Soundless

By H.J. Wood

Grounded in her own home, Vanora Willis waits for her Surge: an excruciating, life-threatening event all Sirens must live through that will determine their lifelong duty.

Those that are good shall guide a pure soul to Heaven.

Those that are bad are doomed to pursue their convicts to Hell.

Cal Peterson dreads to plague Vanora's traditions with evil deeds, but it's a risk he's willing to take; thousands of miles away, her father holds a secret that could mean the death of an entire species.

Defying every rule and expectation, vicious becomes virtue's teacher.

A Siren is helpless if she is unable to sing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: H.J. Wood
• Release date: Jan 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201800819

Book preview

Prologue

If you want to jump in peace, I'd go to the Falls.

That's what his uncle Oscar would say to him if he was here now. Sympathy from the mouth of a bad man is as wise as giving a spider to an arachnophobe on Christmas. Oscar abandoned his in a hospital room with a blue line.

Cal grips the steel railing and hoists both of his feet off the ground. His ability to stay balanced using only his hands is the only thing that's stopping his teetering body from being slam-dunked into the Genesee River. Miniature cliff faces plunge towards the grey water on both sides, beaten up by the same unrelenting current that rages below him.  It encourages him to let go. Let go and reacquaint his feet with the sidewalk. Or let go and fall, drown, die.  

He chooses the former because he's selfish.

When his Surge hits - and it ought to soon - he'll live forever. He'll never have to rely on fake friends to give up their couches for him, and he'll never have to worry about finding a permanent home to settle down in. Without a job, he has no money to rent or buy a place of his own, but after his Surge, by default, he'll receive everything he'll ever need to remain youthful, healthy and good-looking for as long as he's alive. In other words, for as long as his Master is satisfied. Cal may have quit high school before the nitty-gritty, but he's still well aware of what happens to a Siren if their Master is not satisfied. It doesn't matter if they're good or bad: they earn a one-way ticket straight to Hell.

Good Sirens get three chances to deliver one pure, deserving soul to Heaven. If they succeed, they will live a fulfilled life until they die of some natural old-age illness. They will go to paradise. To peace.

Bad Sirens will never know peace. Their only living purpose is to damn wicked souls to Hell in order to delay their own entry for as long as possible. This being said, bad Sirens do live forever, but there will always be a seat reserved in the fiery pit with their name on it. Cal's name is down there, somewhere. And why shouldn't it be? He cared little for his education and badmouthed about every person he crossed paths with. He threw temper tantrums. He vandalized his toys. When he was four, he fractured his crush's wrist after she told him he was ugly (he still hasn't forgiven her for that).

His biggest sin, though? Refusing to tend to his mother at all while she was dying of cancer. If that didn't doom him to Hell, the Devil needs to get His priorities straight.

Brooding done for the day, Cal settles himself back onto the ground and makes his way to the end of the bridge, swerving right with the traffic until the sidewalk merges with the Genesee Riverway Trail. Here, his strides are steadier, and his thoughts become tranquil. Cal's daily 2.4-mile trek to the Falls is a journey he knows by heart. Minus the minutes he spends contemplating suicide, the journey along the riverbanks of Rochester is a fair two and a half hour feat: one hour to the Falls, one hour back to Oscar's house, and 30 minutes in between to dangle his feet over the 97-foot drop spewing the water that feeds Lake Ontario.

After the riot in November 2051, the suburbs of New York's third most populated city fell into a state of urban decay. An imbalance of power between Sirens and humans has always been present, so it isn't uncommon for the latter to retaliate in protest. During this particular period, the human population had a ridiculous notion that Sirens were abusing their psychic abilities to steal their jobs, leaving them poor, unable to care for their families and driving them from their homes. What the humans failed to understand is that, contrary to belief, Sirens could have normal jobs, and they had families to feed and rent to pay just like everybody else. What else were good Sirens supposed to do after guiding their singular assigned soul to Heaven? They never forced employers to hire them. They were hired because they had the right qualifications.

Alas, humans are a stubborn species. They just couldn't let it go. In the past, they were too scared to strike back. They made demands, but they didn't raise their fists. 22 years ago, someone had a change of heart and decided they should start using physical brutality to win an argument that the Sirens were already bored with. Over the course of a week, cars were destroyed, shops were looted, and near enough every house was broken into, deeming neighbourhoods uninhabitable. Schools, businesses and families were all forced to relocate, and finally, the humans themselves thought fuck it and left because they realized dumbly that they'd destroyed their own lives in the process. Smoke billowed for days afterwards, hiding the daylight while the hundreds of innocents caught in the crossfire were disposed of. 

The only parts of the city that remained unaffected by the riot were the central areas that flanked the river. They were heavily guarded and for the most part protected, damages only costing a few dozen thousand dollars to repair. Now, the famous Genesee offers a modern and scenic getaway from the horrific memory of a perishing city.

