Page 61 of Song of Lorelei

A little one darted from behind the golden male, startling a gasp from Aersila.

Make that a pod of nine.

The boy, no bigger than a seal pup, couldn’t be much more than two years old. Aersila trembled beside her, a choked sob swallowed for fear of making sound. Nireed slipped her hand into her sister’s and squeezed, stomach flipping.

Her pod couldn’t keep most of their boy babies.

Nature was often cruel, but what this sickness did to her people was the worst kind of cruelty, forcing them to betray their instincts, their community, each other. And the grim, unthinkable reality of the past three generations, and the illness that took so many of their boys, had forced them to give up the afflicted to protect the rest of their children.

In meetings with the humans to discuss reunification, Cure Creator explained that Nireed’s siren siblings all shared the same sickness, just experienced different symptoms. A “sex influenced trait,” she’d called it. It was why it mostly only affected the boys, but sometimes, although rarely, took other children, too.

Bile rose in the back of Nireed’s throat, followed by a burning in her eyes. Being buried underneath a sea rock avalanche would be more pleasant than remembering. But what her pod mates had to do to survive would never be far from her mind.

They left the afflicted as close as they dared to the male pod settlements, hoping that they would be found and adopted like this one had been and raised as their own, because their grand foremothers learned the hard way that even at such a young age, the afflicted were ruthless, finding horrendous bite and claw marks on the other children. Some died, their wounds too grievous to overcome, their little hearts giving out.

Even with the sickness lowering inhibitions, and hardening what was left of their instincts, it hadn’t dulled their maternal ones, no matter how much some pretended otherwise. The terrible task of giving up children had never been bearable. Nireed saw over and over the grief it caused. How low it reduced her fierce warrior sister, curled up on herself in a patch of seafloor muck, the softest bed their world had to offer, unable to move, unable to eat.

Aersila had only ever given birth to boys.

It was a cruel twist of fate for all she risked in attempts to get pregnant and grow their pod. Nireed nurtured Aersila through grief more times than she dared to count. Nature had never been kind to their people.

With a slight shake of her head, she tamped down the aching feeling rising in her chest. She had to be strong for her sister. For this mission. Focusing on the water passing through her gills helped, easing the heaviness that settled over her.

The little tyke was hundreds of feet away, trailing after the golden merman, but there was no mistaking his Emera coloring, even at this distance. Silver scales, fins slashed with orange. Like mother, like son.

Aersila watched the child and the pod with sharp focus, nursing her grief in silence.

Longings to cradle and nurture and protect a child of her own pressed in, hitting her suddenly and forcefully, a crushing sensation that forced the air from her lungs, like diving too fast in deep water. Her body trembled with feverish desire, nature’s way of making her interested, despite the dangers, and she understood why Aersila had been so desperate.

Scooping a handful of muck from the sea floor, she slathered it over her scent glands. Now was not the time to attract male attention, but soon, if they succeeded, it would be welcome.

Together, they tailed the male pod. Hiding. Observing. No more. No less.

Even when the males began stalking a whale, one of the wise ones of the sea, they did not interfere. It pained and disgusted them to watch the males hunt, tire, and kill the noble creature, but too much was at stake to risk a premature altercation.

They waited for the large meal to put the males into a sleepy stupor.

The male-pod cavorted and feasted on whale meat for days. The more they ate, the slower, more sluggish they moved, until they drifted into a pit in the seafloor, full and happy from abundant rich food, and fell asleep at its base.

The whale’s death would not be in vain. Nor would years of her siren siblings’ pain.

Chapter Thirty-Four

UNDINE

Shorewalker’s Two-Legger friend, Cure Creator, strapped what they called a “recording device” to Undine’s upper arm. It would allow them to see and hear what the siren hunting party did from the boat. She couldn’t fathom how. They’d showed her the other machine, a boxy thing with a glowing face and an uncanny ability to reflect part of her vision.

A fascinating gadget, but it wouldn’t do the Two-Leggers much good hundreds of feet down, where they wouldn’t be able to see anything in the dark. Not until the hunting party was right upon their targets, illuminated by their deep-sea glow.

“Use this to cover up your light,” Lorelei said, holding out a stick of black rock. “It’s a kohl-based paint. It will keep the mermen from being able to see you.”

Undine took the stick and dragged it across her arm, where it left a black streak. She used it on her arms, her tail, and her face, covering up every luminescent node. The only thing she left uncovered were her hands for communication. Plenty of creatures glowed in the deep. The small amount of light her hands produced would not be alarming to the male pod. She helped the others do the same, taking care of places they could not reach, before asking for reciprocation.

From a woven basket, they pulled out potent strips of shark hide, and wrapped their bodies with it to mask their scents. They might still smell like prey, but with full bellies, the males wouldn’t stir for shark. Then they strapped pouches with “sleeping darts” inside to their waists.

Preparations complete, Undine touched her forehead to each of her warriors’, lingering a moment at each, imparting her respect, her gratitude, and a blessing of strength.

They followed her over the side of the boat and began their descent.

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