Chapter Seven

Winter was at the wheel. They were approaching Malana in the early afternoon, a clear, beautiful day, although a little hot, the water so clear you could see straight to the bottom. Soule was looking over the side, her red hair flashing in the sunlight like a beacon, humming a song almost under her breath that was curling all through him.

Winter was staring at her, his hands on the wheel, unaware of his surroundings. She was changing in front of his eyes, in his mind, and he was looking at a siren—not the frightening creatures he’d grown up hearing about, but Soule, seeing her as she was. She was beautiful.

He felt Isidor push his shoulder with his own, not realizing Isidor had come up beside him, turning his head to see his brother walk away. Isidor sent him a glance, grinning.

#

Two hours later, Isidor was at the helm, Winter going hard on the sails. Maneuvering a sail ship into a crowded harbor was work. Winter came to her, coiling rope quickly.

“I’m sorry to ask you to go to the cabin, little siren, but we’re coming to port. I don’t want anyone to see you.”

She nodded, but she gave a last long glance at the port as if she were memorizing it. They both saw her do it. Soule walked into the cabin, her shoulders a little slumped, shutting the door behind her. Isidor turned his head and looked after her.

“I have an idea after we’re docked,” Isidor said, Winter moving as he listened. “I’ll need to go into port for about an hour when we get there.”

#

When they were settled in port, everything stowed, Isidor didn’t say anything, but he put on his long tail waistcoat, his tarred felt top hat, lowered the gangplank, and disappeared into the docks and the town beyond it.

He was gone longer than an hour, Winter glancing for him as he finished tying things off. Usually they’d go into town together when they first arrived in a port, just for safety—Siblin brothers kept close company—but one of them had to stay with their anthata. Winter finally spotted him coming back, laden. Isidor hopped on board, going straight to the cabin, Winter joining him.

Soule smiled to see them. She was just sitting in the cabin, nothing else to do in the middle of the day when you couldn’t leave. Winter made a face. It was hot in here. Isidor reached past her, opening the porthole, a breeze coming through, barely enough. She couldn’t stay in here all day. Isidor tossed what he’d brought onto the bed, going through things.

“We know how these work,” Isidor said, pulling out undergarments.

Winter grimaced. You could bring a Malanan women back to your cabin, but you’d be forever undressing her, even in the warm months, both of you buried in cloth and panting before you even got around to the act. And getting them dressed again after. Winter used to refuse when they came here, getting drunk instead.

Soule took up an undergarment, looking at it curiously. Winter shot Isidor a look. Why would Isidor introduce her to those when she was the only woman they’d ever met who didn’t seem to know about them? He made a small disgusted noise his brother ignored.

Isidor pulled out a Malanan dress. Pink, it was pink, setting it on the bed, a complicated, frothy affair.

“What is it?” Soule said, wrinkling her nose at it.

“It’s awful,” Winter answered, his own nose wrinkling.

“It’s a dress,” Isidor told them.

“A dress?” she said skeptically.

“Are you blind, brother?” Winter said to Isidor, gesturing at the offense.

“It’s what the tailor had readymade that would maybe fit her, Winter,” Isidor retorted.

“What about her ears?” Winter said.

Isidor pulled out a Malanan bonnet, the same color, ribbons trailing. It was awful, horrible. Winter made a face again, glancing at his brother.

Isidor reached and put it on her head. It framed her face, woven ribbing and frills, even that thing pretty on her, making it difficult to see her from the side, difficult to see her in general, and, with the ribbon tied, covered her ears. Mostly. Winter pulled her to her feet, looking at her critically from every angle. It was possible.

“We can’t hide her eyes,” he told Isidor nervously, trying to ignore the hope blooming in hers as she looked at them, realizing.

“The bonnet shadows them so they look darker,” Isidor pointed out. “And they’re not so strange. We didn’t know at first.”

Winter was still looking at her. He glanced at the door, thinking about Malana, wondering if they should take the risk. He hated Malana.

“You hate Malana,” Isidor said. “We won’t stay long.”

Soule was still looking at them with hope in her eyes, although she didn’t say anything. Malana was not a poor place to try this, a port Siblin frequented. Malanans were unfriendly but politic—they didn’t trouble you, although they weren’t pleasant.

The undergarments were endless, cotton chemise, cotton underpants that made Isidor grope her more, which took time, and over that stays, Isidor pulling the laces. She made a small noise, turning to look at him.

“They have to be tight,” Isidor grunted, pulling.

Then a shift, because what she already had on wasn’t enough somehow, and over that whole mess they dumped the pink dress, lacing and tugging and fastening. It was worse than battening down the ship.

“How do these people ever get dressed in the morning without it being afternoon before they’re done?” Isidor grumbled.

“How do they take a piss?” Winter added, tugging more, Soule frowning down at it.

They finally got her all put together and all her parts packed away in their proper places. They brought her onto the deck, the breeze a relief, looking her over critically.

“Stay alert, little siren,” Winter said. “I know you’re curious, but don’t wander. If we signal you to do something, you do it, no questions.”

She nodded. Her cheeks were still flushed with heat and excitement as they walked down the gangplank, Winter going first, his eyes roaming, then Soule, then Isidor. Soule’s eyes were wide, looking all around herself, the port busy, quickly yielding to storefronts, people calling out to each other, passing the fish market, vendors hawking, the smells strong. Winter was glancing at her face, Isidor was. It was pleasing to see her wonder.

They spread out, next to each other, Winter slightly in front of her, Isidor on the other side, slightly behind. Everywhere, Malanan eyes followed her with interest and then stuttered away when they saw she was with Siblin. Isidor stopped them, pointing up the street. Winter saw it, nodding, taking her hand.

