Siren's Call. Debbie Herbert

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      Besides, Lily drew enough attention from her voice. No need to give the locals more fodder. They’d be convinced she had a rich sugar daddy in hiding.

      “Maybe I will.” Jet grinned. “But it won’t be as funny as you driving my truck.”

      “Got me there,” Lily conceded. She started the truck, wincing at the beater’s clickety-clackety rumbling. She fumbled with the clutch and, with a loud screech, backed out of the driveway, nearly sideswiping the mailbox. Jet’s smirk faded and her brows knitted.

      The beater’s ornery procession out of town matched Lily’s fitful mood. She’d had a restless night. Not even a long swim beneath the slithering roots of sea grass last night had calmed her restless spirit. The twin mysteries of Nash’s indifference and the anonymous etching on her car both tossed and swirled in her mind like a lingering storm.

      Today, she would confront both issues directly. If Twyla wanted to get nastier, she had to up her own game. As far as Nash went...perhaps there had been some flicker of interest in her siren charm, but like her, he’d learned to hide emotion. At least that theory made a little sense.

      Houses grew sparser and paved town roads ceded to red-packed clay lanes as she headed out of town. Live oaks and palmetto shrubs spilled over from the side and encroached until only one vehicle could pass at a time on the narrow lane. She hadn’t traveled this way in years and didn’t recall it being so forsaken. A curlicue of claustrophobia flickered at the edges of her mind as the choking foliage strangled the open air. It was as if the bayou’s wilderness soul were slowly clamping down and reclaiming its territory from human invasion.

      Good thing she’d driven the truck after all. Lily’s jaw clamped at the jarring scrape of branches against metal. The high-pitched squall set her nerves pulsing and she cursed the siren nature that made her so sensitive to sound vibration. Although excellent for detecting predators at sea, it was hell on land with certain tones and pitches.

      A log cabin came into view. In spite of its rustic nature, Lily appreciated the way it seamlessly blended into the landscape. The scene would make a cool picture.

      She got out of the truck and lifted her cell phone for a photo, eyeing the detail of the log pine’s myriad grooves and knots. This piece wouldn’t be a watercolor like her ocean scenes. Only a detailed pen-and-ink composition would do it justice.

      Disappointed, she noted that there was no other vehicle in the driveway. Nash had mentioned he wouldn’t start the job on Herb Island for a couple of days. Maybe he and his grandfather were in town and would return shortly. Lily scanned the backyard and found the small opening for an old trail she and Nash had hiked often. She’d take a little walk, and with luck, Nash would be back when she finished. Lily ditched her silk scarf and switched from designer sandals to a pair of old Keds that Jet kept on the back floorboard. They were a size too large but doable.

      Lily hiked the narrow trail, the ground as familiar as when they’d explored the area as children. Pine needles cushioned the sandy soil and released bracing wisps of fragrance as her feet crushed them, a smell she’d forever associate with Nash.

      At the clearing, Lily leaned against a large oak and listened to bird calls—the distant screech of seagulls, thrush and coots. He’d taught her so much, passed on everything his grandfather had taught him, including Choctaw animal folklore and legends.

      How she’d longed to share her undersea world in return, show him their sea vegetable garden and swim past the salt marshes and explore a different, equally fascinating new world. But her family’s vow of secrecy was absolute. If one mermaid was exposed, their entire race was in danger.

      Her eyes swept the clearing, then doubled back to the far edge of the tree line.

      A coyote fixed its gaze on her, unmoving, eyes gleaming with intelligence and feral hunger. Lily didn’t move either and didn’t break eye contact. Coyote is a trickster, she remembered, a sign of an ending and a new beginning. She wasn’t alarmed, but aware. Nash used to say that was the most important thing—to stay aware. He’d even admitted once that he could sense what animals were thinking. Become one with them or some such thing.

      The coyote lowered its head and took a step closer, still staring. Its copper eyes held a feral sheen that made Lily quiver from her scalp to the soles of her borrowed sneakers.

      To hell with spiritual communication.

      Lily turned and ran back down the trail. Twilight had deepened and the trees cast long shadows. Spanish moss hung from live oaks, fluttering in the breeze like ghosts. The cushioned, pine-needled ground gave way to a labyrinth of twisted, jutting tree roots. Lily stumbled but stayed on her feet. I’m being ridiculous. It isn’t after me.

      Yet she ran on. The sound of blood roared in her ears as if she were swimming undersea against a powerful current. Lily wanted to peek over her shoulder but didn’t dare divert her attention from avoiding the tree roots, which now appeared as black and deadly as the moccasins that slithered through the swamps.

      She ran and ran and ran until the accelerated beat of her heart matched the panicked cadence of her thoughts. Coyote is the end. Coyote is the end.

       The end, the end, the end.

      * * *

      A violent cracking of twigs, the rustle of leaves and snapping branches, a vibration under his bare feet—Nash stilled and searched the woods. Something was spooked and running toward the cabin. He focused on the dark edge of the tree line and felt to his right for the shotgun. Smooth metal cooled his fingers. Found it.

      He soundlessly exited the porch, shotgun at the ready. Unlikely it was a chased animal—he hadn’t sensed that faint odor of musk and sweat or picked up the panicked energy of an animal hell-bent on escape.

      An apparition of white burst into the clearing, like flood waters over a dam. A ghost? Grandfather told tales of the kwanokasha, or Kowi Anukasha—the tiny, fairy people of the forest. But this was no pygmy-sized being. His eyes narrowed, and like a camera lens focusing on a subject, the wall of white morphed into detail: a tall woman with waist-length, pale hair lifted in every direction by the sea breeze.

      “Lily?” he called out, his voice sharp and biting. It was as if his own brooding melancholy had summoned her from the forest’s darkness. He scanned her white shorts and T-shirt and the scratches decorating her arms and legs like tattoos.

      But no blood; she was unharmed. His relief quickly gave way to anger. Was someone after her? Nash’s right index finger curled on the shotgun trigger and he searched behind Lily for the danger.

      Nothing was there.

      He hurried forward. “What happened? Is someone chasing you?”

      Lily looked back. “I don’t know.” She turned to him with a sheepish half smile on her paler-than-usual face. She drew a jagged, uneven breath. “It may not have even followed me.”

      “It?”

      She rubbed her arms, stomach heaving with labored breath. “A coyote.”

      He raised a brow. “I’ve never known coyote to chase humans. It’s probably more afraid of you than you of it.”

      “Not this coyote.” She shook her head. “The way it looked at me...” She bit her lip. “As if he were sizing me up for dinner. СКАЧАТЬ