty smell of seaweed swaying beneath the surface, that salty brine that clings to the water’s movement. The water is always a welcoming comfort. The water is where I belong.

  I wade farther into the ocean, the chilled waves brushing my thighs. I tilt my head to gaze at the Harvest moon, firmly aware of the boy standing on the beach watching me. His gaze is focused and in awe. I shake my hair, letting the dark curls spread across my back—he’ll like that. They always like that. Turning from the iridescent moon, I glance over my shoulder at the boy who now stands at the water’s edge, and then look quickly away. This little flirting game is more time consuming than I prefer, but it’s the most effective way to lure him into the water. And I’ll admit it is a bit fun. I think his name is Darren, or is it Todd? Not that it matters.

  The pull draws him to me; it is the same pull that draws me to the moon; incessant, insatiable, everlasting. I’d rather not feel the pull of the Harvest moon, nor its subsequent phases, but I have no choice. This is my calling, my existence; besides, the pull is an impossible craving to resist.

  After a few minutes I face the boy again and nod my head, a beckoning call. I flash him my most elusive smile. Slowly my mouth opens, music flowing from the flawless vocal cords hidden inside. It will all be over now. It is my voice—my mother’s voice—that no one can resist.

  Come now, my darling. I’ll take you away

  to a land of love, wonder and lust. Your hope

  fails, your dawning breaks thin. Come now, my

  darling, let me take you in.

  The boy smiles for a moment as though he’s lost in a dream before splashing wildly as he runs through the waves. Smoothly I glide farther into the ocean, not once letting my gaze stray from his. His grin widens as he lunges off the continental shelf and flops like a clumsy child into the deeper waves. Soon the water laps against my neck and the boy is forced to swim.

  Finally, he reaches me. “You… you are stunning,” he says, his eyes barely willing to blink.

  I know how I look as I float in the ocean, mysterious and unreal, dark and elegant, hauntingly beautiful. The moonlight reflecting from my silver irises dances across his pale skin. I smile as he stretches out his hand to gently touch my face. A small shock radiates across my skin as his fingertips brush the soft hairs budding like feathers from my cheek. His hand hangs motionless midair. His expression is frozen, his whole body still. As though aligned with the tics of a clock, his face contorts and fills with terror. All the giddiness that had filled his face moments earlier disappears in a heartbeat. Something splashes behind me and the boy’s head jerks to look around me. He knows.

  “What… wha… what are you doing?” he asks, backing away.

  I lock my gaze on him, never changing my innocent expression.

  “Ge—get away from me!” He splashes backward then turns, forcing long, hard strokes into the water, but he is too far from the shore. Everything is against him: the waves, the wind, the darkness that swallows us both up in the depths of the ocean. Me.

  It’s over. The boy stands no chance while the waves are under our control. Watching him struggle I know we should just end it; toying with him is cruel. Suddenly his back arches as though he’s been whipped from behind. A blood-curdling scream is lost in the wind as a sharp tug pulls the thrashing boy under.

  The boy resurfaces, gasping, and another scream erupts from his throat, more mangled than the first. Here in the ocean, the waves block out all sound of his desperate cries. I barely hear his plea before his head slips beneath the water for the last time, blood replacing body. His screams echo around me still, but the only real sound is the gurgling of water and the quiet ripples of the ocean returning to its normal, soothing state.

  I pull myself back to shore, beating my legs through the water lightly and letting the waves carry me inland. As my toes grip the soft sand a sharp sting stabs the side of my foot—a dried, withered starfish protruding from the sand. I dig the starfish out, holding its fragile frame in both hands. Checking to make sure the beach is still empty I quickly walk to the dock and swim out into the ocean again, weaving in and out of the pilings. I gently place the starfish at the base of a piling. The ocean will be good for him. The ocean is good for everyone.

  I look back where moments ago the ocean claimed another soul for its own. The ocean is good for almost everyone.

  Chapter 2

  IRIS

  An Amber Alert blares from the TVs scattered along the hallways of Santa Cruz High School, notifying every student that someone else has gone missing. Each time a person vanishes, this siren echoes throughout the school. Images of a young boy’s face appear on the screen, happy and smiling. Frantic parents cry into the camera about their son, how he was such a good boy and he’d never do anything like run away. The interviewers post a number across the bottom of the screen asking anyone who has any information about the boy’s location to come forward. Typically, in a missing person’s case in Santa Cruz, the person just disappears. And lately, meaning over the past four years, they never reappear.

  “I bet it was the drug lords,” a raspy voice whispers behind me, hot air moistening my ear. “They’ll getcha every time.”

