Siren's Call

By Mary Ann Mitchell

Sirena is a beautiful young stripper with a hobby. Very few men know about her hobby, but those who learn of it don't live to tell. These men become part of her life, a part of her home. Now two men lurk around Sirena, suspecting she may have a dark secret. One is blinded by his lust; the other, having been burned by his ex, is wary.

Will Sirena invite both men into her home to stay--FOREVER?

"Siren's Call is horror of the human kind. There are no supernatural beings in this serial killer thriller but Serena is the personification of pure evil. She repels readers as Stephen King's monsters do because they can't believe she is capable of such atrocities. The denizens of Silky Femmes are all criminals to one degree or another which is one of the reasons this book is so chilling and mesmerizing." --Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine

"Mitchell's fine prose and characters should keep your interest until the good ending." --The Horror Fiction Review

"Mary Ann Mitchell's book is a story about fallible people making the best decisions they can in a dark and dreary world that's only a short drive away from anywhere we live. It is the dark journey into this reality that makes this book truly worth reading, and heeding. For the demons and drives that plague the protagonists in Siren's Call remind us of their very real presence whenever we flip open a newspaper or turn on the TV." --Thor the Barbarian

For fans of Thomas Harris, Chelsea Cain, and James Patterson.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Ann Mitchell
• Release date: Sep 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301109470

Mary Ann Mitchell

Mary Ann Mitchell has published 11 books. Her first book, Drawn to the Grave, was a final nomination for the Bram Stoker Award and won the International Horror Guild Award. She held officer positions with the Horror Writers Association and with the Northern California Sisters in Crime organization. She is now making her books available as e-books.

Book preview

Prologue

It was always quiet when Joe wasn’t there, but there was a deadness to the quiet that day. Seventeen-year-old Sirena stood in the entrance holding the door to the trailer open behind her. He was often gone when she got home from Jefferson High, she reassured herself, but she knew that day was different. She sensed it that morning in his attitude and his blank face. In the fact that he didn’t get angry when she took too long in the bathroom. He wasn’t going to have to put up with her tardiness for much longer.

When her eyes had adjusted from the bright Florida sunlight, she walked into the hot, musty room. The door slammed with a tinny echo. Joe didn’t like having the windows open; it brought in too much noise. Sirena slipped the straps of the backpack down her sleeveless arms and dropped the pack on the card table so that she could unzip it. Her long fingers immediately found the small plastic-wrapped body. A ragged fingernail split the bag open, giving her access to the hollowed-out shell. Earlier in the day, she had sliced the trunk open. The heart had still been beating, pulsing with a liquid shine that felt smooth and wet. Quickly she had gutted the body, the idea that it could awaken frightening her. She had snipped the artery to the heart first then removed the other organs. The stomach had held an intact beetle-like insect, which she presumed had been recently ingested.

Sirena squatted down on her long, tanned legs to dig out an old coffee can from under the sink. Once the can was nearly full with a mixture of water and bleach, she turned on one of the two burners and placed the can over the flame, adding to the heat in the small trailer.

Picking up the empty hulk, she used tweezers to flay more of the skin from the skeleton. At the sound of boiling water, she dropped the tweezers into the sink and gently placed the frog’s skeleton into the water. Not much meat was left on the bones, but she needed to loosen the remnants. She pushed a strand of dishwater-blonde hair out of her eyes. After lowering the flame, she leaned against the sink and watched the liquid do its job. It was important to remove the carcass before the connecting ligaments broke down. Mr. Meyer’s assignment called for displaying and labeling an intact skeleton of a frog.

At the precise moment of readiness, she used an old pair of ice-cube tongs to lift the skeleton out of the can. While switching off the gas, Sirena lowered the skeleton onto the paper towels already in the sink. Once the frog was stripped clean, revealing a white, smooth skeleton, she ceremoniously laid out what was left of her experimental frog inside a makeshift coffin—a cookie box.

Should I say a prayer? she wondered, but there were none that she could remember. Instead, she apologized to the dead creature and tucked the flap into the cookie box. Later she would seal the bones with clear nail polish.

Sirena saw Joe’s dresser in her peripheral vision and couldn’t stop herself from turning to look. Each drawer was open a crack. She hadn’t expected it to be otherwise. Taking a step forward, she stopped, afraid to look inside the drawers, afraid of what she would not see. Joe and she had struggled to carry the beat-up maple dresser from the Salvation Army store to his rusted blue pickup, and when they got home, it almost didn’t fit through the trailer door. But that had been at least a year earlier, after she had run away from home. A tear mingled with the sweat on her cheek, and she brushed both away impatiently.

Going back to Mom and Dad was impossible. Her mother was incapable of protecting Sirena from the black eyes and welts her father frequently administered. No. Joe had been her Christ, her savior. He had held her in bed, caressing and loving her sweaty body when the nightmares swept through the dark, hot nights. His anger had only recently surfaced when she had refused to make any more videos.

