Debbie Herbert - Siren's Call

Lily pressed a hand to her mouth as bile threatened to creep up her throat. It’s only a rat. No big deal. Just an accident.

She clutched her purse tightly against her side and glanced around the parking lot. The few people around paid her no attention, yet the tingles shooting along her spine alerted Lily that someone was indeed watching.

Watching and enjoying her fear.

She turned back to the car and noticed the long key scratch that started from the front left tire all the way down to the fender. Anger outweighed fear as she read the large, childlike scrawl etched on the car door.

D-i-e S-l-u-t.

Chapter 2

The whir of electric grinder against metal grated on Lily’s ears. She whistled and waved her arms to get her sister’s attention.

Jet frowned and switched off the grinder. “What?”

“Are you almost done? You’ve been at it long enough I’m surprised you haven’t sanded a hole through my car.”

They stared at the long, narrow patch of bare metal on the red Audi S4. Lily ran a finger over the warmed surface, perfectly manicured nails and graceful fingers a stark contrast against the ugly gash. She tried to joke. “Sure can’t see those words now.”

Jet scowled, not amused. “’Bout time I had a word with Twyla Fae and her posse of bitches.”

“Don’t. You’ll make it worse.”

“Can it get much worse? They’re crossing the line into criminal territory with this latest harassment.” Jet gripped the sander so tight in her right arm, her biceps bulged and a network of veins popped against taut flesh.

Her sister was strong enough to best any man in a fist fight, courtesy of the supernatural strength from her paternal Blue Clan merblood. But against the verbal warfare of scorned women, Lily considered her own reserved veil of indifference a superior tactical maneuver. “Ignore them like I do.”

“Don’t see your plan working,” Jet grumbled. The fierce glow in her dark eyes contrasted with the large, womanly bump at her waist. Lily shook her head in bemusement. On the surface, their beauty and temperament appeared leagues apart. If she was the ethereal one—silver sparkles drifting on moon-drenched water, soft and shifting and subtle—Jet was more like the oft-admired coral undersea—brittle, bedazzling, with razor-sharp edges that wounded the unwary.

Down deep, they could each be deadly in their own way.

Lily placed a hand on Jet’s belly bulge. “Don’t get worked up and disturb the baby.”

“And don’t you try distracting me.” Yet Jet’s harsh features softened. “Seriously, how about we get Landry and Tillman involved? File a formal complaint.”

“I’ll think about it.” She had no intention of seeking help from her cop brothers-in-law. Lily sensed their wariness of her, their suspicions about her morals.

Jet returned the grinder to a shelf. “Translation—you’re too proud to seek help.” She dug into her baggy, denim jeans and produced a set of keys. “Drive this until the body shop in Mobile repairs the damage. I’ll rent something in the meantime.” Jet tossed the keys.

“Or you could buy a soccer-mom van.” Lily caught the keys and cast a sly smile. No way Jet would forego her clinker of a truck. They could afford anything, thanks to a tidy trust fund built from pawned sea treasure sold by generations of Bosarge mermaids. Why Jet chose to drive the monstrosity was a mystery. Lily’s own aesthetic sensibilities ran along a selective, pricey line. She’d drive something even flashier, but the bayou brine rusted everything eventually.

Besides, Lily drew enough attention from her voice. No need to give the locals more fodder. They’d be convinced she had a rich sugar daddy in hiding.

“Maybe I will.” Jet grinned. “But it won’t be as funny as you driving my truck.”

“Got me there,” Lily conceded. She started the truck, wincing at the beater’s clickety-clackety rumbling. She fumbled with the clutch and, with a loud screech, backed out of the driveway, nearly sideswiping the mailbox. Jet’s smirk faded and her brows knitted.

The beater’s ornery procession out of town matched Lily’s fitful mood. She’d had a restless night. Not even a long swim beneath the slithering roots of sea grass last night had calmed her restless spirit. The twin mysteries of Nash’s indifference and the anonymous etching on her car both tossed and swirled in her mind like a lingering storm.

Today, she would confront both issues directly. If Twyla wanted to get nastier, she had to up her own game. As far as Nash went...perhaps there had been some flicker of interest in her siren charm, but like her, he’d learned to hide emotion. At least that theory made a little sense.

Houses grew sparser and paved town roads ceded to red-packed clay lanes as she headed out of town. Live oaks and palmetto shrubs spilled over from the side and encroached until only one vehicle could pass at a time on the narrow lane. She hadn’t traveled this way in years and didn’t recall it being so forsaken. A curlicue of claustrophobia flickered at the edges of her mind as the choking foliage strangled the open air. It was as if the bayou’s wilderness soul were slowly clamping down and reclaiming its territory from human invasion.

Good thing she’d driven the truck after all. Lily’s jaw clamped at the jarring scrape of branches against metal. The high-pitched squall set her nerves pulsing and she cursed the siren nature that made her so sensitive to sound vibration. Although excellent for detecting predators at sea, it was hell on land with certain tones and pitches.

A log cabin came into view. In spite of its rustic nature, Lily appreciated the way it seamlessly blended into the landscape. The scene would make a cool picture.

She got out of the truck and lifted her cell phone for a photo, eyeing the detail of the log pine’s myriad grooves and knots. This piece wouldn’t be a watercolor like her ocean scenes. Only a detailed pen-and-ink composition would do it justice.

Disappointed, she noted that there was no other vehicle in the driveway. Nash had mentioned he wouldn’t start the job on Herb Island for a couple of days. Maybe he and his grandfather were in town and would return shortly. Lily scanned the backyard and found the small opening for an old trail she and Nash had hiked often. She’d take a little walk, and with luck, Nash would be back when she finished. Lily ditched her silk scarf and switched from designer sandals to a pair of old Keds that Jet kept on the back floorboard. They were a size too large but doable.

Lily hiked the narrow trail, the ground as familiar as when they’d explored the area as children. Pine needles cushioned the sandy soil and released bracing wisps of fragrance as her feet crushed them, a smell she’d forever associate with Nash.

At the clearing, Lily leaned against a large oak and listened to bird calls—the distant screech of seagulls, thrush and coots. He’d taught her so much, passed on everything his grandfather had taught him, including Choctaw animal folklore and legends.

How she’d longed to share her undersea world in return, show him their sea vegetable garden and swim past the salt marshes and explore a different, equally fascinating new world. But her family’s vow of secrecy was absolute. If one mermaid was exposed, their entire race was in danger.

Her eyes swept the clearing, then doubled back to the far edge of the tree line.

A coyote fixed its gaze on her, unmoving, eyes gleaming with intelligence and feral hunger. Lily didn’t move either and didn’t break eye contact. Coyote is a trickster , she remembered, a sign of an ending and a new beginning . She wasn’t alarmed, but aware. Nash used to say that was the most important thing—to stay aware. He’d even admitted once that he could sense what animals were thinking. Become one with them or some such thing.