26. Siren #2
“I…” she muttered, looking back at the forest behind her, wringing her hands.
“You can run if that’s what you want to do,” he said. “But I caution you—you should much rather I bring you here on foot than wait for her to drag you by her teeth.”
The swirling fear swallowed Flora again, her breath shallow in her throat. He cocked his head with a single brow raised. He offered his hand.
“No,” she insisted. I can handle this, she thought. “I’m coming.”
He let his hand fall and swung open the door. “After you, love.”
Flora clenched her fists and stiffened her spine as she crossed the threshold, careful to avoid his touch as she walked past.
The inside of the shrine had been converted into a very lived-in home.
Oil lanterns burned along the walls, and hide blankets swaddled the black leather furniture.
There were wooden sculptures of deer, scythes, and people made out of fragments of sticks and the pinecone-like husks from the maewyn trees.
Most were either suspended by the windows or resting on the busy end tables.
“Pardon the mess. My sister left all of her crafts behind, and I just can’t seem to part with them.”
“... How many of you are there?” Flora asked.
“Just my mother and I now.”
Flora took a few steps forward and peered into the other room. There was what seemed to be a kitchen and a bed shoved into one space, with a sink decorated with dirty clothes and a dresser topped with pots and pans.
“You live in the kitchen?” she inquired.
He chuckled, “No. You do. At least until mother is ready to meet you.”
Flora glared back at him, fire crackling above her hands. “I didn’t volunteer to be your prisoner.”
“No, but I’ve already told you the alternative. You can take my room if you’d prefer something with a locked door.” He crossed his arms and leaned back. “Or, you can run home to the village, and she can pluck you from your friends’ cold, dead hands.”
Flora froze. “‘Charming’, are you?” she muttered under her breath.
He stepped closer, too close, and hissed over her shoulder, “Have you forgotten what I am?”
She stepped away. “Don’t touch me.”
“I—sorry,” he said, as if caught off guard. He stepped back and turned to walk away. “Whatever you do next is your decision.”
“You’ll leave him alone,” she said. He halted. “You’ll leave them all alone if you want me to stay.”
“You have my word—that no further harm will come to the people of your village, your friend included,” he said. “And I will speak to my mother, so that you might have her word as well.”
Flora nodded, though she did not turn to face him.
Could it be that this man, this creature was the very devil that slaughtered Sona?
She had not seen him shapeshift like the others, but perhaps his wild eyes meant that he was just like the other human scythes.
She heard his footsteps fade as he disappeared behind another door.
Flora sat on the couch, the leather cold beneath her skin. She could hear him rustling around in the bedroom across the way. On the wooden end table was a tiny sculpture in the shape of an angel, with black husk flecks glued together as its wings and the carved body of an acorn as a friendly face.
“Please don’t touch that,” he said gently, startling her to pull her hand away from where it hovered. “Sorry, I thought you heard me coming.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
He sighed. “Like I said, my name is Siren.”
“How did you end up here in the Forest, and how long has your mother been hunting me?”
Hands in his pockets, he walked over and sat on the far end of the couch.
He reclined, crossing his legs and extending his arms around the frame of the couch, a fur blanket sinking around the dark fabric of his shirt.
A necklace rested in the deep “V” of his collar, adorned with leather cord and a black wooden pendant shaped like the petal of a maewyn husk.
The stubble of his beard darkened his jawline, though his cheek dimpled with a grin. Flora swallowed at the complacent sight of him.
“Why should it bother you if your mother drags me through the forest by her teeth?” she asked, clawing her lower thighs beneath her hands.
“Because you’re not even one of them. You’re the Sleepwalker, correct? Not even an Asilian. I’ve told you, I owe you no ill-will.”
“And why should you hate the Asilians? Why should you murder and harvest the people living beyond the Forest?”
“The people of Asilia killed my father and made a pariah out of my mother,” he said, resting his head on his hand lazily. “But that doesn’t mean I wish them harm. It’s not easy to kill for a man I barely remember, especially when I can feel everything they feel with just a touch.”
“Then, why?—”
“I can’t take responsibility for whatever she does,” he said, his jaw clenching.
“And to be honest, I hadn’t realized until recently how far she had taken things.
The spy outside the village, the attack on Asilia—that was my way of stepping in, offering a more calculated solution, rather than slaughtering civilians for information until she found you. ”
“Your monsters killed people.”
“And they stopped the second I found you,” he said. “Just as she promised she would.”
“You killed the cleric of my village,” she spat, her nails suddenly claws digging into her skin through her skirt. “You killed Sona.”
“I…” he trailed off, his breath catching just slightly as he met her eyes. “I didn’t know what my mother would do with the information Feya found.”
Feya. Flora felt a twinge in the back of her mind, and whatever string bound what remained of her rage was snapped. She felt a snarl seething between her teeth as she stood, the flames and scales engulfing her arms, her back searing as wings twitched and unfurled.
She choked on her breath, unable to move. She hadn’t even noticed him reaching forward. His hand slowly slipped away from her wrist.
“I hate to be controlling,” he said, sinking back into the couch as the red drained from her face. “But I can’t have you burning up my furniture.”
“Wh—How dare you.”
“I’d rather you not make me do it again,” he said, though his grin said otherwise. He leaned forward and jerked his chin to the room behind her. “Go, take a look inside the room on the left. I cleaned it up a bit, and I laid some clothes out for you.”
Flora gritted her teeth at the slick, raven-haired man before her. I’m sure you did, she thought.
Flora huffed whatever frustration she could rekindle and made her way over to the door, looking back to where he watched curiously. She opened the door and stepped inside.
What she saw nearly took her breath away.
Pants.
Laying neatly on the brown fur of the bed was a pair of pants.
With pockets. More than just fake pockets for a few quarters and maybe a third of a phone.
Pockets along the sides deep enough to store cute little rocks for Nia, and knotted headbands when Lila needed something for her hair.
She held the black cargo pants with zippers and buttons and felt her jaw drop.
There was nothing, nothing, in all her twenty-four hours of rage as infuriating as being stuck in the vice of this stupid yellow dress.
She almost forgot the devilish eyes that seared at her back.
“Those were Petra’s,” he said. Flora jumped, spinning around wide-eyed. “Let me know if anything doesn’t fit.” He added, “I figured you’d like to show a little less skin and have a little more mobility.”
Flora looked down, blushing as she realized how tattered her corset had become. She was muddy, bloody, and though her skin had healed, she was all too aware of the cold air against her ribs. He chuckled and began to pull the door closed.
“Can I... clean up somewhere?” she said.
“Door across the hall,” he said just as the door clicked shut.
For a minute, she sat on the edge of the bed, staring back at the door. Her rage seeped away more and more every minute, but the less rage she felt, the more room she had for fear.
She gathered the pants, a flowy beige shirt with open shoulders, and a towel that lay folded on the bed.
She stood inside the door and took a deep breath, wondering what the hell she had gotten herself into.
What was this man planning to do with her, and how long did she have before his facade of hospitality fell away?