Page 41 of Sirens
“C’mon, McGarvey, which thing would you have ordered? Lemme guess. ‘Bertie’s Backdoor Bob’? Or perhaps ‘Leo’s Lusty Cabin Boy’ is more your speed?” Maggie teased, her voicedripping with faux innocence. “Oh, I know… It’s ‘Sally’s Slippery Swab.’ If that’s not a cleaning kink waiting to happen, I’ll eat my hat.”
It wasn’t that he was a germaphobe. It was just that he could feel just about every part of his skin crawling with the ick. “Only if it includes not having to swab the deck afterward.” Trent matched her tone, leaning in closer as the air between them crackled with something more than humor.
Why did she make him forget everything he compulsively had to remember?
Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world outside the crumbling walls of the Palace Hotel ceased to exist. There was just Maggie with her fiery hair and mischievous smile, and him, Trent McGarvey, caught in the tangle of his own restraint and the undeniable allure of her laugh. The way her lips tasted when she was excited…
“Come on,” Maggie said finally, her voice a soft challenge. “Let’s find that secret passage before we get completely lost in”—she gestured to the armoire with a grin—“historical appreciation. Oh! And speaking of shady dealings,” she added, her tone shifting to one of conspiratorial glee, “remember that secret passage I mentioned—the one you caught me sneaking around last time?”
“One of the weirder reports I’ve ever written.”
“You’re welcome.” She laughed, then pointed toward the staircase that would take them back to the grand first floor. “Well, I never got to see where it leads. The schematics don’t match up with anything in the archives. What do you say, deputy? Ready to go down the rabbit hole?”
“Lead the way, Alice,” he replied, the prospect of undiscovered history momentarily outweighing the rational part of him that screamed about safety regulations.
She gathered extra footage on the way back down what was once a grand staircase. Their steps echoed through the empty foyer until she led them to the alcove he’d found them in a few nights prior.
“To the Batcave!” she said.
Trent’s gaze followed the trail of Maggie’s laughter, but it was her flushed cheeks that set his pulse racing. She was a siren in her own right, luring him into dangerous waters with just a smile. He shifted uncomfortably, turning on his heel under the guise of inspecting a nearby wall. As he adjusted the fit of his trousers, he missed the exact moment Maggie found the panel, but her triumphant cry snapped his head around.
“Look at this!” she exclaimed, pointing to the wooden wainscot panel marked with the darker brand of a mermaid. With hardly any effort, she unlatched it, revealing a hidden stairway plunging steeply into the earth below.
“Ah, the classic ‘enter the creepy hidden tunnel’ move. You know we’re the exact kind of folks who get axed first in horror flicks, right?” Trent jested, peering down the ominous staircase.
“Please, if anything, I’m the plucky survivor,” Maggie retorted, her grin undimmed by the eerie descent ahead. “I’ll keep you safe, McGarvey. Horny old ghosts love me—I have the perfect body type for most of recorded history.”
“Comforting,” he deadpanned, though his chuckle betrayed his amusement. She had the perfect body type for now. For always.
For him.
“What kind of ghosts do you think live here?” he asked. “Horny ones? Or polter ones?”
“Probably both,” Maggie replied with a wink, her earlier warmth returning in full force. “Now come on, let’s find out where this little trip through time takes us.”
“Um…the past is a bit kinder to some of us than others. I’ve never shared your fondness for it and most definitely don’t want to visit.” Also, he hated being underground—dirt floors, cobwebs, and standing water—but would eat all of his Baccarat stemware before he admitted it.
She grimaced, casting a sheepish glance up at him. “Super fair point. I can take it from here,el jefe—you guard the door and come running if I die.” She tipped her yellow hard hat at a jaunty angle, gave him a two-fingered salute, and plunged down the stairs.
Goddammit.
He followed, if only to watch her backside—er, back.
With a shared sense of intrepid (or foolhardy) spirit, they began their careful descent. The earthen stairs were a claustrophobic hug, the walls pressing close as they made their way down. The air was thick with the scent of old wood and dust, a musty perfume that spoke of ages gone by.
Trent felt the weight of history here, a tangible presence surrounding them.
Maggie was like a torchbearer for the past, illuminating forgotten stories with her fervor. Trent admired that about her—the way she relentlessly pursued the truth, regardless of how uncomfortable or unflattering it might be. It was a stark contrast to the whitewashed narratives so often paraded before the public as unbiased truths.
“Most people prefer their history scrubbed clean and dressed in Sunday best,” he remarked casually, watching her navigate the narrow steps with care. “But not you. You’re not afraid to dig up the dirt and show the bones beneath. That’s…impressive.”
Maggie paused, looking back over her shoulder at him, and he could see the impact of his words flickering across her face—a fleeting vulnerability quickly masked by determination.
“Thanks. Someone has to remember these lives,” she said, her voice echoing slightly in the tight space. “Did you know Madame Katz wasn’t just running a brothel? She was teaching men how to please a woman—publishing manuals and everything.”
“Enlightened for her time,” Trent mused, picturing the formidable madame sharing secrets most Victorian men would blush to even contemplate. “Or maybe just good business sense.”
He followed Maggie through the tunnel, their shoulders brushing against the earthen walls that seemed to close in with each step. It was a narrow passage, barely enough for one person at a time, and Trent had to duck occasionally to avoid the low ceiling.
