Meraki: A Syren Story (Syren Stories Book 1) Read online

  Naomi Kelly

  One

  Have you ever been so tired that even the effort of falling asleep felt like too much work? Well, I have numerous times, and once again this is where I find myself now.

  Technically, I find myself drifting about twenty-two miles south of my bed where I should be asleep, but I cannot go back.

  Not yet.

  Maybe not ever. Maybe that’s why I am so damn exhausted. Everyone assumes sea creatures have terrible memories because of lower intelligence, but after three weeks of being underwater, I barely remember my name. At least common fish have the intellect to turn off half their brains to get some rest, but me? No such luck.

  I did try to sleep at some stage last week, but yet again, the nightmares sought me out. No matter where I go, they follow.

  Instead, I drift and think…. I float and fret.

  I begin to hum to myself just to hear another sound, but I cut my tune short. The last thing I need is a pod of whales accidentally summoned to my side. I’m beginning to worry I’ve conceived every thought possible when I feel a disturbance in the water.

  A ripple against my core. It’s too small to be a typhoon, yet too large to be the lurking shark who had its beady eye on me for days now.

  Straining my eyes to peer through the murky waters, I spot a heavy net drifting downward. It unravels silently and opens its mouth wide like a hungry beast.

  There should be no fishermen here, especially at this time of year. Trawling in these waters is always dangerous, but only a desperate fool would venture this far North in winter. Although by the large gaps in their netting that most fish would easily swim through, this fisherman was indeed a fool. Unless he was hunting for a were-dolphin; one of those beasts would keep a family fed for the entire winter.

  Weeks of boredom and an inbuilt hunger for curiosity compelled me to swim closer. They did not even have an icebreaker attached to their hull!

  Perhaps it would be kinder for me to take them hostage and present them as an offering to the Queen. It could be a win-win situation. I would prevent his slow painful end as he inevitably froze to death, and I might not be immediately turned away from the Queendom gates if I bring her a plaything.

  I glide to the left to get a better look at the lone boat blocking the weak winter sun as it looms closer. Then I see it, that crest on the side. This is a royal vessel.

  The gills lining my side flare in disbelief, sending a stream of bubbles to the surface. Without hesitating I pump my tail, propelling myself under the keel and out the other side. The boat rotates faster than I thought possible for such a long vessel.

  The groan of the wood is muffled but audible underwater as the boat is pushed to its limit to keep up with me. To track me.

  Living by dark waters means one must forego paranoia from a young age, otherwise shear insanity would break you.

  Every sound, every flash of scales would feel like a threat. One must learn to silence the fear in order to live. Yet as I see the large net aim directly for me, I loathe myself for shunning the fear. I should have been afraid. I should have swum away.

  With the net closing in to my left and the jagged rocks of the coastline to my right, the open pool before me is my last resort.

  I prepare to lurch forward but pause. I taste the subtle change in salinity. I feel the temperature ever so slightly increase against my skin and notice the smoother, smaller pebbles on the seafloor that's rising quickly to meet me. They're trying to corral me into the shallow cove.

  I glance down at my tail. It has offered me speed and protection the past few weeks but now it threatens to kill me. If I am beached, I will not be able to adapt back to land-life fast enough to run away. The weight of the tail suffocates my legs.

  Instead, I twist onto my back, looking upwards to see the silhouette of a man leaning over the side of the boat. His dark shadow wobbles in the watery mirror, and for one wasted moment, I wonder who is seeing the greater monster- him or me?

  The knotted cords of the net begin to press into my skin as the ropes retract. No longer having an escape route, I opt for a different method.

  I contort my body within the ever-constricting space, placing my head against the bottom of the net. I force my outstretched arms through the gaps and wait. My body coils with withheld power.

  The figure I saw is not alone. Dozens of hands now clamber at the slack, hauling the loose netting overboard. They work in tandem.

  Heave. Stop.

  Heave. Stop.

  I let them heave one more time before using their momentary pause to execute my plan.

