Siren Ch 05

Hello wonderful people. I fear it is that time of year again, that dreaded march towards the end of the semester, which can mean only one thing...finals.

More from me at the end, with some footnotes.

Enjoy!

***

She was singing again. He paused outside the door, listening to the rise and fall of the clear notes. The melody was lovely though the words were muddled by the barriers between them. Most of her songs were unfamiliar, Irish folk songs that no sailor bothered learning, full of sad tales of love and loss instead of the bawdy ditties they swung pints to in the mess.

Her voice rose as she reached the climax of the song and he used the opportunity to slip through the door unnoticed. She was tucked away in her little storage space as always, hiding from him. The song ebbed as she rolled through the tragic end, another lover lost, another dream shattered. The cabin grew quiet and he thought she might have felt his presence. He placed the meals on the table and waited.

The day had been trying. The repairs had been progressing slowly, the rudder was still drifting to starboard and the third gun port was in shambles. Normally Roland would take meals with the watches in order to stay close to the men. They'd elected the dimwitted boatswain to quartermaster and Roland knew it meant he would now effectively be doing both jobs. And there was more than enough work for two men. The crew was unsettled between the attack on an English ship for some idiotic revenge plot, the loss of the captain who'd convinced them to undertake it, a magical passenger, as well as the inevitable pursuit by the British Navy. It was enough to chafe even the most stout-hearted of the men. The work was keeping them busy but, ultimately, too focused on the problems at hand. He needed something to ease their minds a bit.

A week had passed since that foolhardy attack on Kenna's ship, a week he had spent trying to hold the fractured crew together despite the difficulties that idiot Dougray had left for him. But tonight he wanted to sit down, eat with his girl, and peel back another layer of her silence. While the men were a constant source of work, Kenna was a delight to spar with, and he was looking forward to the fight.

She was a puzzle, and one he very much enjoyed solving. Especially when she resisted it so.

He heard her shift in her crawl space and he looked to the shadows there. Two bright green eyes looked back at him. She shifted her gaze to the table and he could tell she was confused by the number of plates, but quiet resignation followed it and she turned to climb down into the cabin proper. He didn't move to help her this time, enjoying the way her pale white leg stretched down, toes spread as she searched for a foot hold. The tattered shirt rode up over the swell of her buttocks and he had a stunning view of the smooth orbs as she strained to lower herself to the floor. She tugged the shirt back down as soon as her hands were free and she turned back to him.

He stared back at her, meeting her gaze with his own. He saw the flicker of uncertainty that seemed more and more obvious every time he entered the room. She was coming along nicely, passionate little thing that she was. It was not surprising that he saw her unconsciously twine her fingers in one blood red lock of hair that hung down over her shoulders, her lips parting in the most delicious way. She was aroused by the sight of him. The beast inside him purred contentedly.

"Come, Kenna." She did not move immediately, and her defiance made his cock harden. Slowly she unfolded herself from the wall, moving with an unstudied grace he found endearing. He motioned for her to sit in a chair as he set out the food before them.

She eyed him suspiciously, noting every change in his behavior with apprehension. He sat down and leveled his gaze at her. Her jaw clenched and he could see how unhappy she was at the idea of dining with him, but given that he was her only source of food—no sailor on board being willing to come close to the siren locked away in the cabin—she had little choice but to comply. He found the arrangement worked for him rather well.

When she settled stiffly across from him he pushed a plate in front of her, never taking his eyes from her face. "Please," he said, gesturing for her to begin. She hesitated again, her eyes darting towards him and then back at the food before her. Before long she grasped the spoon in her hand and began to eat. He saw the way her left hand moved towards the spoon first until she pulled it back below the table. Her hunger had cracked the training she'd clearly had to use only her right hand.

They ate in silence, though not an entirely uncomfortable one.

When she was done he gathered the plates and put them back in the bag, leaving it by the door for the next day and he turned back to her, her sharp eyes fixed on him as she considered his movements. Roland held back a smile. She was perfect, just enough of a challenge to keep him from complacency.

