Hey, this is a new story, one that just "came" to me on a whim. Its continuation depends on how many people actually want to see it continued, so if you like it please let me know!
Siren – One of the mythical monsters, half woman and half bird, said by Greek poets (see Odyssey, XII) to entice seamen by the sweetness of their song to such a degree that the listeners forgot everything and died of hunger; hence applied to any dangerous, alluring woman.
CHAPTER 1
She lay on the bed, soaking up the warmth her body imparted on the soft sheets, wrapped in the smoky fingers of darkness, and she listened. She listened to the throb of music, pulsing from black speakers like her own heartbeat. Artificial turned real. It was not the thrum of bass guitars, or the even the drummer, beating out the very soul of nature, shaking the foundations and releasing pent-up passion and desires: it was the voice.
Slow, enchanting, Shaera's voice snaked like tendrils to the very corners of the bedroom, so exotic and alive, it touched the deepest recesses of human consciousness, where none had dared to seek. Vibrating with desires and emotions – all that basic human essence flowed from the powerful, seductive song like hot molten chocolate.
Shaera, the Siren.
The melody took her back across the city streets and neon nights, where the darkness was perpetuated by the tang of petrol and the crush of human bodies, pressed close, comforted in numbers where the walls of the club encompassed these forsaken children in a single embrace. Where girls tottered in their heels, low-clung dresses and glitter, followed by the waft of perfume, sickly-sweet, strangely becoming. Underneath the powdered make up and shiny lips, these glossy creatures had eyes tinged with vulnerability. Who will want me, their eyes cry, even as they dip and sway to the beat. Are they seducing, or has the night already claimed them?
She lay silent, and through Shaera's voice, she remembered.
She remembered the touch of hands, slow and steady, the soft parting and meeting of lips, and the glorious nothingness, where there was no thought, no past and future, only the beat, only the music. She remembered being held - the security of strong arms wrapped around her waist like a heady anchor, and eyes watching . . . glowing . . . mesmerizing.
And in a haze, she vaguely remembered the slither of limb on limb, the soft touch of skin and sticky heat. But now the dreamy quality of the night dissipated into the coming dawn, startlingly severe, each new beam of sunlight harsh and accusing.
What have you done?
She looked around the mussed sheets, saw the proof of virgin blood spilt on the pristine whiteness and felt dim shock penetrate.
Dirty. She was dirty.
The throaty voice caressed her, haunted her, tugged at her. I understand, the siren coaxed, Follow me. Walk my path. Looking forward, seeing nothing, she felt her body move in a distant, dreamlike quality, felt the cool glass of the window at her fingertips . . .
Air.
Dazed, she pushed and the wind rushed in, lifting her locks from her shoulders, and still the music lulled her. She stared out, and saw the unborn sunrise, dark and red, like newly spilt blood. Like a womb . . .
Closer . . . Just a little closer . . .
"Melissa! MELISSA!"
A woman's cry shattered her trance, her head snapped back and blinked, and she stared at her own body as if she had never seen it before. She was standing on the window ledge. Melissa breathed in sharply and stepped back down, almost slipping in her haste.
Suddenly the air was cold. So cold.
"What were you doing! What were you thinking, Melissa? Come here! My God, you're shaking!" Frantic, the woman gathered her in her arms and rubbed her pale, icy cheeks in both palms. "Are you alright? Are you alright! Honey, speak to me . . . please Mel, speak to me . . ."
"M . . . mum . . ."
Eyes wide, the girl turned to look at the stereo, but it lay silent. The room was deathly still except for her own harsh breathing, her mother crying, and the strange, unforgiving light of the new sunrise. She shivered.
But for once, she had nothing to say.
He hated her.
Well, not exactly hated, after all it was the duty of a policeman to care for the community. But he always had little liking for beautiful women who knew they were beautiful. Beautiful women who knew they were beautiful and smirked at him even as they teased and taunted him with their eyes.
He tried not to notice the way her breasts crushed against her arms when she folded them. Such perfect breasts, it was fascinating, really . . .
Realizing she had noticed where his eyes had strayed to, he quickly averted his gaze and coughed. "So you were saying . . . ?"
She pressed her luscious lips into a thin line and narrowed her eyes. "Are you talking to me or my chest?" was the blunt reply.
He flushed.
"I was saying," she repeated impatiently, "that this claim is absolutely ridiculous."
Now this was more familiar ground. Gathering some coldness to cover his embarrassment, he shrugged. "Whatever you think, lady, but I've only come to issue you a warning that the government has to take action regarding these claims. There have been several cases where - "
"It's only music," She interrupted, her voice even colder than his, "And I don't even swear in the lyrics. I don't see what the problem is!"
He didn't like being interrupted. "...Several cases where teenagers have been influenced by your music and attempted suicide. Suicide rates are climbing, many of your CDs were the last to be played when they take their life."