They entered the shop, the bell over the door ringing, interesting Soule, who looked up. There were shelves with sweets—sponges, dainties, puddings, and trifles. The shopkeep came bustling out in an apron from the back, flour and stains on it, his hands full of a tray of fruit tarts that he set down carefully. He was a red-faced man, flushing easily, pale skin. Typical in Malana.

The shopkeep turned and saw they were Siblin, his eyes widening, and then they widened again when he saw Soule, and they waited through that. The shopkeep refocused, putting all of them together in his head—and in their bed, all three of them, because this fascinated Malanans about Siblin—and they all waited more as the implications of that set in.

“What can I offer you today, good people?” he finally said.

Malanans never varied their greeting, not even a little bit, that same question. They didn’t idle with Siblin, never made conversation, wouldn’t respond if you did, were entirely uncomfortable in your presence. They were the unfriendliest people Winter had ever met. But they never gave Siblin any trouble and they were willing to trade. What could you do?

Isidor talked to Soule, speaking in Siblin. They rarely spoke Siblin in front of others. But they couldn’t speak Malanan to her. She didn’t know it.

“What would you choose, Soule?” Isidor asked her.

The shopkeep was immediately uneasy. Typical Malanan reaction, afraid of the content of speech they couldn’t understand because they weren’t used to hearing it, because the idea of a language that wasn’t their own bothered them. Isidor told her about the pastries, the shopkeep staying where he was, stiff.

Winter looked away. Siblin so rarely attacked people, and only if they couldn’t avoid it. They weren’t helpless, no. But they were careful, a long-established, respected people with a reputation for honesty, trading in these waters for a thousand years, long before Malanans wandered here and settled. But anything different was suspicious to a Malanan.

In the end, Soule chose a berry tart. Isidor stepped forward and asked for it in the man’s language, giving the money. Isidor waved her to take the pastry from the shopkeep when she hesitated, the shopkeep holding it out to her. Soule stepped forward, taking it from him carefully. She smiled at him, sweeter than anything in here.

The Malanan looked completely surprised, a little stunned. Her smile was difficult to resist. They’d never been able to. She was a siren. The shopkeep finally recovered enough to smile back at her.

“Have a good day,” he said to her, staring after her, his neck craning.

They’d never said anything like that to him or Isidor. Isidor smirked at Winter as they left.

They returned to the main road and the storefronts. It was time to go back.

“Isidor!”

Winter immediately took Soule’s hand, turning toward the sound and putting her behind him. His eyes scanned, seeing the Siblin man coming up, weaving around a couple. Havish. Winter tensed. None of the Malanans had seemed to react to anything but Soule’s beauty up to this point, but they also didn’t necessarily think about sirens the way a Siblin would, not being sailors themselves.

The Siblin Council wouldn’t like it if they fought with the other Siblin brothers. Violence was bad for trade, and public violence in a port between Siblin wasn’t tolerated. He and Isidor would fight anyway, of course, if they had to, to protect their anthata.

He and Isidor had come to Malana to find Lowen, and they had only seen The Vainglory, Lowen’s ship, her distinctive colors among the more sober traders, when they’d docked. The Mockery must have docked after they were already in port. Winter’s eyes roamed. Havish’s brother Leet wouldn’t be far.

They stayed where they were, Havish approaching. Soule was still behind Winter, doing what he told her for once. Havish was big like most Siblin, well made, long dark brown hair, dark blue tailcoat, top hat, their traditional dress, and a crafty look in his dark eyes, rough.

“Havish,” Isidor said, friendly enough, although his shoulders were up. “Where’s Leet?”

“Hunting a woman,” Havish said good-naturedly, his sharp eyes spotting their tension. “We saw The Singsong when we were coming in. Would you be interested in a game of Met if he fails to persuade one? You’d be welcome aboard The Mockery.”

It was a friendly invitation, what they’d expect. Gambling was a common activity for Siblin tusks, as was drinking, and he and Isidor had spent time with Havish and Leet in port before.

“Not this time, although we appreciate the invitation, Havish,” Isidor said.

But Havish had gotten curious at this point—they were usually friendlier—and tilted his head, catching sight of something behind Winter. Her skirt, maybe, the pink difficult to miss.

“Have you already found a woman, Winter?” Havish asked him, grinning. “I hope she’s ready fast and tight when you get there.”

No woman a Siblin would collect in a port town would know their language. Havish would speak freely in front of Soule, assuming she couldn’t understand. Winter spotted Leet heading their way from another direction. Leet saw Soule immediately from his angle. Winter reached around and found Soule’s hand, nothing for it, drawing her out slowly.

“Havish, this is our anthata, Soule. Soule, this is Havish,” Winter said, warning Isidor, indicating Leet with his eyes, “and coming toward us is Leet. They captain The Mockery.”

Havish looked at her, his eyes widening, traveling down and up her body as Leet joined him.

“Sága,” Leet said, arriving, also staring.

Like many Siblin brothers, they didn’t look alike, though they were both big. Leet’s hair was dark blonde, wavy, more stocky than his brother. Winter waited, giving them a moment. Soule’s beauty was a shock when you first saw her. It took time to recover.

Havish realized first. He took off his top hat and bowed, looking sheepish, Leet doing the same after a moment.

“Congratulations,” Havish said. “I apologize for my earlier words, Soule. I didn’t know.”

Soule didn’t say anything. Havish was looking at her Tal. And her breasts. Winter felt a wave of irritation. Tusks were impossible.

“You’re Maren’s daughter?” Havish asked her, surprised.

Soule nodded.

“You found Maren?” Leet said to Isidor. “Where?”

“Nanine,” Isidor answered. “But Maren’s dead.”

Leet frowned and Havish winced.

“We hadn’t heard. We regret your loss,” Havish said respectfully, nodding at Soule, his eyes including all of them, both he and Isidor nodding back.

“Well, I imagine you are off to Minsk then, Winter, to present your anthata,” Leet said, his eyes returning to her. “Maybe we should go to Nanine, brother. Are there any more like you there, Soule?”

