Chapter Text
The priest’s voice was steady, practiced, as if he had buried a hundred men like Hector Shipman and expected to bury a hundred more. His voice was flat, not a single trace of emotion in it.
“The sea gives, and the sea takes,” he said, hands folded over the black-bound book. “And we, in our grief, must trust that God gathers the lost as gently as the tide gathers the shore.”
Shauna stood in the front row, too small for the stiff black coat she wore, her hands clenched so tightly together her fingers had gone numb. The words washed over her without sinking in. She stared at the coffin instead—dark wood, salt-stained at the edges, as though the ocean itself had already claimed it once before. She felt weak, breathless.
Her father had always smelled like brine and rope and sunburned skin. The coffin smelled like nothing at all.
Behind her, the chapel creaked as the wind pushed against its old boards. Somewhere beyond the walls, the sea was restless. It never stopped being restless. Shauna hated it for that.
“Hector Shipman was a good man,” the priest continued. “A husband, a father. A sailor who knew the waters and respected their power. Like any great sailor, he feared the sea, for he knew what it was capable of.”
A lie, she thought distantly. Her father had respected the sea, yes—but he hadn’t feared it. And that had been his mistake.
Her mother sobbed softly beside her, face hidden behind a lace handkerchief. A hand rested on Shauna’s shoulder—an aunt, maybe, or a neighbor—she wasn’t sure, but the touch felt distant, unreal, like pressure applied to someone else’s body.
“Do you remember,” the priest said gently, “the way he laughed?”
There was a murmur of agreement. A few quiet chuckles through tears.
Shauna remembered his laughter too. Low and warm. The sound he made when he lifted her onto his shoulders, when he came home with fish still flapping in the net, when she begged him for one more story before bed.
She also remembered the scream.
It cut through her without warning, sharp as a blade. She smelled salt again—too strong, too thick. Heard the chaos of it: the brutality of the dark sea, the shouts, the water slapping violently against the hull.
She had been small, and the sea had been calm that day. Deceptively so.
Her father had leaned over the edge of the boat, reaching for something tangled in the net. He’d frowned, puzzled, and then—
A sound. Not quite a song. Not quite a cry.
Something beautiful and wrong.
The scream tore from her throat before she realized it was her own.
The priest’s voice faded into the background as the memory sharpened: pale hands breaking the surface of the water, fingers long and sure as they wrapped around her father’s wrist. The way his body had gone rigid, as if caught between wanting to run and wanting to listen. Shauna could still see the way he looked at the water—not afraid. Entranced.
“Dad—” she whispered then.
She whispered it now, breath hitching in her chest.
The water had opened for him like a mouth. And then it closed. He was gone.
The coffin creaked softly as the priest placed a hand on it.
“We commit his body to the ground,” he said, voice lowering. “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes—”
“No,” Shauna said.
The word slipped out before she could stop it. She didn’t know where she got the strength from, all she knew was that, for a moment, everyone went still, like everything had stopped.
Her mother turned, eyes red and startled. “Shauna—”
“He didn’t die,” Shauna said, her voice trembling now, but not breaking. “The sea took him.”
The priest hesitated. His mouth opened, then closed again. “Child—”
“She took him,” Shauna insisted. Her nails bit into her palms. “Something in the water. It sang.”
The priest cleared his throat. “Grief can—”
“I saw it,” Shauna said. She lifted her head, meeting his gaze. Her eyes were dry. Burning. “I saw it with my own eyes. That... thing took him.”
The wind howled suddenly, rattling the chapel windows. For a moment, it almost sounded like laughter. The priest bowed his head and resumed the prayer, his words slower now, more cautious.
Shauna stopped listening.
She looked past the coffin, past the walls, up into the golden sky, beyond the horizon, her heartbeat echoing in her ears. Her eyes closed for a moment, then opened again—and soon after, there was silence. A deep nothing. Everything echoed inside her head, turning distant all at once, while her heart repeated again and again, speaking to the sea:
One day, I will make you give me something in return.
☠︎
The bonfire burned unevenly against the dark, fed with broken crates and driftwood stolen from the docks. Smoke clung low to the ground before lifting, reluctant, into the night air.
The harbor never truly slept. Ships shifted in their moorings with dull, wooden sighs. Ropes creaked. The tide dragged itself lazily against the pier, a slow inhalation and exhalation that never quite stopped.
Elias Crowe sat on an overturned barrel, one boot stretched towards the heat, the younger deckhands sitting around him.
“Three more ships confirmed,” one of them said, tossing a splintered plank into the flames. “They’re joining the fleet next month.”
“You bet,” another replied. “Largest siren hunt in a decade.”
A man across from Elias rubbed at his throat unconsciously. “They’ll scatter once we start netting the shoals.”
“Not all of them,” someone muttered. “If she’s here— I mean, I guess she will be here, but... I don’t know.”
The wind shifted, carrying with it the smell of low tide—iron and rot and something faintly sweet beneath it.
Elias lifted his eyes, confusion all over his face.
“Say it properly,” he said.
The man hesitated. “The one they’ve been whispering about.”
“The honey-haired one,” the youngest deckhand added, voice dropping without meaning to. “They say she’s hauntingly beautiful. And more dangerous than any other out there.”
Silence stretched around the circle. Elias’ fingers tightened over the head of his cane.
“How many ships?” he asked.
“Five confirmed,” came the reply. “Two last winter. Three since spring.”
“No survivors?” Elias pressed.
The youngest swallowed. “One. A fisherman out of Blackwater Stone. He said she surfaced slow. Just… rose out of it,” he gestured vaguely towards the harbor. “Her gaze dark, skin shining like wet stone. Said her eyes were wide. Almost curious.”
“And?” Elias asked.
The boy’s voice grew thinner. “She didn’t sing at first.”
A murmur moved through the men. Not disbelief. Unease.
Sirens sang. That was their weapon. Their lure. Their curse.
“She climbed onto the rocks,” the boy continued. “Watched them mend their nets. Close enough to touch. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink.”
Someone shifted uncomfortably.
“What happened to the rest of the crew?” another asked.
The boy’s jaw tightened. “She started humming.”
“Humming isn’t the same as singing,” one of the older men muttered.
“No,” Elias agreed quietly. “It isn’t.”
The boy nodded quickly. “He said it felt like the sound was inside his chest. Like it knew where to press. Weird, right?”
“And she?” someone asked. “What did she look like?”
