The Siblin and the Siren

-Soule has begged me to take The Wandering Eye and find a healer, but I know it's too late. I can hear her crying at night. I am the only person she has ever known, at least that she remembers, and now I will be gone too. I fear to leave her here without me. I can only think something went wrong with my message. I cannot bear to imagine that I brought Isidor and Winter to their deaths in the straight, that this would be the reason they haven't come. And now I also fear what will happen if they do come someday and they find her here alone...-

"The last entry is dated three years ago," Isidor said, pointing.

Winter felt another wave of loss, bitter. Maren had been alive only three years ago, waiting for them. If the message hadn't been damaged, if they had come to Nanine sooner, they would have found him.

Maybe he would still be alive.

-My boys, Isidor and Winter, when you read this. As I write, I am lying in the cave where I will rest until you come. Soule is with me. I know that you will find this place one day. Soule cannot launch and fire The Wandering Eye alone. I have asked her to wrap my body when I am gone. When you come, send me to Sága to be with my brother Dane. I have missed him every day since he was taken from me. Don't ever doubt that I loved you both. I am sorry to have left you. Soule is my daughter, just as you are my sons. I have given her my Tal.-

They both looked at the siren, staring at it. Winter was struggling with disbelief. Maren had adopted it? He looked at Isidor, seeing the same. Was that even possible?

"I'll get a blanket," Isidor said after a moment.

Winter walked to her, going to the rope. He unwrapped and took the tension, lowering her slowly. She found her feet as he caught the rope on the other side of the limb, winding it. Isidor came out of the front door with a blanket and walked toward her. She went to the length of the rope before Winter got enough of the excess, bringing her up short and holding it taut, shortening it hand over hand as she still attempted to evade Isidor.

The rope was finally short enough so Isidor could catch her, throwing the blanket over her shoulders. He took its arm and led it stumbling up the stairs and into the small cabin, still tied and gagged, Winter following, looping the lead. He had no idea what they were going to do with it.

The inside of the cabin was neat, small, all open. One room. A galley kitchen, no more than a crude table and chairs, obviously made by Maren, shelving. A drying rack, a bucket for water. Two pallets for sleeping, chests.

Winter began to walk around, still holding the excess rope, seeing things that reminded him of The Wandering Eye, their childhood home. Carvings. Books in stacks on the floor. Maren's lyre. Maren's shaving kit, memories of the man teaching them. A knife that Winter had coveted that used to belong to Dane, Maren's brother.

It was difficult to believe, but the evidence was all around them. When Maren was alive, he had lived here with her. Maren had given her his Tal, adopting her as his child, making her Siblin by their reckoning. A siren.

Maybe Maren had lost his reason.

There was another pallet on the floor, padded. That must be where she slept. Isidor led her to it, sitting her down, pulling the blanket more securely around her shoulders.

Winter went and squatted next to it, looking at it closely. It looked away, not meeting his eyes. He hesitated, glancing at Isidor, his brother's hazel eyes reflecting his own doubt. Winter reached for her gag. He slowly untied it, drawing the cloth away, both of them tense, Winter wondering if they were being very stupid.

"You're Soule?" Winter said cautiously.

She looked at him, her eyes darting to Isidor and back. She slowly nodded. The blanket still gaped, showing the swell of her breasts and one of her nipples, a flash of her belly, her knees, the siren seeming unaware of it, not to care, both of them trying not to look.

"I'm going to untie your hands," Winter said. "Don't go anywhere. Definitely don't...sing."

She was watching him with that same flat stare. He glanced at Isidor, who looked as uncertain as he felt. It seemed like madness to free her.

"Give me your hands," Winter said.

It understood. She brought them out of the blanket. Winter worked on the knot, deep red marks where the rope had bit in revealed when he unwound them. He tensed when she immediately moved, but she only pulled the blanket closer around her, covering herself, not looking at them. She had cared. Her hands were shaking. Winter studied her averted face. He couldn't possibly tell if she were acting on instinct to gain their sympathy so they wouldn't hurt her more or if it were genuinely afraid. Both, maybe.

"I'll see if I can find Maren's medical kit for the cut," Isidor muttered, standing up.