Leet meant it as a joke. They didn’t really believe she was from Nanine. Winter held his breath, not knowing what she would say. He’d never known her to lie.

“No,” Soule answered carefully. “There are no more like me there.”

Not on the island, she meant. Winter glanced at the brothers. They didn’t find the answer strange. Or at least they were distracted. Soule’s voice was what it was, low and husky and rich, a voice Winter knew from experience wrapped around a man’s guts low, tingling straight to your cock.

She was a siren. There was no way they weren’t going to feel it, and Havish and Leet were Siblin tusks. They responded immediately. Leet’s eyes got a great deal more free, Havish giving her a lazy smile. Winter felt anger stirring in him.

“That’s all right. We don’t go near the fucking screechers,” Leet said to her carelessly.

Leet was referring to the sirens in the straight. They had reason, but still. Soule’s cheeks flushed in the bonnet. The silence was thick. Leet glanced at her regretfully, sending both of them an apologetic glance. Havish’s gaze lingered on Winter, taking in his tension, his manner becoming wary.

“I’m sorry for my language, Soule,” Leet said, also giving Winter a glance. “I should have realized Maren would raise you tender.”

Havish began to back away.

“No disrespect to you, Winter,” Havish said carefully, nodding to him. “Isidor. We’ll leave you be. Congratulations, Soule.”

Winter nodded back a little stiffly, Havish glancing at him again. Winter watched which way they took.

“Are you well, Soule?” Winter asked, turning to her when they were gone.

“Are they going to find out what I am?” she asked.

Winter took her hand and raising it, kissing the inside of her wrist.

“When we go to Minsk and tell the Siblin Council, other Siblin will learn of you, yes,” Isidor told her.

Winter saw her expression.

“I don’t think they’ll like me,” she said under her breath.

Isidor came up behind her, his hands going to her waist, Winter still holding her hand, receiving avid glances from a Malanan couple, Winter turning briefly to glare.

“You don’t have to worry about them, Soule,” Isidor said behind her.

No, Winter thought, his eyes returning to her face. He and Isidor would do all the worrying.

#

Soule had nothing else she could really wear when Lowen visited except the Malanan nonsense, but she’d had a bath in the hold, a barrel serving, Winter heating water, both he and Isidor doing the same. When the sun touched the horizon, they put her in the cabin, the air cooler now. They hadn’t talked about what they would say to Lowen. They were both on edge, nervous, although they hid it.

They saw his figure, Lowen’s rolling gate on the docks, heading their way. Lowen hailed them, Winter lowering the gangplank. Lowen came on board, pulling Winter into a rough embrace, clapping him on the shoulder.

“You look well, Winter!” Lowen exclaimed, grinning at him. “Serious as ever, I see.”

Isidor grinned at him as Lowen walked across the deck, the man’s smell familiar in the embrace, a mixture of sea and the wool cloth of the Siblin jacket he wore and his own smell, and liquor, also familiar, the older Siblin releasing him and reaching into his coat tail jacket and taking out a small flask, tipping and sipping at it.

This was a constant. He offered it to Isidor as he always had, even when Isidor was a boy, one of the reasons they’d chosen Maren. He wasn’t drunk—Lowen was never drunk unless he intended to be—but he sipped perpetually.

Isidor took it, tipping it to be polite. Twain handled their losses differently. He didn’t know what he would do if he lost Winter. It was unimaginable. And Lowen had lost Caren in a terrible way, the worst, the man’s hand caught in rocks, the tide coming. Lowen had freed him before he could drown, hacking his hand off, but Caren had died anyway. It still gave Isidor a shiver of horror. He knew Siblin who avoided Lowen for that, for the ill luck of it.

Lowen took the flask back when Isidor held it out, tipping it again before replacing it in his pocket. The man was older, big, broad, a barrel chest and a huge laugh, his dark blonde hair to his shoulders, strong jaw and a blocky, handsome face.

Anticipating Lowen’s visit, he and Winter had brought chairs onto the deck, a barrel for a table. They sat, Winter breaking out Dorsa wine, Lowen removing his felt hat and setting it beside his chair, taking the glass. They had planned to keep a barrel anyway, the vintage good. Lowen narrowed his eyes speculatively, smelling.

“Dorsan?” Lowen said.

Winter nodded.

“That’s fine,” Lowen said appreciatively after he sipped, and then leaned back with a sigh. “So what was so important that you boys are giving me Dorsa wine?”

“We found our anthata,” Isidor told him, no other way to begin.

Lowen’s brows went up. He glanced around the deck, his eyes going to the cabin. His face broke into a huge smile, leaning forward to clap Isidor on the shoulder, doing the same with Winter. To Isidor’s surprise, Lowen was blinking, his eyes bright. They’d known Lowen had offered to take them when they were orphaned, but he hadn’t realized the man was so attached. Isidor was moved, his own hand resting on Lowen’s arm, seeing Winter take it in as well.

Isidor suddenly felt badly they hadn’t sought the man out more. They’d been too busy looking for Maren. Lowen recovered, leaning back.

“What’s her name?”

“Soule,” Winter said cautiously.

“Do I get to meet her, boys, or is she too pretty for you to trust me with her?”

Lowen leered. He’d never taken an anthata, having lost Caren while both of them were still tusks. His encounters with women were without intimacy, without true pleasure. But Isidor knew very well it was still better than nothing, and Lowen pursued women with relentless intensity. He was known for it.

“Far too pretty, Lowen,” Winter answered. “But there’s something else. We need your help.”

“I figured as much when you invited me here. Well, say it,” Lowen replied, friendly.

“We found Maren,” Winter said. “He’s dead.”

Lowen’s face fell, his eyes shifting between them.

“I hadn’t heard. I regret your loss, boys,” he said, nodding to them. “Where was he?”

