Siren Song

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.”

Warren leaned forward so fast his chair made a thunking noise.

I hurried to explain. “Seriously. I’ve always wondered, ‘Why me?’ How could all this shit keep happening to one person? Now I know. It may not change anything that’s happened, but at least I know it’s not my fault.”

“No one ever thought it was.”

It was a nice thing for him to say. It was not, however, precisely true. Get a few drinks in people and they’d let all sorts of things slip out. As my dear gran always says, “A drunk man says what a sober man thinks.” More than once I’d been accused of “manufacturing crises” so that I could be the center of attention, as if I’m some sort of desperate drama queen. No. So no. I don’t even like being the center of attention.

I must have let the silence drag on too long. Warren said, “All right, no one sane ever did.”

I laughed again, my mind going back to identify the particular folks he was insulting. Still, it was probably time for a change of subject. “So, when is your lady friend going to conference in?”

“She should have logged in by now.” He glanced at the time indicator on his computer screen, his brows furrowing with worry. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to give her a call. She planned to drive to her office to call and probably just got caught in traffic, but—”

“Go for it. Do you want me to step down the hall so you have some privacy?”

“Do you mind?”

I rose from my chair. “Of course not. In fact, I think I’ll go grab a can of pop. Would you like one?”

“No, thanks.”

I closed the door behind me and started walking down the hall. I hadn’t quite reached the vending machine area when I heard Dr. Sloan call out, “Celia, wait. You’re not leaving, are you?”

I stopped and turned around, letting him catch up with me. “No. Warren’s making a call. I figured I’d get myself a drink.”

“Ah.” He offered me the book in his hands. “I found this on my shelves and thought it might interest you.”

I took the white leather volume. It was quite slender, probably not more than a couple hundred pages. Most texts have a lot more heft. The title appeared in silver foil letters on both the spine and cover: Man’s