  Unfurling my body, I thrust my tail towards the surface. If they do not know what they have caught, they certainly do now.

  I pump my arms rapidly, cutting through the water before me yet I get nowhere. I ignore the muffled shouts from above and direct all my focus into getting as far below the waves as I can.

  Between my frantic flapping and the crowd of captors leaning over the edge, the boat threatens to topple. Capsizing the vessel was not my intention but it’s an option I’ll take. Let them sink to their watery graves for ever trying to capture me.

  The cords embed into my skin as I fight and fail to win back any slack. A crisscross of cord slices into my cheek. The cut deepens the harder I thrash. A trickle of blood and ichor drifts from my face and floats before my wide eyes.

  My neck feels like it is close to snapping from the constant force of my downwards pushing. Yet I am going nowhere.

  Exhaustion begins to seep in. Bubbles and blood escape, but I do not.

  Without notice, the shouting voices cease. The boats rocking settles to an unsettling lull. As the eerie calm descends, my eyes dart to the surface to see the peering audience move away.

  All but one.

  The same shadowed figure as before remains to stare overboard, watching my every move. His blurry image is abruptly distorted by his fist punching through the icy water.

  Grabbing my tail, he tugs hard. I soar through the water as he drags me towards him. Once I’m close enough, he thrusts his open palm into my inky dark hair. With his firm grip on my skull and a fistful of my hair, he easily navigates me.

  Once I’m ripped into the air above, arms grabble at me from every direction. Hurrying hands haul me over the wooden ledge, and then dump the net and its contents on the deck.

  “I guess I owe you for that bet about not needing an icebreaker then, my Majesty.” A man’s voice laughs awkwardly without humour as he moves closer. He begins to untangle the ropes and net, but my thrashing body makes it no easy task.

  I instinctively claw at my throat. I’m fooled to feel as if I’m drowning in air. He drops the net and restrains my wrists instead.

  The bright winter sunlight holds no heat, yet it burns my eyes. I blink away tears and hope they know I weep from the light and not from fear.

  They being the crew circling me, staring with whale eyes as if they had never seen a syren before. I’m guessing they haven’t.

  My eyes scan through all the faces quickly, but trip and stumble over the bastard who keeps a strong grip on my tail. He’s paler than the average sunbeaten sailor, and he wears a long, draping dark cloak. The royal emblem of the pointed crescent moon and a lone star is sewn above his heart.

  I know not who this pain in the ass princeling is, but I’m sure he is not King Lachlan. With his taut jaw and knitted fair eyebrows, he does not look as animated as the rest. He simply looks…annoyed.

  “She doesn’t have wings, and why is she not singing, Fletcher?” His growl carries upwards from my tail.

  Wings? Syren’s haven’t had wings for decades and he’s acting like he’s s
omehow disappointed! Oh, how badly I want to tail slap him in his gormless face.

  “Her not singing is what we want right now, my Majesty.” The Fletcher man states drily.

  He crosses my arms over my torso, attempting to pin my flailing body against the deck, “Besides her kind cannot sing whilst they’re transitioning.”

  My gills slap open and closed as real air begins to fight its way through my flaring nostrils and panting mouth. The sea breeze feels heavy and abrasive, as if there are chunks of salt in the wind, whipping against my pale periwinkle, damp skin.

  Skin which I’m pretty sure is now on fire. I cannot bear to open my eyes in the harsh light to check, but my arms blotch and burn as blood vessels lacking oxygen rush to the surface. If I were to look, I’d expect to see my body charred, the wooden deck beneath me steaming as my skin blisters from the internal heat.

  “How long will the transition take?”

  Seven minutes, I think to myself, but I have no idea how much time has passed. This is what forever feels like. Everything and nothing all at once.

  Someone places the back of their hand against my forehead. I hope my skin scorches their knuckles.

  “I’m not sure, your Majesty. I’ve only read of it, yet I fear she is transitioning too quickly. Maybe if we place her in the water it would ease the adaptation?”