"Coincidence!" She threw up her hands. "So suicidal teenagers listen to my music as well as the happy ones! There is nothing in my music that tells them to kill themselves! I don't speak of guns and killing! My music is for everyone."
"Now, Ms..."
"Shaera."
"Right. Now, Ms. Shaera, we have not decided to put a ban on your music yet, but restrictions may be imposed."
Her hand moved in one decisive chop through the air. "No. Absolutely not."
"Do you intend to fight about this?" He cringed as soon as the words left his mouth. 'Fight' was the wrong word. Not diplomatic at all. His superior would have his head if he found out.
From the way she raised one perfect eyebrow, it seemed that the singer had caught it too. "Fight? Damn right I intend to fight. You will hear from my agent. We will take this to court if we have to."
Without warning, she took two strides and closed the gap between them. He gulped at their sudden proximity, and the way her cat-lilted green eyes was staring at him unblinkingly, only inches from his own. Damn, with that silvery hair, pouty lips and curves, she was really something.
She smiled at him and he forgot how to breathe.
"No one interferes with my music." She whispered softly. Then she spun around and walked away.
Slowly, he let out his breath and adjusted his badge, feeling his erratic heartbeat underneath his uniform. God forgive him, he was only a man. A man whose job was done for the day. As he let himself out the studio door, he allowed himself one last thought – why did beautiful women always have to be bitches?
THE SIREN – A FORCE TO BE RECKONED WITH? Shaera's new album, 'Trance', has hit the charts and rocketed up to number one. But along with the popularity, could there be more to the hot star's nickname, 'The Siren?' There has been recent concern regarding the influence of her music to vulnerable teenagers, a few of whom have been reported to attempt suicide whilst or directly after listening to her music. Though there is no proof that the attempts were caused by The Siren's song, many parents have complained about the sexy singer as a potentially dangerous influence on the younger generation. Liz Dalton speaks out, sharing her uncanny story with the public...
He crumpled the newspaper in his bare hand. "Shaera will not like this."
His friend lounging opposite him at the breakfast table, flicked him a lazy grin and spooned his cereal. "Who are you kidding, Kaz? More publicity. She'll love it."
Kaz frowned.
"You know what your problem is? You're too serious."
They both stared at each other in silence.
"Well, other than that shock of violet hair – which is pretty awesome I must say – you are too serious." He amended.
Kaz snorted. "Oh yeah, what would I know anyway, I'm just the drummer, right? None of my business. What happens to the band doesn't worry me."
The answering smile was wide and sunny. "And I'm just the guitarist. Fuck the newspapers, man. The critics always have something to say. They complained about Eminem's music, too." He pointed out, pushing disheveled blond hair out from his eyes.
"This is a little different, Jovian." Kaz sighed, "They were protesting against his language. This is an accusation."
Jovian shrugged. "They have no grounds." He said easily.
"Yeah, but . . ."
"Oh relaaax. Man, you need to get laid more often."
"But the council – "
"When was the last time you got laid! When!"
"The Coun-"
"Come on When!" Jovian persisted, laughing.
Kaz rolled his eyes and shook salt onto his omelet more violently than necessary. "June, okay?"
Jovian sat up, his handsome face pulled into an uncharacteristic frown. "June, but it's . . . you mean last June? June last year?"
"Ahhh shut up."
"LAST YEAR?" Jovian shouted at his best buddy. "What are you – a priest or something? Why have you been celibate? If you've had some sort of rash, you'd tell me, righ-"
At this Kaz had reached over the table and clamped Jovian's jaw shut with his free hand. "I do not have a rash!" he hissed, then lowered his voice. "I just haven't been interested."
"Libido problems? Problems with performance? Hey if you can't get it up, I – mmmph mrph" He batted Kaz's hand away "Are you trying to suffocate me or something?"
"Took you long enough to figure it out," Kaz said dryly.
"Yeah, very funny, wise ass. I'm just trying to help you, since you've been all hung up about our singer . . ." Jovian trailed off, catching the look in Kaz's eyes.
It was a look that could freeze hell itself.
". . . Oh."
Once again, silence permeated the kitchen.
"You're not still in love with her, are you? She's a bit of a player, she's got issues when it comes to men . . ." His voice died off again when he noticed Kaz's olive fingers tighten on the salt shaker.
The glass cracked. Tiny grains of salt slipped out like the sand in an hourglass, pooling on the table between them in a mini salt avalanche.
". . . um, I think I'll go now." Scooting out from the kitchen, Jovian added his untouched breakfast incident to his mental list of what not-to- do's. "And you still need to get laid!" He called back, when he was a safe distance away, up the street.
Their next door neighbor, an old lady who had apparently been widowed four times over, and old enough to be their great grandmother stuck her head out the window. "Are you offering?" She cackled, pursing her wrinkled lips.
Backing away in horror, Jovian leapt into his Mercedes and sped off in a squeal of rubber tires and the sound of an exhaust gunning at full speed. Personally, he thought it was about time they moved houses. Fast.