"Sing something for me, Kenna," he said.

She took a few moments before he saw her come to a decision. "What would you like to hear?"

He gave her a small smile for her compliance. "Something from home," he said, settling back in his seat. "Do you know

Early One Morning

?"

Kenna nodded slightly, considering him before turning her gaze downwards. When she started the song he felt his cock swell again, her voice clear like a bell and precise without the frills some of the more showy singers might use. There was a wonderful mix of frailty and strength in the sound of it, one that reflected the woman behind it.

He'd chosen an English song to confirm a suspicion he had, that Kenna was a consummate storyteller. There was a quality in her singing that he understood was not simple talent. She was a natural to be sure, but she'd been taught how to change her voice, her lilt, and accent to fit what she was telling. The song was a simple one so he could hear how she imitated the proper English cadence. She was good, not perfect but very proficient. When she finished she turned her gaze back towards him. He considered her for a moment; the stiff way she held her back, the flash of defiance in her eyes and he decided, rather impulsively, that she needed to be loosened up further.

He got up slowly and made his way around the table, enjoying the tremor that ran through her as he approached. "How did you come by that accent? I'd always thought the Irish could never lose their garble." Her lips tightened further as he came to stand before her, the only sign the insult had meant anything to her.

Her back seemed to straighten further as he came behind her. The crook of his finger saw her long hair over her shoulder and her neck bare to his fingertips. He could see her quickening breath under the delicate skin of her throat. He leaned down and pressed the softest of kisses there.

"I asked you a question." He spoke directly into her ear and he felt her flinch. Instead of giving her a moment to recover he kissed her again behind the ear and then just below that, feeling the pulse in her neck as her heart raced.

"I grew up in a port town hearing all manner of people," Kenna said quietly, her breathing studiously controlled as she tried desperately to compose herself. Roland smiled and reached for her, drew her to standing and settled her bottom on the table, pushing her legs open so he could stand between them.

Her face was turned up towards his, her lips parted as her breath slipped out in small pants. The green in her eyes gave way as the dark centers expanded. He ran his fingers over her cheek and down her jawline, feeling the fluttering pulse as he continued down her neck. He dipped his head, bringing his face close to hers, and paused, watching as her body tensed and leaned towards him. He gloated internally but did not show it, knowing it would drive her away from him.

"Is that all? No storytellers in your family teaching you tricks for how to change your speaking style?" Roland watched as the questions hit their target. She was wary, not just of him and his proximity, but his questions and speaking of her past. He watched as a practiced blandness crossed her face, her expression almost pleasant.

"My mother taught me to sing and tell tales. I suppose I just have an ear for the way others speak." A good lie, and someone further away and less suspicious than Roland would have missed it. But he had seen her unmasked and the pretense was obvious to him.

Roland leaned in and kissed her softly, keeping her in place with two fingers beneath her chin. She held herself stiff for a long moment before he felt her lips change, not returning it but lessening her resistance. He ended the kiss but remained very close to her so she could feel his breath against her cheek as he spoke. "You are a very good liar, Kenna." She stiffened immediately, pulling away so he could see the fear in her green eyes.

It pleased him that she didn't immediately insist on the lie as most would have. He watched as her clever gaze swept over his face and she came to the conclusion that whatever techniques she'd been employing up until this moment would not work with him. She'd try something novel then, and he'd enjoy discovering and ferreting that out as well.

"Tell me another story then." He slid his fingers down her neck. "The Changeling of Saint Ann." Roland continued to run his fingers across her skin, distracting her, but to an end that wasn't only his pleasure, though that was certainly part of it. His fingers traveled across her breast bone, pushing at the neckline of the shirt.

Kenna pulled away again, but he had trapped her legs against the edge and the movement only served to force her to lean back over the table and occupy one hand with supporting herself. The other came up to push at his chest. "I cannot tell a tale with an audience such as this." Her protest was half-hearted. She knew as well as he did that he would not back away.