“Honey-colored hair. Slightly wavy. Eyes hazel—almost gold and green in the sun. Big. They say she didn’t run away. She was watching.”
The wind gusted hard enough to send sparks scattering sideways.
“They say she smiles,” the boy added. “Not wide. Not monstrous. Just enough to make you think she’s pleased.”
“With what?” someone asked.
“With you.”
Silence again.
Elias exhaled slowly. “They’ve tried to net her?”
“Twice.”
“And?”
“She let them. She swam into the nets,” the boy said. “Didn’t fight. Let them pull her close enough to see her face.”
“And then?”
“She went still.”
The men leaned closer without meaning to.
“Still as glass. The humming stopped,“ his voice dropped further. “The men holding the lines loosened their grip. Just for a second.”
Elias closed his eyes briefly. He knew the rest before it was spoken.
“She pulled them in.”
Elias opened his eyes again. “And they call her?” he asked.
“The Moonlight Siren.”
The name did not sound like a monster’s name.
That made it worse.
☠︎
The Widow’s Jaw cut a dark silhouette against the tide, its hull tar-black and scarred from years of pursuit. Lanterns burned low along the deck, their light unsteady in the wind.
Shauna Shipman stood at the bow like part of the ship itself. Boots planted wide. Hands braced loosely against the railing. Shoulders squared beneath a heavy salt-stiff coat that had seen too many storms to count. The leather at her collar was cracked; the brass buttons dull from weather and use. Moonlight traced the line of her profile—the hard slope of her nose, the set of her jaw, and the pale scar cutting diagonally across her left cheek. It was not a clean scar. It pulled slightly when she clenched her teeth, which she often did.
Elias Crowe approached slowly, the wood creaking under his weight.
She didn’t turn.
“You stayed long,” she said.
Her voice was low, roughened by wind and command. Distant, even.
Elias stepped closer. “The men are restless.”
“They’re alive,” she replied. “That’s good.”
He climbed onto the deck. The lantern nearest the bow flickered, briefly illuminating her hands—broad-knuckled, calloused, one bearing a thin white line across the back where something once tried to drag her overboard.
“They’re speaking of one in particular,” he said.
She didn’t look at him at first. She was used to it. There was always one. One that made all of them whisper—even made them frightened. Because they were scared, even if they never admitted it—Shipman always saw through them. Sirens were sirens; they were all dangerous, even poisonous. Lethal. But every now and then, they will talk about one—more dangerous, more savage. One that could make even the bravest men scared. One that could drag them into the depths of the sea before they could even blink.
Shipman never reacted before she measured.
“Which one?” she asked.
“They call her The Moonlight Siren.”
She nodded, then turned back to the water.
The tide rolled in slow and deliberate, brushing the hull with a soft, repetitive knock. The kind of sound that could lull a careless mind. Shipman’s gaze moved across the surface methodically, as if mapping it. She never looked at the sea vaguely. She scanned it. Studied the currents. Noted the shadows.
“What about her?” she asked.
Elias rested his cane against the railing. “Five ships. That’s what they’re saying.”
“Ships sink,” Shipman replied flatly.
“She doesn’t sink them.”
That made her eyes flicker again.
“She lets them stand,” Elias continued. “Boards them. Or comes close enough to.”
Shipman’s thumb dragged once along the edge of the railing, slow, thoughtful. There was dried salt caught in the grain of the wood. She scraped at it absently.
“She sings?” she asked.
“Not at first.”
She turned this time—properly. Shoulders angling towards him. The lantern light caught the scar on her cheek, casting a faint shadow along its ridge.
“Explain,” she said.
Elias held her gaze. “They say she surfaces quietly. Watches. They say her hair is the color of honey when it dries in the sun. Eyes light hazel. Wide. Like she’s studying you.”
Shipman did not blink.
“They say she hums instead of singing. Low. Close. Makes men step forward without realizing they’re moving.”
Her expression didn’t soften. Didn’t harden. It sharpened. “Humming doesn’t pull nets loose,” she said.
“No,” Elias agreed. “But distraction does.”
The wind pushed harder across the deck, snapping a loose rope against the mast.
Shipman’s eyes drifted back to the sea. “Has anyone harpooned her?” she asked.
“Twice.”
“And?”
“She let the first strike glance off. Slipped the second. Swam straight into the nets after.”
A pause.
Shipman’s brow furrowed slightly. “Why?”
“They say she went still. Like—she stopped moving entirely. Men holding the lines loosened their grip.”
“Because they thought she’d given up.”
“Yes.”
A slow exhale left her through her nose. “And then?” she asked.
“She chose which ones to pull.”
Shipman’s hand tightened around the railing now—not enough to splinter wood, but enough to make the tendons in her wrist stand out.
“She’s deliberate,” Elias said carefully. “Not feral.”
“No,” Shipman murmured.
Her gaze lowered to the dark seam where water met wood. For a moment, the lantern light caught something softer in her eyes—not doubt. Just a quiet, yet loud calculation.
“She wants to be seen,” Elias added.
At that, the faintest curve tugged at the corner of her mouth. Not a smile. Something closer to challenge.
“Everything that hunts wants to be seen,” she said quietly. “Eventually.”
The wind shifted again.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Shipman removed one hand from the railing and flexed her fingers slowly, as if testing their strength. She rolled her shoulders once, the movement controlled, loosening tension that never fully left her body.
“The fleet sails in a month,” Elias said.
“I know.”
“If she’s been circling this coast—”
“She’ll come closer,” Shipman finished.
Her eyes were steady now. Fixed on the horizon where black water met black sky.
The scar on her cheek pulled slightly as she set her jaw.
“She will.”
“Good,” she said.
Elias studied her carefully. “You want her.”
Shipman didn’t look at him. “I want all of them,” she replied.
But there was a fractional pause before she’d answered.
Small. Almost nothing.
The tide brushed the hull again.
☠︎
The Widow’s Jaw left the shore exactly twenty-five days later, its hull groaning against the tide as she cut through open water. The wood creaked under strain, old planks protesting the pull of the sea, while the harbor lights faded slowly behind them.
By nightfall, the storm rose without warning.
Clouds swallowed the silver moon whole, and the wind came hard from the east, sharp enough to sting exposed skin. Rain lashed the deck in slanted sheets, turning the boards slick and treacherous beneath their boots. The sea, which had lain deceptively calm at sunset, reared up with a violence that felt feral.