They would always be boys to Lowen, the man having called them that since it was true. It wouldn’t matter how old they got.

“On Nanine Island,” Isidor told him.

Lowen made a face.

“What was he doing there? Sirens are in those waters. Tell me you didn’t brave the mouth of the Brecca Straight to find him.”

“We didn’t know where else to look,” Winter replied. “We found Maren’s daughter on Nanine.”

“His daughter?” Maren said in surprise. Siblin didn’t sire daughters, and Maren had been a twain anyway, unable to sire children without his brother. “He adopted a girl as well as you two?”

“Maren found her, raised her as Siblin on Nanine until he died three years ago,” Winter said.

Lowen leaned back, guessing the rest.

“You came after,” Lowen concluded, “found him dead, but she was still there stranded and you learned she was your anthata. She must be special. But why didn’t Maren bring her out of the straight? Why raise her alone on Nanine, of all places?”

“Because she’s a siren,” Isidor said, his gut tensing.

They were in it now. Lowen threw his head back and began to laugh. It faded before it got going, his face swiftly turning to a frown when he saw they weren’t joking. He scoffed.

“You’re full of tsatil as usual, Isidor,” he said, taking up his wine, his eyes telling them he didn’t like the game, didn’t get the joke.

“She’s not like you’d think, Lowen,” Winter said. “She’s aware, gentle. She wears Maren’s Tal. He gave it to her before he died.”

Lowen was staring at Winter flatly now. Winter wouldn’t joke about such things. Neither of them would and Lowen knew it.

“I don’t believe you,” he told them coldly, honestly.

“We didn’t believe it at first. When Maren found her, she was only a small girl. We read his journal. He wrote about raising her. She was odd, a little,” Winter admitted. “But mostly no different than any other child.”

“A little odd,” Lowen echoed, his voice rising. “A screecher.”

Isidor flashed a look around at the dock, Winter straightening to do the same. Lowen saw it, lowering his voice, leaning forward.

“Have you boys been smoking nahka?”

Isidor’s mouth quirked wryly. Nahka was a plant the Pushterians dried and then smoked to induce euphoria in their religious rights.

“Would you like to meet her?” Isidor asked him.

“Meet a siren? No thank you,” the man scoffed again, making a face at him and taking up his wine, sipping it.

“Meet our anthata, Lowen,” Winter said to him.

Lowen set down the wine, turning to him, obviously not believing any of it and getting angry.

“Fine. Bring out the man-eater,” he said, looking disgusted with them.

Isidor glancing at Winter, both of them looking at the cabin, hoping she hadn’t heard that. Lowen was glancing between them, reading their reactions, frowning. Isidor walked to the cabin, opening the door. He took her hand, raising her to her feet, coming out. Isidor stopped halfway. They weren’t going to give Lowen any chance to act before he understood.

Isidor took a deep breath and stepped aside, revealing Soule.

Lowen rose from the table, clearing it, his eyes sweeping her, taking her in. They widened and then narrowed, his hand moving toward his knife, grasping it, his eyes locking on her. Winter got up quickly, moving into Lowen’s field of vision, his hand out.

“Meet her. Talk to her,” Winter said, and Isidor didn’t have to see Winter to know he had just put his hand on his own knife. “She’s not what you think, Lowen.”

Lowen slowly dropped his hand, his eyes shifting to Winter’s hand. Then his eyes were searching Winter’s face.

“Talk to her,” Lowen echoed, like they’d suggested he flap his arms and fly, gesturing in her direction. “To a siren. Does it even talk?”

Winter stepped aside. Lowen’s eyes crawled all over her, his teeth coming up briefly. He moved closer warily, Winter shadowing him.

“You understand me?” Lowen said to her.

“Yes.”

“What’s the name of the ship we’re on?” Lowen said.

“We’re on The Singsong,” Soule answered, eyeing him.

A breeze came up, sending her red hair drifting, Lowen watching it, getting more uneasy. She reached to brush it away when it went across her face, putting it behind her ear. Lowen’s eyes shifted, taking in the peaked tip that showed. He stepped closer, peering at her mouth, probably looking at her teeth.

“It speaks Siblin,” Lowen said to them.

“Maren taught her,” Isidor told him.

Both he and Winter had known Lowen’s reaction would be like this, had thought the same when they met her, but it still wasn’t easy. Lowen was looking at her all over.

“Beautiful as all the tales,” Lowen muttered. He glanced at Winter. “Can it not sing?”

“When we were leaving the straight, another siren came onto the black rocks,” Winter said. “Soule saved us. She says she sang us back to her.”

Lowen was staring at him now, an incredulous look on his face.

“Well, you boys are still alive,” Lowen commented a little sarcastically.

“As was Maren until he died of a poisoned wound from an accident,” Isidor told him, the man’s eyes shifting to him. “And he was with her most of her life. He raised her.”

Lowen shook his head at Isidor, just denial. His eyes went back to her. He suddenly grimaced.

“Maren’s body. It didn’t—,” he stopped, gesturing at her.

Soule understood. She looked straight down and then turned and went into the cabin and closed the door behind her quietly. Winter turned to Lowen, angry.

“No, she didn’t eat her father, Lowen,” he bit out. “Soule eats what we do.”

Lowen was looking after her, a confused expression on his face.

“I didn’t mean to upset it,” he said a little defensively.

Isidor moved back to the table as Lowen wandered a little and sat, glancing at the cabin door, still looking stunned. Winter looked at Isidor, his eyes indicating the cabin, going in.

“We know it’s a shock,” Isidor said, sitting with Lowen again. “We’d like your help when we approach the Siblin Council to present our anthata.”

Lowen gave a short bark of laughter.

“Yes,” he said, definitely sarcastic now. “That’s going to surprise them, son.”

Lowen stared off a little, his jaw set. Then he looked at Isidor. The man leaned forward, peering at him, speaking low.

