Chapter Five

Itook a risk leaving the Syren crucified on the cross. Though I had locked the door behind me so she was as secure as possible, both roped and chained, there was always a chance something could go wrong.

But I couldn't be in there a minute longer. With her blood coursing through my veins, making it harder to control my impulses, I had to separate myself from her. There was a moment there, when I used my magic to heal the wound on her back, that I felt her nipples brush against my bare chest, and I thought my cock would explode. I was hit with the urge to run my lips over her breasts, to bite and feast, to let my hands roam southward. I have no idea what a Syren's anatomy was like, but I wanted to find out.

I was a monster, I knew, but I didn't want to be of that kind. Wicked men were like that, those who preyed on women, who defiled them. Perhaps all men have some sort of beast inside them, driving them to do such things, but that was the last bastion of humanity I had to hold on to.

God, help me hang on.

Now, in the quiet of my cottage, with only the occasional howling gust of wind outside to keep me company, I need to formulate a plan. I need to be able to think clearly without that Syren occupying my thoughts, not to mention my desires.

Tomorrow is Sunday. People will be here for the funeral of the two fishermen, and then they'll be in church. I have to ensure she is subdued and quiet. If she happens to fall from the cross or get out of the chains, then she's no longer a secret. Then, she becomes a spectacle.

Maybe I can put some sort of spell on her, perhaps one that takes away her voice without the use of chains. I'll see what I can muster. My magic was stronger before I had been turned into a blood-drinker, back when I was merely a human witch. I had to bury my magic entirely in the monastery, for such power is an indulgent act already, and I was more likely to lose control of myself.

Now, I use it on occasion—to heal people under the guise of God, to compel people when I need extra persuasion, to spy on people if needed. I've always had the gift of being able to enter the mind of any animal, so as long as that animal is in my sight, and I can control them to an extent, seeing through their eyes. For a moment, it crosses my mind that if the Syren was more animal than human, perhaps I could do that to her. I could at least try.

Dawn breaks the cloudy sky by the time I feel more in control and composed, and I head back to the chapel.

The Syren is right where I left her, a vision in holiness.

Her head is slumped to the side, the chains taut around her mouth, blonde hair hanging around her face like an angel. Her breasts remain full and perfect, her arms held back by the ropes with no sign of her impalement. There is no light in the room, the candles having all burned out, and yet it seems like she's shining.

Just for me.

I stop and close the door, quietly locking it behind me with the skeleton key that I slip into my trousers.

She hasn't moved at all, and I feel a pang of fear that perhaps she's dead. But then her chest rises, just a little, taking in a quiet breath.

I walk toward her and stop to get a closer look, wanting her to raise her head and meet my eyes. I want to see that fire in them I saw last night, that devilish beast within her.

Perhaps our beasts could both come out and play.

But I shake that thought from my mind and focus on her crucifixion, on the cross. It reminds me to stay pure, to stay in control, to do what must be done and only what must be done.

"Hello," I say, standing in front of her. My voice sounds hollow in the room, and I feel a bit silly for saying something so bland, given the situation.

But she doesn't stir. I don't expect her to understand Spanish, but she doesn't even flinch.

I reach out and grab the hair at the top of her head, pulling her head back so I can see her clearly. Her brows come together faintly, and she lets out a soft moan against the chains. But she doesn't open her eyes, and when I let go of her hair, her head slumps forward again.

I glance down at her tail. Up close, it looks like the scales are flaking off, as if it's starting to shrink and dehydrate. Does she have to be in water to survive?

I quickly leave the room, locking it behind me, then step out of the chapel with a bucket I use to fill the stoup. Roosters crow with the rising sun, and I hurry to the sacramental well, where the holy water is drawn from behind the chapel, filling up the bucket before heading back into the church.

Once I'm locked in the back room again, I stand a few feet back from the Syren and then heave the contents of the bucket at her. The water splashes over her like a slap, and she lifts her head with a muffled gasp.