A young deckhand, new to the crew, leaned close to Shipman, shouting against the roar of the wind. “Captain! They say a storm on the first night is bad luck!”
Shipman didn’t flinch. She turned her gaze towards him, rain plastering her dark hair against her forehead, water running in thin lines along the scar on her cheek.
Her jaw tightened. “Bad luck’s for those who fear it,” she said, voice low and unwavering. “We make our own luck.”
The crew moved fast.
“Reef the mainsail!” Shipman’s voice cut clean through the chaos.
Ropes snapped and whipped like living things. Canvas strained, then collapsed inward as men hauled with all their weight. One slipped—caught at the last second by another’s grip before the deck tilted violently beneath them. Thunder cracked so close it seemed to split the sky open.
Water crashed over the bow, soaking everything in brine and cold. The ship shuddered but did not falter.
At the helm, Shipman stood braced wide, boots locked against the slick boards, one hand firm on the wheel. She did not wipe the rain from her scar or her jaw.
“Hold her steady!” Elias shouted from below the rigging.
“She’s steady,” Shipman answered. “Let her fight.”
Another wave struck, harder. The deck pitched sharply to port. A crate broke loose and slid, smashing against the railing before splintering apart. For a moment, it felt like the storm was testing them—pressing, measuring, waiting for weakness. But The Widow’s Jaw had been built for pursuit. For endurance. It rose with each wave instead of yielding to it.
The men worked through the night—hands raw, shoulders burning, teeth clenched against the cold. Buckets flew in desperate rhythm as they bailed what water forced its way below deck.
And slowly, the storm began to lose its grip. The thunder drifted farther out to sea. The rain softened from sheets to scattered drops. The wind, once howling, fell back into a restless moan, and by the time the first hint of dawn crept along the horizon, the world had changed.
The sea lay unsettled but subdued, rolling in long, heavy swells rather than violent strikes. The sky blushed faint pink and gold beneath pale clouds, and the silver of the returning moon faded into morning light.
The deck was soaked. The air smelled of wet rope and salt.
Shipman loosened her grip on the wheel at last. Her knuckles were pale from pressure. She flexed her fingers slowly, testing them, then glanced towards the horizon.
Behind them, the coast was gone. Ahead—only open water.
☠︎
The sun hadn’t fully risen when The Widow’s Jaw reached the coordinates. Mist hovered over the water like a restless phantom, hiding shadows and making the horizon feel infinite. The only sounds were the creak of the hull and the snap of sails in the wind, and the occasional slap of waves against the ship’s side.
“Spread out,” Shipman ordered.
The crew moved immediately—hauling ropes, checking nets, loading harpoons. Everyone know what they had to do.
Elias stood near the mainmast, scanning the water through the gray haze. A movement flickered beneath the surface, quick and purposeful, almost teasing.
“There,” a deckhand whispered, pointing.
The siren broke the water suddenly, rising in a smooth, terrifying arc. She wasn’t human-beautiful. She was something else—sleek, dangerous, alive in a way most men had never faced before. Her skin gleamed wet, almost metallic in the weak sunlight, and her tail slapped the water hard enough to send spray over the deck. Her blue eyes, wide and unblinking, scanned them like a predator measuring prey.
“Harpoons ready!” Shipman barked.
The crew tightened their grips, bracing for the strike. Hearts raced. Fingers went numb from tension. The ship tilted slightly with a wave, and someone stumbled but recovered. Suddenly, the siren lunged towards the port side, powerful and intense. One deckhand nearly went overboard, saved at the last second by another’s quick hand. Shipman didn’t hesitate.
“Elias! Net her!”
The net fell over her like a cage of iron and rope. She thrashed, tail striking the deck, smashing a loose crate into splinters. Her scream—a sound that was neither song nor human cry—shook the wood beneath them and cut through the morning mist.
Shipman stepped forward, boots planted firm. Rain from the spray slicked her hair and ran in thin rivulets down the scar on her cheek. Her hands gripped the harpoon, knuckles white. She moved with a predator’s patience, weight balanced against the rolling deck. One slip, one miscalculation, and the siren could pull them into the water and drown them all.
The net strained against her power, rope whistling as it stretched. Two men lunged to hold it down, muscles trembling from the pull. Water sprayed across the deck. Shipman leaned into the net, pressing her boot against the wet rope, forcing the creature’s movement. The siren’s tail lashed again, hitting a rail and sending a lantern clattering. Sparks flickered across the deck, tiny stars in the gray chaos.
“Now!” Shipman yelled.
Spears flew. Each one struck cleanly into soft skin just below the dorsal fin. The creature convulsed violently, shaking the net and pulling the men with her, but she was trapped.
Finally, spent and exhausted, she stilled. Shipman stepped closer, peering into those wide blue eyes—the same eyes that had challenged her from beneath the water. She didn’t hesitate. She drove the spear into her again—precise, deadly, final. The siren’s body went limp almost immediately. The net slackened. The air was now thick with salt and blood.
Shipman stood over her, chest heaving, hair plastered to her face. She was sweating, her hot flesh glistening under the radiant, incessant sun. She flexed her hands, testing her grip on the harpoon. She didn’t look at anyone. Not the men, not the body. Only the water beyond the ship.
“Dissect her after sunrise,” she said finally.
The siren lay motionless across the deck, mortal and real, as Shipman’s eyes drifted to the horizon. The waves were long now, rolling and patient. The sun kept rising slowly, turning the mist to pale gold.
☠︎
“She didn’t even sing,” Jonah Flint muttered, wiping his hands on a stained rag. “It was like she didn’t have the strength to fight.”
Dinner that night was quieter than usual. The long galley table had been dragged out beneath the main deck beams, lanterns swaying gently from iron hooks as the ship rolled in slow, tired swells. The storm had passed, but the sea still breathed heavily beneath the hull, each wave nudging the planks with a low, hollow thud.
The smell of boiled salt pork and hardtack filled the cramped galley, thick and greasy, barely masking the lingering iron scent that clung to the ship after the kill. Boots thudded softly on the deckboards as the crew filed in, shoulders sore from wrestling nets. Their sleeves were still damp from sea spray. Knuckles were split. No one spoke loudly.
