A single command is all it takes.
Forget I exist. Poof, your memory scrubs away my existence.
Look away. Your eyes move everywhere but me.
Tell me your darkest secret. Your mouth and mind betray you.
Give me your riches. You’ll clean out our bank account in an instant.
Drown.
Drown. Drown. Drown. You die.
That was someone’s favorite back when the world was young, back when sirens got their reputation for coaxing sailors to their deaths.
Drown.
Sometimes, when I’m left alone to my own thoughts—which is fairly often—I wonder about those women, the ones who hung out on the rocks calling out to sailors and coaxing them to their deaths. Did it really happen that way? Did they want them to die? Why did they prey on those particular men? The myths never say.
I wonder if any of them were like me—whether their beauty made them victims long before it gave them power. Whether some sailor somewhere abused those women before they had a voice at all. Whether they grew angry and jaded like me and used their power to punish the guilty as payback.
I wonder how much of the tale is true, and how many of their victims were innocent.
I prey on bad men. This is my vendetta. My addiction.
I climb the staircase to my Malibu beach house, my feet sore from the hours spent standing in heels. In front of me, the slate grey paint of my house peels away from the wooden slats. Bright green mold grows along the roof’s shingles. This is my perfectly imperfect home.
I step inside, and in here, the air smells like the ocean. My home is simple. It has three bedrooms, the tile countertops are chipped, and if you walk through it barefoot, you’ll get sand between your toes. The living room and bedroom face the ocean, and the entire back wall in both rooms is nothing more than giant sliding glass doors that can open completely onto the backyard.
Beyond my small backyard, the world drops away. A wooden staircase winds its way down the coastal cliff my house is perched on, and at the bottom of it the icy Pacific Ocean kisses the sandy California shore—and your feet, if you let it.
This place is my sanctuary. I knew it the moment the real estate agent showed it to me two years ago.
I walk through my house in the dark, not bothering to flip on the lights as I strip my clothes off piece by piece. I leave them where they fall. Tomorrow I’ll pick them up, but tonight I have a date with the sea, and then my bed.
Through my living room windows the moon shines brightly, and my heart is filled with such unending longing.
I’ve secretly been glad that Eli has to keep away from me until the full moon passes. As a lycanthrope, he has to stay away from me during the Sacred Seven, the week surrounding the full moon when he can’t control his shift from man to wolf.
I have my own reasons for wanting to be alone around this time, reasons that have nothing to do with Eli and everything to do with my past.
I step out of my jeans as I enter my bedroom to grab my swimsuit. Just as I reach back to unclasp my bra, a shadow darker than the rest moves.
I stifle the shriek bubbling up in my throat. My hand gropes against the wall next to me until I find the light switch. I flip on the bedroom lights.
In front of me, lounging on my bed, is the Bargainer.
Chapter 3
October, eight years ago
“Hi, this is Inspector Garrett Wade with the Politia. I’d like to ask you some questions regarding your father’s death …”
My hands begin to shake as I listen to the message. The Politia is looking into this? They’re like the supernatural version of the FBI. Only scarier.
There were supposed to be no questions. The authorities were supposed to stay away. The Bargainer had made sure of that.
That pretty little curse all you sirens have hanging over your heads might override even my magic.
I sit heavily on my bed and rub my temples, phone clutched in my hand. Rain pelts against my dorm room window, obscuring my view of Peel Castle, the castle-turned-academy where all my classes are held.
It’s only been five months since that fateful night. Five months. Too short to enjoy my freedom, but too long to ever appear innocent to the authorities again.
I missed my opportunity the moment I took the Bargainer up on his offer.
Peel Academy and the life I’ve made here could be taken from me. All in an instant.
I take a deep breath.
The way I see it, I have three options. One, I can run away and give up the life I’ve made for myself. Two, I can call the officer back, go in for questioning, and hope for the best.
Or three, I can contact the Bargainer and have him fix this. Only this time, I’d owe him a debt.
It’s an easy choice.
I push off my bed and head to my closet. I pull out a shoebox from the top shelf and open it up. The Bargainer’s black business card lay hidden under other odds and ends, the bronze lettering somewhat faded since the first time I held it.
Lifting it out of the box, I flip the card over and over in my hand. Seeing it brings that night back in all its gory detail.
Can’t believe it’s only been five months.
My life is so different now; I’ve worked hard to bury my past.
Where once I was weak, now I am powerful. A siren who can bend a person’s will—who can even break it if I so desire. That knowledge is a kind of armor that I put on every morning I wake up. It only comes off late at night when my memories get the better of me.
I run my thumb over the card. I don’t need to do this. I promised myself I wouldn’t contact him again. I got away with murder—literally—last time I met him. I won’t be that lucky twice.