  Fletcher’s voice sounds further away as my heartbeat races through my eardrums, pounding like a herd of centaurs.

  I try to rein in my racing mind which is pulsing from the mounting pressure. Even with my eyes closed, spots dance across the back of my eyelids. My jaw pulsates from the growing headache, scrapping my teeth together to form the loudest sound in my skull has ever housed.

  “Are you honestly suggesting I put her back in the sea?” The princeling’s hostile tone is matched with a tightening grip which threatens to snap my ankles.

  I pray to Poseidon, to Zeus, to Oceanus, to whatever god will hear my plea. Either release me from my suffering or give me the strength to kill them.

  My gills flap one last time and then close for good. I do not know which outcome the gods shall fulfil.

  “No, not all the way into the sea, but-”

  The gods choose life.

  I lurch at the hips and sit upright. I throw my head back and draw a deep, deep breath. The air tastes euphorically good as it floods my lungs.

  Sweet, invisible life force.

  I instantly turn the simple air into my weapon. I begin to sing, but little more than a grunt escapes as I’m blown backwards.

  “Now!” The princeling roars, as he knocks me onto the deck.

  He pins me using his body weight. His large, hot hand slaps over my mouth. I bite deeply into the fleshy part of his palm until a knuckle is wedged between my incisors. He yelps a vile curse, yet he doesn’t surrender.

  Barking orders over his shoulder, the rest of the sailors’ obediently scurry away from us. They opt to huddle behind the helm.

  Ha! As if those mere few feet would offer them any protection from me.

  Fletcher edges forward to hand his Majesty something before backing away in haste to join the others.

  The princeling struggles to hold the object in one hand and keep my mouth covered at the same time.

  “Do not resist,” he says sternly, “I do not wish to accidentally knock half your teeth out.”

  He fumbles with an iron crafted device single-handedly. It isn’t until he unfolds its appendages, I understand what is going on.

  It’s a syren bridle.

  The device is an ancient idea, but this one has a modern twist; it’s designed to resemble an octopus. How fitting!

  The body of the metal octopus is thin and curved like a spoon. The princeling replaces his chewed knuckle for this. It fills my mouth and immobilises my tongue immediately. I attempt to hum but he lightly slaps my throat with disapproval as if he were swatting a fly.

  He sits the stiff tentacles snuggly around my face. Two iron bars go across my cheek on either side, the rest slide under my jaw and press against my larynx.

  Great.

  Now I cannot even hum. I can barely breathe. The metallic arms meet behind my head where they click closed under the mop of my wet hair. Once he is satisfied it’s secure, he rolls back onto his haunches. He retrieves a damascus steel knife from his under his cloak and leans in close to me.

  I stiffen.

  He thumbs a lock of hair, folds it in a loop and slices the blade through effortlessly. He holds the fallen tress before my wide eyes. He cut free a barnacle. Without breaking eye contact with me, he flings it back to the sea.

  I never in my life thought I would be jealous of a bloody barnacle.

  “How much fate do you put in those stories you read, Fletcher?”

  “Which part of the tale in particular, your Majesty?” Fletcher asks, remaining where he is but peering over cautiously.

  “The tail part of the tale.” A sardonic smile pulled at the princeling’s lips. A few sailors laugh.

  I want to drown them all, starting with him.

  Everyone’s attention turns to Fletcher. He stutters and then sighs before saying, “Well…everything I’ve studied has been correct thus far.”

  Seeming content with that answer, he nods to himself before flashing his knife once more. Except now the blade is hovering above my thighs.

  Shit.

  They know more about my kind than I hoped. Mortals used to believe we had to be returned to the sea every night like our mermaid cousins. They thought we could not function on land, or we would simply shrivel up and perish if our tails ever fully dried. And although this is far from the truth, it helped keep us safe. It helped keep us near water. But if they know the truth, they will bring me inland. Bring me to their land.

