PROLOGUE
“Sirens sing a song to lure their prey. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket and I barely sing. Yet, he claims that I lured him into my web.”
– Seren Windsor
~~~
It’s a funeral not a surprise party.
But none is more flabbergasted than I. He’s holding out his right hand for a handshake. It looks more harmful than it looks. Who the f**k wears a mask to a funeral? I don’t remember sending out invites for a mask or Halloween party.
He bends a little so our faces almost collides. His warm breath fanning my neck. " Nice to meet you, Siren. It’s not the right occasion for this but black suits you perfectly, you should wear it more often."
I tense up. Not from fear but from some strange emotion. “ I only wear black at funerals.”
His eyes are searching mine now. I see that devilish smirk making it’s way out. “ Perhaps we should get you to attend funerals more frequently.” I’m rooted to the spot, my blood turning cold." I’m sure we can arrange for that. An hundred and seven. That’s enough. I’m sure forty are still yet to be buried.”
An hundred and seven wasn’t just any number. It was the number of people he had killed because of me. Yes, I kept count after three persons who had last been in touch with me before their mysterious death, died in the same week.
Those who dared to as much flirt with me, threaten me or give me a hard time at work.
He sent me complimentary gifts of parts of the bodies of the unlucky victims he had taken down. Every damn time. A bloody ring finger or an eye or a beating heart still dripping blood. Victims whose only crimes were coming an inch closer to me.
“ From the look in your eyes, it seems you already know me. Did you like my gifts?”
My knuckles hardened, almost turning white. " You should stop with the gifts.” He knows the gifts I’m referring to, cause I definitely loved the spooky ghost face Halloween bouquets with the hand written cards he wrote with his victim’s blood alongside a scary yet romantic message,“ I’D KILL FOR YOU. ALWAYS. UNAPOLOGETICALLY.”
Okay, maybe I wanted the flowers with scary messages without a bloody ring finger accompanying it. “I’m tired of discarding body parts. What if the police traces them to me?”
" I own this town, Siren. I’m sure the cops know better than to come after you.”
I should run. I should cut ties and report to a higher authority, maybe the president. But I can’t. No, I won’t. And I don’t know the reason why. Maybe because our fates are entwined. And I’m forever his possession. His siren, and he my saint.
As if affirming my thoughts. " I own you, Siren. Always and forever. You should bear that in mind.”
