A little Siren (Not Quite the Fairy Tale #2) Page 5

  Yet, she advanced and knelt in front of the broken body; ignoring the boy who was shouting explanations and cries for help, she held out a palm to the dead child's forehead and somehow, she knew.

  He'd swam, little boy, and the seas had called him. He’s to come to our arms, for his peers owe us dues.

  Ah. Mermaids.

  They often did this kind of stuff after humans displeased them, somehow. When beaches were empty – or rather, empty of anyone who could call them on their shit – they crept out and exerted their idea of vengeance on those they could reach. Yes, that meant children, generally.

  He'd swam, little boy and the seas refused him, Silvia replied in her mind; she didn't have much power without her voice, but it was worth a try. You, who claimed a poor tribute to the sea, beware; water always takes its due. Her hand now hovering over the child's chest, she called to her roots.

  She wasn't very proficient in curses and spells, so instead of elaborating, she concentrated on the foreign saltwater that had nothing to do in the child's lungs. When the liquid elevated from his skins and converged to Silvia's fingers, she switched to another approach, closing her eyes and calling to air.

  It wasn't a natural thing to do, for her; she'd only realized that she had some power over the second element three years ago, when she'd used it unwillingly. Since, she'd tried the occasional little breeze, but that was another thing altogether: too much could very well have made his fragile body explode.

  But soon enough, the chest was raising and falling on its own.

  There.

  Three people. She'd helped three people in three years; that was something, right?

  Both of the children actually fully conscious were sending her completely terrified looks; she got it. Figure was, if she'd been a regular person, she would have been frightened, too.

  So, she just got up, turned around and returned to the seas for the rest of the morning.

  By the evening, the Sea Witch was the talk of the city; the Tanners didn't fail to let her in on the gossips. In the tales, she was taller than a giants and her halo of green hair floated around her face. Close enough. Unless she tied them, her thin hair did have a tendency to go a little bit on the wild side. She shrugged and let them talk.

  Some said the Witch had been the one drowning the child, and that she'd been interrupted by the rise of dawn. She wasn't even surprised, everything was generally her fault.

  What did bother her, though, was the sudden animosity that this had caused towards creatures of the sea.

  Silvia was all for killing what was to be eaten, sold or traded, but hunting – or fishing – for sport was one thing she'd always been against.

  She was forced into forgoing her intentions to stay out of the limelight twice in the next few days – both times, on behalf of the same creature.

  The first time, she simply changed the wind when the fishermen set their traps, but the second time, they had him on a deck at the harbor, lost in their nets.

  There was no doubt in her mind that they'd hunted him without valid reasons, simply for retribution against the child’s attempted murder, something that hadn't happened – and that hadn’t been its fault, in any case. Let them hunt merfolks, if they wanted to avenge their children.

  As they preyed on innocents instead, she made them face the Witch.

  She kept her tentacles and floated out of the water, wind blowing her hair in all directions. She couldn't speak, but there may have been a few hisses and grunts involved. When they all disappeared, she freed the little Knucker out of the nets.

  The only issue was the fact that the dragon hadn't left her side since.

  As dragons went, he was cute. Covered by shiny scales, the small boneless spirit curled around her arm and stayed there until she'd walked out of the ocean; then, somehow getting that people didn't generally walk around with water monsters around their arms, he'd transformed into a tiny little house cat. It would almost have seemed normal if he hadn't been virtually glued to her – and also, if his shade hadn't been purple. Let's not forget he was purple.

  •

  Everyone in his kingdom was growing mad. Resurrections, witches, and now, dragons. Seriously.

  Strangely, these reports came from his sane advisors, the two who were firmly planted against Vanessa: Gerry and Ludwig.

  Gerry, farmer, first and foremost, did come to the palace exactly once a week, at the same time, for one hour and a half, before buggering off back where he belonged: in his fields. He spoke of, for, and on behalf of the general populace and normally, what he had to say was wise.

  Which was why it had been very strange to hear him going on and on about what a blessing the presence of a Sea Witch was.

  “Aye, lass. Rare, they are, but we've all heard the tales. Them lot, with that kind of power over the seas are always popping up when there's trouble about. With them Atlantian roaming so close to our sides of the borders? It's very good to have a Witch here.”

  “So, you believe what they are saying is true?”

  “A man can lie, Ricky.” Horrible nickname, but that was the downside of working with someone who had seen him wearing nappies. “But there are fifty reports, at least. Sighting and testimonies. No, mark my words, lass: we've got ourselves one hell of a Witch. I'm telling you now, stop everything else, get down to the waterfront, find her and play nice. That's the kinda connection you want to make.”

  Politics. He wanted him to talk politics. With a Witch.

  Even admitting to the existence of the said creature, why the hell would he want to play nice with it?

  “If she's actually controlling Knuckers, able to fly, and resurrect people, what is going to happen if I piss her off?”

  Gerry just grimaced. Right. He cut off his response, holding his hands up. Whatever it was, he probably didn't need the visual.

  Erik had consciously avoided the beach over the last week, not out of cowardice, but because... Well, might as well be sincere: he was rather worried about the thought of encountering the Witch. Who wouldn't be?