Flakes of dry paint from the railing gather in stale clumps in the seams of Cal's pockets. His dad gave him this duffle coat. Bought it the day the pregnancy test came back positive, in fact, with the intention that his son would receive it as a gift for completing his Surge. 

Out of nowhere, Cal starts muttering the lyrics to a century-old rock song his dad used to sing to him in-utero. He sometimes wonders if his dad knew he was going to die - shot three times in the chest while scouting the defunct streets of Rochester for civilian casualties, his deputies in tow. 

Three days later, Cal Peterson was born in his nana's kitchen in Syracuse. There, he was raised for fourteen, good years, until his nana died and his mother got sick. During this time, he met his uncle Oscar, who offered him a room and three meals a day at his place in Rochester, but Cal turned him down, and he bolted. 

After several years sleeping on friend's couches that reeked of their alcoholic parents, Cal showed up cordially uninvited at Oscar's door. His uncle's only request was that he keep the place tidy while he was out harvesting evil people as demanded by his Master some eighteen years ago.

A Siren's Surge happens when they reach full maturity, at the age of 22. It's not known to happen early or late. Cal has been 22 for several weeks. He knows his Surge is imminent, he just doesn't have a clue when it will hit or what symptoms he should be looking out for.  

These facts aren't the only cause of the restlessness in his footsteps, though. He dropped out of high school too soon to suffer through the infamous tests - three tiers of psychological turmoil, generated by your own worst fears. He's partially grateful that he never had to experience literal Hell against his will, but at the same time, he's terrified. He knows the real thing will be so much worse than those tests could have ever been, and he has absolutely nothing to go on that will prepare him for it.

The first of a thousand wintry gusts smacks Cal across the face at a most inopportune time. It crawls under his collar and slices his spine like an unpleasant cold shower, and he chows down on his tongue in displeasure. All at once, he feels as if every vein in his body has frozen up, and he presses pause on the song playing in his head to try and wiggle the warmth back into his limbs. He flicks his chin up to the sky and scrapes at the back of his neck with his corroded nails, each movement spasmodic, like a glitch in a video game.

Cal nears Memorial Bridge, a monstrous steel arch that he's surprised hasn't fallen into the river yet. Built in 2007, a year dominated by skinny jeans and year-round scarves, it was formerly named after two influential Americans whom Cal has never heard of and therefore could care less about its original backstory. Plaques carved with names were welded to the sidewalk two decades ago to remember those who lost their lives during the riot. Cal has never crossed the bridge to search for his father's. To him, the bridge is merely a landmark pinpointing his journey ahead and overall impressive to look at. As he walks under it, he is sheltered from the harsh elements, if only for a few seconds. Those seconds are divine, his head filled only with the sound of the river bouncing between the concrete walls that work day in and day out to keep the structure above from snapping clean in half.

North of the bridge, the Genesee widens by several meters, lapping right up against the footpaths. Cal frequently stops here, and he does so now, inching the toes of his boots over the edge. The current tries to trip him, yank him into the icy depths, but his Docs are heavier than bags of sand. He's not going anywhere.

Across the water, a scruffy Maine Coon slaps the stream repeatedly with its paw, and upon closer inspection, Cal notices a gasping fish dangling from a bloody claw. Cal ignores the nagging question of how he can even see that from this distance. All he knows is that it sickens him worse than too much alcohol, and that his lungs immediately forget how to suck in air.

Fucking Hellfire. It's happening.  

Every Siren has a song - the central source of their power. It will woo any human being that hears it, regardless of which emotion accompanies it. The emotion that one feels at the very start of their Surge will determine everything: the judges have made their decision. Are you destined for Heaven or Hell? Resilience or determination signifies Heaven. Terror or hatred sends you in the other direction.

Cal cries out, a single, gurgling wail, and falls to his knees at the riverbank. He throws one arm skyward, followed by the other, and his mouth hangs open in a scream, but no sound comes from it. His song explodes outward from deep within his soul, and it sounds angry.

Then he starts to hallucinate. Ice becomes fire, and his first instinct is to leap into the river, but his body is slammed backwards and pinned to the ground. You can't bargain with pain, he thinks to himself as he thrashes, trying everything in his power to quell the burning, but nothing will cease it. Black steam rises from blistering skin, filling his eyes and nostrils with hot fluid (blood?) that boils through his skull and scalds his brain. Occasionally, he catches a whiff of his own rotting flesh, and he's sure he would vomit if he still had a throat. What he is able to do is scream. Not that anybody can hear him. His grisly cries are simply a song, written by his Master, tailored especially for his mind. Gifting him a taste of what waits for him in his afterlife.

If he dies (please Master please let me die) they'll find his body here, naked and charred black. Just as every Siren who chooses to give up is found. Cal was once told that Hell is nothing. After the fire and after the pain, there is nothing (send me there please nothing is better than this).

