Halloween With the Siren (Creatures & Cottages #2.5)
Chapter 1
Marisol
Throwing open the windows of The Singing Seahorse, I take a deep breath as I bask in the glorious crisp fall day. I wrap my loose cardigan tighter around me and stare out at the horizon where the gray sky blends into the dark waters beyond Kraken Cove.
The fresh scent of baked bread and other delicious seasonal treats from The Flowering Teapot wafts up the hill, mixing with the sweet coral roses climbing up the exterior of my pub.
I smile as my gaze drifts across the tiled roofs of the shops below, nestled between tall trees touched with oranges and reds, imagining each creature inside and their significance to Starry Hill.
This is home.
For one more moment, I allow myself another look at the inviting waters in the distance, suppressing the sweet desire to shift my legs into fins and go swim through the invigorating cool water. But I’ve already done that once this morning. Now, it’s time to work.
I shrug off my soft gray cardigan and bring my long black hair over my shoulder. Dividing my hair into three parts, I braid the damp strands and secure them with my favorite stretched-out—and always dependable—hair tie before I grab my mop.
Soon, I’m locked into cleaning mode, my voice soft and mindful of my neighbors as I glide across the dark mahogany floors of my pub, singing one of my favorite tunes.
When I get to the stage at the far end, I set down my mop and look back at the immaculately clean floors for just a moment before I head behind the tall counter to prep the bar.
My late-morning routine of getting my pub ready for customers might not look thrilling to many, but I savor the quiet calm before the old stone building fills with the vibrant buzz of Starry Hill’s residents.
I brace myself to maneuver a fresh keg of Berserker Brown Ale from the storage room and lug the town’s favorite beer into its rightful place under the bar, all while attempting to limit my grunts of exertion to only a handful.
I may not be as weak as a human, but I’m far from being considered strong.
Finally done with all my preopening tasks, I plop down onto a barstool behind the counter and stretch out my tired muscles. Despite the hard work it takes to run The Singing Seahorse, you won’t find me complaining.
I’m a strong, independent female. I’ve done this all by myself and can continue to do it all by myself for the rest of my life.
Although… sometimes I think it could be kind of nice to have someone to rub my sore feet.
Or bend me in half and rut into me until I’m screaming and creaming.
Or slide me onto a thick knot until I come so much I pass out.
Then wake up and do it all over again. And again.
Oh fuck. How am I this horny? Is my heat approaching? Need to check my calendar.
I shudder as I realize I’m about two weeks out. I’ll need to make some arrangements and send out notices that The Singing Seahorse will close for a couple of days.
Shoving all thoughts of my heat to the side for the time being, I stare out at the empty tables arranged neatly throughout the quiet pub as I loosen my braid and comb through my waist-length hair.
A smile tips up the corners of my mouth as I take in the pops of color from the small brass vases and their coral roses I’ve brought in from outside.
Leaning forward, I grab my cloth and wipe at a stubborn spot on the countertop I must have missed, then position my most ornate antique brass vase directly in the path of a hazy sunbeam trickling in through the window to show off the detailed engravings along its sides.
This one is absolutely gorgeous and my favorite find to date from Juniper’s thrift shop in Cape Easton—Treasure Hunters.
Just because The Singing Seahorse is an old stone pub doesn’t mean it can’t be pretty too. I also think my feminine touch makes it a little more inviting in general, a little more “me”.
I’ve poured my heart into this place and have personal stamps all over it.
Each pendant light hanging above a table, each sconce affixed to the stone walls, the deep azure fabric of the semicircle booths in the back, the small coral accents scattered throughout—all were chosen by me to complement the dark wood floors and mahogany furniture to create a warm and cozy atmosphere.
Staring at my favorite booth in the darkest corner, I imagine myself being bent over it by a masked stranger, encouraging me to sing for him while he fucks me raw. And maybe even another one—or two—looking on and encouraging me to let my voice soar.
Damn, Marisol. These approaching heat hormones have you all over the place. Who even knew you had a bit of exhibitionism in you?
I need to get a grip before the girls get here for our Halloween planning meeting. Thank fuck they’re human and won’t be able to smell the state I’m in after that wonderfully debauched vision.
Deciding I need to get my mind as far away from knots and poorly timed fantasies as I can in the next couple of minutes, I start singing an old folk song about the ocean—very safe, very neutral—as I go through some paperwork.
