Siren Song

She spilled the scarabs onto the desk. Several scurried across my hand, sharp pinpricks like tiny claws on my skin. Shuddering, I pulled back, and they moved to form a picture.



Dottie waited until I’d recovered before continuing, her voice both sad and thoughtful. “There is deception here and a deep, crippling loss. Endings and beginnings, if you are willing to be open to them. Lies and pain. But hope. You must be strong and not lose faith in yourself. Do not let the inevitable betrayals keep you from trusting those worthy of trust, but beware the smile that hides the viper’s fangs.”



She fell silent, her head drooping onto her chest. I rushed around the desk to check her. Her pulse was fine, her breathing steady, but her skin had taken on a grayish tinge. I turned to call for help and saw Ron and Bubba standing awestruck in the doorway. Apparently they’d seen the light show and wanted to know what was going on. Following their gaze, I watched as the scarabs scurried back into the carved wooden box. Well, that was more than a little disturbing.



Bubba took Dottie to the ER to be checked out. I couldn’t go. Hospitals are a bad place for people who crave blood. So far, lunch was holding, but I couldn’t guarantee it beyond a few hours. She was awake and acerbic, swearing she was fine, just tired, but we all wanted to make sure she was all right. I made Bubba promise they’d call me to let me know what the doctors said.



Dottie’s vision had given me a lot to think about and the light and bug show made me want to lock the Wadjeti back in the safe and never take it out again. Definitely creepy.



Still, a promise is a promise and El Jefe had gone to a lot of trouble to get the expert from UCLA. So I slathered on more sunscreen, pulled on my new jacket and black straw fedora, armed myself to the teeth, and drove off to meet some of the world’s leading experts on the preternatural. Here’s hoping they didn’t give me more bad news.



8



“You should be dead. It is that simple. Based on what I’m looking at, this mark has been here since you were a very small child. There is no possible way you could have survived through puberty.” Dr. Sloan was a dessicated little man with freckled brown skin. What hair he had stuck out in a wiry white ring around his age-spotted scalp and his heavy graying brows bristled over the top of Coke-bottle glasses that made his watery eyes seem too large for his face. He was holding my hand, palm up, staring at it with absolute absorption through a jeweler’s loupe. The rest of us might as well not have even been in the room—assuming, of course, I left my palm behind.



The three of us were crowded into Warren’s office. Despite his status within the university and the field, El Jefe had a very small and ordinary office space. Warren had chosen the L-shaped workstation with a round table and four chairs in the far corner from the university’s catalog. He’d added bookshelves along two walls, filled partially with research books but partially with odd collectibles such as an actual shrunken head and a voodoo doll that (thank heavens) didn’t resemble anyone I knew. Hanging above his desk were framed original movie posters of The Birds, Raiders of the Lost Ark, and The Curse of the Werewolf. The ugly eggplant-colored industrial-grade carpet had been covered by a Persian rug thick enough to sink into. It picked up the colors of the stained-glass window hanging from a pair of chains in front of the ordinary window. The decorating scheme was certainly eclectic, but somehow it worked. And it was very definitely Warren.



El Jefe is one of my favorite people in the world. He’s got that rare combination of brains, common sense, and a terrific sense of humor. The package is nicely rounded out with better-than-average looks. All of which he’d passed on to Kevin and Emma.



“It makes no sense.” Sloan’s words brought my attention back to the matter at hand. He ran his finger lightly over the mark and I felt a warm, tingling sensation. “This mark was made by a semidivine creature. Leaving aside the fact that there simply aren’t that many of those, the divine just don’t do curses like this, certainly not on a child. That’s more the style of the nefarious. There’s a trace of demon signature, but it appears to be the remnants of a covering illusion. But the curse itself? A demon might do it, if it thought delaying a death would cause more damage, or even if it just found it amusing.” I felt a little surge of magic as he tested the mark. “No. Definitely divine.” He shook his head as if to clear it, then looked up at me, the liquid brown eyes behind the thick glasses wistful. “I don’t suppose you’d let me—”



“Study it further?” I ended the sentence for him. It wasn’t hard. He was an academic, and to him my curse was the opportunity of a lifetime. He might have sympathy for me but only in the abstract. What was real for him, right now, was the thrill of discovery and the potential for publishable papers. “Publish or perish,” as the saying goes. Sure, he was being insensitive, but social skills aren’t the forte of a lot of professors. I knew it wasn’t personal, but that didn’t make me feel all that much better. “Not today. Maybe sometime in the future.”