  I glance over my shoulder at Jaxon Paylor’s oily face hovering needlessly close to mine. I pinch my lips closed and try not to wrinkle my no
se. I’m not sure the last time he brushed his teeth. Or took a shower for that matter. His jet black hair slicks to one side and covers his left eye. Unfortunately, this is considered “the style” these days.

  “The mayor says it’s the effects of an increase of gang recruiting in the area.” I jut my chin toward the television again. “You should check your facts.” I step away from Jaxon without any more debate. He always sticks his nose into other people’s business with conspiracy theories and the like.

  I glance at the television and a sharp pain stabs in my chest for less than a second as I stare at the photo of the boy plastered on the flickering screen. Better him than me, I remind myself. He may be gone, but life will continue as normal. This is Santa Cruz, after all, and where one person disappears, another will soon take his place. I often wonder if this is normal in other towns, but whether it is or not, it’s normal here—and the mayor has all of the explanations he needs. Gangs. Drug lords. There’s a never-ending supply.

  The bell rings and I groan. Once again, I’m late to class. I swear there’s less time between my second and third class than there are between the others.

  I yank the last few books from my locker and shove them into my bag, throwing the door shut—maybe just a bit too hard—and give one last quick glance at the TV. The boy’s face burns onto the screen, his toothy smile etching into the back of my eyes. I give my head a quick shake and rush to class. It’s not that I care about arriving to class on time, but this particular teacher tracks every minute I’m behind and he doesn’t let me forget it. Perhaps I shouldn’t have spent at least half of my high school experience in detention from showing up late—or not at all.

  I step through the doorway to my English class, which often feels more like a history class although it counts for an English credit. A history class most people think is make-believe. I tiptoe across the scuffed linoleum behind Mr. Demonas as he writes on the whiteboard, hoping he won’t see me, but before I reach my row I hear his sigh.

  “Iris. This isn’t going to be the start of another rough month is it?”

  Mr. Demonas demands respect in his classroom, which is fine until it’s demanded from me.

  I try not to groan and turn to face Mr. Demonas. “No, Mr. Demonas. Today was an accident. I apologize for being late.”

  He watches me for a moment before speaking. “Alright, take your seat.”

  I head to the back of the classroom. I have so many better things to do than sit at a rickety desk for six and a half hours every day, but this was the deal. I am to be a “student” and if I can do that, then maybe in some small degree, I can take control of at least a piece of my life. I sit in one of two empty seats surrounded by a sea of boys. Other girls pockmark the rest of the classroom, but none near the two available seats. I stare straight ahead at Mr. Demonas, feigning disinterest in Odysseus’ journey back to Ithaca. From my peripheral vision, I catch the nearby boys sneaking glances at me. I ignore them, like always.

  Odysseus actually happens to be one of my favorite people—the King of Ithaca. After fighting for ten long years in the Trojan War, Odysseus developed a cunning plan to overtake Troy. He built a wooden horse as a gift of peace to the Trojans. They accepted the horse into their city and as night fell, Greek soldiers poured from its belly and opened the city gates, the Greek armies slaughtering the Trojans. I can’t help but respect Odysseus for his brilliant mind in this victory. His cold ruthlessness is a trait I struggle to maintain myself, but I look to him as an example—at least in this one particular myth.

  After his victory, Odysseus finally made the dangerous journey home. I always wondered how he did it. How did he escape the many treacherous foes he faced while the hundreds of men with him perished? His escape has become legend among some and no matter how many times Mr. Demonas claims it is simply a myth to the class, I know he does not speak the truth. Odysseus’ men were stronger than most, but Odysseus himself was the strongest and most clever. I know this myth by heart because there is something I can learn from his story.

  Odysseus never should have escaped unharmed, let alone made it alive, especially past the island of the sirens. I never understood how he did until Mr. Demonas told me the story of how Circe, that little witch, played favorites with Odysseus and warned him about the predator’s awaiting him ahead. Odysseus prepared his men by filling their ears with wax and tethering himself to the ship’s mast so he could hear the desire in their song without succumbing to the deadly lure. When the siren’s song did not lead any of the men toward them, their intricate, feathered bodies hardened from the inside and they thrust themselves into the sea to their deaths. A siren’s song cannot go unheard; there always has to be a death.

  “Iris,” a quiet voice whispers to my side. “Psst, Iris.”

  I tilt my head to look at the blond-haired boy who sits next to me. Quietly, he reaches over and hands me a note. I take it from his shaky grasp and unfold the intricate design he’d managed to weave it into. Inside he’s scrawled:

  Iris, you look good today. Will you go with me to the party at Davenport Beach this weekend?

  - Quinton

  I look up from the paper and shake my head. A small frown crosses his face, but he would be happy if he only knew.

  “Sorry, not Saturday,” I mouth. I don’t care to be around boys much; my interest typically sparks once every other month. Any other time is just too dangerous to get caught in the cycle of emotion.