It’s not long before the rise and fall of the melody sweeps me away, and I close my eyes and get lost in the music, letting my voice reverberate through the rectangular room. I get so caught up in the song that I almost miss the sound of the heavy front door being pushed open.
Maisie barrels into the pub, brightening the room instantly with her sunny disposition as she makes her way over to a seat opposite mine.
“Fucking hells, Marisol! Was that you singing? I thought it was a recording.” She glances up at me with a brilliant grin before setting a picnic basket on the counter with what I can only assume contains her latest baking creations.
My cheeks burn and I duck my head, letting my long black hair curtain around my embarrassed face. “I… uh… yeah.”
Seemingly unfazed by my tepid response, Maisie forges ahead.
“Lady, your voice is so beautiful. Have you ever considered making music professionally? I’d totally pay to listen to you all day.
Just the snippet I’ve heard has already gotten me inspired.
I can do ocean-themed bakes next. What about a…
” Maisie’s voice trails off before shifting to one of concern. “Are you okay?”
I chance a glance at her, my shoulders still high around my ears. “Are you okay? My music didn’t have any kind of effect on you, did it? You don’t feel compelled or enthralled or anything like that?”
Maisie shakes her head profusely, tendrils of curly blonde hair whipping across her face with the motion.
“Nope. Totally fine. I’m not sure how siren songs work but it might help that Ren just gave me so many orgasms that my legs are still wobbly.
Maybe that’s why it didn’t have an effect on me?
I know, you should ask Tilly when she arrives! ”
My eyes round and now I’m the one furiously shaking my head. “I can’t ask her if orgasms have an effect on siren songs.”
Maisie frowns at me like she doesn’t understand what the problem is.
“Why not? She’s a medical professional and has all sorts of knowledge about these things.
And remember, if Ren was brave enough to talk to her about sexual stuff back then before he, before we…
You know… What I mean is, if my Ren can do it, then I know you can be brave too. ”
Maisie isn’t shy about many things, but she’s extremely protective of Ren, so her taking the time to filter her words just speaks of all the love she has for him.
It’s not like the whole island isn’t aware that she took his virginity and that they’ve been inseparable since they admitted their feelings for each other.
My shoulders finally start to relax. I guess I see a little sense in what she’s saying. “When you put it like that… Oh, you have treats! What did you make?”
Tapping the countertop between us, Maisie’s excitement is almost palpable. “Remember at Ladies’ Night when we were spitballing ideas for Halloween? One of them stuck and I thought I’d do a test round and see if you liked them.”
My mouth can’t help but break into a matching grin. “If you make it, we’ll like it,” I answer honestly. Some of Maisie’s recipes might seem a tad adventurous for some, but, to date, I’ve not tasted anything I haven’t liked.
“Hi! Anyone home?” Tilly calls, pushing against the hefty door with her shoulder. She almost stumbles as the door swings open, but quickly catches herself before walking forward, righting her scrubs and pretending nothing has happened.
I wave Starry Hill’s nurse practitioner over, following her lead and acting as if we didn’t witness the near fall. “Tilly! Perfect timing. Maisie was just about to unveil her latest creation.”
Maisie holds up a finger, gaze jumping between me and Tilly.
“Keep in mind, this is just a sample. I’m open to your suggestions about the design and flavor.
” Even though she tries to hide her enthusiasm, Maisie’s body is practically effervescent—eyes shining bright and body almost wiggling on her stool as she waits for our reactions.
Uncovering the bakes in the container, Maisie reveals three mini cakes shaped like pumpkins, the cream cheese frosting on top shaped to look like a ghost melting into the cake. It’s cute and a little creepy and absolutely perfect for Halloween.
“They look incredible,” I gush, swallowing back some drool as I marvel at the cakes. The distinct aroma of cinnamon on this wonderfully gloomy day makes me want to burrow into a pile of pillows and soft blankets with a comfort book.
Oh fuck. Is this triggering my nesting instincts?
Come on, body. Now is not the time. It’s way too early to dream of soft fabrics and plush pillows and…
I’m about to get up and escape into the tiny kitchen in the back, planning to grab some plates for us as an excuse, but Tilly holds up one hand to stop me while her other hand lifts one of the cakes to her mouth.