Page 1 of Song of Lorelei

Chapter One

KILLIAN

Science quantified the mystical, boiled it down to logic, data, and biological processes. But there was a kind of magic to new discoveries, and the discovery that murderous sirens lurked in ocean’s deep captivated the world and brought the New England fishing industry where they’d been found to its knees.

Myth had become universal truth, and modern fishermen wanted no part of it.

The sirens should have scared away Dawn Chaser’s crew, but stubbornness outweighed fear, and they did not flee the Gulf of Maine like most of their offshore competition.

Idle chatter and laughter rang out across the decks as the crew prepared the nets, and Captain Killian Quinn listened to them from the pilothouse, their muffled voices drifting to where he stood at the helm. He couldn’t make out the words, but their cheer was unmistakable, and the corners of his mouth lifted.

This could have been just another day at sea.

Strong morale was good for crew retention, and these days, that’s what kept him in business. But more than that, his crew was like a family to him, more so than his own flesh and blood, and he liked hearing them in high spirits.

A sharp ping from the boat’s navigation system jolted Killian from his thoughts. Glancing down at the charts, the sectioned off area he programmed into the computer flashed up at him, and the small smile he wore died.

He slammed the throttle forward.

Dawn Chaser’s engines rumbled loudly as it crossed into siren territory. The louder the better to repel any uninvited visitors.

Killian waved over the helmsman. “Take over for me and maintain speed.” Crossing the pilothouse to look out the back window, he lifted his personal radio to his mouth. “Noise cancellation headsets on now.”

A hush fell over the crew, prey animals alerted to lurking danger.

Every man reached for the black headsets hooked to their utility belts, and fitted them over their ears, their movements almost in complete unison with one another. Given the threat they faced, deadly siren song, it was an ironic display of puppetry, and Killian the puppeteer. But instead of supernatural manipulation, they were compelled by trust.

He hoped that trust was not misplaced.

The crew yanked off the tarps covering crates of canned meat, their tribute to the seafolk. They shuffled about the task in silence, casting wary glances over the side for movement in the waves below—the telltale flash of bright, colorful scales just beneath the dark surface.

How oblivious he and his crew had once been to the vicious sirens of the deep—as dangerous as they were beautiful with their wicked claws, razor-sharp teeth, and dark hunger for human flesh. Though the sailors of old must have gotten drunk on grog during their long, cold months at sea, the superstitious tales they told about seafolk were true.

Killian clenched his jaw. He wasn’t one for grog, but he could use a shot of whiskey right about now.

It had almost been a year since news broke across the world about the sirens’ existence. Many fishermen and sailors reconsidered their professions, but not even a school of bloodthirsty merfolk stopped Killian’s crew from coming to the pier before sunrise each day. A seafaring life was all they’d ever known. They didn’t want or know how to do anything else.For them, that was reason enough to stay on.

Not that there were a lot of job alternatives in rural, coastal Maine. The logging industry wasn’t what it used to be, and while increased tourism was a boon for commercial real estate development, construction jobs were hard to come by with the influx of ex-fishermen looking for new careers. But with their competition thinning out, the pay Killian could now offer was quite compelling.

While money couldn’t buy bravery, it certainly helped.

The noise cancellation headsets Killian gave to his crew had a built-in radio communication system that allowed them to talk with one another without succumbing to the sirens’ seductive crooning. They were designed by an acoustics physicist hired by Dr. Lila Branson, the marine biologist credited with discovering the siren species, and Killian’s good friend. She had one in captivity and brought in a physicist to study the frequency of her call. With three loved ones in the fishing industry—a husband, a father, and a close friend—Lila had spared no expense pushing the project along.

After donning his own headset, more for show than safety, Killian jogged down the pilot house steps and joined his crew. He didn’t need to wear it, but he couldn’t explain to them how he was immune to most siren song.

He wore the ear-coverings slightly off-kilter, allowing in outside sound. He would adjust them soon, but he needed to hear those roaring engines just a bit longer for his own peace of mind. If they ran strong, the hearing-sensitive sirens would not come anywhere near his boat.

One by one, his crew members nodded to him as he passed. Even as the sun pierced through the clouds overhead, hot and bright, their sun-tanned faces paled. They squinted at him through the light, waiting. This part of their offshore runs never got any easier. The anticipation. The fear that this time something might go wrong. But they always toughed it out for the bountiful promise of a good haul. When they fished just beyond siren territory, skirting its edges, they never went home empty-handed.

Killian took stock of his crew.

Despite the summer’s heat, they shivered in their boots. No, not shivered. Quaked. Only Walter “Walt” Walsh, a former fishing captain, and Will Branson, Killian’s lead deckhand and best friend, stood steady. Walt held a wide stance, dark brown thumbs casually hooked through his front belt loops, and Will crossed his arms, heavily freckled, “tan” for his ruddy white skin, both men a picture of cool and collected, but their lips were pinched tight. They understood better than anyone else on the crew exactly what they faced out here on the open water.

Killian unclipped a knife from his pocket and unfolded the blade. He crouched before the crates of canned pork and slashed open the tethers holding them in place, hoping the quick motion hid his trembling hands. With a barked command from Branson, the crew sprung to life, hefting crates away from the stack. Killian’s own fear wasn’t forgotten but working with his hands helped. Idleness only allowed fear to dig its ugly claws in deeper.

All around him his crew wedged crowbars beneath the lids, the wood creaking as it splintered and was pried apart. Waves splashed against the hull, and the boat’s engine continued to roar. There was also a weird ringing in his ears, but likely had to do with the headset sitting half on, half off.

And yet, despite all the noise, his crew’s silence was the loudest of all.

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