Page 1 of Halloween With the Siren
Chapter 1
Marisol
Throwing open the windows of The Singing Seahorse, I take a deep breath as I bask in the glorious crisp fall day. I wrap my loose cardigan tighter around me and stare out at the horizon where the gray sky blends into the dark waters beyond Kraken Cove.
The fresh scent of baked bread and other delicious seasonal treats from The Flowering Teapot wafts up the hill, mixing with the sweet coral roses climbing up the exterior of my pub. I smile as my gaze drifts across the tiled roofs of the shops below, nestled between tall trees touched with oranges and reds, imagining each creature inside and their significance to Starry Hill.
This is home.
For one more moment, I allow myself another look at the inviting waters in the distance, suppressing the sweet desire to shift my legs into fins and go swim through the invigorating cool water. But I’ve already done that once this morning. Now, it’s time to work.
I shrug off my soft gray cardigan and bring my long black hair over my shoulder. Dividing my hair into three parts, I braid the damp strands and secure them with my favorite stretched-out—and always dependable—hair tie before I grab my mop.
Soon, I’m locked into cleaning mode, my voice soft and mindful of my neighbors as I glide across the dark mahogany floors of my pub, singing one of my favorite tunes.
When I get to the stage at the far end, I set down my mop and look back at the immaculately clean floors for just a moment before I head behind the tall counter to prep the bar.
My late-morning routine of getting my pub ready for customers might not look thrilling to many, but I savor the quiet calm before the old stone building fills with the vibrant buzz of Starry Hill’s residents.
I brace myself to maneuver a fresh keg of Berserker Brown Ale from the storage room and lug the town’s favorite beer into its rightful place under the bar, all while attempting to limit my grunts of exertion to only a handful.
I may not be as weak as a human, but I’m far from being considered strong.
Finally done with all my preopening tasks, I plop down onto a barstool behind the counter and stretch out my tired muscles. Despite the hard work it takes to run The Singing Seahorse, you won’t find me complaining.
I’m a strong, independent female. I’ve done this all by myself and can continue to do it all by myself for the rest of my life. Although… sometimes I think it could be kind of nice to have someone to rub my sore feet. Or bend me in half and rut into meuntil I’m screaming and creaming. Or slide me onto a thick knot until I come so much I pass out. Then wake up and do it all over again. And again.
Oh fuck. How am I this horny? Is my heat approaching? Need to check my calendar.
I shudder as I realize I’m about two weeks out. I’ll need to make some arrangements and send out notices that The Singing Seahorse will close for a couple of days.
Shoving all thoughts of my heat to the side for the time being, I stare out at the empty tables arranged neatly throughout the quiet pub as I loosen my braid and comb through my waist-length hair. A smile tips up the corners of my mouth as I take in the pops of color from the small brass vases and their coral roses I’ve brought in from outside.
Leaning forward, I grab my cloth and wipe at a stubborn spot on the countertop I must have missed, then position my most ornate antique brass vase directly in the path of a hazy sunbeam trickling in through the window to show off the detailed engravings along its sides. This one is absolutely gorgeous and my favorite find to date from Juniper’s thrift shop in Cape Easton—Treasure Hunters.
Just because The Singing Seahorse is an old stone pub doesn’t mean it can’t be pretty too. I also think my feminine touch makes it a little more inviting in general, a little more “me”.
I’ve poured my heart into this place and have personal stamps all over it. Each pendant light hanging above a table, each sconce affixed to the stone walls, the deep azure fabric of the semicircle booths in the back, the small coral accents scattered throughout—all were chosen by me to complement the dark wood floors and mahogany furniture to create a warm and cozy atmosphere.
Staring at my favorite booth in the darkest corner, I imagine myself being bent over it by a masked stranger, encouraging me to sing for him while he fucks me raw. And maybe even anotherone—or two—looking on and encouraging me to let my voice soar.
Damn, Marisol. These approaching heat hormones have you all over the place. Who even knew you had a bit of exhibitionism in you?
I need to get a grip before the girls get here for our Halloween planning meeting. Thank fuck they’re human and won’t be able to smell the state I’m in after that wonderfully debauched vision.
Deciding I need to get my mind as far away from knots and poorly timed fantasies as I can in the next couple of minutes, I start singing an old folk song about the ocean—very safe, very neutral—as I go through some paperwork.
It’s not long before the rise and fall of the melody sweeps me away, and I close my eyes and get lost in the music, letting my voice reverberate through the rectangular room. I get so caught up in the song that I almost miss the sound of the heavy front door being pushed open.
Maisie barrels into the pub, brightening the room instantly with her sunny disposition as she makes her way over to a seat opposite mine. “Fucking hells, Marisol! Was that you singing? I thought it was a recording.” She glances up at me with a brilliant grin before setting a picnic basket on the counter with what I can only assume contains her latest baking creations.
My cheeks burn and I duck my head, letting my long black hair curtain around my embarrassed face. “I… uh… yeah.”
Seemingly unfazed by my tepid response, Maisie forges ahead. “Lady, your voice is so beautiful. Have you ever considered making music professionally? I’d totally pay to listen to you all day. Just the snippet I’ve heard has already gotten me inspired. I can do ocean-themed bakes next. What about a…” Maisie’s voice trails off before shifting to one of concern. “Are you okay?”
I chance a glance at her, my shoulders still high around my ears. “Areyouokay? My music didn’t have any kind of effect onyou, did it? You don’t feel compelled or enthralled or anything like that?”
Maisie shakes her head profusely, tendrils of curly blonde hair whipping across her face with the motion. “Nope. Totally fine. I’m not sure how siren songs work but it might help that Ren just gave me so many orgasms that my legs are still wobbly. Maybe that’s why it didn’t have an effect on me? I know, you should ask Tilly when she arrives!”