“Is it...like a real woman all over?”

“Soule is a real woman, yes,” Isidor said, trying to be patient. “She’s a person. She loves us. We love her.”

Lowen was looking at him like he was crazy.

“You love her,” he echoed.

“She’s our anthata, Lowen,” Isidor reminded him, pointing to his chest. “I know her deeply. I feel her here.”

They had completed the anthata ritual with her. That was the fact nobody in the Council was going to be able to dispute. It was the thing that would persuade them, if they could get the members to stop reacting long enough to listen. Lowen’s gaze was assessing. He slowly nodded.

Lowen’s eyes shifted, looking down at his glass for a long moment and then he glanced at the cabin door again. He downed the rest of the wine, savoring it in his mouth absently. He swallowed. The door opened, Winter leading her out, carrying a chair. He’d persuaded her. Winter led her straight to the table, setting the chair down. She sat, joining them, avoiding everyone’s eyes. Lowen looked at her.

“Hello,” he said awkwardly.

Obviously Lowen was at a loss what else to say to a siren.

“Hello,” Soule answered, stealing a glance up at him, looking down again.

Lowen cocked his head at her a little, his eyes dipping to her Tal.

“I knew Maren. He was a good man,” Lowen tried. “He was your...father?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“I’m sorry for what I said,” Lowen gave uncomfortably. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

Soule glanced up at him miserably. Lowen leaned forward, looking dismayed, his hand coming to rest on the table.

“My father loved me,” she said. “I’m not a man-eater.”

Isidor sighed. Soule had good hearing.

“You certainly don’t appear to be,” Lowen said under his breath.

Lowen inhaled deeply, releasing it. He looked at Isidor intensely, his gaze shifting to Winter.

“Come here, Soule,” he said.

Isidor nodded to her, his own gut tensing. She got up and came around the table as Lowen turned his chair. He hesitated, taking her hands, pulling her a little between his knees. He looked at her closely, deep in her eyes. She stared back at him.

“You saved the boys from another siren?” he asked abruptly.

Soule nodded.

“How?” he said.

She thought about it, her gaze unfocusing. She looked at him a little doubtfully.

“Her song made them forget me. I sang so they remembered me,” Soule told him, a typical odd response from her on siren matters.

Lowen blinked.

“But your song didn’t hurt them,” Lowen pointed out.

“No,” she answered, eying him again.

“Would you hurt them?”

“No,” she said a little indignantly.

“Why not?”

Soule looked like she was at a loss.

“Because they love me,” she replied, puzzled, like the answer were obvious.

Lowen leaned back, dropping her hands, staring at her. His shoulders began to shake. Isidor realized he was laughing. Lowen glanced at each of them and then he began to laugh harder, audible now. Soule was still staring at him as Lowen’s laughter filled the space. Lowen finally quieted a little, looking at her, leaning forward, grinning wide.

“You may be a siren, but you’re tender as a flower and even prettier,” Lowen declared, holding out his hand. “Come sit on my knee, sweet girl.”

Soule took his hand and actually walked between his legs, turning around and bending to sit on his lap before Winter got to her, giving Lowen a dark glance, taking her hand and drawing her to himself as Lowen burst into laughter again, slapping his knee, his deep guffaws echoing, looking delighted. He finally subsided, wiping his eyes.

“You’re going to have to keep an eye on her, boys,” he said, still chuckling.

Isidor reached as Winter brought her around the table, relieved, capturing Soule’s hand, pulling her onto his lap where she leaned against him, her head on his shoulder, Isidor’s hand on her hip. Lowen looked all around the dock warily, leaning forward.

“Leet and Havish are docked in Malana, you know that, right?” he said low, indicating Soule with his eyes.

“We brought Soule into town and ran into them,” Winter said a little grimly.

Lowen stared at him and pointed to Soule on Isidor’s lap.

“You brought that sweet girl into the port?”

“We had her disguised—,” Winter began.

“I don’t care if you walked her around with a sack over her head, think it through next time,” Lowen snapped. He breathed. “Did Leet and Havish seem suspicious?”

“They only saw her beauty,” Isidor responded.

“You got lucky,” Lowen said. “You’ll want to steer clear of those brothers until the Siblin Council knows her. Then they won’t be able to do anything about it.”

Winter held out his hand. Soule slid off Isidor’s lap, going to Winter and curling up on his. Lowen was watching her, seeing all of it, seeing her nature. He smiled a little ruefully, shaking his head.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sweeter anthata. Siblin men aren’t easy, you know. We’ve got our ways,” he said, deliberately vague. “It takes one like that. She’s adjusting well enough?”

Lowen meant the sex. Winter gave him one of his rare smiles, his large hand settling on her rib cage just below her breast. He looked down at her.

“Lowen asks if you’re well with us,” Winter told her. “He’s worried we’re too rough with you, maybe.”

She looked surprised again. She looked at Lowen.

“Yes,” she said, that way she had. “No.”

Yes, she was well, no, they were not too rough with her, she meant. Lowen worked it out and smiled at her. Soule smiled back, fleeting, sweet. Lowen drew in a breath.

“Sága,” he muttered.

Soule stood and walked to the cabin. She turned when she got there, looking at Lowen shyly.

“Goodnight, Lowen.”

“Sleep well, sweet girl,” he said, still recovering.

When she was gone, Lowen gave them each a keen glance.

“You were right to find me,” Lowen said, nodding. “I’ll speak for you with the Council. I’ve still got a voice there. But I won’t lie to you, they’re going to be unsettled by it.”

“She’s our anthata,” Winter said stubbornly.

“Yes, they can’t deny that once they know it. But getting them to listen—.” Lowen suddenly stopped, peering at them curiously. “How did you boys slow down enough to see it? You had to have been surprised, finding a siren on the island, Maren dead.”

Lowen meant why they hadn’t killed her right away. Isidor answered, not looking at him.

