Alex Archer - The Devil's Chord

“We go now?” the gondolier asked.

“Uh, wait. Sweetie!” he called. Even in his panic he was considerate of their rule never to use names in public. “What did you do with the case?”

She was already several yards away, walking the path that hugged the historic canal. But she’d heard him. Turning, she smirked and called out to him, “Dumped it!”

“Wh-what?” He scrambled about the floor of the wide-bottomed boat, thinking he might find a little cubby where the case might be, but there were only life vests stuffed under the seat and the cooler. “It’s not here!”

“Because it’s in the canal!”

Laughing that bold, spectacular laugh he’d always loved to listen to because it usually followed some great sex, she strolled off and disappeared into the night.

“The canal?”

He peered over the edge of the boat and frowned at the rippling water. She’d dumped the case over the side of the gondola? When had she— It must have been when he’d been digging around in the cooler for a beer, trying to avoid her disappointed gaze.

“We have to go back that way,” he directed the gondolier. “I know you understand me. North.” He thumbed the direction over his shoulder.

But despite the gondolier’s nodding agreement and his patient navigation over their previous route, the thief spotted nothing floating in the canal. The attaché had been relatively heavy, around six to eight pounds. Hell, it must have sunk the instant it had hit the water.

Taking note of the buildings in the immediate area and where they were in the canal, he directed the gondolier to his hotel.

He left Venice that night because he didn’t want to miss his flight, and by extension his one shot to maybe repair the damage he’d done to his partnership. He was still hopeful even after he’d found his airplane ticket lying on their bed. She’d bought the tickets because she had always managed their finances. Foolish move on his part.

Equally foolish was his thinking that he might have had eight or nine hours on a flight to convince her not to dump him. She hadn’t been in the seat next to him on the plane home. Must have stayed behind?

His bad luck continued when he arrived at the apartment they’d shared in Manhattan, and found his bank account emptied and all the keys and combinations to their secret hiding spots gone or empty.

A knock on the door had been followed by the flash of an NYPD badge. Accompanying the cop had been a man from Interpol.

A woman scorned knew how to inflict revenge on a man’s soul. Maybe he should have proposed after all.

Chapter 2

Annja Creed checked the cell phone’s screen. She had the phone set to vibrate only because she was conducting an interview. A name appeared above the long-distance number. What did that man want with her now? He’d have to wait. She put the phone aside on the laminated table.

The woman sitting across from Annja in the bistro twisted the end of her napkin nervously. She was called Sirena. That was it—no last name. Doug Morrell, Annja’s producer, had made contact with her online. A segment for another episode of Chasing History’s Monsters.

Beside Annja in the booth sat Ian Tate, her cameraman. He worked freelance and was based in Scotland, but was fond of traveling the world. He was short of stature yet filled with the adventurous spirit required for the job, and she had gotten along with him as soon as they’d shaken hands and he’d teased her about this assignment.

They’d met up yesterday afternoon to film shots of the scenic shoreline here at Isola delle Femmine, a town in Palermo, Italy. The translation of the town’s name was the Island of Women. Annja hadn’t done any research on that before arriving, but she seemed to recall there had once been a women’s prison on a nearby unoccupied island.

Sirena’s hair spilled to her elbows in pale brownish-green waves. Annja wondered if it was a dye job gone wrong or if the woman had purposely chosen the muddy tones. She hoped Serena hadn’t paid for it. It wasn’t well done, and she needed a retouch.

“So you said you’ve been living with a man for three years and he won’t release you?” Annja posited.

The mythology on selkies fascinated Annja, but she didn’t believe in them for a moment. The idea of a seal-like creature coming to shore and shedding its skin to transform into a beautiful woman... Well.

On the other hand, this was exactly the sort of story Chasing History’s Monsters sought. Something her fans would eat up.

“Yes. Matteo has hidden my pelt so I cannot go home,” Sirena said. She toyed with the ends of her seaweed-colored hair. Bright, glossy gray eyes always seemed to be filled with tears, but not a one ever ran down her cheek. “I love him, but...” She glanced out the bistro’s window. Across the street the shore sat close. Seagulls swept down from the blue sky and tourists headed for the beach.

“But your home is in the sea,” Annja finished for her. She glanced to Ian. He gave her a thumbs-up. The guy was good at hiding his smirk. So long as he got this conversation on film, that was all that mattered. “Do you ever go in the water now? Swim in the sea? What would happen if you did?”

“I’d sink,” Sirena said. The waif sighed heavily. “When in this human form I am bulky and unskilled in the water. But I do like to soak in the bathtub for hours. Matteo laughs at me because I insist on remaining even after the water has grown cold.” She shivered and pushed aside her empty coffee cup.

Annja was not a good judge of another couple’s relationship. But something about Sirena seemed wrong. And it wasn’t at all related to the bleak possibility she may have once lived in the water.

She reached across the table and placed a hand over Sirena’s, knowing Doug would whoop when he saw the footage. Whenever she could capture an emotional moment, her producer always rubbed his fingers together in the universal money sign. Ratings gold, he’d say.

But she wasn’t forcing this feeling. She was genuinely concerned for Sirena.

“Are you and Matteo okay, Sirena? Is he...harming you?”

The woman’s head snapped up, and her gaze met Annja’s briefly. She pulled her hand from Annja’s and reached for the macramé purse at her hip and slid out of the booth so quickly, Annja slammed into Ian in an attempt to follow her.

The cameraman shuffled out of the booth, allowing Annja to pursue the escaping interviewee.

“I’m sorry, the interview is over,” Sirena said firmly. “I thought you wanted to know about my kind, not delve into my personal life. I have to leave now. Please don’t follow me. You are not welcome at my home.”

“Sirena, I’ll tell him to turn off the camera.”

Annja nodded to Ian, and he lowered the camera. She rushed after the anxious woman, who hustled outside.

On the sidewalk, Annja grabbed Sirena by the arm, standing so close she got a whiff of salt, as if Sirena had been swimming in the ocean and hadn’t rinsed off. “Wait. You can talk to me, Sirena. Woman to woman.”

Sirena tugged away from Annja’s grasp. “You could never understand the sacrifice I made for love.”

With that, she scampered across the street, and for the first time, Annja noticed that beneath the long skirt dusting her ankles, Serena was barefoot. A bohemian refugee plunked in the middle of a seaside village? Probably not a drastic leap to concoct and believe in her story of waves and woe.

“You think she’s going to be okay?” Ian asked from behind Annja.

“I’m not sure.”

Sirena stopped at a beat-up red pickup truck. A man slid out from behind the wheel and kissed her. When she spoke to him, his eyes darted across the street and targeted Annja.

“I guess that’s the boyfriend.” Annja offered a wave, then, sensing she wasn’t getting a warm stare in return, she nodded to Ian. “Let’s head back to the hotel and look over the footage. See if we have enough for a segment or if we need to entice Sirena to talk some more.”