The cracked wooden handles bit into her fingers as she pulled the top drawer open. Empty. The second held only lint, several paper clips, and a desiccated roach. But the third contained her first video, the one that had proved to be popular in Joe’s friend’s catalog. Abandoned like she, it lay at a tilt until the drawer fell to the floor. The black plastic case bounced and seemed to center itself on the plywood.

A few minutes later Sirena watched her fifteen-year-old self on a thirteen-inch screen. An adult male with acne-scarred skin stripped her body. Perhaps it had not been in the same way she had butchered the frog, but he had killed her childhood. As her breasts were mauled and her orifices invaded, her soul bled.

With a background of grunts and moans, Sirena opened the cookie box. The frog was still with her. He couldn’t leave or harm her. His bones were solid and strong. She would pass this term with the best grades ever. Joe couldn’t support her. No. He had told her that she would have to kick in for the household expenses. That was why on the screen her eyes reflected fear and her face winced in pain.

But you don’t need to take anything from me. Her finger pad skimmed the surface of the skeleton. You’ll always be with me. She smiled.

Chapter 1

Ten Years Later

The red lights didn’t penetrate far inside the smoky strip joint. Sirena peeked out from behind the curtain at the side of the stage. Two men at the end of the catwalk seemed to be trying to outdo each other chug-a-lugging beer. The one on the left was balding, fat, and sweaty. While she watched, he laughed at something his friend said and foam spewed out of his mouth, leaving a trail of drool down his chin.

Sirena pulled back and adjusted her seaweed. The cheap costume kept shifting, and if she wasn’t careful, she’d make her grand entrance looking more like a tangled fishing line than a siren.

Honey, ya got it together yet? Chrissie, known to the patrons as Lightning, stood next to Sirena.

Just about. Sirena readjusted the scrimshaw bodkin in her French twist. The crowd always went wild when she removed it, allowing her tinted antique gold hair to tumble to her waist.

"A pack of wild beasts out there tonight. I told Silk this would happen. ‘Silk,’ I says, ‘do like the others, put in those little stars on the ads, leave something up to the imagination.’ Instead he uses a stark-naked Tara. Boobs bigger than watermelons and the hairiest snatch I ever saw. ‘She doesn’t even work here,’ I says to Silk. ‘What are the customers going to expect?’

I wanted to work where there’s a little class. Maybe not one of those pricey joints where they’re so snooty, but a little respect from the boys in the audience. Please. It used to be that way here before the college folded. The kids were rowdy but clean-cut. She took a quick peek through the faded red brocade curtain at the audience. Animals. That’s all we get now.

But generous animals. Sirena smiled. A lot better than working your body for a kid’s allowance.

These guys are big spenders only after they’re drunk and can’t see what denomination they’re slipping you on stage. A raspy cough cut off conversation for a few seconds until Chrissie was able to bring up a glob. She spat a distance from the entrance to the runway. Don’t want anyone to slide on that. Don’t worry, Hon, I can still belt out your song. She plumped up her brassy curls with both hands.

The two women moved aside as Madame Firefly exited the stage. She carried her disconnected red-and-gold chiffon wings in her hands. They were too expensive to leave behind as mementos. She usually wore out a battery a night, and most of the men were satisfied with the sheaths of nylon she tossed into the crowd.

Chrissie cleared her throat and took several deep breaths while Sirena prepared to step on stage. Into a well-used microphone Chrissie belted out a few whiskey-tinged high notes before a recorded instrumental version of Splish Splash played on the speakers. As Sirena stepped out into the glare of the lights, Chrissie warbled the beginning verse, sounding very much like she was either under water or under the weather.

Sweat, booze, and tobacco stench heaved an invisible veil over Sirena. When she had first started working at Silky’s Femmes (the possessive s had since been painted over by a feminist dancer), she had almost barfed on stage. Not a problem anymore. She never ate immediately before her act, and besides, to her the stink was now associated with the sweet scent of money.

Sirena peeled and shimmied, her green and blue spangles catching the spotlights, to the hoots and catcalls. Those same spots made the faces invisible to her; however, she instantly sought the out-stretched hands holding paper money before the bearers could think twice. Double-jointed, she was capable of retrieving the cash in nasty poses. The exhibit spurred others to rush up to the brass rail of the catwalk with whatever they were able to dig out of their pockets. Exuberance once brought her a five-hundred-dollar bill. She had wondered about the donor. Had he been a rich clown living on the wild side or a thief celebrating his heist? It didn’t matter where the money came from. Sirena knew she wanted as much as she could milk from these johns.

Correction, she was no longer catering to johns. No, now she was serving voyeurs, peeping toms, losers. Only fingertips would brush as money changed hands. Some men tried to insert a finger into her mouth as she took their money between her teeth, but those men learned not to stray far unless they wanted to lose a finger. Inserting money into her garters was all right as long as the hand didn’t linger. Never did she stoop to pick up money off the stage with her hands. No, Sirena’s long flexible toes carried the spoils to her fingertips.

