i.
Crescent thinks a good deal about reflections these days.
Sometimes, when the world is dark and quiet, she slips away from the others and swims to the surface. The air cuts her lungs from the inside (it's so unlike water, so empty) but she grits her teeth and drags herself up on the rocks, where she can sit alone, and shiver, and watch starlight tremble on a dark ocean.
Her ocean.
Their ocean.
The others hardly go above anymore. They prefer to stay beneath the waves, nothing but a silly myth to humankind, and amuse themselves with pearls and seaweed-crowns. Only when a sailor ship is nearby do they emerge, and flock like ravenous piranhas to the siren-cliffs.
To have some real fun.
Funnily enough, it's on these wild days that Crescent can forget her self-doubt. Sirens are born of the ocean, after all, and despite those peaceful starlit nights, Crescent knows that water is not by nature peaceful at all. It is unrestrained and rushing and free.
It's only when she faces the storm with her sisters, arms upraised and voices swelling, that she can stop thinking.
Only with a young man's soul in her hands does she feel complete.
ii.
Then, of course, there's that other reflection. The one that follows her wherever she goes.
They've plundered thousands of mirrors from their victim ships. Most of them are small, plate-size really, probably used for shaving by the seamen. But sirens are vain, and it seems that no matter what underwater cave or clamshell-bed Crescent comes across, someone has put a looking-glass there.
Whenever she tries to get close to those hidden mirrors, for a chance to look into her own eyes, the siren who lives there whips out with a ready snarl. A hiss, a flash of those pointed teeth, and Crescent darts away through the water.
Sometimes it is easy to forget that she is one of them.
She's certainly treated that way. Every victim ship is stripped clean of reflective surfaces before she can get close – they won't let her have a mirror. For her kind, that is the deepest humiliation of all.
If they lived like wolf packs, Crescent Moon would be the omega. And that is because she cannot sing.
iii.
It's a storm day.
There's a thrumming in the sea maybe twelve leagues away, and the sirens can feel it. They whisk around the underwater base of the cliffs and fill the water with unholy shrieks of excitement.
Crescent watches from afar, nestled among anemone in the nearby coral reef. Though she doesn't join the others in their revelry, anticipation of the feast prickles through her.
Her form fills out, solidifies, until it's more than water. She becomes a pretty human-looking girl with short hair that floats around her face. The rags of a dress twist around her legs, ever so gracefully.
Unbidden, she remembers the feeling of standing on the cliffs. She remembers bracing herself against the gale, planting her feet on the rough rock, and how the wind whipped the dress harshly against her skin.
Those moments have their own kind of exhilaration. But Crescent belongs in the ocean. Water is soft and forgiving, almost as if time itself has slowed down, and she would not trade it for anything.
The water begins to swirl in frenetic eddies around her. The sirens all howl and flock to the gleaming, shifting surface, and Crescent catches the scent of the ship: rosewood oil, moss, and barnacles. And beneath that, the strongest, most alluring thing of all.
Human flesh.
She bares her teeth in a monstrous snarl, and launches upward to join her sisters.
iv.
It's a frenzy. The sea is choppy and gray, the sky overhead a dull slate colour. Storm clouds sweep in and spiral with the promise of rain.
Breaking into the air is like having her breath sucked out, and the unnatural space around her head where water normally flows … it's a vise of emptiness. Crescent shudders, but every sensation is eclipsed by hunger and desire. The panicked shouts of the sailors seem to her like the sweetest music in the world.
And the music. Oh, the music.
Siren-song fills the air around her, cresting and flowing like the tide. Crescent tips her head back and sees her sisters atop the cliffs; their mouths are open and magic is pouring out. They call to the sailors, and the call is irresistible.
Slowly but surely, the ship changes its course, so that the nose points towards the cliffs and the beautiful women that wait there.
Crescent cannot join her sisters. Her singing is flat and useless, like a human's. She can only stay at the base of the cliffs and wait for her share of the kill.
But this time, she won't .The storm is in her blood and she cannot, will not stay put. When that ship goes down, she is going to have the first pick of the lot.
She lunges forward.
v.
The foolish men, young and old, are rowing and steering for all they are worth. From her perch on the stern, where she has painstakingly dragged herself, Crescent can see the mad, infatuated light in their eyes.
The only thing in their minds is getting closer to the sirens. It's already over for them. They will be no different from the thousands she's consumed before.
But – what about that one –?
Blue eyes meet hers across the deck. Clear, lucid blue eyes, and they belong to a man of maybe twenty years old, with dark gold hair and stubble on his jaw.
And he's looking straight at her.
Crescent nearly falls off the edge of the ship. She has no pulse, and no blood either, but something like shock catches in her throat.
To him, she should look like a small, innocent young woman with eyes like chips of blue sky. Perhaps that is what he's seeing. But judging by the way his eyes narrow, the way he stands still while his friends dash and crowd around him, all but throwing themselves overboard to hear the music better … he knows exactly what is going on.
For a moment, even though it's impossible, the world goes silent in Crescent's ears. She blinks.
Then it's over and the man is moving again. He drags a comrade from the ship's wheel and grabs the knobs, before giving the wheel a sharp yank.
The ship lurches away, making several sailors lose their balance and crash to the deck. Crescent herself has to grab a rigging rope. Those who kept their footing shout at the man in anger and converge upon him almost instantaneously, but there – an almost imperceptible break in the siren song, and the sailors almost seem to remember themselves.
Then the music comes back tenfold, building up to a crescendo. Her sisters have gotten over their surprise. One sailor takes hold of the wheel and jerks it back to the cliffs. The ship is close now, so close.
Crescent jumps to the deck. No one pays her any mind, not even the lucid man, and that infuriates her – that she should be the lowest and most powerless of the sirens, and yet completely unnoticed by the men crowding this ship … it isn't fair.