  Thankfully, Erik hadn't needed to fabricate any excuse. He was busy.

  Morgan had answered to his invitation to attend his wedding with an unforeseen acceptance, which had opened up doors he hadn't expected; it was most definitely the one good thing out of his engagement.

  Erik had followed that reply with a request to meet up and discuss matters – such as the battalion's presence – but there had been no response so far. He found the silence rather strange, considering, so he'd done the obvious thing: sending out more spies.

  Spying on mermaids was easier than what one would assume; actually reaching Atlantis would have been impossible, but anything merfolks needed, they got from the lands the Dark Ocean was attached to: Denker, the Woodlands, Alenia and Krutia.

  Krutia was Denker's closest ally, and they had very little to report, save from some unusual mermen convergence in their own waters, but from the two other countries, they heard that Atlantis was stocked up to hold a siege for years.

  It was worrying. They obviously had something up their sleeves, but what? Could these movements really be linked to Silvia Undine's presence? It seemed unlikely, put that way; however, the timing was one coincidence he wasn’t willing to overlook.

  “Come back to bed, sweetie.”

  Really? Did he look like anything close to a sweetie? Six foot five. He was six foot bloody five.

  Erik's only reply was an icy stare. It probably was unwarranted, but damn if the woman wasn't getting on his nerves.

  Unfair, he acknowledged it. The only problem she had was that she wasn't Silvia.

  No, that wasn't true. He'd noticed – and despised – her faults before finding clues about his mermaid.

  “Erik? Is anything wrong?”

  He sighed at her obvious concern. She got up, walked to his desk; her arms locked around his shoulders and she kissed her way from the nap of his neck to his back.

  It should have been pleasing, yet Erik shrugg
ed her off before getting up.

  "I'm fine," he lied, heading towards the shower.

  He wasn't, but he wasn't sure what to do about it yet.

  Her touch had repulsed him for the last couple of weeks; he hadn't been able to stand it. Even the barest of caresses set him off.

  He wasn't sure why, but one thing was clear: it needed to stop.

  Until such a time as when Ludwig – or anyone – came up with something concrete against her, she was the woman he was going to marry, which meant that somehow, he had to find a way to let her in.

  Chapter 7: Castle White.

  She'd talked to dozens of contractors, claiming to own property which needed work on one of the local islands – which, to an extent, was perfectly true – but that vague explanation had them intrigued, to say the least.

  One drawback of living in an overgrown village: everyone knew who did what, who lived where, who owned what. Landlords in the eleven Denkerian islands were more notorious than most: it took a certain standing to afford property in the popular holiday destination of northern Europa.

  Silvia mumbled some random location closer to Krutia, not on the immediate coast. Some seemed to believe her, others remained suspicious, but no one pushed her, strangely enough. She even thought she caught a few knowing smiles, which should have alarmed her. It didn’t.

  No contractor was able to start working for her in the foreseeable future, though. They didn't have ships or a crew ready for that purpose.

  Regardless, Silvia would have had to think twice before hiring any of them. They didn’t strike her as people who would keep their mouth shut about the sites they were working on. They weren't a bad kinda folk – she couldn't imagine that they'd willfully sell her out to the Atlantian – but discussing their day at the pub was a given.

  “The only way you'll get a large ship of that kind right now would be from the palace. The royal family does have a fleet; they lend some old ships out, occasionally.”

  Silvia bit her lip, indecisive. Considering the relationship between Alenia and Denker, she hadn't planned on stopping by…

  But wait. Her tie to Alenia wasn’t exactly what one would call close; hell, she hadn’t heard from anyone in ages. Not a call, not a text – save for the few “what time will you be in” from Chantelle, her brother’s assistant, when she’d failed to show up on the first working day following her departure.

  “How do I get an appointment?” she wrote on her notepad.

  It was still three quarter of the way full; Sivlia had never been one to babble away, and using the situation to her advantage, she'd become even less talkative. Being able to answer to most query by one little nod or a shake of her head without seeming rude was a blessing.

  “No need lass, just go up and speak to the butler; he'll ask the King and they'll come back to you.”

  Silvia just stared, lost for word. In Fortswood, you needed an appointment to speak to the secretary of the butler. There wasn't such a thing as “going up” to the palace without an invitation, and a full clearance granted after a background check.

  Come to think of it, there wasn’t such a thing as a de Luz lending anything. They rented. They also charged late fees when their property wasn’t returned on time.

  She may as well have landed on another planet.

  After changing into the most respectable attire she had here – a summer dress – Silvia took the long hill heading up to the white and gold castle, the little purple “cat” in tow.

  She’d accepted the fact that there was no getting rid of him, so he’d had to have a name. For all her amazing qualities, she didn’t possess what one would call a great power of imagination, so she’s settled on Drake.

  Those who asked were told her came from a land far, far away. Like, really freaking far, where cats were purple, spit water, were perched on people’s shoulders.

  At the end of the road, Silvia reached the gardens of the royal palace and her plan changed.

  Nevermind the boat. She had to somehow convince the King to move out and sell his place to her instead.