Relieved, I put the bucket down and go over to her. I reach out and brush her wet hair off her angelic face.

Those angry violet eyes stare back at me, her nostrils flaring.

I can't help but smile.

"I was worried you were close to death," I say to her. I know she doesn't understand, but it still feels good to talk. "I don't know much about keeping a Syren alive, but perhaps you need water, just as I need blood."

She frowns, delicate brows knitting together, and lets out a low growl. To see the fight in her return brings me a perverse sort of joy.

A drop of water rolls down over her nose to her lips, sinking behind the metal chain, and I see her pink tongue dart out to lick it, a sight that makes my cock twitch. I do my best to ignore it.

"I suppose you might want something to drink," I muse, stepping back and looking around the room. I'll have to go back out again later for more water, and I'm not about to offer her blood, especially not her own, so I go to the cask I know has wine and open it. The chalice I drank from last night is empty, so I pour wine into it and bring it over to her.

"I'm going to assume you've never had wine before," I say as her eyes focus on the chalice, fear and curiosity mixing in shades of a bruise. "I can't promise it will taste good to you. Frankly, the wines they give us for the church are not of the highest quality, and I don't know if it will be enough to quench your thirst. But Jesus turned water into wine, and I can only hope I can turn this wine into water."

I step closer to her and reach out with one hand for the back of the cross, finding where I had latched the chains together. Once again, her breasts are against my chest, though because of my black shirt, I don't feel them as I did last night.

"I'm going to undo the chain so you can drink freely," I murmur, staring down into her eyes. "You can try and bite me, but rest assured, you cannot hurt me. You can scream, but I will either put this chain back in your mouth or take away your voice. It's up to you."

Her nostrils flare as she stares up at me, but she eventually relents, a tired sigh rumbling through her.

I undo the chain and pull it away from her mouth, quickly stepping back with it. Her mouth widens and stretches, and she winces, obviously sore. The chains have left rusty red grooves at the corners of her mouth, reminding me of blood.

"Behave," I warn her, coming closer again with the chalice. "You bite me, and I will bite you right back. I won't turn the other cheek."

She stares at me intently and swallows, licking her dry lips, wriggling the tension from her jaw.

Then, she nods. She may not speak my language, but she understands me.

Acquiescence.

"Very well," I say, lifting the chalice to her lips. "Drink while you can."

She sniffs the chalice, most likely checking that it's not her own blood, then takes a tepid sip, her full upper lip softly clasping the edge. I tip the cup forward so the wine pours into her mouth slowly, careful not to spill, and watch as she swallows it down. Her face contorts for a moment, perhaps shocked at the taste of wine, and then her eyes flutter closed. She looks angelic again, young.

Suddenly, I'm hit with two conflicting desires—the desire to protect this creature from any harm and the desire to do harm to her. To feed from her, to defile her, to know what those lips would feel like if they were pressed against mine or, heaven forbid, wrapped around my dick.

But then, she gulps the rest of the wine down in a frenzy, the red liquid spilling everywhere, and her razor teeth chomp into the edge of the metal chalice, biting it.

I quickly rip the chalice away from her.

"I told you to behave," I scold her. "To disobey a priest is blasphemy."

"I won't behave," she snarls at me.

I stare at her, mouth agape. "You speak Spanish?" I ask, blinking at her. How is that possible?

"I speak enough," she says in a beguiling accent.

Then, she spits on my face.

I wipe it away and grin at her. "Well, this has certainly made your little predicament a lot more interesting. For me, that is. I'm so used to talking to a God who doesn't answer back, it might be nice to talk to someone who does."

She growls in response and spits on me again.

This time, I wipe it away, glancing at it between my fingers, tinged with wine. I give a small shake of my head and rub her spit along my tongue, swallowing it. Even her saliva tastes divine.

"If you think spitting on me is a deterrent, you are sadly mistaken," I tell her, tipping over the empty chalice. "I drink your spit like wine. Speaking of wine, I could give you more, but it all depends on your temperament. So far, I'm not sure you're taking any of this seriously."

