Silent Siren (Climatic Climacteric Book 1) Read online

  “Destruction against another life—”

  “—is a destruction against ourself,” Reed chimed in to finish Mother’s motto, his chin dropping down into a nod as he sighed. “Yeah, I know. But we’re not talking about the Earth here.”

  “And neither were you about—” Nor almost said Valerie’s name, but paused at Reed’s sharp look. “I don’t mean just life and death, anyway. She and Father battled for the sake of balance, of keeping what was once undisturbed and natural still unharmed and free in this world.”

  “You mean peace and harmony and all that jazz she picked up at Woodstock.”

  Nor shrugged. “Wherever she got it, we inherited it and I choose to embrace that. Joining was kind of a hereditary inevitability for both of us, being on the Green Team, but I whole-heartedly agreed when I signed the official contract, hoping to help assist their goal.” Nor stopped staring at the peeling wallpaper across the room to look his brother in the eye. “Did you? Do you still?” It wasn’t really a question, more of a reminder of their core, the heart of their mission, and the trust and love that backed the sentiment.

  “Of course. Yes. I do.” Reed said. “I do,” he repeated to himself. “Green Team.” He sat up straight, slapped his hands on his knees and gave Nor a contrite smile. “Damn straight, Sunshine.” This time, Nor let the name slide. “Which is why we’re going to work on being ready to defuse any situation.” He ruffled his younger brother’s hair, ignoring the yelp and hand swat. “Speaking of Father, you need to report this.”

  “I already sent a report off before you woke up.”

  “Good boy,” Reed said in a baby voice as if to a puppy. He pushed himself up and strode towards the door. Pausing, Reed warned without turning, “That said, this chick is still off limits. You may protect when absolutely necessary. You may not get involved. I will never take back that command. Keep away from her.”

  ◆◆◆

  Nor tried not to look for her. There was no anatomy on Tuesdays. Pottery, on the downside (upside?), he couldn’t avoid. He toed the doorway with apprehension curdling his gut.

  She came. Once again, the only vacant seat was situated in the gulf between Sirena and the rest of the class.

  Nor dropped his eyes quickly after confirming that she hadn’t skipped as he’d expected, breaking his need to have eyes on the room, he watched his boots cross the dirty tiles, irrationally afraid he’d still see the slap mark marring her cheek, two days later.

  The promise to distance himself had been thoroughly ingrained into him on Sunday and Monday, galvanized by a stern lecture from Barb about the fragility of maintaining a low profile in the small town, Tom nodding behind her when expected with arms crossed and brows lowered in a manner probably meant to look menacing.

  The promise was also enforced by the oh-so-subtle encouragement of his oh-so-helpful brother’s tireless assistance in the form of repeated prods of an elbow to the kidney or knee to the stomach. Reed had sort of forgiven Nor for the previous night, so it wasn’t punishment; it was a warning. The hour of work for Tom shifting boats around beforehand had not improved his ability to deflect Reed’s jabs.

  Nor had also gotten a response to his report that had said in no uncertain terms that if either son fucked up again on this case, even in the smallest way, they would be pulled, and not just in the slap-on-the-wrist-placed-on-another-mission kind of way but in the serious-trouble-suspended-from-any-work kind of way, which was not so ideal on mission number one on their own. They didn’t have the energy or replacements available to go around cleaning up their amateur mistakes.

  Regardless, seeing the silent waif of a girl damaged would undoubtedly pull his protectiveness to the forefront.

  Nor held his breath when dropping onto the worn plastic seat to stifle a groan, his brother-loving abused muscles protesting the movement and reminding him that he shouldn’t care, couldn’t care. Mind on the mission.

  “Voracious,” Paul piped up, emerging from behind the kiln and startling them all. A few students giggled to cover their surprise. “Voracious,” he repeated. “What does that word mean to you? Take it inside you and swish it around.” His beard danced as he mimed using mouthwash. “Taste it, feel it, explore it. Art is the extension of the artist. Consume voracious, be voracious, exude voracious,” he concluded dramatically with wild arm gestures, causing the nearest student to duck as he ambled past.

  His performance was rewarded with blank faces from the audience. If they’d been outside, there would have been cricket noises.