In the early years of their voyages, there had been more laughter aboard The Widow’s Jaw. Rum would flow freely after a clean run. Dice clicked against barrels. Music—badly played, loudly sung—would carry across the deck long after sunset. A successful raid meant celebration. A narrow escape meant louder celebration. A profitable capture meant open bottles and loud songs. A merchant ship taken without bloodshed meant dice thrown across the deck and boots stomping in rhythm. Even a narrow escape from naval patrols was reason enough to drink.
The sea was dangerous, yes—but it was also alive, and they had met it with bravado and noise.
That changed under Captain Shipman’s command.
As the siren hunts grew more frequent, as they became less rumor and more purpose, the atmosphere aboard the ship shifted. The missions took on a different weight. Charts were studied longer. Routes were chosen with intention. The crew spoke in lower tones when discussing currents and caverns. Harpoons were cleaned with care instead of tossed aside until morning. Raids still happened, but the real purpose of their voyages began to tilt towards the sea itself.
Celebrations became shorter and quieter. Sometimes absent altogether.
And Captain Shipman never drank. Not even when the rest of them, restless and strained, passed bottles between rough hands under the lanternlight. Any distraction was cut from her mind the moment they set course.
Jonah ladled stew from an iron pot bolted over the galley stove, the flame beneath it snapping faintly with each shift of the ship.
“It wasn’t right,” he went on, voice low. “They don’t just tire like that.”
A deckhand across from him swallowed a mouthful too quickly. “Maybe she was young.”
“Or sick,” another offered.
The galley hatch creaked open and Captain Shipman stepped down into the warm, low-ceilinged space, her boots quiet but firm against the wooden steps. Conversation fell away at once. Lanternlight caught along the scar that carved across her cheek, a pale line against rough and salty skin, and traced the hard set of her jaw. She smelled faintly of brine and iron, like the deck after a kill.
Everyone knew what killing a siren meant to her.
It wasn’t a celebration. It wasn’t the thrill of the hunt the way it was for other captains who chased them for sport, for reputation, for the savage pride of it. Shipman did not take pleasure in ending their monstrous lives, nor did she revel in the blood spilled across her deck. What drove her was older than that, heavier. It was the promise she’d made to the sea years ago, a promise sealed in saltwater and in the lifeless heart of her father. There was not a man aboard The Widow’s Jaw who didn’t know the story. They carried it with them the way they carried their knives.
That was why they never celebrated in front of her. Why laughter always died when she approached. She never joined the drinking after a hunt—never raised a cup to a carcass dragged from the deep. For the crew, it was dangerous work and hard-earned pay. For her, it was obligation. An open account with the ocean that would not be closed until every last siren was gone from its waters. No one doubted she meant it.
Shipman moved further inside, ducking slightly beneath a beam. “Report,” she said, voice low and even.
“Minor damage to the larboard rail,” Elias answered. “One man with bruised ribs. Nothing broken. The body’s secured in the lower hold.”
She gave a single nod and removed her gloves, setting them on the table. There was dried blood along her knuckles, caught in the lines of her skin. She didn’t seem to notice. Jonah handed her a bowl without a word. She accepted it and sat at the head of the table, posture straight despite the slow sway of the ship beneath them.
The crew resumed eating, quieter now. Outside, the sea had calmed to a long, rolling breath against the hull, rigging tapping softly overhead.
Jonah cleared his throat, emboldened perhaps by routine. “She didn’t even sing, Captain. Didn’t fight like they usually do.”
Shipman lifted her gaze slowly. “They always fight,” she said.
A small silence followed that—not tense, but thoughtful.
“This one was just already losing,” she added, and lowered her eyes back to her meal.
Not a single trace of triumph or satisfaction.
☠︎
The next one they captured was a siren they called Milena, known among sailors for being feral.
The encounter with her cost them their newest crew member—a boy named Edward “Little Eddy” Marlowe, who had earned his nickname more from youth than size. Shipman had taken him on herself, granting him a place aboard despite knowing, the moment she first watched him try to coil a line with trembling hands, that he would not last long at sea. He had soft eyes. Hesitant movements. The ocean devoured boys like that.
It began two days after the first hunt.
Many of them liked to believe their hatred of sirens was righteous, singular. They rarely consider that the feeling runs just as deep beneath the waves. The hatred is mutual—raw, instinctive, almost territorial. The sea is the sirens’ home, and any foreign hull cutting across its surface is an intrusion. Some of them wait in the deep and watch. Others attack on sight, driven by a violent need to tear wood, rope, and flesh from their waters. Some succeed, others miscalculate.
Milena, for the first time in all her feral assaults—after near-destructions of entire crews—miscalculated.
She struck The Widow’s Jaw the moment she saw it.
There was no warning song, no distant shimmer beneath the surface. The sea had been deceptively calm, a flat gray expanse under a low sky, sails full and steady as the ship cut cleanly through open water. Then the hull lurched.
Not from a wave, but from below.
Something slammed against the keel with bone-shaking force, snapping the crew off balance as the entire vessel shuddered. Barrels tipped. A coil of rope spilled loose across the deck. Gulls scattered from the mast in a frenzy of white wings. Then another hit followed—harder, angled along the starboard side—wood groaning as if the ship itself had teeth clenched against pain.
The water around them erupted.
Not in foam alone, but in motion—dark shapes twisting just beneath the surface, too large, too fast. A flash of scaled tail broke through in a violent arc, silver-green and scarred, before crashing back down with enough force to drench the deck in cold brine. The mainmast ropes snapped taut as the ship heeled sharply to port. A crate slid clear across the deck and shattered against the rail. Men scrambled for footing as the sea, moments ago placid, churned into a boiling frenzy around the hull.
Then came the hands. Pale, long, hooked fingers surfaced over the railing for a split second—strong and sharp—before disappearing again, dragging splinters of wood with them. Shauna reacted before the second blow had fully rippled through the hull.
“Get the net to the foredeck—haul it up to the fighting nest!” she barked, already moving.
Men scrambled, dragging the weighted net across the wooden floor as another violent surge rocked the ship. The sea split open ahead of the bow.
Milena rose.
She launched herself higher than any of them expected, her body a violent arc of scarred muscle, water streaming from her like a cascade. For a heartbeat she was fully airborne above the forecastle, hands outstretched, eyes wild and bright. And then she twisted, narrowly avoiding the rising net, and crashed back into the sea with a detonation of spray that drenched half the deck.
The impact boomed against the hull.
And then she began to sing.