  “Apologies for the crude way we met. I am King Kellan of the Crescent Cove, Meteoroid Spit and Star Spike, collectively known as the Lunar Islands. You will have an opportunity to introduce yourself, eat and drink once we are back on the mainland. Until then you will be kept securely in the hold.”

  Trusting in Fletcher and his stupid books, he carefully slides the knife into my tail just above my knees. Some of the sailor’s gasp, probably expecting to see blood, but there is none.

  No wound. No gore.

  There is only the glint in King Kellan’s golden eyes when he realises the books were right. He traces the blade down the length of my being to reveal my bare legs underneath. As the tail separates from my body, the magic I feed into it fades. It becomes nothing more than a tightly bound skirt made of scales and kelp.

  With my feet fully free, he begins cutting above my knees. Although I cannot sing him into oblivion or even protest his actions, I try my best to convey an “uh-huh” sound and shake my head frantically. He looks annoyed. Then confused.

  I scream inside my head, “I’m completely naked under the few inches of seaweed you haven’t destroyed yet you fool!”.

  Maybe he somehow heard me, or maybe my flitting eyes gave away my problem, but a sense of realisation dawns across his face. My cheeks flush lilac with fury and embarrassment.

  “Sailors avert your gaze starboard,” the King commands as he stands, no longer looking at me. He shrugs off his cloak and walks towards the helm. Obediently and in unison, half a dozen men turn on their booted heels. They all stand up straight and look across the horizon.

  King Kellan taps Fletcher on the shoulder, hands him the knife and his cloak and then takes his place beside his men. Fletcher crosses the few steps and kneels beside me. He fans the cloak over me like a blanket and rips the remnants away without the use of his eyes or blade.

  He offers a sympathetic smile, lifts his hand and twists the marriage band on his finger for me to see. I think it’s somehow supposed to be comforting that he’s a married man. It is not.

  I survived the net. I survived the breakneck speed of my forced transition. But this lack of dignity might just kill me.

  Gods above, why did you opt to spare
my life.

  Two

  The “secure hold” I am placed in is little more than a storage area in the cabin of the vessel. Frayed rope, rusted cannonballs, and the old wooden barrel I sit upon make up the contents of the room.

  Two of the King’s sailors have been guarding me for hours. They remain by the open door, one facing me, the other watching the deck. They rotate their positions like clockwork, without prompt or conversation, and they have not slipped up once. They are better trained than I anticipated and it’s infuriating.

  The man facing me is staring. Staring at my windswept hair that has snared shells and sand. Staring at my bare legs and hands, the only parts of me visible under this comedically large cloak acting like a poorly fitted dress on me. He stares not from a lack of manners, but sheer curiosity. I doubt he has ever seen a girl with skin that always holds a blue tinge no matter how dry or warm.

  Granted, I was not like other girls, but like all women, syren or mortal alike, I knew how to play the damsel card when needed. And it was time to play.

  The barrel wobbles as waves crash into the side of the boat. I wait for a large wave to rock the barrel, and then ‘fall’ to the ground. I lay splayed out in an inelegant fashion, with my back curled to the door and arms flung in the corner. Although my wrists are bound with a segment of the net, my hands are free.

  I inch my fingers towards the cannonball in the nest of rope before me.

  “Ma’am?” the guard calls as he rushes in. I stay down and even close my eyes for dramatic effect.

  As the sailor rolls me over to help me up, I swing my weighted fist towards his face. The cannonball meets his nose and releases an unholy crunch.

  He falls back, howling and burying his face in his hands. Blood runs down the inside of his sleeve. I stagger to my feet, but the other guard is already blocking the doorway.

  He remains in place. Unsure whether to aid his comrade, launch at me or call for backup. I use his hesitation to throw another cannonball in his direction.

  I aim for his face, but my arms are too weak, the weight too heavy. It misses and instead lances his shoulder. Not my desired target but it does unsteady him enough to wobble him out of the doorway.