Isidor came back with the familiar bag, the memory of a hundred childhood hurts soothed in it, and water from the bucket he poured into the basin there, bringing it, a cloth. Isidor squatted next to her. Winter grabbed another blanket from the bottom of the bed, putting it across her front.

"Lie on your back," Winter said.

The siren shrank from him, shaking her head. Winter bent over her and took her shoulders and pushed gently, turning her. She looked scared, her hands going to his lower arms and holding on, her eyes on his face, but she didn't fight him as he eased her back. When she was prone, Isidor lifted the blanket at her side, exposing her belly, keeping the rest covered.

She startled when Isidor touched her skin with the wet cloth, cleaning the blood from the cut, her strange

eyes going to him.

"Don't be scared," Isidor said, glancing at her. "I'm Isidor."

Her eyes roamed his face and then shifted to Winter.

"I'm Winter," he said, feeling strange to introduce himself to a siren.

She looked between them again. They both froze, staring, as her eyes filled with tears. It was crying? The siren turned slowly on her side away from them, curling up.

Isidor sat back on his heels, glancing at Winter. Winter put his hand on the rope at his feet and then looked at her, unsure. He had planned to tie her up so she couldn't run, at least until they knew more about her, just to be safe. He looked at Isidor. Isidor got up, Winter joining him, walking across the room.

"I don't think she's dangerous," Isidor said low, leaning in.

"How can it not be dangerous?" Winter hissed back. "It's a siren."

"We don't know what that means anymore," Isidor argued.

Winter made a face at him.

"Did you not see the wreckage of the ships we passed, the dead men on the rocks? It's a graveyard. Sirens have been killing sailors in the straight for over two hundred years."

"She could have killed us when she first saw us," Isidor argued. "She ran from us instead."

Winter looked at her turned shoulder doubtfully. Maybe. Maybe they had just startled it, so close.

"She didn't hurt Maren," Winter agreed reluctantly.

"He gave her his Tal," Isidor said.

Winter still had trouble believing that.

"All right. I don't tie it or gag it. But we don't leave her alone," Winter said in a low voice. "And if it starts to sing, we don't hesitate. We stop it any way we can."

Isidor glanced at her and nodded agreement. He walked to stand over the pallet.

"Do you have clothes?" Isidor asked her.

The siren sat up and sniffed, swiping her cheeks with her fingers. Her eyes deliberately shifted to a chest beside the pallet. Isidor went around the pallet and opened it. He pulled out another coarse dress like the one she'd worn, folded neatly. Isidor leaned down to hand her the dress. Her hand snaked out, taking it quickly.

She pulled her knees and sat up, inching around until her back was to them. She dropped the blanket and pulled the dress over her head, pushing her arms through the short sleeves, her head through the collar, pulling and twisting the red mass of her hair over her shoulder. When she was done, she turned back, pulling the blanket over herself and sitting against the wall, her knees drawn up, not looking at them. Her right arm where he had grabbed her was dark red, turning purple with a bruise showing the marks of his fingers.

Winter looked out the open door. Dusk was turning to darkness. He looked around and found a lantern, getting the other pallet—presumably where Maren had slept—and dragged it over next to hers.

"I'm not going to tie you up," he told her, "but we're going to sleep on either side of you so you don't leave. We won't touch you."

He didn't want one of them to have to keep watch all night. He couldn't even tell if the siren had understood him. She didn't make any sign. Winter went out for necessities, Isidor going when he returned.

"Do you have to—," Winter said awkwardly, not even knowing if she did that.

She understood him. She nodded, her eyes averted. He thought about it and picked up the rope. He reached. She moved her foot away from him, still not looking at him.

"It's dark," Winter said. "I'm just going to put it around your ankle."

He didn't want the siren to disappear into the night. She seemed inclined to flight. Again, she didn't give any indication she understood or even heard him, but she didn't move away this time as he found her ankle, looping the knot. Even her feet were pretty. He stood.

"Come on," he said.

She rose, making a wary arc around him to the door. He kept the rope slack. She glanced back at him, almost to the door when Isidor came back through it, big, startling her.

The siren stepped sideways, her feet tangling in the rope at her ankle, falling on her hip, her hands coming out. Isidor tried to catch her, reaching. She cried out and then clapped her hand over her own mouth, scrambled away from him, cringing. Her knees came up, her arms wrapping around them, burying her face, making herself as small as possible. Winter could see the rope burns on her wrists.

