Thanks to:
Kiera Matthews, amber-rules, Arrylle Gamere, White-wolf2, Piscean Wisdom.
For reviewing! Bet you thought I quit, eh? Sorry about the extended wait… - I'll be focusing on this story from now. And you'll just have to see what happens ;)
CHAPTER 2
…While tales vary on the number of Homer's "magic women of Cryene" (usually two or three), their Greek names were Himeropa ("arousing face"), Thalchtereia ("enchantress") and Aglaope ("glorious face"), and in Italy they were called Parthenope ("virgin"), Leucosia ("white goddess"), and Ligeia ("bright-voiced"). Of portent is the belief that Sirens were servants of Persephone, AKA the "Death Queen" "Destroyer" Goddess of the Underworld.
"But I like this house." Kaz said stubbornly, cleft chin high in defiance. His spiky violet-tipped hair moved in accordance with his shaking head.
Jovian moaned in exasperation. "Come on, you'll like apartment even better! It's got a river view, we can have parties, we don't have to mow the friggin' back yard!"
"There's another reason you want to move, isn't there?" Kaz asked him, all innocence. The slight upward curl in the corner of his mouth indicated he knew full well why Jovian wanted to move.
Jovian glared at him through icy blue eyes, "That is NOT funny, you know. That… that… woman is a nymphomaniac!"
"Who, Rosa?" Kaz raised his brows inquiringly, still maintaining the cloak of perfect innocence. "She's a darling."
"She is insatiable." This was said in the tones of absolute disgust.
"She baked you cookies today, Jovy darling." Kaz cooed, trying to hold back the wide grin stretching his mouth.
Jovian shot him a look that could have been jealousy. "Yeah, offering us sweets like the wicked witch. Why doesn't she molest you? Why does it have to be me!"
Kaz looked him over sympathetically. "Maybe the old lady has a thing for blonde shifters. Especially that floppy type of charming streaked blond, and your sunny smile…" He took a look at Jovian's expression and burst out laughing, holding his sides and rolling around on the living room floor.
"I'm glad you find all this amusing, you blood sucking leech." Jovian muttered, "If she makes lewd advances to me again I'm going to shave off my charming golden hair and never smile again."
Kaz snorted. "Yeah, whatever – as if your vanity would allow you to shave your head. A leopard never changes its spots."
"Oh why don't you just go rob a blood bank or something."
This good-natured ribbing was familiar between them. Kaz raised his brows. "Rrroww!" he laughed.
"Bite me!" They shouted at each other in unison.
An open CD cover lay carelessly on his desk, glinting in a metallic sheen, the color of dark, spilt blood in the starlight. He scanned the lyrics of Trance. What a debut. What an entrance to the music world.
… Moonless night
Darkness consumes
The shadow's light
Take me far
Come follow me
To the stars
And beyond
Eternity and over
Don't speak
Don't think
Follow your heart
Follow the light
Hold my hand
No wrong or right
Let magic weave
Let night deceive
Only you and me
You and me…
You and me…
Oh, Shaera, what a complicated game you play!
Alone, the lyrics were not so special. Together with the mesmerizing beat and melody, it was catching, haunting even. A song of impact, a song remembered, lingering in the recesses of consciousness, echoing in the silences.
But combined with her voice, it was lethal.
And she had the looks to complete the killer package he mused, turning the cover to see her photo. A face stared back at him, slightly startled, as if awakened for the first time, that first split second of recognition. Lips slightly parted, eyes wide and hair mussed, she was the epitome of sensual innocence, where one wanted to reach and touch beyond the rippled surface into the darker depths.
He certainly did.
Pretty? No. She was… sensual, magnificent, ravishing. Striking. Not… 'pretty'.
Night World? Most probably a witch, weaving spells in her music. But he could tell her voice was natural. Well, not exactly natural, it was a gift. Vampire? Possible, though her skin was slightly dusky rather than marble pale. Shifter? Likely, he decided, but he couldn't sense any particular animal in her. The guitarist was though, a big feline of some kind. Cheetah, lion or leopard, maybe.
Human? Impossible.
And yet there was something of human vulnerability lurking in those sea green eyes. But no human could possibly look like that - sing like that.
Part Goddess, his mind joked, Siren.
Good Heavens, what a thought.
He was mystified.
For the hundredth time, he put her CD in the stereo and pressed play.
The city was its usual hustle and bustle on a Thursday afternoon. Students milled in groups, tugging at their uniforms and kicking around their huge school bags. People shopped, walking on the pedestrian paths, each face different to the next, with a different gait, smile and wearing all colors under the sun. There were lovers, walking hand in hand, adults pushing baby prams and children face full of sticky ice cream and gurgling at their proud parent. There were girls shopping and talking, and guys sitting in groups, watching them surreptitiously. It was an amazing myriad of society, an intricate dance of human interaction, and the web of fate spun on . . .
She sat on the benches alone, watching day unfold with a small pad of paper on her jean-clad thighs, and a pen tucked behind her ear, beneath a low baseball cap. She had been careful to tuck away her telltale silvery hair, careful to wear a baggy sweatshirt. She wanted to be invisible today, just another nameless face in the crowd, and invisible she was.