The sound did not start loud. It unfurled—low, trembling, almost mournful—before sharpening into something piercing and threaded with hunger. It vibrated through wood and bone alike. Several crewmen clapped their hands over their ears instantly. One stumbled back against the mainmast, face draining of color.
Shipman stood still, calm and grounded, one hand resting on the rail.
“Below deck,” she ordered evenly. “All of you. Elias stays.”
They didn’t argue. They had seen what the song could do. All but one. Little Eddy remained where he was near the starboard bow rail, fingers white-knuckled around a line. His face was pale but set.
“I’m staying,” he said, voice tight but determined. “I need to learn.”
Shipman didn’t look at him. “Then stand steady.”
Milena vanished.
The water stilled in her absence. The violent churning softened into long, deceptive swells. The sky seemed wider suddenly. Quieter. Only the song remained, drifting up from somewhere deep beneath the keel, echoing through the dark like a memory pulled from the bottom of the ocean.
Shipman had heard it a thousand times.
It rarely stirred anything in her.
Hatred drowned out whatever else it tried to awaken.
The remaining crew who had retreated returned cautiously with strips of cloth and tarred wool pressed over their ears. The song dulled to a distant vibration.
For a moment, the world felt almost calm.
That was when the water behind the starboard quarter exploded upward, and Milena surged from the depths without warning, faster this time, clearing the rail in a blur of teeth and wet hair. She seized Eddy from behind, one arm locking around his chest as her teeth sank brutally into his shoulder.
His scream tore across the deck.
Men rushed forward instinctively. Shipman snatched up a harpoon from beside the mast and moved in with brutal precision. Before she could drive it through Milena’s spine, the siren released a shriek so sharp it felt like steel splitting through her skull. Shipman recoiled despite herself, teeth clenching as the sound forced her to her knees. The harpoon slipped from her grip and clattered across the deck.
In that fractured second, Eddy moved. Blood poured down his arm, face twisted in pain but eyes blazing as he grabbed the fallen harpoon and drove it upward into Milena’s stomach with a raw, desperate shout. The blade sank deep, and Milena convulsed, thrashing with feral strength, tail smashing against the planks hard enough to splinter wood. She twisted violently and the force hurled Eddy clean over the rail. A few seconds later, he disappeared into the sea.
For half a breath there was nothing.
Then the water erupted.
Shapes rose from beneath—fast, too many. Sirens that had been waiting in the depths surged towards him like starving wolves. Pale arms and flashing teeth. A frenzy of motion. Eddy’s head broke the surface once, then hands dragged him down.
The ocean swallowed him whole.
“Holy shit!” someone shouted. “This stretch is infested!”
Shipman forced herself upright, vision swimming. Milena was still alive, still fighting, the harpoon lodged deep but not yet fatal.
Shipman lunged and seized the siren from behind, forearm locking across her throat. Milena twisted and bit down hard on her arm, making her jaw tighten, but she didn’t release her. With a violent wrench, she flipped the siren forward, slamming her onto the deck, aiming to drive the embedded harpoon deeper, but Milena surged upward instead, throwing herself at Shipman with desperate strength. They collided, rolling across the planks slick with seawater and blood. Shipman caught her by the throat again, fingers digging into wet flesh, and began smashing the back of Milena’s skull against the deck.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
The sound was sickening—bone striking wood, raw and heavy.
Milena clawed at her, shrieking, tail battering the boards. Shipman growled through her teeth and slammed her head down harder, over and over, until the resistance weakened. Then faltered. And finally, the siren stilled.
With a sharp breath, Shipman rose to her feet.
“Captain—” Elias called urgently. “Careful—”
But Shipman knew them better than anyone.
She yanked the harpoon free from Milena’s stomach, blood spilling dark across the planks, and crouched beside her. The siren’s face had gone pale beneath its sheen of seawater. Her mouth opened slightly, trembling, preparing to release one last note—one final attempt.
Captain Shipman didn’t give her the chance.
Before a single sound could escape, she drove the harpoon straight through Milena’s open mouth with brutal force.
Blood splashed hot across her face.
Her expression never wavered.
Only the rage in her eyes remained.
☠︎
She had her first sighting of her only weeks later.
The siren they called The Moonlight Siren.
By then, Captain Shipman had killed more than twelve sirens—every one that had crossed her path. Many of them tried to remain in the deepest trenches of the ocean, keeping to cold, lightless waters where ships rarely lingered. But one way or another, they were always driven upward—dragged to the surface by iron hooks, by torn nets, by blood in the water, or by their own miscalculation.
The Moonlight Siren’s arrival was different. There was no violent strike against the hull, no sudden churn of water, no scream rising from beneath the keel. It came as a sighting—quiet, almost unnervingly peaceful.
One of the lookouts spotted her first.
A rock jutted out of the water in the distance, dark and slick with moss. Upon it rested a figure. At first, she looked almost like driftwood left behind by the tide. Then the sun shifted, and they saw the tail. Gold. Not brassy, not dull—but luminous, catching the light in pale, molten flashes where it curved behind her body.
Beyond the rock stretched a small, uninhabited island—nothing but low brush and pale sand. To the right of it stood a long sea cave carved into the stone, its interior shadowed in deep, shifting blues. Waves surged into it in steady intervals, crashing violently against the inner rock before withdrawing again with a hollow roar.
The siren was alone.
Captain Shipman stepped forward the moment she saw her.
“Ready yourselves,” she ordered, voice level.
Every man moved.
Harpoons were lifted. Nets checked. Ropes uncoiled and laid out clean across the deck. The Widow’s Jaw adjusted its course, sails tightening as they angled towards the rock. From a distance, all Shipman could make out was wet honey-colored hair clinging to pale shoulders, and skin glistening with saltwater under the sun. The siren sat with her back straight, one hand braced lightly against the stone as if she belonged there more than the rock itself.
As they drew closer, she turned. She saw them. There was no flinch. No immediate dive into the water—almost like she wasn’t surprised to see them. Like she expected them.
Her face was beautiful. Not in the savage, sharp way of the others. Not feral. Not twisted by hunger. There was something almost disarming about her features: wide hazel eyes, luminous in the sunlight; soft, composed lines; an expression so calm it bordered on eerie. She looked young. Serene. Untouched by the violence that defined her kind.
She held their gaze—held Captain Shipman’s gaze, and the world seemed to narrow to that line of sight stretching over open water.