He gave me a pointed look that somehow managed to contain both wheedling greed and, finally, a little real sympathy. “You may not have a future. This is a very potent piece of magic.”



“And yet I’m here. You just said that it was put on me in childhood.”



“I know.” He sounded exasperated. “It obviously was. I can tell by the way it’s affected your life line.” He turned my palm so that I could see it and started pointing at places where the mark intersected the lines palmistry buffs use to analyze your life. “And it has completely altered your career path.” He frowned, his eyebrows wiggling like caterpillars above the glasses. “Did your family ever take you to the Vatican? Get you blessed by the Pope?”



“No. Why?”



“Well, a major blessing could mitigate the curse.”



“My gran’s a true believer,” I suggested.



He made a harrumphing noise. “Shouldn’t be enough. I really need more time—”



“What kind of creature are we talking about?” Warren interrupted. I noticed that he’d opened the laptop on his desk and was discreetly taking notes.



Sloan didn’t look up from my palm. “Well, there are angels, of course, and demigods from some of the more ancient religions.”



“Egyptian?” I made it a question.



“Why do you ask?” Sloan’s voice was sharp and he met my eyes.



“The mark was invisible until I touched the Wadjeti this morning.”



He mulled that over for a moment, then shook his head no. “I suppose it’s possible, the Egyptians were known for their curses, but I don’t think so. Wadjet was an Egyptian deity, the patron of lower Egypt—there’s some debate as to whether she precedes Isis or is simply another incarnation. But this really isn’t her type of thing. What do you think, Warren?”



“I think it would be beneficial to look into what creatures are capable of this type of curse. Then perhaps we can find a way to break it.”



“Oh no! You can’t do that!” Dr. Sloan paled and dropped my hand as if burned.



I blinked a few times at his vehemence. “Why the hell not?” I asked.



He shook his head firmly. “The curse has been a part of you for too long. I can’t imagine how you’ve survived, but you have, and your body and psyche have incorporated the curse into your development, your very being. To simply break the curse now would destroy you.” I could tell he meant it.



Well, crap. “Then how do I get rid of it?”



He thought about that for a long moment. “Your best bet would be to get the person who cursed you to withdraw the curse.”



Like that was likely. Anybody who was willing to put a death curse on a little kid wasn’t likely to be the merciful sort. If they’d admit to it in the first place. After all, death curses are a felony—attempted murder.



“What if the person dies?”



He gave me a penetrating look that was fraught with disapproval. “Ms. Graves—”



“I’m not going to do anything,” I assured him. What was it with people today? Did I look like a murderer? Wait, I had fangs and glowed in the dark, so I probably did. Hell.



I hurried to reassure him, “The kind of person who uses death curses doesn’t usually live a nice, quiet life in the country, Dr. Sloan. If whoever cursed me dies, do I? Or does the curse unravel after their death?”



He tapped his lip thoughtfully with his index finger. “You’re assuming whatever being cursed you can die. Most divine and semidivine beings are immortal or the next thing to it. Still, I would guess it would unravel. Most curses do.” He turned to Warren. “I don’t suppose you have a digital camera? I would love to take a photograph of this, see if I can find anything out about its origins.”



Warren shook his head no. “Sorry.”



“Not even on your cell phone?”



“Nope.”



“I have one in my office.” Sloan looked at me. “Do you mind? You’ll wait here?”



“I’ll wait.” He scurried out, moving with remarkable speed for such an old guy. Then again, he was probably more excited than he’d been in over a decade. For an academic like him, this was big stuff. As soon as he was out of hearing range, Warren rose and shut the door. He turned to me. “Not exactly the essence of tact, is he?”



I laughed. “No. Not really. He doesn’t seem to get that while this is just a mental exercise for him, it’s life or death to me.”



Warren’s eyes darkened, his expression sobering. “He’s one of the best in the country, maybe even the world.” Warren settled back in his chair. “And he’s tenacious. Once he goes after this, he’ll keep after it. If there’s any kind of solution, he’ll find it.”



“So I just have to stay alive.”



“That would be preferable, ” he said drily.



I laughed. “I know it sounds weird, but talking to him actually made me feel better.”

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