  “Go,” Paul prompted, giving them a shooing motion with floppy wrists.

  There was another slight hesitation in the room. Students eyed their neighbors and shuffled around a bit. Someone started up their wheel and others followed suite. Nor sat unmoving, sure his eyebrows were nearing his hairline. Those instructions were bafflingly vague. He doubted Paul even knew what he was asking; the teacher’s thoughts might seem like the creative inspirations of an artist, but Nor was pretty sure they were just random speculations that spouted at random from a wandering, drug-addled mind like a malfunctioning toaster. There was no doubt Paul had attended Woodstock when he was younger and either went a little too far or just never kicked the habit.

  Mother had been one of the ‘flower children’ of the ‘good old days,’ as she termed it, when everyone kept nature in their hearts and put effort into nurturing and preserving the environment around them. There had been several pictures on the mantle of her in loose, brightly colored dresses with flower wreaths topping her brown wavy hair.

  “The days before selfishness pervaded everyone’s goddamn souls,” Father used to rant at dinner, mashing his fork-wielding fist into the table. It was a recurring topic: Today’s society took nature for granted, and the upcoming generation was even worse, looking to move to other planets, dump the Earth, like a wad of paper tossed next to a bin. Father’s napkin would sometimes demonstrate that one, fluttering onto the wood floor behind his chair.

  Mother just smiled, soothing her husband with a touch to the arm and reminding him that, like their family, there were always people passionate enough to fight for their home. She would gently ruffle Nor’s soft toddler hair and give Reed an affectionate squeeze with her other arm and reassure Father that their children were in the next generation. They already had a passion for carrying worms to soil safety from the middle of the road, taking in birds with injured wings, and collecting quite the stray cat collection, she’d point out proudly. Even if she did roll her eyes when the overzealous cats dug up her vegetables in their fervent greed for moles living in the garden, there was always a beatific smile that enveloped her face when they came home from school, a dirty, mangy feline meowing at their heels. Between her, Father and their sons, ‘the Green Team,’ they could make a difference and be a model for others.

  Nor’s clay was now undulating, his fingers pressing deep grooves into the sides of his creation, mimicking the crushing feeling around his heart. Well, grooves could be voracious. Maybe. Quick improvisation was key in their line of rapid and dangerous work. He’d used quick thinking to fix Sirena’s vase the previous week.

  Nor glanced at her subtly, noting her thin hands were trembling slightly as they slipped over the muck, shaping her clay. That was unsurprising, given the weekend she’d endured. Jesus. He was still impressed Sirena was even at school today, unsure he would’ve come were he her. Then again, he’d witnessed first-hand her literal fighting personality, before he even knew her name. He didn’t doubt she’d put up a fight for JT and would continue to stand up for herself in any future event. Hopefully his quick actions had at least helped prevent her strong spirit from being sucked out like a drying sponge.

  “Groovy.” Paul nodded at Nor as he shuffled past, his moccasins making hushing noises against floor, his eyes on the clay. Nor wasn’t sure if the pun was intentional, or if Paul really just clung to his seventies lingo. “Try opening the top like a flower welcoming the sun’s rays. Voracious.”

&n
bsp; …Okay. Sure. Nor diligently placed his fingers around the top opening and progressively guided the lip wider. “Like that?” Nor looked up to confirm, but Paul had already moved on, physically and mentally, too.

  The teacher was now considering Sirena’s skinny serpentine vase, head tilted like a dog. Her vase first tilted one way near the base, then bent the other towards the top so that as the wheel spun it appeared to wobble like the drunk dancers who’d peppered the beach Saturday night.

  “Hmm, interesting.” Paul puckered his lips, his beard swaying against his chest. Noise in the room gradually faded, people looking up like that had been a code word. “Delicate, almost like smoke, fragile, winding into the sky,” he mused, his hand weaving back and forth, slithering upward above his head, like a deranged belly dancer.

  Someone in the room snorted. “More like a ghost.”

  Nor squinted around, unable to catch the source of the breathy comment. Damn. Reed was right; his response-time needed improving.

  “Voracious is a word with strong consonants, harsh sounds. This is vulnerable, weak,” Paul critiqued benignly.