When the pain finally stops, Cal finds himself in darkness. And nothing is so much better, and he's thankful. He can rest now. Nothing is better.

Until it isn't. Because as he lies in the darkness, a feeling begins to stir. A feeling of intense fear and loneliness and (oh my God I don't want to be dead take me back take me back) an awareness that this darkness and this dread would be eternal (I'm not ready I don't want to give up) and you can't cheat your way out of it.

Finally, he feels triumphant.

Chapter 1

It is a common misconception that every Siren is able to sing. Though there is no doubt that the musicians of the species can hum a tune faultlessly or play any instrument unpractised without hitting a single bum note, the activity as a whole doesn't even scratch the Top Ten Most Enjoyed Hobbies list. Neither does swimming.

This comes as no surprise to Vanora Willis. She has never in her life wanted to play music, not with her soul song playing on a continuous loop in the back of her noggin. She'd certainly go mad. In actual fact, she rarely sings at all. She's a highly inquisitive and curious person, but she would never go snooping around in anybody's head, even if they consented to it. The newts and dragonflies that accompany her on her garden walks are her only listeners, but she doesn't even willingly sing for them. There is no need for her to; they always hear.

Nora?

Vanora looks up from her book and smiles. The ten-year-old boy hovering by her bedroom door seems on edge. Let me guess, she says. You're bored, and you want to play hide and seek in the garden.

Only because mum and dad are fighting about your future again. Finlay has an incredible intuition for a boy his age. Then again, so did Vanora, way back when. Why do they do it so much? he asks.

It's just adult stuff. You don't have to worry about it.

It's to do with your Surge, isn't it? You were supposed to have it ages ago, but you still haven't. They're scared it's because you'll be bad. Your body doesn't want to do the Surge because you don't want to be bad.

That is a clever theory. Vanora, like any well-mannered young lady, is expected to become a good Siren. One day, when she has completed her duty, she will be responsible for owning her family's manor and continuing their bloodline. She will mentor and educate her children, prepare them for their Surges and lead them astray from evil choices. Her brother will do exactly the same, except as a man he will be free to choose a job and a woman whom he'd like to marry and spend his life with.  

Vanora's actions and choices will carve the path to her Surge. She doesn't want to follow in her mother's footsteps. She'd like to do as she pleases, and if that means becoming the first bad Siren with the name Willis, so be it.  

What the Hell is she kidding? She wants to be good, and she wants to make her mother happy. That isn't what she needs, though. What she needs is to care less about what other people want her to be and start focusing on what she wants to be.  

(Your body doesn't want to do the Surge because you don't want to be bad.)

Vanora claps her book shut and slides off her bed. Come on, Fin. Let's go and play.

The doorway to her private sanctuary is a gateway through time. Her room is brightly lit with white and grey accents, and her computer desk is framed by high bookshelves, crammed with hundreds of her favourite stories and novels she has yet to read. She doesn't own much in the way of ornaments, and there are no graphic posters on the walls, but shiny drapery and canvases painted with an array of flowery colours. It might seem plain, but it's her space, a bubble of novelty besides traditional walls and wilted Tudor rugs.

Finlay takes his sister's hand, and they run across the creaking hallway and downstairs into a gargantuan living space. The lower floor of the house is beautifully open-plan, Vanora will give her ancestors that. The kitchen, dining room and lounge are conjoined, many of the walls having been knocked down decades ago. The only issue with this restoration was that the weight of the house would surely cause it to fall in on itself, therefore, a dozen ceiling supports had to be installed, and of course, giant, wobbly logs were chosen for this purpose. On the bright side, the old paintings and tapestries have long gone into storage, but the stone floors remain ever lopsided, and the furniture is brown enough to make even the most stoic manure scooper vomit.

Save the running for outside, please, children, Mrs Willis cautions from her armchair, a mug of tea steaming between her hands. Her attention does not sway from the book balanced on her knee. I swear, one of these days you'll fall right through the floorboards, and I will have no sympathy.

Diana is a stunning woman. At first glance, you wouldn't believe for a moment that she is nine years her husbands senior. You'd be right to assume she retains the natural vigour of a Siren, but in 23 years she has aged maybe only a decade at most. This is highly unusual, given that she delivered her assigned soul to Heaven in a record time of eight years, at which point her cycle of ageing should have started up again, albeit slowly. Even Vanora's father, at 45, is starting to sprout grey hairs. Isaac is human, though, so that argument is invalid. He doesn't seem to be about right now. He's probably packing his suitcase for work; his flight to England leaves early tomorrow morning.

Ignoring their mother's sharp glare, Finlay pulls Vanora into the rear cloakroom and unlatches the back door with delighted haste. He runs out giggling, dark locks bouncing on his head.  

