How (Not) to Soothe a Siren (Cindy Eller Book 9) by Elizabeth A Reeves
Authors: Elizabeth A Reeves
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above was blue, not the usual pink-tinted sky that I saw in my part of Faerie. Fluffy, white clouds slid gracefully across the wide canvas of the sky.
A great shape winged overhead. I shaded my eyes as it flew between me and the sun, dropping its shadow across my companions and me. It was followed by another, and then another, form. I could not make out what they were, though I was left with an impression of great, white wings.
“Swans,” my mother called.
Seven in all, the swans winged overhead. The sun caught hold of the white of their wings, creating halos of light. I squinted, this time against the glare.
The swans flew on, disappearing over the horizon.
I bit my bottom lip. Uneasiness fell heavily in my chest.
Swans.
Swans were an omen of death, weren’t they? In my studies, I had seen swans described as messengers, as spirits, as the ghosts of those whose business was unfinished.
We didn’t need any dark omens.
Hopefully these swans were just swans. It didn’t seem likely, though, not with the sort of luck that I had.
The hills we traveled grew steeper as we moved along. Our horses huffed and sweated as they climbed each crest, only to be face with another hill, and another climb. The leather of our saddles squeaked. The only sounds were the breathing of the horses, the squeaking of our saddles, and the jangling of metal stirrups.
The sky darkened by the moment, echoing with distant thunder and the smell of rain. Storm awareness prickled against my skin. I looked up at the sky. The fluffy white clouds had been replaced with their darker cousins. Storm clouds blotted out the rest of the sky.
The wind howled mournfully. It pulled at our clothes and hair. It brought within the storm the subtle scent of evergreens, pervading the air in an intoxicating way. This far from the woods, it should not have been so strong. The evergreen smell was too strong, too heady. My stomach grew heavy, even as huffed through my nostrils, trying to allay the stench.
The sea salt was also in the air and it, too, did not belong here. The sea, wherever it was, was nowhere in sight. The wind, bringing the scent with it, came from the wrong direction. We were in a limbo between sea and land, where the trees and the water were neither nearby.
Magic. It slid silently across my nerves like a razor.
I bit my lip, tightening my arm across the bundle of my son, resting peacefully in his sling. The scent of the Magic coming told me that this was no friendly force. It did not perfume the air with fragrance, it tainted it with its harshness.
A whispering mist crept over the hills with the stealth of a cat stalking its meal. It reached out with long fingers, winding around us in supple silence. The horses froze still beneath us. Our breathing became audible. Strange syllables echoed from the unnatural fog, hissing whispers that drew up the hair on my arms and the back of my neck.
Part of me screamed that we should run, but I could not engage my muscles. It was as if the fog had found its way into my head, too. I could not think. All I could do was feel… and tremble at what I felt.
Before long, we could not have seen our hands in front of our faces. We were muted completely in a pungent, damp cloud.
I wondered if I would ever feel clean again.
In my arms, Asher whimpered. One of the horses let out a whinny, which cut off abruptly, half-completed.
And then we heard it, though it was far from unexpected. From the distance, the soft, achingly beautiful song of the siren came. I knew at once what it was. There could not be anything else like it, at once fascinating and terrible.
“Quickly,” My mother shouted, her sharp voice cutting through the haze of the song. “Cover your ears! Don’t let her song reach you.”
Half-dreaming already, I pushed the soft dough-like resin my mother had made into my ears. Immediately, the tingling sensation that had pulled at my limbs with the siren’s song, ceased to bother me. The fog lifted
A great shape winged overhead. I shaded my eyes as it flew between me and the sun, dropping its shadow across my companions and me. It was followed by another, and then another, form. I could not make out what they were, though I was left with an impression of great, white wings.
“Swans,” my mother called.
Seven in all, the swans winged overhead. The sun caught hold of the white of their wings, creating halos of light. I squinted, this time against the glare.
The swans flew on, disappearing over the horizon.
I bit my bottom lip. Uneasiness fell heavily in my chest.
Swans.
Swans were an omen of death, weren’t they? In my studies, I had seen swans described as messengers, as spirits, as the ghosts of those whose business was unfinished.
We didn’t need any dark omens.
Hopefully these swans were just swans. It didn’t seem likely, though, not with the sort of luck that I had.
The hills we traveled grew steeper as we moved along. Our horses huffed and sweated as they climbed each crest, only to be face with another hill, and another climb. The leather of our saddles squeaked. The only sounds were the breathing of the horses, the squeaking of our saddles, and the jangling of metal stirrups.
The sky darkened by the moment, echoing with distant thunder and the smell of rain. Storm awareness prickled against my skin. I looked up at the sky. The fluffy white clouds had been replaced with their darker cousins. Storm clouds blotted out the rest of the sky.
The wind howled mournfully. It pulled at our clothes and hair. It brought within the storm the subtle scent of evergreens, pervading the air in an intoxicating way. This far from the woods, it should not have been so strong. The evergreen smell was too strong, too heady. My stomach grew heavy, even as huffed through my nostrils, trying to allay the stench.
The sea salt was also in the air and it, too, did not belong here. The sea, wherever it was, was nowhere in sight. The wind, bringing the scent with it, came from the wrong direction. We were in a limbo between sea and land, where the trees and the water were neither nearby.
Magic. It slid silently across my nerves like a razor.
I bit my lip, tightening my arm across the bundle of my son, resting peacefully in his sling. The scent of the Magic coming told me that this was no friendly force. It did not perfume the air with fragrance, it tainted it with its harshness.
A whispering mist crept over the hills with the stealth of a cat stalking its meal. It reached out with long fingers, winding around us in supple silence. The horses froze still beneath us. Our breathing became audible. Strange syllables echoed from the unnatural fog, hissing whispers that drew up the hair on my arms and the back of my neck.
Part of me screamed that we should run, but I could not engage my muscles. It was as if the fog had found its way into my head, too. I could not think. All I could do was feel… and tremble at what I felt.
Before long, we could not have seen our hands in front of our faces. We were muted completely in a pungent, damp cloud.
I wondered if I would ever feel clean again.
In my arms, Asher whimpered. One of the horses let out a whinny, which cut off abruptly, half-completed.
And then we heard it, though it was far from unexpected. From the distance, the soft, achingly beautiful song of the siren came. I knew at once what it was. There could not be anything else like it, at once fascinating and terrible.
“Quickly,” My mother shouted, her sharp voice cutting through the haze of the song. “Cover your ears! Don’t let her song reach you.”
Half-dreaming already, I pushed the soft dough-like resin my mother had made into my ears. Immediately, the tingling sensation that had pulled at my limbs with the siren’s song, ceased to bother me. The fog lifted
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