"Take the rope off her ankle," Winter bit out.

Isidor approached her. He tugged at the knot at her ankle, pulling it off and tossing it away. She didn't move when she was free, didn't look up. She could be putting on a show and they were falling for it. But Winter was becoming increasingly doubtful that she was faking. A wave of tension went through his gut.

Isidor squatted next to her, looking at her. He put one knee down and bent, putting his arm behind her back, another behind her knees, picking her up. Her eyes opened and went wide, reaching and clutching at the front of his shirt like she was afraid he'd drop her. She was little in his arms, her knees showing, bare feet, her red hair trailing long off his arm.

"I'll take her," Isidor said, looking down at her.

When they returned, Isidor set her down and she went straight to the bed, not looking at either one of them, curling up on top of it. It was too hot for blankets. Winter went and sat on one side of her, Isidor on the other. He and Isidor lay back. None of them touched, although there wasn't much room.

Winter looked up at the ceiling, the room dark, listening to the sound of a siren breathing next to him, knowing Isidor was doing the same on the far side of her

Siblin and the Siren

Chapter 3

Isidor opened his eyes. He was very comfortable, aroused, a soft body pressing in front of him. For a moment he wondered if the Dorsan—Mina, her name had been Mina—was still on The Singsong. He raised his head. He was holding a siren.

That was enough to wake him up right away.

He looked. So much for their promise not to touch her. The siren was tucked in front of him, molded to him, her butt pressing directly on his cock under his pants. One of his arms was under her, his elbow crooked, her head resting on it, the other over her and hanging off Winter's shoulder. Her hands were curled on Winter's chest, holding the cloth of his shirt, who was facing them, her head under his chin, his hand on her hip, his knee between her legs.

They were like a complete puzzle full of pieces that had fit together perfectly, all of them.

Winter opened his eyes, blinking, meeting Isidor's, and then he raised his head and also looked, not moving. His eyebrows went up.

Isidor began to gently extricate himself, realizing, in the process, that the siren's dress had ridden up and what was pressing to him was bare female siren bottom, the prettiest skin, her ass round, difficult not to stare at that. Winter was also untangling himself and also noticed. Isidor reached and twitched her dress down.

They both rose at the same time, quiet. The siren, robbed of her props, turned on her back, her dress riding up to her thighs in front, her hand flung out, her wrist red, her cheeks flushed with sleep, her lips parted. They both looked down at her for a long moment and then walked to the other side of the room.

"Well?" Isidor said, at a loss.

Winter shrugged.

"What else? We watch her," Winter said.

Isidor nodded. They looked around the cabin, staying quiet. Isidor stepped out and came back, picking up Maren's journal and taking it to the front porch to read, sitting on the stairs.

*

Soule woke, the familiar view from her bed. Her eyes felt swollen and her nose was stuffy. She sniffed noisily, rubbing her eyes, sitting up. She looked at her wrists. They hurt, at her arm, aching. She touched her jaw, which also hurt, the back of her head where her hair had been pulled, her hand going to her belly, stinging. She looked out of the corner of her eye.

The black-haired man was sitting at the table in the house not far, staring at her. He was big, dark eyes, huge hands, his shoulders broad, a serious, strong and stern face. Winter.

Soule looked away quickly. The other one wasn't in the house. The one who had cut her with his knife. Isidor. The dark-haired one was watching her. She stole another glance at him sidelong. He was still looking at her.

"Good morning," he said.

He rose, so big. He came toward her. Her heart began to pound. She got quickly to her feet, her eyes darting to the door.

"Please don't run," he said, moving between her and the exit.

He kept coming toward her. She darted but she still couldn't get past him. He just kept getting in her way. She broke away from him, backing up. She was breathing fast, panicking. She couldn't fight him. He was too big. She hit the wall behind her.

He walked toward her, putting his hand up, palm forward.

"I know you can understand me," he said. "I swear, we're not going to hurt you."

He came closer, right in front of her now. Soule looked down, to the side, anywhere but at his face. She felt him touch her hand. She pulled it away sharply but he caught it again, not letting go, pulling it toward himself. He turned it over and looked at it and then he dropped it. She brought it to her chest as he captured her other hand and did the same.