Shipman stood at the bow, posture firm, hands steady on the rail. Her focus sharpened instantly, instincts aligning for the coming attack—distance, angle, wind, the timing of the tide. Every calculation slotted into place with mechanical precision. And yet, there was something else. No doubt or hesitation. It was something like fascination. A quiet, unwelcome pull at the edges of her attention.
The siren did not bare her teeth. She didn’t sing. Didn’t retreat in panic. She simply watched them, sunlight threading through strands of honey-gold hair as the waves surged below her rock.
Then, without breaking eye contact until the very last second, she slipped down from the stone. Her golden tail vanished first, slicing cleanly into the water. She did not swim towards the open sea. She turned instead towards the island—and disappeared into the shadowed cave, where blue darkness swallowed her whole.
Captain Shipman did not look away from the mouth of the cave, her eyes sharpening.
For a moment, the only sound was the sea folding into stone, waves crashing into the hollowed rock and dragging back out again with a deep, echoing pull.
Then she moved.
“Bring her around,” she ordered, already turning towards the helm. “Starboard side. Slow.”
The crew hesitated only a fraction before obeying. The sails were adjusted, the wheel turned carefully as The Widow’s Jaw cut a deliberate arc through the water towards the island. The closer they drew, the louder the cave became—a living thing breathing salt and shadow.
Elias stepped beside her. “Captain, the current inside—”
“I see it.”
The entrance was narrow, jagged at the top where rock teeth hung low. Inside, the sea churned violently, waves smashing against the inner walls before spiraling inward into a darker space further back.
Shipman’s eyes never left that darkness.
“She wants us to follow,” Elias said quietly.
A faint, almost imperceptible shift crossed her expression.
“Good,” she replied.
She stepped forward to the very edge of the bow, boots planted wide against the roll of the tide, scar catching the light as her jaw tightened.
“Prepare the smaller boats,” she commanded. “Harpoons ready. Nets tight. No one fires unless I give the word.”
The crew moved quickly now, tension threading through every motion. Oars were lowered. Ropes checked twice. The cave swallowed light whole. Blue shadows flickered within as waves burst against the rock and withdrew again, like a pulse. Shipman watched the water where the creature had disappeared.
“Follow her,” she said.
Then, lower—almost to herself, but loud enough for Elias to hear:
“She’s mine.”
They brought the longboats as close to the cave’s mouth as the tide allowed. Oars dipped carefully into the restless water, the hull of The Widow’s Jaw holding position just beyond the jagged entrance while Shipman and a small unit advanced inward. The air shifted the moment they crossed into shadow—cooler, heavier, thick with salt and something mineral, something ancient.
They saw no sign of her. No flash of gold beneath the surface. No ripple distinct from the violent churn of waves slamming against stone. The cave swallowd light quickly; a few lanterns were lit, their glow trembling across slick rock walls.
“She’s below,” Elias murmured.
Shipman said nothing.
The water here was deeper than it looked—an inky blue that turned almost black towards the center, where the cave narrowed into a darker throat. For several long seconds, there was only the crash of tide and the hollow echo that followed.
And then—
A voice.
Not loud. It was a mere whisper—so soft it might have been mistaken for wind threading through stone. It didn’t carry the piercing edge of a hunting call. It didn’t claw at the mind. It unfurled slowly, sweet and warm, like breath against the ear. The words—if they were words—were indistinct, flowing together in a language Shipman did not recognize. Yet the tone was inviting. It was gentle. Almost tender.
The men stiffened, one shifting uneasily.
Shipman remained upright, jaw set, eyes scanning the water. The whisper deepened into a hum, melodic and comforting. The sound did not vibrate like the others had. It wrapped. The lanternlight flickered, and the cave walls seemed to move.
Shipman blinked once. The rock face to her left shimmered faintly, as though seen through heat haze. The wet stone darkened, then brightened—then reshaped. A shoreline replaced it. Sunlit. Familiar. A small wooden dock. She knew that dock.
The hum grew warmer.
The image sharpened—her childhood home near the coast, the warped planks she had once run across barefoot. The smell of salt and tar almost seemed to rise into the cave. Laughter echoed faintly, layered beneath the melody. Her mother’s voice, soft and familiar. But mostly, her father’s silhouette—standing at the end of the pier, broad-shouldered, alive.
Shipman’s breath faltered—just once. The cave wall to her right shifted next. The stone dissolved into memory: her father teaching her to tie her first knot; his rough hand guiding hers over coarse rope; the warmth of sunlight on her back.
The humming continued, sweet and impossibly close. The water beneath the boat glowed faintly in response. More images bloomed across the cavern walls like a waking dream—her father’s smile; the sound of gulls overhead; evenings spent mending nets together; the version of him untouched by the sea’s violence. It was deliberate. A deliberate sequence. It flowed seamlessly, one memory bleeding into the next, each threaded carefully with that ethereal voice rising from beneath the surface.
Shipman’s fingers tightened around the edge of the boat. She had heard sirens sing for years. She had heard their shrieks, their lures, their violent calls meant to fracture the mind. But this? This was something else. This didn’t assault. It beckoned and it offered. It was different.
The hum shifted subtly, harmonics weaving through it now, layered and haunting. The water in the center of the cave rippled in slow circles, as though something vast turned just below. Her father’s image appeared once more on the stone ahead—closer this time. His eyes met hers. Not lifeless. He was alive.
The melody swelled gently, wrapping around her thoughts like warm current.
Somewhere, faintly, she was aware of Elias saying her name. But his voice sounded distant, muffled. As if he were the one underwater.
The cave no longer felt cold. And from the dark beneath the boat, the humming continued—soft, welcoming, impossibly intimate—carrying with it the unmistakable sense that something down there knew her better than she knew herself.
“Captain?” Elias’s voice broke through the ethereal hum once more, low and cautious.
Shipman’s eyes flicked towards him, but she did not move. The humming wrapped around her like water, pulling her attention down into the depths.
Then she heard a splash. One of the crew, caught in the siren’s song, had leapt overboard. His body cut through the dark water with no struggle, arms extended, eyes glazed. The hum stopped abruptly, leaving a vacuum in its wake. For a heartbeat, the cave seemed impossibly quiet. A few instants later, the boy’s body surfaced, floating on the tide. Limbs slack, his head weirdly tilted to the side. The sea cradled him, but there was no life in his eyes. Not anymore.