Near the end of each act it was customary for the stripper to either leave behind or present to one of the customers at least some part of her apparel. Sirena’s makeshift seaweed went far in this service. The papier-mâché and string couldn’t be reused, so she let her woman-made seaweed cover the shoulders and heads of the nearest patrons. Some found themselves looped to strangers. Others abandoned their brews when green papier-mâché settled inside their mugs.

Chrissie’s voice broke on several notes. Time to leave the stage. Not that any of the audience listened to the music, but she didn’t want Chrissie to ruin her voice completely before doing her own performance. Several times she purposely made to leave the stage, teasing bigger bills out of her admirers. Finally, she exited.

But she had spotted someone in the crowd. He was dark and rugged looking, and she was particularly drawn by his bone structure. Yes, it was just right. After leaving the stage, she stood in the small wing and looked out from behind the curtain. He had turned away from the stage and was talking to Ross, the bartender, probably ordering another drink.

Good, he’ll still be here at closing, she thought. Then she shrugged. If he wasn’t, it wasn’t a problem. There would be others; there were always others. It was almost too soon after the last one anyway. She could only do so much. Everything took time, and time seemed to move faster every day.

After her final number, Sirena went down the steps to the dressing room she shared with Chrissie and Treyce. Their costumes hung along one wall, a kaleidoscope of color, and the opposite wall was lined with mirrors surrounded by naked, glazed light bulbs designed to light every plane of their faces and make the application of makeup easier and more precise. The harsh lighting was a precursor to how they actually looked on stage with the footlights and spotlights shining on them. Sirena wondered whether the short careers of strippers were due more to burnout or wrinkles that couldn’t be hidden under the all-revealing glare of the lights.

She sat for a moment at her station before dipping her fingers into the thick cold cream and slathering it on her face to remove the heavy stage makeup. Sirena remade her face in the lighter, more seductive tones appropriate for the street at night. As her own face emerged and went under the war paint again, she got into the mood of the hunt. Sloughing off her real self, she took on the characteristics that were most likely to gain her the desired end: the man who sat at the end of the bar. Sirena parted her lips and slid her long-nailed index finger into her mouth. She sucked on the finger while her eyes gave a sultry look at her reflection. Slowly she drew the finger out. Lipstick circled her finger. She didn’t want excess lipstick inside her mouth smudging her teeth. Quickly she wiped her index finger clean. She was under the pressure of time. If Ross started closing too soon, the man might not be there much longer. Although there would be another to take his place in a day or two, her adrenaline was flowing that night. And once revved up, she wanted to complete her task.

She stood and looked more critically at her reflection. That night Sirena had the to die for look. The sapphire blue sheath set off her eyes and brought out the gold in her hair. Dancing had given her skin a glow she’d accented artistically with a touch of metal-flecked blush on cheekbones and jaw-line. Practicing a smile, she checked her teeth. One final glance over her shoulder at the mirror and swish of her skirt, and she was out the door and heading for the bar.

Chapter 2

Ross hung the glass in the overhead wooden rack and picked up another from the commercial washer. He paused to watch Sirena exit the stage, and then he pulled the bar towel from his shoulder and started the mechanical process of drying yet another in an unending series of glasses.

The next act would be Treyce. Since he’d taken this job as bartender, he’d come to hate cutesy names. They’d all passed through here: the Kandiis, Kharlahs, Jaines, Mareylynns. One name he could forgive, because Sirena suited her so well. She was a siren in the old-fashioned sense of the word.

In five minutes she would be out, cool as a cucumber, to sit at the bar long enough to see some action. If she was in the mood, she’d sort through the prospects, pick one, smile at Ross, wink, leave a tip, and take off, prospect in tow. Sometimes he couldn’t figure out why she made the choices she did. Other nights she’d just come sit quietly, watching the crowd ebb and flow. Occasionally, she would talk to Ross. Never about anything personal, but he enjoyed listening to her nonetheless.

Ross shook his head and finished up the glass, hanging it with its siblings in the rack. He liked it here. Most of his life he’d been a wanderer, but recently he’d felt at home. The girls and the regulars had provided a kind of extended family. They didn’t question him too closely about his business, and he left them alone as well. But they were there for each other in triumph or tragedy.

And there she was, right on cue. He loved the way she moved. Describing it was impossible. He didn’t have the words, but she kind of floated. A lot of the other girls bounced, but she didn’t even seem to touch the ground. She floated like an angel on a cloud.

Hi, Ross.

As always, Ross savored the sound of his name on her lips. What’ll it be?

White wine.

It was a little exercise they went through every night she worked. Sirena barely touched the wine, and he never tried to strike up a conversation when she was working the bar for a new prospect. If she drank the wine, then she would