Siren Song
Isabelle Santiago
She floats atop the crystal surface of the lake, caressed by a quilted blanket of fog, pale, milky skin made vibrant in the moonlight. It glows against the black depths. Silken blonde petals form a halo around her face. Worn velvet fabric, once a vibrant, spring green, cocoons her in moss-colored foliage.
A water lily.
Side to side she moves. A steady, fluid rhythm.
Naked, upon the embankment he stands, haunted by the final traces of her laughter, a wind chime melody from her lips. Heavy, frigid drops fall from his hair, seep into his lashes, and drip across his torso.
“You must not come here,” he’d warned, when his legs throbbed with the desire to gallop, tangled in the warmth of hers, beneath a heavy blood red moon.
He stood upon the lake’s edge. His eyes became large, obsidian pools within the looking glass. “Let me see what lies beneath.” Persuasive kisses brushed across tense shoulder blades. His Delilah tempted him, again and again, with the searing electricity of her touch. “Change for me. I am not afraid.”
“Go.” He pushed her away roughly. Each limb shook. The burgeoning transformation loosed a wordless cacophony in his mind. The voices of the ones who came before. The ones that would undoubtedly come after. “You must leave and promise never to return.”
“I am not afraid,” she’d repeated, her breath a wispy sigh of mint leaves and exhausted passions; a lover’s whispered promises, a searing kiss to silence insecurities. The water sang.
Resolve withered. She could not have taken back her words if she tried. The first crackling of bone began. A smooth alabaster pelt stretched across his skin. Muscles thrummed. Hooves sank into the moist earth. She gasped. Her eyes widened.
When the air around him stilled, he moved forward. Her scent intensified, surrounded him. He nudged her with his muzzle. Giggles pierced the air. “You’re beautiful,” she whispered onto his forehead. “As I knew you would be.”
Satin fingertips brushed his fur in slow, steady strokes. She circled him, left trails of heat as she explored his new form. He neighed in appreciation, sidled closer. Instinct fought fading human reason. He craved her weight above him, practically quivered with the need.
“Do you want to ride?” she asked playfully. Immediately he bent low. Nimble fingers clutched his mane. Strong thighs locked astride his back. He huffed, eager to dash into eternity.
The ground rumbled beneath him. “Do you hear that?” she asked, her voice quiet, childlike. He stilled. Faint beams of light gave a slow, steady pulse from the center of the lake. The water sang its soothing lullaby. He fought the pull, tried to turn away, but his eyes remained fixed on the light.
Her hot breath brushed against his ears. “Fly,” she whispered. At her command, he leaped. She fitted her body against him, held him as though he would keep her safe. The watery grave swallowed the remains of her laughter.
With three years of experience directing musical theater under Isabelle’s belt, the world has invariably become her stage. It’s a strange, twisted little place, though it never lacks interesting characters. Granted, not everyone lives the Tony award winning musical that’s in her head. In an alternate life, Isabelle may have been an Art History major, or perhaps even a museum curator. For now, she serves coffee at a local Barnes and Noble (the only way to feed her reading habit).
Living on the New England Coastline, her favorite time of day is midnight, with a Vanilla Creme in her hands and the glowing light of the computer screen shining in the darkness. That’s when the world is quiet, except for the occasional sound of rain falling on the skylight of her loft apartment.
Tags: Fiction Archive, Isabelle Santiago