“We were going to keep her alive long enough to question her about Maren. She’s got a scar on her belly from my knife,” Isidor said. “If we hadn’t found Maren’s journal....”

Isidor trailed away, looking grim. Lowen was staring at him. His eyes narrowed. He pointed at the cabin.

“You cut on that sweet girl?” he breathed, outraged, forgetting why he’d asked the question, entirely forgetting about his own hand on his knife an hour earlier.

Winter cast Isidor a sympathetic glance.

“We’ve got another favor to ask you, Lowen,” Winter said, diverting the man.

“What is it?” Lowen said a little warily, switching quickly.

This was another thing that had made them uneasy as boys, although they understood Lowen better as grown men. Lowen was canny. There was a sharp mind behind his bluster, a trader’s suspicion, and Lowen might feel inclined to them like sons, but he wasn’t ever going to be made a fool by anyone.

“Soule needs clothes. She was running out when we found her—,” Isidor began.

“That must have been terrible for you,” Lowen interrupted, sarcastic again.

“...and we don’t want to separate while Leet and Havish are in port,” Winter finished.

Lowen nodded.

“I’ll get her clothes, bring them around tomorrow,” Lowen said, standing. “No more taking her into port, boys. Get yourself clear as soon as you can and to Minsk. She’ll be safer once Siblin accept her.”

“We’ll pay you for the clothes,” Winter said.

“You will,” Lowen agreed. “Well, it’s been an interesting night, boys. Keep your ears and eyes open. Give that sweet girl a kiss from me.”

“Thank you, Lowen,” Isidor said, standing as the man finished his wine and made his way for the gangplank. “We knew we could count on you.”

Lowen turned and grinned.

“Make it a good one, boys.”

#

When Lowen was gone, Winter opened the door to the cabin. Soule was sitting at the table, the porthole letting in cooler air, the breeze pleasant. He went to her, squatting in front of her.

“Lowen is going to help us. I told you he would like you.”

Winter touched her cheek, glad Lowen knew her, glad the older Siblin could see her for what she was. Isidor came in, taking off his jacket, looking restless, tense. Winter rose to take off his own jacket, hanging his hat. Soule stood, reaching for the fastenings of the dress.

“Leave it on, Anthata,” Isidor said a little abruptly.

Calling her that was a signal. They’d never told her, but Soule knew. Her hands dropped, going to sit again, watching Isidor. Isidor sat and removed his boots, standing to remove his shirt. He got up and wandered back over to her in just his pants, but he wasn’t as casual as he seemed. Winter hadn’t seen his brother like this in awhile, his own breathing deepening.

Watching him, Soule got that look she did when one of them was this aroused, aware of them, her body relaxing. She moved slower, made more eye contact, her thick lashes heavy. They might be Siblin, with Siblin desires, but Soule was their anthata, and she wasn’t ever at all unwilling. They pleasured her and she liked it. Isidor approached her, standing over her, Winter’s own body responding to the violent nature of the desire he sensed under his brother’s careless manner.

Winter was still surprised when Isidor pulled his knife. He flipped it once, adept, and again, taking it in the palm of his hand, looking at Soule’s face. He leaned over her, putting one hand on the back of her chair, bracing himself against it. He reached with the knife. Too quick to see, he flicked a button from her dress, the blade razor sharp, the cloth parting. It clattered onto the table. He moved down and flicked another, Soule staying still, watching his face.

“Do you trust me, my beauty?” Isidor asked her, watching the knife, flicking another.

“Yes.”

Isidor put the knife on another button, pausing. He let the blade trail to her breast, touching her nipple over the dress with the knife, just the tip, carefully. His eyes flashed to her face.

Winter sucked in his breath, realizing what Isidor wanted. Winter had thought about it before, fantasized about it. A knife was one of the most important things a Siblin owned, an extension of his body. It was an all-around tool, yes, and besides some Siblin who used the bow, it was also their only weapon.

He and Isidor had known how to handle a knife by the time they were ten, learned to fight with it shortly after, both of them having scars to show for it, and they never stopped handling one. He didn’t doubt Isidor’s skills, and he knew Isidor would never hurt her. But Soule—.

Winter looked at Soule’s face. She didn’t appear frightened, watching Isidor’s. It wasn’t bravado. She trusted him completely, didn’t see it as a risk. She’d let him do it, Winter saw. A surge of hot lust crawled through him, his cock stiffening. He didn’t think it was a coincidence Isidor wanted to do this with their anthata.

Isidor pulled the knife straight up, turning to look at him. Raw excitement fanned in Winter’s belly, his crotch tight, his own breathing very deep, images in his head, dark. He met his brother’s eyes. Winter’s eyes flickered, agreement. Winter went and sat in the chair, taking off his boots. He would watch.

Isidor squatted in front of her, letting the tip of the knife rest between her breasts.

“You know I would never cut you again,” Isidor said to her.

“Yes,” Soule answered, that way she had.

Isidor looked down, letting the tip roam the swells, just enough for her to feel it. Winter’s heart began to pound, nervousness seeing the edge of a blade that sharp on her soft skin and also intense arousal. Soule didn’t move.

“I want to do something, my beauty,” Isidor said softly, his eyes on the knife blade. They had to be. “But if it scares you at any time, if you want me to stop, tell me and I will, and I won’t mind that you do. I’m not going to gag you for that. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she said, her brows crooking.

“Do you promise?”

“Yes. What are you going to do?”

Isidor moved the tip back to her nipple, turning the blade and rubbing with the flat over the cloth roughly. Her breath caught.

“Touch you with my knife,” he answered softly, Winter’s arousal increasing almost painfully.

Fuck, Winter wanted this. He leaned back, his hand resting on his thigh, his eyes hooded. Isidor stepped back, straightening, raising her to her feet, bringing her away from the table. She stood still as Isidor cut the bodice of the dress, the material falling away, nothing cut or harmed in any way under it, not even cloth. It was a casual display of Isidor’s skill. Winter had never seen anyone better with a knife than his brother, nobody. He was known for it among Siblin.