Forget I exist. Poof, your memory scrubs away my existence.
Look away. Your eyes move everywhere but me.
Tell me your darkest secret. Your mouth and mind betray you.
Give me your riches. You’ll clean out our bank account in an instant.
Drown.
Drown. Drown. Drown. You die.
That was someone’s favorite back when the world was young, back when sirens got their reputation for coaxing sailors to their deaths.
Drown.
Sometimes, when I’m left alone to my own thoughts—which is fairly often—I wonder about those women, the ones who hung out on the rocks calling out to sailors and coaxing them to their deaths. Did it really happen that way? Did they want them to die? Why did they prey on those particular men? The myths never say.
I wonder if any of them were like me—whether their beauty made them victims long before it gave them power. Whether some sailor somewhere abused those women before they had a voice at all. Whether they grew angry and jaded like me and used their power to punish the guilty as payback.
I wonder how much of the tale is true, and how many of their victims were innocent.
I prey on bad men. This is my vendetta. My addiction.
I climb the staircase to my Malibu beach house, my feet sore from the hours spent standing in heels. In front of me, the slate grey paint of my house peels away from the wooden slats. Bright green mold grows along the roof’s shingles. This is my perfectly imperfect home.
I step inside, and in here, the air smells like the ocean. My home is simple. It has three bedrooms, the tile countertops are chipped, and if you walk through it barefoot, you’ll get sand between your toes. The living room and bedroom face the ocean, and the entire back wall in both rooms is nothing more than giant sliding glass doors that can open completely onto the backyard.
Beyond my small backyard, the world drops away. A wooden staircase winds its way down the coastal cliff my house is perched on, and at the bottom of it the icy Pacific Ocean kisses the sandy California shore—and your feet, if you let it.
This place is my sanctuary. I knew it the moment the real estate agent showed it to me two years ago.
I walk through my house in the dark, not bothering to flip on the lights as I strip my clothes off piece by piece. I leave them where they fall. Tomorrow I’ll pick them up, but tonight I have a date with the sea, and then my bed.
Through my living room windows the moon shines brightly, and my heart is filled with such unending longing.
I’ve secretly been glad that Eli has to keep away from me until the full moon passes. As a lycanthrope, he has to stay away from me during the Sacred Seven, the week surrounding the full moon when he can’t control his shift from man to wolf.
I have my own reasons for wanting to be alone around this time, reasons that have nothing to do with Eli and everything to do with my past.
I step out of my jeans as I enter my bedroom to grab my swimsuit. Just as I reach back to unclasp my bra, a shadow darker than the rest moves.
I stifle the shriek bubbling up in my throat. My hand gropes against the wall next to me until I find the light switch. I flip on the bedroom lights.
In front of me, lounging on my bed, is the Bargainer.
Chapter 3
October, eight years ago
“Hi, this is Inspector Garrett Wade with the Politia. I’d like to ask you some questions regarding your father’s death …”
My hands begin to shake as I listen to the message. The Politia is looking into this? They’re like the supernatural version of the FBI. Only scarier.
There were supposed to be no questions. The authorities were supposed to stay away. The Bargainer had made sure of that.
That pretty little curse all you sirens have hanging over your heads might override even my magic.
I sit heavily on my bed and rub my temples, phone clutched in my hand. Rain pelts against my dorm room window, obscuring my view of Peel Castle, the castle-turned-academy where all my classes are held.
It’s only been five months since that fateful night. Five months. Too short to enjoy my freedom, but too long to ever appear innocent to the authorities again.
I missed my opportunity the moment I took the Bargainer up on his offer.
Peel Academy and the life I’ve made here could be taken from me. All in an instant.
I take a deep breath.
The way I see it, I have three options. One, I can run away and give up the life I’ve made for myself. Two, I can call the officer back, go in for questioning, and hope for the best.
Or three, I can contact the Bargainer and have him fix this. Only this time, I’d owe him a debt.
It’s an easy choice.
I push off my bed and head to my closet. I pull out a shoebox from the top shelf and open it up. The Bargainer’s black business card lay hidden under other odds and ends, the bronze lettering somewhat faded since the first time I held it.
Lifting it out of the box, I flip the card over and over in my hand. Seeing it brings that night back in all its gory detail.
Can’t believe it’s only been five months.
My life is so different now; I’ve worked hard to bury my past.
Where once I was weak, now I am powerful. A siren who can bend a person’s will—who can even break it if I so desire. That knowledge is a kind of armor that I put on every morning I wake up. It only comes off late at night when my memories get the better of me.
I run my thumb over the card. I don’t need to do this. I promised myself I wouldn’t contact him again. I got away with murder—literally—last time I met him. I won’t be that lucky twice.