"Damn you, whore," she sneers.

I burst out laughing, my own laughter foreign to my ears.

The Syren can curse, albeit creatively. She grows more interesting by the minute.

"I like you, you know," I tell her, still chuckling. "That's not a good thing in the long run. But yes, I like you very much. Tell me, Syren, where did you learn to speak my language?"

"It is none of your business. Let me go."

I raise my brow, running my fingertip over the rim of the cup. "Let you go where? To do what? You know, had you been a human who had murdered those men like you did, you would already be dead. That's how we deal with things in this world. You kill them, we kill you. It's safer for the world for a savage creature like yourself to be put in the ground, turned into fish food."

"Put me back in the water or…" She trails off, licking the wine off her lips. I'd like to lick it off for her.

"Or what?" I ask idly.

"I'll scream," she threatens. "You know what a Syren's scream can do."

"Actually, I didn't. Not until I met you. I confess. I know nothing about you or your kind. The only thing I know, the only thing I need to know, is that your blood sustains me for very long periods of time. That's the only reason why you're here. That's all I want from you."

Her eyes darken. "I don't believe you. You are here to punish me."

"Well, I suppose there is a little punishment involved. God is the judge, but perhaps I am the jury and the executioner." I lean in closer to her, daring to brush away a strand of wet blonde hair that's fallen across her eye. "I will treat you fairly, but you must understand that if you were to scream, if you were to escape, you would find no safety in my world. These men would either chop off your tail or sell you to a museum. Can you imagine a real Syren for the world to see? Do you want to spend the rest of your life in an aquarium, having people crowd around you, tapping on the glass?"

She jerks her head out of the way, growling like a rabid dog.

"I am your only ally here," I inform her, my voice low. "And through me is the only way you'll reach any kind of salvation. Perhaps I do want to keep you here as punishment. Perhaps I just want to make sure I get the most out of you that I can. You are going to bleed for me, little fish, until you have nothing left to give. Then, and only then, will I even think about letting you go."

"You're a monster," she says, baring her teeth at me.

I drop my hand from her face. "You have no idea."

I lean in closer, inhaling her scent. I've been so entranced by the sweet smell and decadent taste of her blood I've barely registered what her natural aroma is. Like her blood, it's sweet and rich, but there's something fresh and bracing about it. It brings memories to the front of my mind, ones I thought I'd forgotten. She smells like the time I traveled to a village on the Mediterranean, back in Spain, back when I was human. I had my son with me, and we had traveled through olive and lemon and almond groves until I glimpsed the sea for the first time. The woman at the inn gave us a slice of cake with honeyed lemon rinds…

The memory catches me off guard, disorients me. This creature smells like the last time I remember being happy and whole and?—

With a snap of her head, she leans forward and bites my hand, which I had rested on her shoulder. Pain explodes as her teeth sink in and savagely tear at my fat and sinew, tearing my ligaments to shreds.

I holler and rip my hand out of her jaws, but her bite is tight, and she keeps part of my hand in her mouth, the bloody mess hanging from her teeth.

I look down at my ravaged and bleeding hand. I'm lucky she didn't take a finger. Tissue and muscle can repair and regrow, but bones rarely can.

She grins at me, a gruesome sight.

To think, this creature made me feel something for a moment.

I let out a roar, and my other hand shoots out, wrapping around her neck. She manages to swallow part of my hand before I squeeze her throat tight until I feel her vertebrae close to snapping.

"What did I just tell you?" I hiss at her. "You bite me, and I'm going to bite you right back."

I yank her head to the side, exposing the skin of her neck, and sink my teeth into her jugular. She yelps, jaws snapping, but I'm stronger and keep her locked in place while I take my fill of her blood. I wasn't planning on feeding from her so soon again—if my plan is to work, I have to be strategic when I take blood, give her time to replenish—but I refuse to let her win this little game she's playing.

In time, she'll learn that her freedom is an illusion.

And if the monster inside me escapes, he will always win.