Shipman reacted instantly. Without a word, she grabbed the weighted net and swung it over the side. The coils of rope spun through the air, falling into the water with a satisfying splash.
And then she saw her.
The Moonlight Siren. Shipman immediately recognized her. The siren moved through the water like silk. No violent thrashing, no desperate struggle, no frantic clawing at the net. She swam with deliberate grace, body weaving slowly, eyes never leaving the approaching net. She allowed herself to be caught. The net fell around her like a quiet, velvet trap, settling along her shoulders and chest.
Shipman stood on the bow, hands steady on the rail. The siren floated there, calm and peaceful, letting the ropes entangle her tail and arms, tilting her head to watch them as if testing them—testing Shipman, whose eyes narrowed. She had faced death in many forms, but this was different. This siren—was giving herself to them on her own terms.
And Shipman knew it.
She had already decided: this one would not slip away.
The men rushed, boots slipping on the wet planks, ropes swinging as they leaned over the rail, grabbing at the boy with gloved hands, pulling him up in unison. Water cascaded over the deck in cold sheets as they heaved, muscles straining, faces pale under the lantern glow.
The net tightened around the siren, pulling her fully from the water. She remained eerily calm, her golden tail coiling beneath her as the mesh pressed against her shoulders.
Elias leaned over the rail where the boy lay crumpled.
“Captain,” he called quietly, voice tinged with disbelief, “he’s intact. No cuts, no bruises, nothing. It… it’s like he just… drowned.”
Shipman’s eyes narrowed, scanning the still water around the boat.
“Impossible,” she said. “No man would take himself like that… to a death like this.”
A heavy silence fell. The waves slapped the hull as the cave swallowed around them, the lanterns reflected in the wet wood. No one answered. The boy lay limp in the arms of Shipman’s crew, his fragile body cold and lifeless, and all around them, the sea seemed suddenly larger, darker.
The siren’s hum had vanished, leaving only the damp, heavy air and the faint gleam of her trapped golden tail beneath the net. Even restrained, even caught, she radiated an uncanny power that made everything around Shipman—everything she knew about herself and about the sea—feel distant, alien.
Her voice cut through the tense, quiet like a blade. “Do not kill her. Not yet,” she said, firm.
The crew could only stare at her silently—wet, panting, and wide-eyed.
“Get her below,” Shipman ordered. “Secure her in the lower hold. Tie her in the nets. Make sure she can’t break free.”
The men obeyed quickly, hauling the siren carefully across the deck. Her golden tail shimmered through the mesh, with no intention of fighting back or resisting. Shipman’s gaze never left her, sharp and calculated, but something in her chest tightened at the way the beautiful creature’s eyes—still calm—met hers.
They lowered her into the hold—a compartment specifically reinforced for sirens, lined with smooth planks and heavy timber beams to contain even the strongest of thrashes. Water was poured in, filling the space just enough for her to move but not enough for her to escape. The siren’s body flexed under the weight of the nets as she slid into the shallow, brine-filled enclosure.
Shipman’s boots echoed on the deck above as she leaned over the railing, watching the last movements of the creature’s tail submerge beneath the water.
“Close it. Lock it down. Make sure she stays there,” she commanded.
Heavy iron bars slid into place, the hold’s hatch sealing the compartment as the siren was left alone, trapped.
Captain Shipman straightened, gloved hands gripping the rail, her eyes cold as she walked away.
☠︎
The sea was unnaturally still, a glassy expanse that rippled only in soft, gentle waves. The small boat rocked lazily, each wave lapping against the worn wood with a quiet, almost musical rhythm. Hector Shipman rowed, arms moving in slow, steady arcs. Shauna sat at the bow, eyes fixed on the sunlight dancing across the water, golden reflections winking with every tiny swell. It was a beautiful day, calm, perfect.
It happened so fast she barely registered it. A hand, sharp and feral, rose from the depths without warning. Its grip was sudden, the cold strength of it shocking through her father’s body. Before Shauna could even scream, before she could even register the singing coming from the bottom of the ocean, the hand clutched him and dragged him beneath the water as if he had always belonged there. The waves closed over him, smooth again, silent. She reached out, heart lurching, but the ocean had claimed him—pulled him into its fathomless depths, never to return. There was nothing left of him but the searing ache of absence, the memory of warmth now replaced with emptiness.
She awoke with a sharp gasp, lungs burning, sweat clinging to her skin. The room was dark, the midnight air thick and heavy around her. Her heart thundered in her chest. She shivered, the remnants of the nightmare clinging like cold water.
And then she heard it.
A soft murmur, almost imperceptible. A faint hum threading through the stillness of the ship. Not outside, not above deck—but everywhere, seeping into the wood, curling along the beams, wrapping around her senses. The sound was slow and hypnotic. It vibrated in her chest, like it came from within herself.
She swung her legs over the edge of the cot, her feet pressing against the cold deck. The ship creaked faintly under her weight. Her fingers found a single match, scraped it, and the tiny flame came to life. Drawn by the sound, she moved. Quietly, carefully, following the hum as it wound through the corridors and darkened hallways. Each step seemed to pull her closer, her pulse measured, every nerve alert.
The humming grew warmer, richer, pulling her like a tide towards the hold. And that’s when she recognized the melody.
But that was impossible.
No. There’s no way. How can it be possible?
Finally, she reached the compartment where The Moonlight Siren waited, nets straining faintly around her shimmering body, water sloshing gently beneath her. Shipman’s hand trembled only slightly as she raised the match, and then the tiny flame illuminated the creature’s face. Honey hair. It clung to her skin, wet and soft. Her hazel eyes were big, unnervingly still, and somehow kind. She was a breathtakingly beautiful sight—so beautiful it was terrifying.
Shipman froze.
They were face to face. And for a moment, the world outside vanished and only the soft, ethereal glow of the match, the glistening wetness of the siren, and the hypnotic hum that had drawn her here remained.
A small, calming smile curved on the siren’s pinkish lips.
“It’s a beautiful melody,” she said, her voice soft, almost liquid, carrying the subtle echo of the depths—as if she were still underwater.
Shipman’s eyes narrowed slightly. She knew it was possible for sirens to speak, but it was rare—extraordinarily rare. Most avoided humans altogether. Few had ever heard a siren’s voice in conversation, and even fewer had lived to tell it.
“How do you know that song?” Shipman asked, tension coiling in her chest.
