SirensCall

Alexandra
Martin

Liz is having a crappy day. First she loses her job. Then
she spots a flyer for a punk show that is covered in fae glamour. And the entire
reason she moved to the humdrum ’burbs was to avoid all the supernatural crap
she’s been seeing since she was a kid.

It stands to reason she should avoid the show, but curiosity
wins out. And her senses didn’t fail her. A punk band consisting of a succubus,
a satyr and a siren can only spell one thing—trouble.

When Liz lets it slip that she’s no average human, the siren
takes a keen interest in her. Even without his otherworldly abilities, those
skillful bass-playing fingers and the interest in those gorgeous blue eyes are
enough to reel Liz in. Combine that with the promise in his wicked smile and
Liz just may be on the way to turn her rotten day around.

A Exotika®
paranormal erotic romance
from Ellora’s Cave

The leaves crunched under my feet as I stormed down the
street. I clutched my messenger bag a little tighter and lined up by the
telephone pole, my shoulders trembling like the brittle tree branches as the
gusts of wind blew through.

Two years, but I never complained, even though the pay was
crap and the customers were jerks. Fired and all because of Dave. Smug bastard
screwed over anyone who wouldn’t screw him. The balding little creep had
hounded me ever since Billy and I split up a couple of months ago. Good
riddance to both of them.

I rubbed my bare arms as another gust blew through. The town
lights were twinkling and stores began to flick their neons on. Where was this
bus?

A paper fluttered on the telephone pole, one of those
hastily scribbled adverts with a serial-killer scrawl.

A punk show in Jefferson City? Now
that
was a rarity.
These people were either the worst marketers ever or looking to raise hell. I
tugged the flyer loose and scanned it. Tonight only, the band Babykiller would
be opening for the main act, Underwater Machine. I lifted the paper, ready to
crumple it up, but stopped.

The subtle glow that ringed the paper and the exotic perfume
wafting off it sent my supernatural radar into overdrive. The flyer was
saturated with a fae glamour meant to reel any average humans in the second
they spotted it.

Unfortunately for them, I was the weird rarity.

Magic, glamour—none of that stuff affected me. I’d been
seeing weird shit my entire life—fae, satyrs, centaurs, nymphs—everything that
walked around disguised as humans. For some reason their voodoo never worked on
me.

Not the best ability when the rest of the world thought you
were insane. After my first ten encounters with therapists trying to talk me
through delusions and my “cries for attention,” I gave up and bounced from city
to city until I moved all the way out here. Biggest perk of living in the
middle of nowhere? Less chance of bumping into any of those supernatural
weirdos, which meant I could live a semi-normal life.

I stared at the flyer, cursing its existence. Should I
ignore this invitation and leave well enough alone? Of course, but now my
curiosity was piqued and I had to find out why supernaturals wanted to muck
around in Jefferson City.

The bus approached in the distance, the groan and squeak of
the brakes echoing over to where I stood. As I stepped onto the bus, I yanked
my cell phone from my pocket.

Time to call Viola.

* * * * *

The kitchen light cast a couple of dim rays over my living
room. A couple of weeks back the bulb inside my coffee-table lamp had burned
out, but I hadn’t bothered to change it. Dark shadows created ample tripping
opportunities, from stray heels to stacks of old Heinlein novels.

I fumbled my way to the bathroom, tugging on the pair of
boots I’d found in the process. The fluorescent light accentuated the yellow
sludge on my walls, a gift from the chain-smoking prior tenants.

I tugged my hair out of its constricting ponytail as my mind
raged with all of the problems that came with losing a job.
Rent on this
shitty apartment? Screwed. Bus fare to go interview for new jobs? Screwed.
Food? Unless I start eating roadkill, I’m pretty screwed.

I needed a distraction. A drink, a good tumble,
anything—even this sure-to-be-trouble punk show.

The eyes staring at me in the chipped mirror spelled murder.
That’s what happens when you get sacked without just cause—one pissed-off chica
looking to blow off steam.

I picked out a quick ensemble from the piles of clothes
stacked around my bed. Low, tight-fitting v-neck, a pair of beat-up cargos and
my combat boots. I figured my thrift-store dreads would fit right in. I ran a
comb through my tangled brown waves until the strands were a little less limp
and a little more glossy. Heavy eyeliner, check.

A knock sounded outside my door.