"Tonight you begin a new kind of storytelling, Kenna." Roland smoothed his palm against the flat plane of her breastbone and slipped his fingers under the neckline of her shirt. "Something a bit more challenging for you." His hand slid over her breast and he felt the hardness of her nipple press against his palm. "Let's see how you do with distraction."

Kenna's eyes burned with her quiet simmering anger. "This is ridiculous." She moved to grab his wrist and remove his touch with her left hand. He caught her hand and forced it back to the table as the hand in her shirt continued undeterred. The movement put him very close to her, leaning over her body as he pinned her hand to the wood. He felt her legs shake as he pressed his body between them, forcing greater contact.

"I made a simple request, Kenna." Roland betrayed none of his arousal in his voice, but the hard bulge that pressed against her was evidence enough. "Tell me a story."

She fumed. "A story is not just words to be spoken aloud. It is a living thing, a dance between the teller and those being told. I cannot simply speak a story if those that listen have so little interest in the tale that is to be told." It was impressive how she held her voice steady despite the tremors he could feel in her body. Everytime he mastered her he thought she would bend more easily the next time. And yet she persisted in challenging him with the precious few defenses she had available to her. It made his cock throb, and he found the impulse to plunge into her and fill her mouth with nothing but cries of pleasure difficult to resist.

He released her and stepped back, allowing her to sit up straight again. She moved to close her legs and he stopped her with his fingertips on the inside of her knees. "Very well, Kenna," he said in his most conciliatory tone. "You will begin your story, and if you can keep me enthralled, I will not be forced to find other means of entertainment." He settled himself back in the chair she had used, positioning himself in full view of her spread legs and pink slit. His eyes meandered up to her face, letting her know she would have to work for it.

"Will you leave me in peace tonight if I manage to sufficiently entertain you?"

His lips twitched at her dogged attempts to fend him off. "We shall see." He promised nothing.

She narrowed her eyes at him, but what choice did she really have? He settled back, comfortable and menacing all at once. Kenna clenched her jaw and for a moment he thought her anger might get the better of her, but instead she closed her eyes and took a breath.

The change that came over her was almost preternatural. Her posture softened and yet she seemed to grow taller. The harsh corners of her jaw melted away and her brow relaxed; her eyelids rested softly against each other, as if the tension that had closed them was gone. And her lips, usually held firm and tight, released their anger and were at once soft and pink and so inviting. She took another deep breath and her form swayed so gently he almost didn't notice the movement. That she could compose herself so completely after he had positioned her so vulnerably was not lost on him. He had been correct in his initial assessment of her, this woman was stronger than she looked.

When she began her voice was lower, husky and the lilt of her Irish accent replaced with the burr of a Scott.

"

There was a couple who lived in St. Ann who longed for a child. The man, named Yanno, worked as a miller in the village. His wife, Anwara, would weave at home but had grown despondent as she remained barren. In the green rains that followed the winter she finally found herself with child, and through her the joy of all the earth sprung up in their household. She was the sun and moon, radiant and more beautiful with every passing day and Yanno spoiled her, bringing her honey he had tracked himself throughout the dark woods that surrounded their tiny village.

"And the child was born under a full moon, her first cry was a laugh and her parents love threatened the foundations of their home with bursting, such was the happiness of Yanno and Anwara."

Roland did not notice that he leaned forward as she spoke, or that the last sentence had been subtly infused with tension he felt in his spine. He continued to gaze up at her closed eyes, watching her face glow, her smile that of Anwara, the joy in her voice singing through the lines of her tale.

"But such joy does attract the attention of others and the woods stirred with the news of the babe who had brought the light of creation itself into that dark, silvery night. In the moor the fairy-folk heard the child's laughter and wanted it for themselves.

"That very night, as the beautiful dark-haired parents slept in their peaceful quiet, their child tucked next to their bed in its cradle, those terrible fae snuck into the cottage and stole their joy away."