And Siblin kept their knives sharp, always.

It fell away from her in front, revealing the shift. That fell to her waist with two cuts. Then she was in the undergarments, stays and the chemise, Isidor moving around her, cutting. The dress and shift fell away from her completely to her feet, those little cotton shorts under, another wave of arousal going through Winter. Winter leaned back, extending his leg out, the other crooked.

Winter didn’t think Isidor was even going to tie her, feeling another surge in his belly. Isidor stepped closer to her. He reached and touched the tip of the knife to her shoulder and down, running it over a swell, seeming to just pass over the ribbon but cutting it, the chemise loosening around her shoulders, falling to reveal her full, high breasts, her red, jutting nipples.

Winter was so aroused he could barely breathe. He looked at Soule’s face. She was calm, her mouth parted, her breathing shallow, her eyes dark. She was flushed. Aroused. Yes, she liked it. Isidor walked around her once quickly, not appearing to move, but when he reappeared on the other side, the stays loosened, unraveling, drawing away from her and falling.

Now she was in the short cotton pants and stockings and garters. Isidor went and stood directly in front of her, his eyes on her bare breasts. Winter put his hand down, loosening the tie at his waist, his cock so hard it throbbed as he released it. The images in his head were too dark. He couldn’t swim up from them, lust rolling through him. He touched his cock and grunted, sliding his fingers down his length as Isidor stepped even closer.

Winter grunted again with pleasure as Isidor touched the underside of her naked breast with the flat of the knife, all around the prettiness of it, the flesh warm and firm, that skin. She stayed still. Winter’s eyes were fixed on the knife, on her breast, as Isidor brought it up and delicately touched her nipple with the blade. Her breath caught again, Isidor ready for it, lifting the knife fast, knowing her body’s responses. Isidor turned to the flat of the tip and touched her again, moving to the other, more catches in her breathing.

Winter’s own breathing was ragged, stroking himself slowly. Sága, he could come in a moment watching that. Isidor traced the blade down her belly, circling her naval, and then lower to the short pants. He appeared to only pass the blade over the band at her waist and they fell to the floor. Now she was just in the garter and stocking. Isidor left them, stepping back from her.

“Get in the center of the bed on your back and spread your legs,” Isidor said.

Soule moved to the bed, turning around and sitting, scooting back until she was in the center, the garters and stocking sweet on her. She lifted and lay back on her hair, all of it around her, and spread her legs, her pussy coming into view, very flushed, Winter’s arousal straining his control. Yes, she liked this game. She was swollen, her little clit peeking from its hood, a dark and slick pink nub, her red nipples hard and jutting.

Winter could hardly touch himself as he watched Isidor walk to her, getting on the bed, on his knees in front of her, kneeling between her legs. Winter rose, stripping off his shirt, dropping his pants, naked now, walking to stand by the bed where he could see, stroking his cock again, the lightest touch.

Isidor positioned himself over her, his knife in his hand, the point away from her. He leaned in close.

“Try not to move too much, my beauty,” he said.

Isidor raised the knife and touched the tip to her soft cheek, moving to her lips, tracing them, Soule letting her tongue stick out a little, one side of Isidor’s mouth turning up, touching it with the knife, pressing, the flesh so soft. He ran it over her chin, down her throat, between her breasts and around one of them. She watched Isidor’s face as he watched the knife, something so intimate about that. Isidor brought the knife to her nipple again, sharp touches, then the other. She squirmed her hips, keeping her breasts as still as she could, although it was obviously difficult she was breathing so fast.

Winter’s eyes went between her nipples and her pussy. Whenever Isidor touched her nipple with the knife, she pulsed, more slick coming from her. Soule’s most exquisite quality was not just her beauty, although that was a pleasure in itself, but her ability to surrender to them, her arousal at what they did to her, her responses. She liked all of it.

Isidor moved slowly, backing off of her, trailing the knife down over her belly until the point was at the top of her pubis. Soule spread wider, arching a little, the tension almost too much. Winter touched his cock again, stroking his length.

Isidor went lower, tracing her outer pussy lips delicately, touching her entrance with the knife, on the flat of the blade. He explored the complicated folds above that, avoiding her clit, which had entirely cleared its sheath, very swollen. She pulsed again, slick coming from her and dripping into her ass now.

Seeing the sharp bright knife edge probe her soft pink slick flesh, Winter found himself holding his breath. His cock surged in his hand, stroking himself more lightly, trying to slow the pleasure down.

Isidor finally began touching her distended clit with the knife, pressing on the top, avoiding the sensitive tip, touching the sides. She immediately spasmed on it, straining, flowering open, more slick. Winter groaned low, his pleasure so close. He stopped his hand, difficult, watching as Isidor probed her clit again and again, now touching the tip, her breasts rising with her stuttering breaths, a sharp inhale with every touch, her thighs shivering. She was trying so hard not to squirm, her eyes half open and glazed and staring into nothing.

Isidor touched her clit again with the tip of the knife, drawing away just a little as she pulsed so hard that her flesh pressed against it, making her pulse again. Not enough to cut. Winter watched it through a haze of lust.

Isidor began to tap her clit with the point, careful, her pussy so wet her slick was pooling under her. Soule was panting with it, low and fast. Isidor would stop and turn the blade, pressing. He pressed in once more and Soule began to come, her clit swelling more. She strained as Isidor kept it up, her voice husky at first, her breath going in fast bursts, and then she cried out. Isidor didn’t let up on her as she spasmed against the blade and strained again.