  “Art is an extension of the artist,” the same voice quoted in a sneered murmur. There were a few coughs of smothered amusement.

  Fucker. Nor’s eyes swung around the room again, his hands hovering beside his vase as though preparing to choke it, like he wanted to do that to the hilarious asshole with the witty quips.

  “Keep working.” Paul moved on to the next, his attention short. With the show over, others went back to their own voracious vases.

  Nor was still hunting. There. A girl with long blond hair, was smirking at Sirena as she blatantly ignored the untouched clay in front of her. It was the girl from the beach, JT’s girl, Shayna. She quickly dropped her head to whisper with the next girl over when she caught Nor looking. Too late, he knew it was her now and—

  A wet splat cut sharply through the rage muffling Nor’s ears, instantly halting everything.

  Appalled, Shayna’s mouth hung open and her eyes were glued to her chest. Nor’s eyes tracked down. There was a new addition to the expensive outfit. A wet brown glop adorned the center of her cleavage like some hellish swamp jewel. The girl next to her who he recognized as the long-haired friend from the beach, covered a grin with her hand as the bit of clay slowly peeled off, rolling down to smack on her clay pile like bird poop, leaving behind a wet stain on her tight, white halter-top.

  “Son of a—!”

  Shayna’s voice cut through the droning hum of wheels that quickly started up as those around her quickly disavowed any involvement, let alone interest, in the drama. Her sharp eyes darted around the room as Nor’s had moments before, seeking out the guilty party. Everyone else kept their heads down, eyes resolutely focused on their work. She caught Nor looking and her gaze narrowed. He held his firm and unrepentant.

  Her eyes twitched to the side for a moment and Nor glanced at their teacher, too. Paul was oblivious to the whole exchange as he was currently engaged in passionately drawing a landscape with his fingers on the classroom window, fogging it with his breath between strokes. Seeing no help there, Shayna’s mouth twisted as she fumed. She stood with a huff and marched toward Nor.

  “Take the bathroom pass with you,” Paul intoned, without turning.

  Shayna turned a frown on him, as taken aback as Nor that Paul was aware of the commotion after all. She turned on her spiked heel, admittedly raising a little admiration in Nor due to the second instance of footwork dexterity, and stomped out of the room, snatching the bathroom pass off the door handle as she click-clacked past. Those heels could be deadly in combat.

  There seemed to be a collective sigh of relief as the tension followed Shayna out the door. Several other students eyed Nor with varying expressions of awe, pity, disbelief, approval, and, in the case of Jessica, dread. Challenging those who inflated themselves by embarrassing others with their own medicine was a slight stoop and not the best way to convey a message about respect. Nonetheless, Nor agreed and gave them all a short nod that said, You’re welcome. Carry on.

  He dropped his chin and did another quick scan from under his brows. Having ensured he was no longer in the spotlight, Nor snuck a quick glance at Sirena.

  Her hand was fisted, her dainty fingers curled into a menacing ball. The tremble from earlier was gone. Righteous defiance coated her exotic features, under a slight lingering tinge of vindictive anger. Her green eyes flashed, when they caught his, and her pale lips were pressed in a thin line, jaw clenched. Her chin tilted just slightly upward resolutely as though to say, What? I have no regrets and nothing you think can change that, before she swung back to her drunken vase. He watched Sirena stretch her clenched fingers out once before carefully placing relaxed palms back on her vase, like a surgeon centering herself before the first cut.

  Color Nor impressed. He’d hoped not to see any physical evidence on Sirena’s face that day. Instead, her hair was pulled back, her cheeks were pale and clear of hand prints, and she was standing up for herself, resolute, her attitude undeterred and resilient. His nose inspired confidence in her ability to defend herself with a punch. Nor knew now, on top of that, she had perfect aim.

  ◆◆◆

  Once again, Sirena vanished from under Nor’s nose before he’d even moved from his seat after class. She was really showing up the skills he prided himself on. His aching muscles had cramped and he stood slowly, feeling aged. Reed really needed to think about the hindrance he put on Nor’s ability to respond rapidly when he trained him so hard. Reed was nothing compared to how rigorous Father was when it came to pushing through the pain.

