Page 2 of Burying Venus

Still set to the task, Dermot watched Stephen struggle to his feet and laugh in return, which made Will cackle all the more. The man seemed to have no idea he’d been tripped, even after so many supposed accidents.

‘This isn’t a bloody joke! Last time I checked, I’d trained men who knew how to clean after a hard day in the kitchen,’ Béchard said.

Resolute as he observed the mountain of cutlery, pans, and plates, Dermot got to work.

Chapter Two

Living on an island had few benefits. There was no entertainment to speak of, but he could at least take the sea air on a beach laden with stones. Few braved the wind in winter, never mind the darkening nights, but solitude was a rare thing to come by as a servant. Dermot yearned to watch the waves as Aubrey had, else think on their encounter.

He was nearing the place when a woman’s song struck. Her voice, Dermot imagined, was equal to any songstress at the opera frequented by those with the good fortune to afford it. Tantalising, melodic, thoroughly devoid of any sort of lyric.

‘That one is not to my taste at all,’ the woman’s partner said. Her accent was unknown to him.

At that, the singing became louder. Even if it ruined his quiet, Dermot could not begrudge her voice. He stepped onto the shore, content to sit and listen, until the lady beckoned him to the ocean where the pair seemed to be swimming.

Some islanders bathed in the sea during winter; simple masochists who would never know themselves as such. Bemused, Dermot ambled towards her, crossing sand and stone to where she and her friend lay.

Standing so the sea crashed against his feet, Dermot shook his head when the women signalled again. The song ceased, and two icy stares watched him in its place.

‘The sea is not so cold, handsome,’ the singer said, extending her arms as if to embrace him. ‘Come to me. I’ll warm you up.’

Dermot nearly laughed at their earnest entreaties, only restraining himself as to not offend. The women were exceptional beauties, each with dark hair and strong features.Not being handsome like Will, he had never rejected a woman before and did not relish the prospect.

‘I appreciate the offer, but if you’re going to sing, I’d rather stay here. I’ve never been much of a swimmer,’ Dermot said.

The women frowned, looking to one another in bewilderment until they sang again, laughing readily. Perhaps it was a game they played often, secluded and safe from judgemental townsfolk.

Dermot again indicated his refusal as the singer swam forward, hands caressing his own. They had no idea men such as he existed, he was certain. ‘Meaning no offence, I best be getting home.’ Gently prying his hands away, he was incredulous as she pulled back, nails digging into his skin.

‘What is the matter with this one, Thalia? I have never seen the like.’

Disturbed though they were, the pair were still women. Dermot disentangled himself with ease only to find his hand bearing five scratches, each cut beading blood as Thalia came closer.

Eyes flitting between them, Dermot observed their smooth, unblemished skin. Thalia made a grab for him, and as she did, vivid scales met air.

Dermot fell back, mouth fixed in a soundless shout as his feet pressed uselessly against sand. Thalia’s grip on his wrist was uncommonly tight, and her own lips parted to reveal teeth like that of the beasts depicted on Lord Stanley’s walls.

Clasping the hilt of the measly kitchen knife he carried for protection, Dermot swung once in warning and, hearing nothing but mockery in reply, thrust directly into Thalia’s arm. He’d cut flesh all his life, though admittedly his victims were already dead and on the table. Piercing a living thing was an entirely different matter. The squirming was such that all butchers were at once murderers to him.

The creature pulled back but in doing so tore her flesh further. The cut was a ghastly thing; pristine white gone gory red in an instant.

His heel caught on stone and he fell hard onto the beach, the bloodied knife slipping from his grasp. Languishing against the sand for but a moment, he hauled himself up, stumbling back until he was at last near land, and Thalia and her sister had sunk into the waves.

He fell to his knees as soon as he touched grass. Though folk spoke of beasts, faeries, and even mermaids, he privately thought them deranged. Being on a windswept island in the middle of a roaring sea dulled even the sharpest of minds, turning them as provincial as the land itself. But the wailing sea maidens struck true. The marks stung keenly against his skin where Thaila’s nails had been.

The night was darkening. Getting to his feet, he walked through the countryside like a child, shivering and afraid. If mermaids circled the isle, perhaps other mythical creatures took breath as well, so he kept himself guarded as the day receded. His teeth chattered at the mere recollection of his mother’s stories, which she’d read at night. Each tale had been riddled with monsters that could drive men to madness.

‘Hello,’ a voice called. Light and melodious, sweet as a chime carried by the wind.

Dermot faltered. ‘Who goes there?’ he said.

‘Only I,’ the voice said again. ‘You needn’t be frightened.’

Dermot’s insides seized. Eyes darting about, he came upon a creature that he, a hot-blooded young man, couldn’t hope to recreate in his fantasies. A boy about twenty with hair of pure white curling above his shoulders, sylphlike and of a height Dermot could lift and position with ease.

‘You did us a service by getting rid of those nasty wenches. Many a man lost his life there,’ the boy said, smiling with lipsthat could inspire a bawdy tale. ‘Come here. I’d like to give you something.’

‘You’re no mortal,’ Dermot said. He’d left his knife bloodied on the beach but couldn’t bear to run. Doubtless the sirens’ victims felt a similar compulsion; at the heart of it, they were no different. Dermot just had a different kind of tempter.