  His bottom lip sticks out in a pout, but when my expression doesn’t change, he shifts in his seat to face the front of the room.

  I refocus my attention on Mr. Demonas who describes the island with the Laestrygones and Odysseus’ battle with them. In mid-sentence the door cracks open, slowly at first and then swings wide. A boy walks in, his backpack slung over one shoulder. His hair is dark and shaggy, his skin perfectly tanned.

  Mr. Demonas stops speaking and looks at the boy. See what I mean about someone coming to take the missing boy’s place? We didn’t even have to wait an hour.

  Revived energy flows around the room as people realize there is a new guy in school. I stare at his smiling face and realize something terrible—I’ve met this boy before.

  Chapter 3

  IRIS

  “Sorry to interrupt the lesson, Mr….” the boy peers down at his schedule.

  “Di-moan-us,” Mr. Demonas corrects in a heartbeat. The boy hands him a stack of papers and waits while Mr. Demonas reviews the transfer order. My gaze flits between the two. I’m always surprised at how young Mr. Demonas looks even standing next to his students. “Well alright then, why don’t you tell the class about yourself, Mr. Jacobsen.”

  I brace myself for the awkward life story Mr. Demonas will drag from this poor boy’s mouth. After he spills a few mundane details about his life, Mr. Jacobsen will resign to taking his seat embarrassed from the attention. New students always do. But this guy doesn’t.

  He clears his throat. “Hey, I’m Jace Jacobsen. I just moved here from Florida with my family. I am a senior, obviously, and am eighteen.”

  Someone coughs, amplifying the monotonous flow of information. Jace glances around the class, a plethora of expectant female eyes meeting his.

  “Mostly I’m pretty stoked to hear Santa Cruz has an epic surf team,” he continues. Dozens of eyebrows shoot up as everyone sits up straighter in their seats and begins to clap and hoot. Jace smiles and shakes his hand in the ‘hang loose’ sign. “I competed in the Maui Surf Ohana Hawaiian Surfing Association competition last year and made it to the finals and won some medals in some smaller competitions; so… if anyone likes to surf, come grab me and I’ll totally be there.”

  More cheers echo off the bare walls.

  Jace looks to Mr. Demonas who nods his head. “Welcome to Santa Cruz High School, Jace. It sounds like you will fit right in here.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Demonas.” Jace emphasizes his pronunciation of Mr. Demonas’ name.

  “Why don’t you take a seat? It looks
like there is an available one in the back next to Iris and Tom.”

  Jace turns toward the class and makes his way into the seat next to mine. Every female head in the classroom follows his gait as he passes them.

  “What’s up?” he says to no one in particular.

  As he passes my desk, he looks down at me. I stare straight ahead as Mr. Demonas scrawls on the white board. Jace has every other girl reveling in his novelty; he can handle it if just one does not. I try to avoid eye contact, but he continues to glance in my direction as he takes his seat next to me and unloads a notebook and pen. I have no trouble ignoring him until I smell it: the salt of the ocean clinging to his skin. As the familiar scent fills my lungs, I know I won’t be able to resist. My eyes flit to his in a moment of weakness and make eye contact before they whip back to the front of the classroom. This guy is definitely going to fit in here.

  Mr. Demonas finishes his retelling of the Laestrygones and moves on to the shipwrecked beach of Circe’s island ending with the introduction of the sirens. When he ends class with the description of how sirens siphon oxygen from the water, everyone leans forward in their seats, entranced with these myths. I guess for most of them it’s the first time they’ve ever really heard them in their entirety. The bell rings and as feet shuffle out of the classroom, excited voices repeat the myths in awe; to his credit, Mr. Demonas is a very engaging teacher.

  I stay at my desk calmly collecting my books until the room has emptied. My lunch period is after this class, but I’m in no hurry to get there. No matter what food the cafeteria serves or how they alter the way it’s cooked, it isn’t edible. Salads, rib sandwiches, fries... they all taste like the Styrofoam they’re served on. I’d rather eat anything than school lunch.

  “Close the door behind you, will you, Iris?” Mr. Demonas asks as he heads to the cafeteria to wait in line for his own inedible meal.

  “Sure,” I say. More often than not I lock up for him, having started the daily routine a couple of months ago. Mr. Demonas used to sit at his desk twiddling his thumbs until every student had left before locking up. Since I always made a point to leave last, I would watch him pretend to grade papers while, in reality, he eyed the slow movers exiting his room. Finally, one day I offered to just do it for him—one, so he’d stop making me feel like I had to leave; and two, because I could tell he was starving. It’s been our arrangement ever since. I sit for a bit longer before standing. I swing my shoulder bag over my head and casually make my way to the door.