  When Nor had fallen out of a tree as a child and broken his arm, Father had whisked Nor into the training room as soon as they’d returned home from the hospital, the pale cream cast making his forearm itch. Nor’s scratching fingers had been tugged away from the offending bandage and curled into a fist.

  ”Ready stance,” his father had barked.

  Obediently, Nor widened his feet on the blue mats and bent his non-dominant arm high in front of his nose.

  “You’ll have to favor this one,” Father had instructed, turning his son toward the wall of mirrors so he could witness his weakness himself and determine how to compensate. “Keep your right arm tight across your chest, here.” The plaster pressed into Nor’s sternum, and the useless dirty fingers poking out of the end rested against his collarbone.

  While Father went to the small box of supplies in the corner, Nor stared at his reflection: His face was darkened by the dirt he’d fallen into; tear streaks left pale snail trails down his cheeks; his white undershirt looked in an equally messy state; and his hand-me-down jeans were scuffed where they were rolled up at the bottom and would have been around his ankles were it not for the tightly-cinched belt. Father came back and mimicked the same stance. He too wore a tight shirt and jeans. Nor glanced back at himself. He looked scrawny, weak, already defeated, like a broken and discarded doll, next to his father’s tall, solid bulk.

  As though reading his thoughts, Father had been blunt. “Your right side is now your weakest point. Protect it. Face me.”

  Nor turned and looked up at the guarded grey eyes set deep above sharp cheek-bones and a rigid jaw. It was a look Nor was used to. He braced himself, but when the pad flew without warning toward his shoulder, he flinched back, left shoulder rolling forward to protect his right. He toppled backward onto the floor, falling directly on his cast. A sharp stab of pain shot like lighting up his arm into his shoulder. Nor breathed through his nose to keep from making any noises until the pain abated, then he meekly looked up at his father from his prone position on the floor. Father’s face had not changed.

  “Get up,” he ordered, keeping his padded hands unhelpfully behind his back.

  Nor rolled over awkwardly, right arm cradled tighter against his core, and pushed himself to his feet with the other. He faced Father, waiting for corrections.

  “That was wrong. You panicked and
made it easy for me by impairing yourself. Pain will slow your reactions and cloud your thoughts. I said protect it.” Nor didn’t visibly react to the criticism. “Again. This time, compensate. You still have other functioning defenses. Use them.”

  Again, and again, Nor defended himself against his father’s blows, more often than not ending up with aching impacts jarring his already fractured arm. Finally the pad glanced off him as he kicked out and quickly spun away. He’d eagerly looked to his tutor, but Father had only nodded once, then brought his other hand into the mix. Nor got no break, even when Mother stopped by to scold Father for tiring Nor out after his ordeal. “He needs to learn,” she’d been told. “For his own safety.”

  “Now for offense,” Father had said when Nor’s kick sent his arm swinging wildly out to the side. “Imagine you see an innocent being threatened. You can’t let your weakness prevent you from removing them from danger. Get me to retreat.”

  This wasn’t a new game, but the challenge was elevated. Nor had tried to channel the tactics he’d learned before, nonetheless quickly finding himself on the defensive again.

  “What are your advantages?” Father had pressed.

  Nor had thought about it, blinking the sweat from his eyes, breathing heavily. His arm had been throbbing again, making it hard to focus. He had wrenched back from the bear grip he’d let himself be taken into, his father’s belt clasp clinking against his cast. Nor had stared, eye-level with the heavy leather belt, a thought materializing in his head, giving him purpose and momentarily distracting him from the pain.

  “Got it?” His father had said. Nor had nodded.

  They both bent their knees, at the ready again. Nor had lurched forward, shifting to his left enough to use an upper-cut with his left fist on one pad, kicking backward with his free foot to shove away the second pad. Before his father could pull his arms back in, Nor had used momentum to swing his still lifted leg around and shoved his toes on the cold metal. He had used what little leverage he had to push up, straightening that leg and pulling simultaneously with desperate fingers clamped around a fist-full of soft cotton shirt, like a rock climber. When his leg snapped straight, Nor had looked directly into Father’s startled eyes from slightly above, then used his advantage: his cast was flung away from where it was braced on Nor’s chest, the rigid plaster smacking directly into the sharp roman nose that Reed had inherited. Ha!