Vanora hangs back for a minute to pull her shoes on before hopping out onto the porch. She goes to shut the door behind her, but a flat rapping, a fist against hardwood, catches her interest, and she turns back towards the lounge. Her mother wrinkles her nose with distaste, puts down her tea and her book and goes to answer the front door, taking a moment to straighten her posture and lift the corners of her lips up into a smile.

Carefully, Vanora closes the door to hide from their unexpected visitor, but rather than leaving it be (it's probably just someone trying to sell something), she spies through the linen curtain draped over the window.

Mrs Willis opens the front door fully. A man dressed all in black, save for the laces tying his chunky boots, stands on the porch with his hands clasped behind him. He has a finely shaped jaw and a playful grin, but that's all Vanora gets to see before Finlay is whining at her: "Come on Nora!" And she's dragged away from the door.

Stand here, Finlay instructs a moment later. You count to 100, and I'll hide, ok?

Vanora grins, the man at the door promptly forgotten about. Ok. Ready? Finlay nods, and she covers her eyes. One, two, three... When she can no longer hear the sweeping of the grass underneath his feet, she opens her eyes (she would never admit it to Finlay that she does this during every game) because every second she is blind in a garden as beautiful as this one is a waste.  

Counting lazily in her head, she breathes the fresh air into her nose and twirls where she stands, taking in it all: the warmth of the sunlight; the novelty of the privacy hedge trimmed into the shape of a house; the steeple of the church sticking out over the top of the manor.

Gazing upon her home from the outside, Vanora can finally appreciate the tiresome work gone into building such a structure. Construction of the manor began in the year 1400, but Vanora's family have only lived here for around a century and a half. In 1934, human born John Willis immigrated from England to America with his prized profusion of Great Crested Newts and went searching for a place he could breed them. He settled for the village of York, New York, a sparsely populated town surrounded by farmland and freshwater ponds, and home to the extravagant Eastwood Manor.

Though John lived in America for quite a chunk of his life, he married a British woman. The later additions to their family were happy to call York their home, wedding with Americans but holding their dedication to their home country close to heart. Sirens only began popping up in the family a couple of generations ago. Isaac Willis wasn't the first of their bloodline to marry one; his grandmother was a beautiful Siren. This meant her son) was only strictly half, and if he had gone on to marry a Siren, Isaac would have caught the gene, too. For a time, he was envious of his supernatural friends, who seemed to know everything about everything simply by looking at a person, but his jealousy soon turned into appreciation when he fell in love with Diana and endowed her with two delightful children.

The garden of Eastwood Manor is Vanora's favourite place: it's a tranquil haven with over two acres of green lawns and peculiar topiary. Her four times great grandfather trimmed these hedges himself, as well as constructing pools for his newts. He tailored the entire place to suit his own children so they could have plenty of space to run around and hide in the bushes. After all, York has never had much in the way of family entertainment, and the closest city to do anything is over 30 miles away. Vanora could travel the distance to Rochester and back easily if her parents let her. She has a car in the driveway, and she knows how to drive it, but since her 22nd birthday, which heeded no Surge, she's been kept under strict orders not to step foot outside of the manor grounds.

When Vanora finishes counting, she can stand still no longer. She strolls through the first of many green doorways into her favourite segment of the garden. Dotted with white lilies, the surface of the pond presents a radiant, unwavering reflection of the tall hedges enclosing it. Morphing her body into a cross to balance herself, she steps onto the mossy, concrete rim and begins pacing around its path. Honey bees hum around her ankles and newts pop out of the water to sit on lily pads, cocking their tiny lizard heads. Wedged in between two hedges there is a rusty green bench. It's uncomfortable to sit on and well overdue a lick of paint, but Vanora often likes to perch there and read, minding the pond.

Your mother did warn me about the angels roaming the gardens.

At once, the bees disperse and the newts dive back into the water, and Vanora very nearly tumbles in along with them. Fortunately, the weight of her stomach dropping into her feet keeps her grounded.

Although I didn't expect to see one, the man wearing the chunky boots says. A pair of thick-rimmed sunglasses have appeared on his face, but they don't stay put for long. He takes them off and folds them into his jacket pocket.

Flattery. How on Earth is she supposed to respond to flattery?

I'm Vanora, she blurts and regrets it immediately. In her defence, she's never had the privilege of speaking to anyone that isn't related to her, so as far as introductions go, she's pretty proud of herself for not running away. What is her mother thinking, inviting a random stranger into their home and letting them wander wherever they please? She would trust nobody of the sort to stand anywhere within a mile of her daughter, let alone an undeniably attractive young man. You shouldn't sneak up on a lady like that, she affirms. I almost fell.

He makes no effort to apologize for his mistake. Vanora. That's traditional.

Hoping she doesn't come across as childish, she steps back down onto the grass and brushes her palms