Chapter Two

News of the attack on the fishermen spread before the sun rose over the strait. By noon, military troops stationed in Primera Angostura arrived to join the ones here, puzzling over the incident and arming the cannons. They talked to the surviving fisherman to get their accounts, examined what was left of the bodies, and then came to talk to me.

By then, I was in the chapel, tidying with a broom. In the mornings, I like to give myself busywork, a lasting habit from my days at the monastery. Idle work cures idle minds, and idle minds are apt to sin. As a result, the chapel, and my cottage, are always as neat as a pin. At any rate, it gives me something to do.

I never liked the military. There were a few soldiers who came to my church in need of penance for the people they had killed under the order of their country, and I listened to their burdens as I listened to everyone's, but in general, I find them to be more hypocritical than most believers. They are supposed to protect the people, but where were they when a band of bloodsuckers rode across Spain? Where were they when my village was under siege? They were nowhere to be found—cowards, the lot of them.

The soldiers stationed here don't seem to like me much either. I know I have a certain way about me—all my kind do. To make matters worse, because I was a witch before I was turned into a blood-drinker, I think they can sense that too. Either way, they don't see my otherness as being holy as the other villagers do—they see it as a threat they don't quite understand.

Sometimes, I dream about killing all of them, of letting them see they were right to fear me.

"Father Aragon." The tallest soldier strides forward, bowing his head slightly in a show of mock respect. His eyes are dark and cold. "The men say you saved them last night. We would like to hear your account of what happened."

"Of course," I say, resting the broom against the pew and then straightening out the front of the black robe I wear in the church. I look into the soldier's eyes, perhaps a little too deeply, because he goes quite still. I can hear his heart slowing, his breaths becoming shallow and long, his pupils dilating into black pools. I can often compel people this way, placing them under mild control, but Abe does it better than I. The more power I exert over someone, the more likely I am to lose control of myself, so I try not to do it too often.

But this morning, I want the soldiers to hear exactly what I'm going to say.

"I heard the screams from across the water," I tell them, keeping my gaze focused on the main soldier. "I got my skiff and rowed toward them as fast as I could. Thank the Lord they had a lamp lit, or I would have never found them in the dark."

"The men said this happened in the middle of the night," one of the other soldiers says brusquely. "Were their screams so loud that they woke you up?"

I don't glance at him. "I wasn't asleep. I was here in the chapel, praying."

The head soldier slowly nods. Even if he wanted to break away from my eyes, he can't. He's enraptured and bespelled. "What did you see when you came across their boat?"

"Exactly what you've seen. One man ripped down the middle, and all that's left of the other was his leg."

"And what did the men tell you that happened?"

I manage a small smile, as if we're sharing a joke. "They said they saw a woman in the water. She had tricked them into thinking she was drowning. They said it was a Syren who suddenly pulled their friend under and ripped him apart before she leapt out of the water and onto the boat, attacking the other one. Apparently, she ate his heart and liver before the men fought her off with the oars and stabbed her in the back with their knife. Only then did she let go and sink below the surface."

"And you believe that?"

Another placating smile. "Of course I don't. I am a man of faith, a man of God. God would never create such an abdominal creature. There is no such thing as a Syren or a mermaid or a monstrous woman in the sea."

The other soldier grunts. "Then what do you think really happened?"

"I think the men had a bit too much to drink while they were fishing, and they attracted some other sea creature. We know that sharks swim the strait. I believe the other two men must have fallen overboard from their love of the drink; you know how fond they are of that sinful libation here. They were attacked and killed, and the other two tried to save what they could."

The soldiers all fall silent, and I finally look away, gazing at the rest of them. They seem suspicious of me, even though what I just told them is the most logical explanation.

"May I ask what you think happened?" I ask them.

The soldier I was compelling blinks slowly and then gives his head a shake. He frowns at me. "I think it must have happened as you said. It is simply not possible for a woman to tear off a man's leg like that."

"And there are no such things as Syrens," I remind him.

He nods. "And there are no such things as Syrens."

Then, he clears his throat and gives me another nod, this one more courteous. He motions for his men to leave the chapel, and they quickly do so, as if this place suddenly terrifies them.

I watch them go and smile, the first genuine one I've had since Abe left.

They want to believe in monsters because monsters are real, and some part of them knows it. But logic always wins.

For me, the less they believe, the better.

Because that Syren does exist.

She did attack those men and eat them.

And she's somewhere out there in the waters right now, injured, perhaps slowly bleeding to death.

That blood is going to waste.

That blood could sustain me forever if I act now.

Tonight, I'm going fishing.

Last night's attack happened around one or two in the morning, so I bide my time until then, thinking that might be the Syren's hunting hours. I clean the church, rewrite the sermon for this Sunday so that it focuses on calming people's fears of the unknown. Under the moon that slices in through the window, I pray the rosary as only a heathen would, each bead not directed at God but at myself. It's a chant I repeat over and over again, reminding myself to stay in control.

And yet, I feel that control slipping the more the night ticks by.