Winter had never seen anything so erotic, his hand working himself, watching her cunt as she came on Isidor’s knife, entirely gone with her pleasure. Winter couldn’t stop his climax, barely able to stop from crying out. He watched Isidor sink the flat of the tip of the blade into her clit a little, letting her feel it as she came even harder, crying out again, pulsing more. Isidor withdrew it quickly as her hips jerked, replacing it to touch her again.

Winter felt another deep surge, his hips pumping, his hand running quickly from the base of his cock to the tip, squeezing, pulling his pleasure from somewhere so deep. He grunted, coming more, spilling onto the bedding. Fuck, it wasn’t going to stop.

Isidor didn’t pause, the knife appearing to his right, his brother throwing it, embedding in the wood of the wall of their cabin—that was going to be permanent, and neither of them cared—tugging the strings of his pants and shoving them down, mounting her. He pushed into her, thrusting hard, working himself into her tightness. Isidor bottomed out, grunting with the pleasure, bracing his arms, fucking her roughly. He went up fast and she followed, meeting him.

Soule suddenly came again, arching, Isidor hissing on top of her. Isidor thrust deep, beginning to come himself, her knees coming up entirely, her feet leaving the bed.

“Good. So good—,” Isidor breathed.

Isidor threw his head back, his eyes closing, thrusting, crying out sharply. He collapsed on his elbows, thrusting again and holding there. He held in her for a long moment and then gave another deep thrust, leaning down and kissing her, his hands in her hair, both of them still coming.

Isidor finally broke the kiss, his forehead on hers, a last thrust. He stayed over her, panting. Winter found a cloth for himself, for the linens, his own breathing still heavy. Yes, that had been intense. Then Isidor leaned back a little, looking at her. Winter glanced at her as well, assessing.

Soule was still breathing fast, looked satisfied, pleased with herself. Isidor gave a rueful laugh, pushing her hair back, still inside her.

“Are you well, my beauty?” he asked her, although you only had to look at her.

“Yes,” she answered.

Isidor moved as Winter joined them, all of them orienting to the top, finding their places, his brother on the other side of her. Soule was on her back. Isidor was up on his side, his elbow crooked, propping his head, his fingers tracing patterns on Soule’s belly, stopping every once in awhile to caress her scar. Winter came up on his elbow. He smiled at her, finding the outline of her ear with his fingers and running all around it.

“I don’t know if two brothers have ever loved their anthata so much,” Winter told her.

Soule flushed with pleasure, smiling at him, her eyes shining, his fingers moving to her cheek, stroking, her skin soft and warm. She certainly looked well. She shone with good health, her red hair silky all around her, her cheeks pink, her eyes clear.

“You get more beautiful every day,” Winter murmured, marveling. “You look happy, little siren.”

Soule looked away.

“I want to tell you something,” she said.

“What, my beauty?” Isidor said.

She turned her face to him. She took a deep breath.

“I feel something I don’t think you do,” she said.

“Like what?” Winter asked.

Soule wasn’t looking at either of them.

“I think it’s because I’m a siren. When you both first touched me, when I first became your anthata, something awakened in me. I felt...hungry for you.”

Winter’s eyebrows went up, Isidor mirroring opposite.

“Not that way,” she said immediately, sending them each a glance. “It’s like hunger. I want you to touch me. It feels good when we do sex. I didn’t even know it was happening at first, or that you didn’t also feel it, but I don’t think you do. It isn’t something I do on purpose. You just give it to me and I can’t help taking it.”

It was a long speech from Soule. Isidor was studying her face, he was.

“What do we give you, little siren?” Winter asked her.

She looked at him, opening her mouth, closing it. She grimaced a little, giving the closest equivalent, not able to express it any closer.

“Your desire,” she said. “Your pleasure.”

“What does it feel like?” Isidor asked, looking fascinated.

She turned and met his eyes as well. Hers unfocused, thinking about it.

“I taste your desire in my mind and it makes me want more. It mixes with the pleasure my body is feeling when you touch me. Sometimes I can’t tell them apart. It opens and fills a place in me, gives me more pleasure. What we just did, the desire you felt, the desire Winter felt, it feeds me.”

She was a siren. It made sense, if you thought about it.

“When I realized you didn’t feel that and that you didn’t know I was doing it,” she continued, her voice getting lower and lower. “I tried to close that part off. But then I couldn’t stop myself. So I’m telling you. I didn’t want to take it from you anymore without you knowing.”

She wasn’t looking at them again. That was why she looked so healthy, Winter realized. She was getting what she needed. Winter touched her cheek. She dragged her gaze to him.

“It doesn’t hurt you. I’m not like her, I would never—.” she said. She began to breathe faster. “I tried to stop but I couldn’t. I think I need it.”

Winter felt his chest begin to ache, their response to their anthata becoming upset.

“Why would you stop, Soule?” Winter said, stroking her cheek. “It doesn’t hurt us, you’ve said. It’s something you require. Why would we care?”

“We wouldn’t want you to be other than what you are, Soule,” Isidor told her. “You’re our anthata. You are right for us or the ritual couldn’t have happened. If you take something from Winter and me that you need because you’re a siren, then it’s good that we can give it to you, isn’t it?”

She shifted her eyes between them. She slowly smiled, relief in her eyes, in the way her whole body relaxed, in the easing of the ache in their chests.

“Yes.”

“I don’t have any trouble with it,” Winter said, leaning to kiss her. “Is there anything else you think we should know?”

She shook her head.

“It doesn’t bother me at all,” Isidor said, grinning. “Especially if it means you want to have sex with us all the time.”

She turned her back on Isidor, wiggling until she found her spot, her hands on Winter’s chest. They all relaxed into their places, Isidor’s arm hanging off his shoulder, Winter closing his eyes, pleased all around. He opened them a little later when Isidor spoke.

“If you ever do get the urge, Winter probably will taste better,” Isidor mumbled, sounding sleepy.

Winter watched Soule open her eyes. She frowned. Then she laughed, a husky giggle.