Chapter Three

Salvation, I think again as I stare at the Syren. Or is it damnation?

I watch as she hovers in the current, her body so sinfully soft and curved that I have a hard time imagining her as a vicious creature. She's too beautiful for that, too delicate.

I want to see her monstrous side in action. So far, she has not spotted me. She's just hovering in the water a few feet below the surface, and though I can't see her back fully, I spy faint splotches of blood coloring the water from where the fisherman must have stabbed her.

It takes all my resolve not to make a move for her. I could be at her in seconds flat, tearing her apart.

Instead, I shoot up to the surface, breaking through. I gulp in the cold night air, staring up at the moon as I wait for her to attack.

I hear her approach, a snarling sound from the depths beneath me, and brace myself.

She grabs my ankles first, sharp claws digging in through my flesh and tendon and bone, surprisingly strong. If I was a normal man, she would have broken my bones like splintered twigs.

I could fight back right away and stay above the water, but I let her pull me under.

Until she has pulled me right down to her level.

She spins me around, silver-blonde hair swirling around us.

I am staring at two large, hooded eyes that glow like violet flames, pupils a diamond of coal at the middle. Her brows frame them like archways. Her nose is short and pert, her face the shape of a heart, with small, full lips above a dainty chin. For a moment, I trick myself into thinking I'm staring at a beautiful woman until those lips part, and she bares her teeth at me. Her smile is razor sharp, like looking into the mouth of a shark.

A shark that thinks it's about to devour its prey whole.

But I don't want to lose my nose, even if it will eventually heal, and I don't feel like experiencing pain—the gouges she dug into my ankles still throb.

I duck out of the way just as she lunges for me, teeth bared, letting out a roar that travels through the water like a wave.

I bite her before she has a chance to bite me.

My fangs pierce her neck, her skin surprisingly tough, and she lets out a scream. I put my hand at the back of her head, making a tight fist in her hair, the other hand squeezing down her back until I find the knife wound.

I press my fingers inside it, hard.

Her back arches, buckling in my grasp, her cries of agony filling the water, but at least I've gotten her to stop fighting. The pain has stunned her.

I start drinking, pulling the blood into my mouth.

The moment it hits my tongue in a burst of salt and vitality, I feel the beast inside me rattling its chains. If I let go, it will rip this Syren to shreds, and while it will feel good in the moment to succumb to the very thing I've fought so hard against, to lose all the humanity I've earned, I know it would be the foolish thing to do.

I could devour her, and she would keep me going for a long time.

But not forever.

Yet if I brought her ashore, kept her as a prisoner, as a pet, I could slowly drain her of her blood. I could take as much as I could without killing her, put it in the casks with the rest of my supply as a backup in case I accidentally do kill her, and then, every few days, take more from her. It wouldn't have to be much, just enough to sustain me.

I know what Abe would say, that it's immoral and inhumane.

But the more I drink from this Syren, the more I realize that's something I'll never be able to escape, no matter how often I pray to a God who doesn't hear me, no matter how the world sees me as a man of faith.

I am immoral.

I am inhumane.

I'm not even human anymore.

Yet I need to drink human blood to survive. And if it's a Syren's blood, that's even better. Isn't it kinder to keep one savage creature, such as this fish-woman, as my food source than it is to slaughter people every week? I'd be doing the world a favor, saving the lives she would have killed, as well as the ones I would have killed.

I'm doing God a favor.

She really will be my salvation, I think.

With that thought, I manage to tear my teeth from her neck before I lose all control. Blood flows freely in the water, and she's losing consciousness, her eyes fluttering closed as she becomes limp in my arms. Hopefully, I haven't already killed her.

I want to keep her alive forever.

I want to keep her. Forever.

I turn around in the water, one arm hooked under hers, and start swimming toward the shore. It doesn't take long before I feel the stones under my feet, and I stagger out of the water, holding the Syren in my arms. Here, in the bitterly cold wind that ushers in a thick, rolling fog, she looks utterly vulnerable and out of her element. If I ignore her tail, she could be a damsel I just rescued.

But I am not here to rescue her.

I'm here to make her bleed.

I don't waste any time taking her directly to the chapel. My cottage is small, with thin walls and too many windows, and while the church itself is always open to everyone, the back room is locked and has no windows.

I kick open the heavy main doors, hoping that some wayward soul hasn't come inside to pray while I've been gone. The church is empty, quiet, like it's been holding its breath and waiting for me.

I stride down the aisle, leaving a trail of water and blood behind us, and head straight to the back door of the chapel. I don't dare glance at the altar or the paintings of saints on the walls, disapproval apparent on their faces. They'll realize I need to do this; they'll understand that I'm saving their flock by taking out another wolf.

The back room smells like muddled herbs, wood, aging linens, and old blood. The casks are in a row along the far wall, and there's a small desk and chair with stacks of extra Bibles. I keep everything else organized in woven bins, half of which have gone moldy in this climate, no matter how dry the room seems to be.

Then, there is the heavy, life-sized cross leaning against the wall. When Abe first brought me here, the government was in the middle of upgrading their church and had taken down this worn cross above the altar, one that had been made from a giant oak in Salamanca, and put up a smaller, more ornate silver one. It was supposed to signify a more dignified future for the village, perhaps a more dignified God.

I always found it to be a bit insulting. God wasn't found in the riches; no, he was found in the simple things, like worn, rough wood from the homeland. An expensive, lavish cross didn't mean this village was any closer to heaven than with an old wooden one.

But none of that matters now. I have a cross at my disposal, and God would want me to use it.

I carefully place the Syren on the floor. She's completely still, eyes closed, and I stare at her for a moment to see if she's breathing. She has gills on her neck, three lines that attempt to flutter open, then stop, sticking together.

Perhaps she will die, and my plan will be thwarted, but either way, I need to get more blood out of her now while I can.

Though I can see well in the dark, I need light to do this properly. I light a few candles around the room, and then I go to the cross and yank out the long spikes that have been drilled in the arms for morbid reverence. I grab some rope that's stacked in the corner, and with a grunt, I pull the Syren up off the ground and place her back against the cross, quickly wrapping the rope around one arm, then the other, until she's suspended.

She slumps forward, her long, wet blonde hair hanging in her face, dripping on the floor. The weight of her upper body pulls on her arms until they dislocate with a pop, so I let her tail rest against the ground to give her some support. I know enough that it's not the nails that killed those who were crucified. No, it was suffocation from the pressure on the lungs. I am unsure how much a Syren can take, but a human on a cross would die in less than twenty-four hours.

I don't even know if she's still breathing.

I stand close to her, grasping the spikes in my hands. The seawater drips off her in a steady cadence, but other than that, she doesn't move. My gaze lingers on her breasts, a temptation I have to ignore, even though my cock is already throbbing wildly at the slightest provocation.

Then, I see it. The slightest inhale. Her chest rises and falls, her nostrils flaring slightly. She's breathing through her nose and into her lungs. The Syren can both breathe underwater and above.

Satisfied that she's still alive, I grab two silver chalices, placing them beneath her wrists. I then grab an empty cask and position one of the spikes right below her wrist. With a swift motion, I drive the butt of the cask against the top of the spike, driving it right through her arm and into the wood. Blood spills from the wound, pouring into the chalice below as splashes of red dot the floor.

She lifts her head up and stares at me in horror.

Right before she screams.