I'm starting to welcome it.

My pulse is quickening, blood rushing to my cock until my pants are tight. I find myself wondering if the Syren is as beautiful as they say, getting harder and harder at the thought of finding her, feasting upon her…defiling her.

The thought causes a jolt to run through me like burning lightning, and I grip the rosary tighter as I squirm in my chair.

"Salvation," I whisper to myself, my voice blending in with the wind outside the windows. "Salvation."

It has been centuries since I've been with someone, man or woman. Sometimes, with Abe, it had come close, but he knew better than anyone that celibacy and keeping my vows was paramount to staying human. We are sexual creatures by nature, and because of my monstrous beginnings, my appetites are savage, depraved, and uncontrollable. Blood and sex are my two weaknesses, and because I have to consume blood to survive, it means I can't give in to the other, or I'll lose myself entirely.

But tonight, as my body pulses with the energy I'd been denying myself for ages, I think of the Syren I hadn't yet seen. She would have blonde or red or black hair. Her tail would shimmer like frost under the moon. Her breasts would be full, pale nipples pink and hard in the cold air, begging to be touched, to be bitten.

I think about dragging her out of the water, heavy and wet. She will cry for help, and I will smother her mouth with my hand. I will punish her for her sins and hope that, somehow, it will absolve me of my own.

I think about biting her neck, my fangs piercing the artery before the blood rushes into my mouth. I think about how the blood will taste—more heavenly than God could ever grant me—and how hot it will feel, the sounds as it splashes all over her chest, my throat making greedy noises as I swallow it all down.

If the powdery blood of a dead Syren can give me life for a day, then the pulsing blood of a live one will make immortality that much sweeter.

Before I know what I'm doing, I'm bringing my cock out of my trousers, stroking it hard. A few vicious yanks, and I'm coming with a choked gasp, white ropes spurting out across the black cloth of my thighs.

"God," I swear, gritting my teeth as my head goes back. Immediately, a sense of peace envelops me like a warm haze as I feel the world drift away. I know it's temporary—it always is. I know that when the feeling goes, my hunger will come back tenfold. The hunger for blood, the hunger for sex. It's a damned and sinful slope to be on.

But right now, I close my eyes and fall into a dulcet, dreamless slumber that rests my tired bones and soothes my wayward soul.

I don't know how long I am out for, and when I wake up, it's like a cannon has gone off. I sit straight up in my chair, my heart pounding, my half-hard cock still out of my pants. I eye the dried cum with disdain. It would look better sprayed across a round, pale bottom than leaving a stain on my holy clothes.

There's no point in taking them off and washing them in the basin. It will come off in the ocean.

I get to my feet, tuck my cock back in, and stride out of the cottage into the night. A man would bring some sort of weapon to fight off such a savage beast, but I'm a savage beast myself, and there is no beating me. There's no killing me, either. As lethal as this Syren is, they aren't immortal, and whatever way she'll try and injure me, I'll heal before her eyes.

The wind is steady, bringing in the sharp, bitter cold of the glacial, southern seas, but it's never been uncomfortable for me. Instead, it's bracing, giving me virility, causing a vicious stab of hunger to my gut.

I glance around, my preternatural senses trying to listen for anyone nearby. The cannons that guard the entrance to the strait are a mile away and out of sight, as are the stationed soldiers, and there are no fishermen this evening. I don't think anyone will dare fish after nightfall ever again.

I also listen to the sound of the water—not just the waves crashing against the stony shore, but the splashes out across the strait. Some are whitecaps, one is a seal poking up for air followed by a sharp huff, and one is a floundering sound. Could be a dolphin, a fish, even the shark I blamed for the attack.

Either way, there's something over there.

I walk across the shore and through the crashing surf until I'm swimming past the break. I could have taken the boat, but that would only attract unwanted attention to myself. This way, I can move quickly and undetected.

Under the moonlight, the snowcapped and craggy mountains on the other side of the strait appear like a row of jagged teeth. I swim as fast and as quietly as possible, spending most of the time underwater, where I don't need to breathe. Even in the darkness, my eyes can see clearly through the murky depths.

I smell her before I see her.

The scent of woman, heightened and combined with something primal. A young woman. I smell sex and energy.

I smell an animal.

I open my mouth and take a delicate taste of the ocean.

There's salt, and then there's blood.

Her blood.

My Syren is bleeding.

I pretend she's bleeding for me and let it flow through me, the lust, the hunger, the need for this creature I haven't even met.

Salvation, I think. That's what she tastes like. Just the faintest hint of what's to come.

Then, out of the dark, I see the faint outline of her body. Blonde hair moves around her head like seaweed, glowing silver in the moonlight. Her breasts are full, pale, and exposed, her torso curving down to a soft, round belly that fades into a long, thick tail of shimmering pink scales.

She's the most stunning creature I've ever seen, shining in this watery darkness like a beacon, a North Star, a light that will lead me somewhere.

Except I already know she's going to lead me straight to Hell.

And I'm going to go willingly.