The Siren
Authors: Kiera Cass
T
HE
S
IREN
KIERA
CASS
iUniverse, Inc.
New York Bloomington
T
HE
S
IREN
Copyright © 2009 by Kiera Cass
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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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ISBN: 978-1-4401-5423-2 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-4401-5424-9 (ebk)
Printed in the United States of America
iUniverse rev. date: 7/7/2009
C
ONTENTS
For Liz-
Because she’s the kind of girl that songs should be written about, poems should be composed for, and books should be dedicated to.
CHAPTER
1
Wanting to cry doesn’t mean you can. Or at least not in any way that can give you some sort of satisfaction. It’s a luxury really. The same goes for songs and laughter, or the words whispered in the ear of a friend.
I had taken these things for granted. How was I to know that out there, in the world I had once truly lived in, something as simple as an afternoon greeting could cause unimaginable devastation?
A solitary tear traced my cheek as I stared out the second-story window of the house we were borrowing. On the cobbled streets below, a couple walked. It was a young pair, not much older than me. Or, rather, than I had been eight years ago. She was a bronze-skinned beauty, but not necessarily because of her features. No, it would have been because she was all too aware of the way she looked in the eyes of her partner. The boy— equally tanned, but far more muscular— held her hand intertwined with his own. As they walked, he looked into her eyes, lifted her hand, and kissed her eager fingers.
What must that feel like?
Wiping up the lonely tear, I closed my eyes and imagined it. The sun would be drawn to my chocolate hair, its gentle curls lifting and falling with my steps. He, whoever the faceless man in my head was, would have fingers too large to fit comfortably between mine. But that wouldn’t matter. As he held my hand, I wouldn’t feel the strain of my fingers being pulled wide. All there would be was his skin on mine. Without making the decision, my elbow would bend in time with his, happily following any direction he gave. Unexpectedly, warm and familiar lips would meet with my hand. I would reward him with a smile.
The sounds of Marilyn’s approaching footsteps drew me from my daydream. I dabbed under my eyes once again, removing any trace of tears. Marilyn worried for me so; I couldn’t let her see me sad. I pulled the window shut, and we were truly alone.
“Are you alright?” Marilyn asked, pausing at my side. Her hands, moist with the same coolness as mine, brushed my forehead.
“I’m perfect.” I smiled brightly, shrugging my shoulders as if I had no reason to ever be sad. Being an actress was part of the job. Not towards my sisters necessarily, but sometimes it had to be done.
“Could you hear Her earlier?” she asked. This would be why she sought me out now: to pass on wisdom.
“I think so. This morning, right?”
“Yes! Now, what did She say?” Marilyn was beaming. How could I stay down surrounded by such enthusiasm? I sighed and tried to remember the exact wording. I dreaded getting this wrong.
“Well… I think She said that it could be in a day or two, that She was still waiting, but to be listening?” I mumbled.
“Perfect! Really, Kahlen, that was spot on. It’s been, what, eight years now? You should be able to hear Her clearly by this point. Now when I’m gone, you should stay near the Sea. She’s easier to hear that way, and you can get to Her faster. Besides, there’s plenty of time to see the more remote parts of the world.”
I couldn’t deny that. Time I had. Marilyn smiled and ran into the kitchen. Time for an indulgence.
Marilyn was a red-head and had a spirit to match her hair. But that was an acquired trait, or so I understood. This meant that, in general, we were a good pairing. My personality was naturally cheery, though I had been admittedly somber more and more often over the last few years. I was grateful to have my sister with me, but I still felt isolated. It would have been nice to know more than one person in the entirety of the world. Well, two, but for all intents and purposes, Aisling was no part of my life.
But friendship with just anyone was not an option for me.
I can’t remember their names, but I used to have plenty of friends. And a family, too. Though the voices are gone, I clearly remember the action of us huddled around our dinner table talking. There were so many things in this world I longed for with an ache so big it surprised me. Most of the time, the desires of my heart were overshadowed by the day-to-day dullness of living in silence.
There were rules. All I had to do was obey— do my duty, pay my dues— and then all these little daydreams could be my reality. I could have my hand held. I could be kissed on the forehead. I could live a life of my own. I just had to wait.
The waiting was torture.
The silence was worse.
Thank God for Marilyn. Besides being easy to talk to, she was full of endless wisdom. Her sentence was coming to a close, so she knew everything I would need to do in order to pay my debt in secrecy. That was the key: to not make mistakes. Otherwise, this was all for nothing. She drove those thoughts into my head as we ran around South America. I wasn’t sure which country we were in anymore; we had been to so many. But when Marilyn explained that going back to America wasn’t wise in the beginning, I asked to go some place with color.
It was certainly full of color here. The trees practically glowed green, and the sky was a shade of blue I didn’t know existed. The people were colorful, too. In Ohio I had seen a whole lot of white and a fair amount of black, but here people were brown, mocha, honey, and olive. I didn’t know so many skin tones existed.
We were currently borrowing a home that must have housed at least a half a dozen daughters. That was lucky for us because we needed the clothes. And though we couldn’t read the signs or notes around the house, we had no trouble deciphering the words we heard through the windows.
Language was never a barrier for us since we never had to speak it and could always understand it. Marilyn, for example, was from England, but when she spoke I never heard her accent. It must have been in there somewhere, but it never visited my ears. The only real clue I had to her nationality or era was the phrases she used from time to time. I sometimes wondered if my voice managed to pick up a British accent on the way to her ears.
This was part of how it worked. I think it was because sisters came from all over the world, and we had to be able to speak to one another since there could never be anyone else. And when we sang, the sounds encompassed so many languages, it seemed natural. We must have been infused with every possible dialect. I never did ask about that, so I could have been wrong.
Maybe it’s simply that our voices weren’t our own anymore.
Marilyn reentered the room with a bowl full of fruit. She chewed a piece of melon slowly, truly enjoying the taste. I could understand the draw. Once she left us, would she ever taste anything from this corner of the world ever again? Would she somehow long for it, but not even know what it was?
I loved Marilyn. It was an easy thing to do. She had been vulnerable and honest with me from the very beginning, and that made adjusting to this life easier. She hid none of her own struggle from me, so I hid nothing from her.