Perhaps it might bore others, sitting in the city and doing nothing for hours at a time. Just observing people, just drinking in the essence of the CBD. But it was a part of Shaera's inspiration. Seeing the exotic in the mundane was perhaps a gift, perhaps a curse. Her lips gave a small, bitter twist. Vague memories pushed at her consciousness, images, half-spoken words and throaty laughter. It was in the past . . . the past.
A peal of genuine laughter broke through, startling her. She turned her face slightly to see a teenage boy spraying water from the fountain at a pretty girl, who was throwing her head back and laughing, with simple, unadorned joy.
How could anyone see the world as mundane? Shaera marveled, seeing the way the sunlight fractured through the water droplets, shining like shattered diamonds, the boy's mischievous eyes, the graceful arch of the girl's neck against the cool spray and that moment of pure happiness, God, the happiness.
Shaera's eyes burned, the emerald green of them suddenly hungry. What she wouldn't give, to be able to laugh like that, what she wouldn't do to have a moment of pure light, without shadows fettering in her wake and her inner darkness clamoring at her.
Always, we want what we can't have. Such a simple human desire.
Such a simple human error.
She sighed - of envy and disgust, feeling the constant emptiness she was unable to fill. She was drawn to the light, but she belonged in the darkness. And she could see it there, in the reaches of the city. She was more aware of it, highly sensitized to that which beckoned to her nature.
There was strength in yielding, and she had surrendered to the darkness long ago. There is something almost alluring about someone with nothing of themselves left to lose. Correction, she only did one part of herself that belonged to her, that she cherished. Her music. And even that, they wanted to take from her. The only release, the only freedom, the only passion left to her – and they wanted to reclaim it.
Agents wanted to stamp their signature and money over her voice. People bought it in the form of a platinum disk. The media used it as another source to blame. But her freedom in singing whatever she wanted, her freedom in writing those songs, her release of the building darkness inside her – it was the only thing that meant anything to her. Not pride, not vanity, not even self-respect.
Her music.
It was always something that belonged with her, and she could see it now, the dark throbbing pulse in shadows of the city and the unformed words swirling in her mind. Her fingers itched to write, and drawing the pen from her ear, she wrote a single word on the pristine pad: Destroyed.
If the media hated "Trance", then she couldn't wait to see how they would react to this new song. Her carved, full lips turned upwards in an ironical smile. Her dream as a little girl was that one day the world could hear her. Now she was realizing it, and she didn't care if it shocked, mocked or seduced. She wanted to draw out the truth in people, to tempt and release the wildness buried under the superficial skin.
She wanted to rock the world.
Jason Mitchell wanted to forget.
His hand were damp with perspiration as he tugged at his tie to loosen the collar. Never like the damned thing anyway. But he had always done what he should. Always obeyed what he was told to…
Everyday …
Confined in this prison he once called home. But there was nothing left but emptiness and the sad, bitter taste of regret, a metallic, harsh layer on the back of his tongue. Like blood.
His eyes, blurry without his glasses, drifted to the white paper laid neatly on his desk. Who would have thought a simple, pale rectangle could bring such a constant, dull ache in his heart?
Divorce papers.
He spent his life trying to make a living for her – for them – and in return for the years he put through, she left him with divorce papers. Already filled out with black letters - precise, and unbelievably cold. Sign here. This last dotted line would signify the end of their relationship. 10 years.
10 years down the drain…
He didn't like to think of himself as weak, didn't want to think about anything except escaping from this place, escaping from his life, from the gray cold days and monotonous computer screens, from day after day in the office, from a life devoid of any love, warmth or joy. No, he wasn't weak, exactly… but he just hurt so much there… just there… and it would be so easy to forget…
Forget the pain… forget the pressure… forget he ever existed.
No one would miss him.
How did he ever end up so empty? So lonely? How did his path take him here?
He just didn't want to see tomorrow… didn't want to spend another day in that suit… didn't want to face his failures…
His hands were shaking as they caressed the cool, sleek steel of the gun. So dangerous, brutal, yet strangely seductive… in the semi darkness the muzzle shone blue-black, almost like liquid, like the last, final elixir…
So tantalizingly easy.
Gently, his forefinger lifted the safety catch. The soft click sent a rush through him, A frisson of feeling instead of the constant aching numbness.
He just wanted some peace… wanted to sleep and never wake up…
So easy.
She'll be sorry… she'll be sorry…
The explosion rocketed through the sleepy suburban homes, just as her key turned in the lock. Letting out a scream of alarm, she fumbled with the latch and rushed inside, in time to see him slump, his tired body crumpled, his gun hand falling… falling…
His nerveless fingers hitting the remote control on the table as he fell, whirring the CD player to life, the disc spinning inside.
And that's how the police found them, him, resting in a flood of crimson, her, frozen to the ground, shocked beyond belief, and the silky voice of Shaera serenading "Stop the race… Sleep, my baby… close your eyes…forever, oh forever… in my embrace…"
Thanks for reading! All comments/ ideas will be appreciated!