"Soule," he said.

There was silence. She finally looked at him.

"I just want to check the cut. Come sit on the bed."

He took her hand. She came, her eyes going to the door again. She wouldn't reach it. He waited. She sat on the bed. She saw his knees as she squatted beside her. He took her shoulders like he had before, pushing her steadily onto her back. She lay down. He got the blanket beside the bed and put it over her. She flinched when she reached for the dress at her waist.

"Keep the blanket on. I'm just going to lift the dress."

She looked away from him, remembering him putting his knife on her throat. Yelling at her, pulling her hair. She felt the dress rise. She jumped when he touched her bare belly.

"You'll have a small scar," he said after a moment.

Soule took an unsteady breath, feeling the tears prick behind her eyes, willing herself not to cry. Ever since she was young, father had told her about Isidor and Winter. She had grown up learning all about them. She knew that when Isidor was a boy, he had hated peas. That Isidor had once fallen overboard and Winter had cried. She knew that Winter had broken his wrist dangling from the rigging, that a person in a port had once accused Winter of stealing and father had confronted the man, making him tell the truth

because Winter would never do that.

When she was a girl, she used to pretend they lived here. Sometimes she would dream about them, that Winter and Isidor had come and she and father left the island and they were all together.

Her eyes blurred. And then they had come, just shown up. But father hadn't been here to explain because he'd died. Winter and Isidor had taken her Tal. They had chased her and caught her, tied her up and put a gag in her mouth and held a knife at her throat and cut her clothes off and Isidor had taken his knife and he had—.

She flinched when Winter touched her cheek, looking at him.

"Did Maren tell you about us?" he asked her, pulling her dress over her belly.

She nodded, pushing the dress down over her knees under the blanket, sitting up, not looking at him. He took her wrist and tilted her arm where the bruise was. She pulled away and he released her.

"What did he say?"

She couldn't look at him, feeling her throat close again.

"That you wouldn't h-hate me."

He got up, standing there over her. Soule didn't look at him. He walked to the table and sat. He went into his pack and pulled things out. She glanced again. He had an inkwell in front of him. He was writing in a journal like her father's, a Siblin journal. He was dressed like her father. He wasn't looking at her.

Soule stood up slowly, waiting, but he didn't do anything. She reached for her comb on the side table.

When she was done, she braided her hair over her shoulder. She didn't know what they wanted here. Father was dead. She waited, but Winter didn't say anything, didn't look up. She was hungry. She sat on the bed and waited some more, her arms around her knees. She finally stood up again. She had to eat.

Soule got her basket, her bag that she put over her shoulder. She passed him slowly, watching to see what he did. When she went out, he rose and followed her. The other man was on the stairs reading her father's journal. Isidor, the one who had cut her. She was between them now. She stopped, not moving. Isidor stood up, stepping back. She went by him carefully, not looking at him, relieved, walking quickly down to

the river.

Winter was following her. She looked. He didn't come near. She knelt at the bank, glancing at him to make sure he wasn't close to her, drinking, washing her face, glancing at him again.

She stood and followed the river up, finding her basket traps and checking them, four traps and two fish, too small but that's what there was. She lined the baskets with leaves and put the fish in the basket. She went and foraged for onions, wood sorrel and found mushrooms, returning to the river to wash them. She watched him. He only followed her.

Soule stopped by the garden on the way back, picking peas. When she got back, the other one had made a fire in the pit, but he was still reading father's journal on the stairs, Winter joining him. She went and got her pan, setting it on the grate, glancing at them. She got her knife where she kept it, preparing the fish, cleaning and returning it, stopping to eat the peas raw, adding the onion and sorrel.

The man on the stairs, Isidor, got up and went past Winter. She looked up. He picked up his pack and walked straight toward her. Soule got up and walked away, sitting on the stump where her father used to chop wood, looking down miserably. She glanced at her food.

The other man, Winter, came with his pack, too. Her fish was burning, she could smell it. Now they were both by the fire. Isidor pulled the pan off the fire and set it aside. Winter began to pull things out of his pack. Food. She recognized it, the same kind her father had brought. Dried salted beef, biscuits, oatmeal, dried peas, rice, beans. Syrup for sweetener. Soule looked away. She was always hungry.