The sadness was palpable and Kenna's shoulders slumped as if under the weight of the news she imparted on him. Her face grew regretful, as though she were entering the small room to inform the new parents of their loss herself.

"The thing left in their cradle began to cry as soon as the babe was disappeared back to the moor with the rest of the fairy-folk. The sound was so horrible that Anwara and Yanno were ripped from sleep as if by force. It would not calm at Anwara's breast, or in Yanno's large hands. It screamed and raged until the walls shook with the force of its voice.

"Years passed, Anwara did not smile anymore, and Yanno found no more honey. The small house was quiet, as though waiting for someone to come along and save them from the melancholy. Their daughter, the changeling, was forever escaping to the moor, disappearing into the wildness no other villager would dare risk. It tormented Anwara, mocked Yanno, and caused all sorts of mischief in the village. Once the goat gave black milk after Yanno beat the girl for running off. The children found all manners of wildlife in their beds when they mocked the freaky-odd child whose long fingers seemed to creep like spiders as she worked the loom."

Kenna did not spare the changeling her anger at the stolen babe. She spoke of it as though it had done the taking itself. Roland might have noticed her condemnation of the kidnapping but he found himself caught up in the tale again as her voice increased in urgency.

"In high summer the girl was caught singing to the cow whose calves had all died and the villagers were done with her oddness, her cackling voice and strange ways. They came at her with stones and iron and the changeling shrank from them, her fear entering the air as an icy wind on that summer's day. Yanno and Anwara arrived, witnessing the thing that had pretended to be their daughter cower from the smell of iron and the rocks brandished by the children it had tormented.

"'Mama,' the thing called out in its sweetest voice. Anwara stepped forward, her heart breaking at the sound of her child's distress.

"But Yanno stopped her, and held her close. 'It is not our child, sweetness,' he said to his wife. 'It was never our child."

Roland was startled to realize he had been completely focused on the story. The father's words, spoke with such sweet compassion towards his wife, and no thought to the child cowering from the mob, had cut through the spell of the story and Roland focused again on the woman before him. Kenna's eyes were still closed and she continued. Her body still swayed and breathed with the story as if it moved through her instead of being born on her lips. Now more aware of her skill, Roland forcibly analyzed her technique, understanding how her slight variations in tone and inflection could make the listener sympathetic to the creature or her parents but not both. And Kenna had chosen to pity the couple.

The mob was closing in on the unfortunate creature when he slid his hand up her smooth thigh. Kenna's voice faltered for the first time and for a moment it seemed like she might not continue, but Kenna wasn't one to simply give up. He brought his lips to her collarbone as the little fae girl changed color and tried to run from them. He pushed gently on her shoulder, guiding her to lie flat on the table as the changeling screamed and disappeared. Kenna's voice changed and tightened as he began to stroke her skin, the story losing the life she'd given it as it became simple words again.

He began to work his way down her body, kissing a straight line from the dip at the base of her neck, down her breastbone, moving the shirt over her soft breasts so they were available to his roving hands. The softness of her skin pleased him, the unblemished smoothness belied what he knew he would find on her back. Her muscles jumped as he pressed soft kisses under her rib cage, and she inhaled sharply as if to pull her skin away. He continued to kiss down her stomach, relishing when her story floundered again as his tongue slipped over the skin below her naval.

When he kissed her mound, the story stopped, her breath caught in her throat.

"Come now, Kenna," he mocked her. "You cannot leave your audience without an ending."

She said nothing but he felt her tense under his fingers. A deep intake of breath gave away her attempt to return to the story. Roland grinned and slipped his tongue against her pink flesh just as she began to speak. The words were lost in a gasp of surprise. He ran his tongue along the smooth side of her puffy lips, tasting her, feeling her body arching towards him instead of shying away. Victory was almost as sweet as her pussy. His tongue circled her clit and she gasped again, her hips jumping at the unfamiliar feeling. A few more teasing strokes from his tongue and she was pressing into him, her hands clutching at the wood beneath her.