If only she could sing.
But it doesn't matter. The song swells in the air, weaving the wind and water, and the black rock cliff looms in front of them, eclipsing the sky.
The sailors' expressions are ones of delight and passion. Their gazes are hungry on the sirens, the young maidens who sing so fairly, who promise them happiness and eternal love …
But Crescent does not look at them. She has seen thousands like these doomed souls, and she will see a thousand more. She is watching the lucid man.
He's panicking. He tries to drag his friends away, but they hit and snarl at him, completely under the spell. Hopelessness flashes across his face. Crescent leans forward, practically tasting his blood – but then his expression changes. Resolve.
As the rest of his crew clusters at the front of the ship, eagerly awaiting death, one set of footfalls pounds against the wooden deck. One man breaks away from the rest.
And just as the bow of the ship crumples against the cliffs, the lucid one vaults over the starboard side and vanishes into the waves.
Crescent does not hesitate. She plunges after him.
vi.
Her solid body dissolves. She shudders, unaccustomed to so quick a change, then darts after the sailor. To eat him? To drown him? To tell him that he just made the stupidest move possible? She has no idea, but at this very moment her sisters will be descending upon the destroyed ship and its unfortunate men, and Crescent wants this one.
Bare feet kick in front of her. He has done away with his boots. Smart move, but no matter what a skilled swimmer he is, he is no match for her.
Crescent reaches out with one transparent hand and brushes against his heel.
She could devour him. She could grab hold of him right now, and he would be all hers to enjoy. None of the others could snatch him away from her, regardless of her nonexistent voice.
But she doesn't.
For whatever reason, she swims after him steadily, even when distant screams pierce the water around them. Even when the storm calms down and the silence is all but complete, save for the sailor's laboured breathing.
The siren does not touch him. She follows him all the way to the island.
vii.
He has dragged himself a good way up the sand, where the tide doesn't come up, and lay down. From underwater, Crescent watches the faint rise and fall of his chest. She is unable to decide between the desire to eat him and the curiosity – how did he resist? How could anyone resist the sirens' call?
Finally, he braces himself on one elbow and looks toward the ocean. "I know you're there," he says quietly, between gulps for breath.
Crescent doesn't move.
His blue eyes fix on where she hides beneath the surface of the waves. He curls his lip at her. "Go on. Sing for me, why don't you?"
This has never, ever happened before. No one resists. No one speaks to them. No one even believes sirens are real until it is too late.
She takes her solid form and steps out of the water. The dress rags, a faded blue, cling to her skin, but he doesn't take any notice. He simply waits, his gaze never wavering from hers. Brave, foolish man.
She takes a painful breath. "I can't."
"All sirens sing," he says tiredly.
"Not me," she bites back, a bit defensive. "And anyway, you wouldn't hear me, would you? You can resist us."
A hint of a triumphant smile flickers over his face, though it's quickly extinguished. "You bet I can." With a grimace, he digs his fingers into his ears and pulls out two lumps of wax.
Crescent blinks. "Oh."
"Didn't expect that, did you?" He chucks the wax away, too exhausted for anything more. Laying back down, he sighs, and closes his eyes. "If you're going to eat me, get on with it. Nothing I can do about it now."
"I can't," she repeats.
A beat. Then he opens one eye. "What do you mean?"
Irritation flares through her. "I mean, I am physically incapable of singing you to death."
"Glad to hear it." He shakes his head, soft hair rustling against the sand. "Figures. All my friends die, and I get the one that can't sing. Sometimes I really can't believe my luck."
Something twinges in Crescent's chest. His tone is flippant, but there's grief beneath the surface. He witnessed the horror of the sirens and lived. The sole survivor.
It's not like she doesn't know what it meant to kill someone. She's done it before. And that was all it was … killing to satisfy hunger.
But then again, she isn't a true siren, is she? She can't sing. She's not even beautiful like they should all be; she doesn't know the first thing about seduction. Her entire existence has been watching her own reflection, wondering if it was another creature looking back at her, and consuming lives. There is joy in it, but she can't quite remember why …
Hesitantly, she folds her legs and sits beside him, just a foot away. Personal space is a thing with humans, right?
"My name is Crescent Moon."
The man chokes on a mirthless laugh. "Get away from me."
"You're the first person to ever escape."
"That makes me feel much better. My friends are all dead! Brainwashed and eaten by your succubi friends!"
Crescent presses her lips together. Sand is sticking to her damp skin and she's itching to slip back into the water, but she can't pull away. She has never spoken to a human before.
"They wouldn't have felt any pain," she says softly, unable to look at him, instead examining her own pearly fingernails. "Their last moments would have been bliss."
Quite suddenly, the man sits up, eyes ablaze.
"You know what?" he hisses furiously, his handsome face drawn with hatred. "I. Don't. Care."
Crescent finds herself wide-eyed and speechless.
Recklessly, like someone with nothing to lose, the man leans closer until his lips are a mere inch from her own. He's practically daring her to have a go at him – in whatever way.
Or maybe he's daring himself.
They stare at one another, completely still; a sundered man and an ungifted, unbeautiful siren.
Finally the tension is too much and Crescent springs back, tripping and toppling into the sand. It's probably the most ungraceful thing her kind has ever done in all of history, but the only thing she cares about right now is to get back – get back, get away, and figure out what's wrong with her.
Sirens don't spare lives.
There's a dark chuckle behind her. She ignores it and runs, the blue dress-rags fluttering in the sea breeze, and dives into the coming tide. The very ocean seems to breathe a welcome home into her lungs. Her body dissolves into its pure, almost formless state.
Crescent turns back for a last glimpse of the sailor, but he is already walking away.