The siren said nothing at first. She only tilted her head, letting that faint, serene smile linger. Her eyes glimmered with something unreadable, deep and knowing. Then, slowly, she began to hum again, the same melody, threaded with warmth, delicate and haunting.
Shipman’s chest tightened. Memories surged unbidden: her mother’s soft voice, tired hands stroking her hair, the lullaby whispered during nights when sleep wouldn’t come after her father’s death. The small, repetitive tune that had soothed her as a child, the one that had kept her heart from breaking completely in the darkness.
The siren’s eyes never left hers, serene, almost tender, as if acknowledging the memory, threading it into the present, echoing the long-lost comfort Shipman had once known.
Suddenly, she blinked. The humming ceased mid-note, the last vibration dissolving into the damp air of the hold. Silence rushed in to replace it—thick, oppressive, broken only by the soft lap of water against timber and the faint creak of the hull shifting with the tide.
Shipman’s breath came in sharp through her nose. Her fingers tightened around the dying match until it burned too close to her skin and she shook it out. Darkness swallowed them again, except for the faint spill of moonlight through the grating above.
“How do you know this song?” she repeated, her voice sterner than earlier.
The Moonlight Siren didn’t answer at once.
Her eyes moved over Shipman slowly and intentionally, as though memorizing her. There was nothing hurried in her gaze. It was fervently soft, almost romantic in its intensity, and yet something ancient stirred beneath it. A look like that did not belong to something hunted. It belonged to something that chose.
It was the strangest thing Shipman had ever seen in any siren. It was hypnotic and terrifying.
“Sirens know many things,” the creature whispered.
Each word seemed to drag the ocean behind it—the undertow, the salt, the cold blue darkness miles beneath the hull. She did not need to sing. Her voice was a current. It wrapped around Shipman’s spine and pulled.
“They don’t usually know this much.”
“I know many things,” the siren murmured, tilting her head slightly, her golden hair spilling over one shoulder like liquid light. Her eyes never left Shipman’s. “I know everything about you humans. I know everything about you. And you know nothing about me.”
Shipman’s jaw tightened, the scar along her cheek shifting roughly with the motion.
“I know everything I need to know about you and your kind,” she said. “You’re mine now.”
A soft smile touched the siren’s mouth.
“You only know what I show you,” she replied gently. “What I allow you to know.”
The rope at her wrist loosened. It happened so subtly it almost felt intentional—like the net itself had exhaled. One pale hand slipped free. A low murmur vibrated in her throat, not quite a melody, not quite a breath.
Shipman did not step back.
The siren lifted her hand and reached for her face. Her fingers were cool and damp as they brushed over the captain’s scar, tracing it with unbearable delicacy.
“You are the bravest of them all,” the siren said softly.
Shipman’s breathing shifted—barely, but enough. Her eyes, hard and storm-colored, locked with the siren’s. She should have torn away. Should have struck her down.
She didn’t.
“Braver than any man who has sailed these waters,” the siren continued, her thumb grazing the edge of the scar. “I see it in you. I feel it here.”
Her other hand reached for Shipman’s. Wet fingers closed around calloused ones—hands made for blades and rope and blood. She drew them forward and pressed them against her chest.
“Here,” she whispered. “Feel it.”
Shipman’s eyes shut automatically.
The skin beneath her palms was warm—shockingly warm. Alive. The rhythm beneath it steady, strong. A heart. It was beating.
She had dissected sirens before. Cut them open with surgical precision. She knew their anatomy. She knew the myths.
None of them had ever felt like this.
Images flooded her mind without warning—vast open water under moonlight, bioluminescent currents twisting through darkness, something ancient coiling through the deep. She was no longer in the hold of her ship. She was suspended somewhere endless. Somewhere only the siren was familiar with, like she was dissolving into the siren’s memories. It was a window to the creature’s soul.
And then a name threaded itself through the noise.
Letter by letter.
J a c k i e.
“Do you feel it?” the siren breathed, her lips close enough that Shipman could feel the shape of each word in the air. “Can you feel me? I feel you very, very close. I feel you inside me, everywhere. It’s okay. Come closer.”
Shipman moved.
The world around her dissolved into shadow and salt and breath. She was sweating despite the cold, her pulse pounding against her throat.
“Tell me,” the siren whispered again, her voice stroking every corner of her mind. “Do you feel me too? I know you do. You’re not hearing just my voice. You’re hearing me. Inside. I know because I feel you. You’re everywhere here inside of me.”
A low sound tore from Shipman’s chest before she could stop it.
Her eyes flew open.
“Your name is Jackie,” she muttered, though her voice had lost some of its steel.
The siren smiled again. And this time, she withdrew on her own, easing back into the netting as though she had never been restrained at all.
“The bravest,” she said quietly. “And the most intelligent.”
Her gaze lingered on Shipman’s mouth for half a second too long.
“I truly like you, Captain.”
The spell fractured.
Shipman staggered a half-step back. The air felt thin. Her limbs suddenly heavy, her skin burning as if fever had seized her from within. The hold of the ship seemed too small, too warm. She tore her hands away as though they had been scorched.
But even as she retreated, even as the rational part of her mind clawed its way back to the surface, she could still feel the rhythm of that heartbeat against her palms.
Her voice, when she spoke again, was darker than the night itself. “I’ll kill you in the morning,” she whispered. “I’ll dissect you. Like I’ve done with all the others.”
Then, she turned on her heel, boots striking the planks with controlled force as she moved towards the stairs.
“Captain?”
The word was soft, and Shipman stopped.
Slowly, she looked back.
The siren—Jackie—remained half-submerged in the shallow water, nets draped around her like something ceremonial rather than restraining. Her hazel eyes reflected what little light remained, steady and impossibly calm.
“It wasn’t your fault, Captain,” she said gently.
The air shifted. Shipman’s shoulders went rigid, every muscle along her spine tightening.
“What,” she asked, voice lower now, dangerous, “wasn’t my fault?”
Jackie’s lips curved again—small, almost tender.
She did not answer the question.
Instead, she tilted her head slightly, water whispering around her collarbones.
“Goodnight, Captain.”
Shipman held her gaze for a long second, jaw locked, pulse pounding against her scar as if the ocean itself were pressing inward. The hold felt narrower now. The air thinner.
Then she turned sharply and climbed the steps without another word.
Behind her, the water shifted once more.
And somewhere in the dark below deck, the faintest echo of that lullaby lingered—unfinished, haunting the night like a ghost.