Page 2 of Ensnaring the Siren
“Fuck.” The word was out before Reid could censor himself for radio, but given the situation, a stern reprimand from his commanding officer was the least of his worries. “There’s only one left that I can see.”
Hatcher’s panicked voice cut in. “Reid, you have to save him!”
“Hatcher,” Perez barked. “Keep the radio clear.” In a calmer voice, she added, “Kruetz, do what you can, then get ready to clip in.”
Pumping his arms and legs as fast as they’d go, Reid booked it for the man. Even if he saved only one, it was worth it. It had to be. He’d punched a shark once. If tonight was the night he punched a mermaid, so be it.
Overhead, the helicopter followed, a cable swaying back and forth beneath. His lifeline.
“Help me!” The last fisherman flailed, eyes wide with panic. An old scar gouged the man’s upper lip, running from the right-side corner of his mouth up the length of his cheek. This one would attempt to climb him, for sure, but Reid was ready.
“Please, I don’t want to die!” The other man launched at him, grasping, pulling, his weight shoving him under. Reid tried pushing him away, but the fisherman continued clambering, an errant knee connecting with his gut and knocking precious air right out of him. Just as Reid aimed for a pressure point—he was not drowning tonight, dammit—amber lights streaked through the water below, the heft of the last survivor suddenly wrenched away.
Reid surfaced with a hard kick, sucking in deep breaths. Shit, fuck, damn.
Several yards ahead, an amber-eyed woman popped above the surface, her mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth and lips red with blood. “Get back into your sky boat.”
It sounded more like a command than a threat, yet ice ran down his spine, chilling him to the marrow. It’s really a…
She inhaled deep. Naked, pale white shoulders rose from the water, her eyes fluttering a moment before flaring and pinning him with a hard look. Three horizontal slits flanked each side of her neck, rippling slightly as if disturbed by the moderate sea wind. He couldn’t make out any more of her form in the dark, murky water, but from the clusters of lights he’d seen—the bioluminescence—there was no doubt as to what she was.
The Coast Guard officially recognized their existence, and yet no one in the service had encountered one directly.
“Kruetz, talk to us,” Alejandra radioed in. “What’s going on down there?”
“He’s gone.” The failure weighed heavily on his chest, but there’d be plenty of time to berate himself later if he made it out alive. “What about the other three?”
“Don’t got eyes. We’ll start a grid once you’re back up.”
“No, no, no, no,” Hatcher whimpered. “This can’t be happening.”
This time, Perez didn’t berate the dropmaster for clogging the radio, allowing him a moment before gently, but firmly saying, “Hatcher, I need you to focus and operate the hoist. Kruetz is depending on us, okay?”
A hard, wet sniff followed, but Hatcher’s voice steadied. “Yes, Ma’am.”
Reid should’ve mentioned his unwelcome visitor, but the words clammed up in his throat, his sanity hanging on by a thread. He couldn’t afford to lose his shit now too.
In a flash of silver scales and orange fins, the creature darted forward, closing the distance between them to roughly grab his chin, wicked claws pinching, but notably not piercing his skin. “Now, Surface Dweller,” she demanded. “You don’t want to be down here with that.”
“With what?” he sputtered, baffled, terrified, and waffling between being certain and uncertain of his imminent death. Between instinct and training, he should have punched her already and slashed his way to freedom with his diver’s knife, but the fact that he wasn’t currently fighting for his life stayed his hand. They wouldn’t be chatting right now if she meant to kill him.
Her lambent eyes dipped down, staring at something on his person.
With a shuddering inhale, he wrestled his fear under control, taking a mental assessment of his body. She was staring somewhere below center mass, so it couldn’t be the diver’s knife on his hip. Other than the slight lactic acid burn in his muscles from hard swimming, some residual terror, and…
Oh, for fuck’s sakes. He was stiff as a board.
He’d read about panic boners but never had the misfortune of having one himself, until now of all times—on a case and face-to-face with a creature that should’ve stayed a myth.
Finally looking up from his crotch, she said, “There are some here who’d take that as an invitation.” Disgust flickered across her features.
Fuck, was he getting harder? Shit, shit, shit, what was wrong with him? Shriveling up toward his body would’ve been far better for self-preservation, but before he could say or do anything to account for his unfortunate pants situation, she leaned in, wicked mouth inches from the column of his throat.
He swallowed thickly, unable to move.
Weeks of arduous training, years of hands-on experience, and he gulped, fucking gulped, when he should be swimming away, putting as much distance between himself and the unknown. What would his instructors say if they could see him now? In his defense, they hadn’t exactly prepared him for this kind of encounter. Sharks bit first, chatted never.
“I can only hold them off for so long.”