Had to be Viola. I gargled cinnamon mouthwash and spit it into
the sink before stalking the five paces to my door. Before I reached for the
doorknob, the door flew wide open. I blinked, staring at the five-foot-tall
pipsqueak standing before me. She’d done something to her hair…curled it until
her short strands were poodle-perfect and she’d attached a pair of glittery falsies
to her lids, giving her eyes more bang for their buck.

Combined with the neon-pink dress that covered little of her
thighs, the magenta leggings, a light-pink sweater and the pompom earrings, Viola
delivered more of a fluffy-puppy look than whatever she’d intended.

I tilted my head to the side, the first smile of the
afternoon hovering on my lips. Viola caught my grin and laughed in return.

“Like my outfit? I’m going for counterculture. By showing up
to a punk rock concert in the least punk-aesthetic outfit possible, I’m the
most punk person there.” There was a mischievous glint in her eyes.

I snorted and poured day-old coffee into an empty mug lying
on the counter. Not even a jolt hit me as I chugged the coffee-flavored sludge
and wiped my mouth with my forearm. The caffeine kind of stops working when you
drink a potful a day.

“Can I skip ahead to the part where I have a job again?” I
ran my hands through my hair, trying to ignore my looming headache from this
lack-of-job business.

“Dave’s a twatwaffle. Fuck him.” Viola rested on my chair,
boots on my rickety coffee table.

I grabbed my purse from the table. “Yeah, well, the not-fucking
thing is what got me canned.”

“Eh, not worth the nasty. He was a creepy little worm.
Although it couldn’t hurt for you to hit the town for some tail. What’s it
been, like twenty years?” Viola glanced my way, swinging her legs onto the
floor. “Your claptrap’ll get dusty, darling.”

I gave her a level look. “Thanks. Times like this I remember
that friendship is masochism.”

Her grin widened as she strolled to the door, curls bouncing
with her walk. “That’s why you love me, Liz!”

I followed her out and locked up. As we walked down the
corridor, our footsteps echoed all around us like the marching of a thousand
angry men.

* * * * *

One of the pluses and minuses of living in a small town is…well,
how small everything is. Of course, there was one place that featured real
music outside of the banjo and twangy crap played in barns.

The Red Door was our one decent music venue and most times
of the year, local bands clustered there looking for ever-elusive fame. Like
any talent scouts would be out our way.

A bright-red door marked the place and the wide windows
displayed their café, which was swarmed by the teenagers of this town on a
regular basis. On weekend nights some tart would be wailing away on her
acoustic guitar, but on rare occasions—and I mean
rare
—there’d be a
variation to the music, like a metal or punk rock band.

With the umber streaks of fading sunset mingling with ashy
clouds, the night was dark. Darker than usual, at least. I for one was glad I’d
chosen pants after watching a gaggle of girls giggle as they clicked across the
street in their heels.

Viola strolled with me, looking poodle-tastic as we marched
our way to see which one of these bands dabbled in fae business.

Viola strode in first and the overhanging bell clanged with
our entrance. A couple of slim guys sat at one of the tables, books out but no
one reading. One look at the titles and I snickered. Of course—Hemingway,
Salinger and the sort. These were wannabe elites who, once they popped on big-boy
pants, would be infiltrating New York with their pretentiousness.

The floorboards vibrated to the beats pulsing downstairs.
Jamie sat behind the counter, hunching over in his seat and not paying
attention. He stared at something below the countertop with the same intensity
a librarian would read their favorite book.

“Hey, jack off on your own time,” Viola called out.

His head whipped up, long strands of hair covering his face.
The reddening of his cheeks incriminated him.
Ugh.
And Viola wondered
why I hadn’t gotten laid in so long. With champions like this all across town,
I had slim pickings.

Once every month or so, Viola made the hour-long trip to the
city, widening her dating-pool options, but for me—well, I’d moved to the
middle of nowhere to avoid cities. Cities bred strange sights that led to
counseling sessions and padded rooms.

“The show going on in the basement, Jamie?” I palmed a
couple of crinkled dollar bills and shoved them his way.

Still trying to recover his shredded dignity, he chewed on
the filter of his cigarette as he gave me change. No eye contact, of course.
Viola wasn’t so keen on letting him off the hook.

“Any good spreads at least? Please don’t tell me you’re
jerking it to
Playboy
, because that’d be a disappointment.”