  It wasn't pretty or sophisticated like Fortswood. Silvia assumed that it got very cold in the winter and in a few months, it would be unpleasantly warm, but the large edifice propped up at the tip of the hill, overlooking the ocean and the colorful Tower City, could nonetheless have been designed after a monument fetched from her wildest dreams.

  She was gapping at the rustic, baroque building when she felt a presence and turned to someone she hadn't expected to see – ever again.

  God, he'd grown.

  Seb, who had been close to a baby the last time she's seen him, was a little man now. He wore a checked shirt, plated trousers and a brown tie. Adorable. She curbed an embarrassing need to squawk, cuddle and giggle. It wouldn’t have been very Silvia-like, though. Instead, she acknowledged him with a stiff nod and an uncomfortable high five. It wasn't her fault if no one had taught her the mushy stuff.

  What hadn't change was his cute ability to talk for Denker, Alenia and the rest of Europa put together.

  He told her about everything which had occurred over the course of the last three years in five minutes, flat.

  By the time he'd had to stop for a breath, she knew he'd had a C in music, but a A in maths, that Dad was going to have to sign for the C, and Seb was counting on her support – to explain that not everyone could be good at everything.

  She'd learnt that Dad was getting married, but couldn’t really like his girlfriend Vanessa, because she didn't smile for real.

  Of course his dad was taken, hell, she’d actually imagined that the parental unit had still been together; what kind of nutcase would let a hunk like that go?

  The certainty that the man had been unavailable was the foremost reason why she’d – unsuccessfully, one might say – attempted to stop visualizing him, particularly in sexual situations.

  Yet, hearing it somehow stung; she wouldn’t admit to it, but she felt it nonetheless.

  “What's your name?” Seb asked, temporarily cutting off his rumble, while he waited for the answer.

  She absentmindedly signed her answer and to her surprise, the child signed back, continuing the rest of his monologue with his hands instead of his lips, undeterred.

  Of course, he'd be a chatterbox in any language.

  By the time they'd crossed the bridge leading to the entrance of Castle White, he'd asked a few things, from her age to her nationality, passing by the reason for her visit. When she explained that she had to speak to the butler, the child announced that he would get his dad.

  Silvia wasn't ecstatic at that prospect.

  Sure, her heart did a little back flip thing, before recalling that there was a Vanessa somewhere in the background. And regardless, she’d imagined that guy under and over her so many times she couldn’t conjure a scenario where she would meet him without feeling uncomfortable as fuck.

  However, if Seb's father was the butler of Castle White, she needed to speak to him. Too late to chicken out now, in any case.

  •

  “You what?”

  “I saw her to the library; I didn't think you'd want her to have to wait in the throne room, like everyone else. I've let her know you'll be a while, though.”

  And with that blast delivered, Seb stormed back out of the house of parliament.

  Shit.

  There was a slight chance that he may possibly have misheard that, right? Silvia Undine was not in his library right now. She just wasn't. Seb could have failed to recognize her, he could...

  No, actually, let's just face it: Erik was fucked.

  “You'll excuse me,” he said, getting up; without another word, he was on his son's trail, leaving baffled advisors, nobles and politicians behind him.

  He stopped in front of the door, apprehensive as hell. Listening in did no good: there wasn't so much as a word being uttered behind those walls.

  Bracing himself, he pushed the door open and froze.

  Two weeks of web su
rfing had taught him that there were two Silvias – while one was born in a suit, wore glasses and a chignon, the other one didn't give a damn about her appearance; so, of course, he was met with a vision of the second one, the woman who called to the primitive side of his brain.

  Mine, it said.

  Hair woven down her back, a long wrap dress hugging her curves, she was the image of casual, natural refinement; it seemed as thought she'd thrown something on before going out. Who did that anymore?

  Erik might have cursed under his breath. And growled, too. He thought he'd managed to do so discretely, but as her eyes narrowed, that had been a complete fail.

  Great. She thought he disapproved, somehow.

  It came to his attention that The Woman and his child were talking; only, they were doing so with their hands.

  How unexpected. If there was one thing he recalled above all, it had definitely been her delightfully sensual voice. Why wasn't she making use of it? Erik wanted to hear it again, see if it could possibly be as enchanting as he'd made it up to be.

  It soon became a matter he needed an answer to so, rudely interrupting their chat, he asked:

  “How come you don't speak?”

  It might not have been the most polite question he could have thought of, but in the circumstances, it seemed valid.

  The woman's gaze slowly, reluctantly moved from his son and fell on him.

  Erik felt it as it took him in, from head to toes. She seemed to weight and asses every single one of his features.

  What she made of it wasn't obvious.

  Silvia Undine grabbed hold of a large handbag and fetched out a green notepad as well as a pen; it was only then, momentarily distracted from her face, that Erik saw the thing next to her.

  Purple. The cat was freaking purple.

  That settled it. He came to the reassuring conclusion that he'd fallen asleep in a session of parliament and was daydreaming.

  She scribbled a line and held the pad up; from this distance, he couldn't read a word, so he approached and took the note.