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Now, in the quiet of my cottage, with only the occasional howling gust of wind outside to keep me company, I need to formulate a plan. I need to be able to think clearly without that Syren occupying my thoughts, not to mention my desires.

Tomorrow is Sunday. People will be here for the funeral of the two fishermen, and then they’ll be in church. I have to ensure she is subdued and quiet. If she happens to fall from the cross or get out of the chains, then she’s no longer a secret. Then, she becomes a spectacle.

Maybe I can put some sort of spell on her, perhaps one that takes away her voice without the use of chains. I’ll see what I can muster. My magic was stronger before I had been turned into a blood-drinker, back when I was merely a human witch. I had to bury my magic entirely in the monastery, for such power is an indulgent act already, and I was more likely to lose control of myself.

Now, I use it on occasion—to heal people under the guise of God, to compel people when I need extra persuasion, to spy on people if needed. I’ve always had the gift of being able to enter the mind of any animal, so as long as that animal is in my sight, and I can control them to an extent, seeing through their eyes. For a moment, it crosses my mind that if the Syren was more animal than human, perhaps I could do that to her. I could at least try.

Dawn breaks the cloudy sky by the time I feel more in control and composed, and I head back to the chapel.

The Syren is right where I left her, a vision in holiness.

Her head is slumped to the side, the chains taut around her mouth, blonde hair hanging around her face like an angel. Her breasts remain full and perfect, her arms held back by the ropes with no sign of her impalement. There is no light in the room, the candles having all burned out, and yet it seems like she’s shining.

Just for me.

I stop and close the door, quietly locking it behind me with the skeleton key that I slip into my trousers.

She hasn’t moved at all, and I feel a pang of fear that perhaps she’s dead. But then her chest rises, just a little, taking in a quiet breath.

I walk toward her and stop to get a closer look, wanting her to raise her head and meet my eyes. I want to see that fire in them I saw last night, that devilish beast within her.

Perhaps our beasts could both come out and play.

But I shake that thought from my mind and focus on her crucifixion, on the cross. It reminds me to stay pure, to stay in control, to do what must be done and only what must be done.

“Hello,” I say, standing in front of her. My voice sounds hollow in the room, and I feel a bit silly for saying something so bland, given the situation.

But she doesn’t stir. I don’t expect her to understand Spanish, but she doesn’t even flinch.

I reach out and grab the hair at the top of her head, pulling her head back so I can see her clearly. Her brows come together faintly, and she lets out a soft moan against the chains. But she doesn’t open her eyes, and when I let go of her hair, her head slumps forward again.

I glance down at her tail. Up close, it looks like the scales are flaking off, as if it’s starting to shrink and dehydrate. Does she have to be in water to survive?

I quickly leave the room, locking it behind me, then step out of the chapel with a bucket I use to fill the stoup. Roosters crow with the rising sun, and I hurry to the sacramental well, where the holy water is drawn from behind the chapel, filling up the bucket before heading back into the church.

Once I’m locked in the back room again, I stand a few feet back from the Syren and then heave the contents of the bucket at her. The water splashes over her like a slap, and she lifts her head with a muffled gasp.

Relieved, I put the bucket down and go over to her. I reach out and brush her wet hair off her angelic face.

Those angry violet eyes stare back at me, her nostrils flaring.

I can’t help but smile.

“I was worried you were close to death,” I say to her. I know she doesn’t understand, but it still feels good to talk. “I don’t know much about keeping a Syren alive, but perhaps you need water, just as I need blood.”

She frowns, delicate brows knitting together, and lets out a low growl. To see the fight in her return brings me a perverse sort of joy.

A drop of water rolls down over her nose to her lips, sinking behind the metal chain, and I see her pink tongue dart out to lick it, a sight that makes my cock twitch. I do my best to ignore it.

“I suppose you might want something to drink,” I muse, stepping back and looking around the room. I’ll have to go back out again later for more water, and I’m not about to offer her blood, especially not her own, so I go to the cask I know has wine and open it. The chalice I drank from last night is empty, so I pour wine into it and bring it over to her.

“I’m going to assume you’ve never had wine before,” I say as her eyes focus on the chalice, fear and curiosity mixing in shades of a bruise. “I can’t promise it will taste good to you. Frankly, the wines they give us for the church are not of the highest quality, and I don’t know if it will be enough to quench your thirst. But Jesus turned water into wine, and I can only hope I can turn this wine into water.”

I step closer to her and reach out with one hand for the back of the cross, finding where I had latched the chains together. Once again, her breasts are against my chest, though because of my black shirt, I don’t feel them as I did last night.

“I’m going to undo the chain so you can drink freely,” I murmur, staring down into her eyes. “You can try and bite me, but rest assured, you cannot hurt me. You can scream, but I will either put this chain back in your mouth or take away your voice. It’s up to you.”

Her nostrils flare as she stares up at me, but she eventually relents, a tired sigh rumbling through her.