The whale dove through the deep canyon crevices chasing squid. The canyon walls were forested in sponge and coral, but instead of leaves tossing in the wind, long, thin coral arms waved as the whale glided past.
The wind shivered. The saltwater stung and irritated, and the baleful pressure was as heavy as the center of a hurricane.
But then the wind heard a noise above the mournful bass and the whale’s clicking. It perked up and peered toward the coral forest. Could it be? Was it . . .?
Yes.
It was the siren’s song. The wind shuddered. Millenia ago, the siren had lived on rocks, and by using the wind to amplify their voices, they’d lured mariners to their deaths. They’d entrapped and entangled. They’d knotted and tied. What does siren mean? It means cord. Rope. A binding, luring thing.
Ages ago, the Bards had banished the sirens to the depths of the ocean in retribution for murdering a beloved child.
The wind hadn’t heard them for eons. But it hadn’t forgotten their voices.
Their song spun madness and wonder, desperation and lust, and unending, mindless desire. The sirens were ugly, squid-like, sharp-toothed, eyeless things. They fed on the tormented desire their songs caused. If a sailor was unlucky enough to be caught in a siren’s coil, they would never escape.
The whale’s shadow fell over the nest of them, and they shrieked, singing willfully at the beast. The whale ignored the sirens. The wind was invulnerable. A siren had no power over the wind.
But . . .
The wind leaped from the whale’s blowhole, spiraling through the water, catapulted by joy.
The boy!
The boy!
Its boy!
The wind shoved its air bubble, a tiny, desperate thing, until—Oh, please, please. Yes!—It burst against the boy’s prison, landing in the boy’s lap.
It purred. It rocked against him. It moaned and laughed and twined itself in his arms.
The boy was here. The boy was alive.
“Wind?” he whispered, and his voice was a cracked, desperate, hopeful thing.
The wind pushed at his cheek; rubbed itself over the rough beard covering his face. Tasted the salt of tears and the hungered pain lining the boy’s face.
Why was he crying? The wind had come, hadn’t it? The wind was here.
The boy sent the back of his hand across his cheek, wiping at the salty wetness. He sniffed and then smiled. “You came. I didn’t think you’d come.”
Of course it had come. The wind shoved at the boy. It was the wind. It was brave, fierce, loyal, and much smarter than a human boy who’d let himself be caged under the sea by sirens. How could the boy even think it wouldn’t come?
“Oh,” the boy laughed, rubbing his eyes again. “Don’t be angry. It’s only . . . Dad died?”
The wind sighed. It didn’t want to tell the boy about the man. It didn’t want to think about the man’s blood leaking out of him.
“Ah. The Smiths did it. I see,” the boy said, and the wind fell quiet. Then he asked, “Is my sister all right?”
The wind nudged the boy. He nodded. He looked around the prison the sirens were keeping him in. A water-bubble prison. A strange, pearl-like sphere. It was a powerful, coffin-like thing that kept the boy buried underwater so the sirens could feed off him.
How was the boy so careless as to have been caught by sirens?
“Careless?” the boy scoffed. “Me?” He rubbed a hand over the wind in a happy, laughing rhythm. Then he sobered. “After Darin tossed me into the river, I didn’t have enough power to do . . . anything. The figments and the water spirits dragged me down. I ran out of air. Passed out. When I woke up, at first, I thought I was dead.”
The wind sniffed the boy. He smelled like squid, seaweed, and salt. He poked the boy. He was too thin, too cold, and still solid. Not dead.
“No,” the boy laughed, “I’m not dead. Somehow, the sirens got hold of me. Dragged me here. Where is here, by the way?”