I bit down on my lip to hide my smile. Jamie gritted his
teeth, took her money and ignored her. We walked toward the music pulsing from
the basement.

“You didn’t have to torment him like that.” I nudged her
shoulder once we were out of sight.

“Oh but I did. Who could waste the opportunity?” The dark
steps down to the basement cast her face in shadows, but there was still enough
light to glimpse the mischievous gleam in her eyes. At least with a friend like
her I was never bored.

Voices threaded raw with half-screams and shouts to the
audience assaulted my ears the second we hit the final steps. Jamie must’ve
pulled out the dark-red lights for ambiance, coloring the rusty basement the
color of old blood. I blinked in surprise once I turned the corner to face the
crowd.

Packed.
Was that possible in this town? All young
folks too, not the normal smattering of old drunks lining the bar and the few
people my age halfheartedly fist-pumping to the music.

Shows in this town ranged from awkward to just pathetic.
Unless the band was country, in which case most families turned up and stupid
broads lip-synched all the words.

The smell of Old Spice mingled with body odor and bourbon,
creating one confusing inhale. Babykiller was the opener and this much of a
crowd had already showed up? I’d thought I’d caught a whiff of messed-up juju
from the flyer and many of these people backed up my theory.

Viola and I snuck in, elbowing past a couple of people to
lean against the wall. Folks with armbands, good leather jackets and neon-dyed
hair crowded most of this place.

I could guarantee half the crowd wasn’t from here. The
townies stood out like sore thumbs with their rolled-up flannel shirts and torn
jeans. Even better still, a real live mosh pit had formed, filled with
thrashing guys and flying fists. My heart skipped a beat with the excitement of
violence, of anything new. All my pent-up anger and frustration pulsed in my
chest, throbbing with the music and rising with the crescendo of the guitars.

I ordered a beer and popped the tab, knocking back the
watered-down sludge as if it were nectar. This,
this
was what I needed
tonight, regardless of what general weirdness was going on around here. Viola
stood there with a smirk on her face as the general populace gave her a wide berth.

The punk rock community couldn’t process her pink poodle-y
self.

The air was heavy, humid. It reeked in the perfect way, giving
the atmosphere much-needed gravity amidst the chaos. The door shut again as a
couple more guys wandered in.

I scanned the audience, surprised by the amount of eye candy
in here tonight. A normal walk around town gave me a scope of long-haired hick
guys, older toothless jerks and overweight or overmuscled slouchers. Tonight,
however, I spotted lanky limbs, shaggy hair and intelligent eyes everywhere I
went. All the things that sparked my interest.

Babykiller wrapped up their set with one final blaze of the
guitar and the crowd roared, fists flying in the air and shrill whistles
piercing through the noise.

I chugged the remainder of the beer and crushed the can on
the wall.

Viola flashed me a smile. “Getting into the spirit, Liz?”

“You betcha. If I get to punch a manic, lanky jerk in the
face, my night will be complete.” I gave her a fierce grin, still riding off
the energy of the crowd.

The folks settled to their regular chatter while the band
dissembled their equipment and made way for the headliners. No one made any
motion to leave, though, so these folks weren’t Babykiller’s audience. Everyone
was here for Underwater Machine. If my senses were correct—and they always
were—these guys would also be the ones bringing their weirdness around town.

Viola eyed me. I knew she was curious about what was going
on in my brain. The girl had a sixth sense when it came to my feelings and with
the way my jaw clenched, I broadcasted
tense
like crazy. I was hoping she’d
chalk my nerves up to my lack of a job.

When I’d first met Viola, I’d thought she was like me and
could see supernatural stuff, but when I probed a little, I hit the obvious
roadblocks about New Age crap, energy healing and all that. However, those
factors made her more open-minded than most when I got caught staring at a
horned fae that no one else saw, or refused to talk shop with the
sluagh
—spirits
of the restless dead—hell-bent on causing problems in the town. Not like I saw
much out here.

Even though the stage was dark, the shadowy figures drew my
attention the second they emerged. The guys bustled in and out as they set up
the stage. Their metallic equipment flashed when it caught the light.

This would be Underwater Machine. I sniffed the air, still
getting the aroma of sweat and woodsy fragrance—nothing changed except the
lighting, which mingled blues in with the red beams that breezed through the
audience.