Page 2 of Siren Problems

CALDER

T he ley line breathes wrong tonight.

It’s a ripple under my skin, a magnetic pull that drags through my bones like the ocean’s remembering something I swore I buried.

I pause mid-step in the tide, boots looped over one shoulder, saltwater soaking the frayed hem of my jeans.

The wind’s changing—picking up from the south, sharp and sweet with summer rot and ozone. Storm air. Magic air.

I know what this is. Not a natural surge. Not this close to the cove.

It’s her.

The woman with the fast mouth and cursed timing.

I climb the rocks with long, practiced strides, avoiding the stretch where the ley fissures are closest to the surface.

That ground’s too unstable lately—cracked from the seaquake three winters back and humming like a haunted harp ever since.

The barrier spell’s weak tonight. I can feel it unraveling thread by thread under the weight of whatever she’s doing.

And then I see her.

She’s crouched near the edge of the cliff, silhouetted against the glow of a ley pulse churning in the tide below.

Hair loose and wind-snarled, skin flushed in the moonlight, arms extended like she’s trying to make a deal with the sea.

Her gear is scattered across the rocks—crystals, coils of wire, one of those tech-to-magic interface boxes that spit sparks if you look at them wrong.

The ley field shrieks against it.

I grit my teeth and step forward.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

She jumps and nearly loses her balance. For a blink, my heart kicks into my throat. Reflex makes me lunge forward, hand out. But she catches herself, turns, and glares up at me like I’m the intruder here.

“I could ask you the same thing, Moby Dick.”

Stars, she doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t flinch. Just shoves a piece of hair out of her face with the back of her hand and keeps right on talking like we’re mid-argument in some sitcom.

“This isn’t a game,” I growl, closing the distance between us. “You’re too close.”

“To what? The glow stick party under the sea?”

I point at her device, which is now blinking angry red like a bomb about to blow. “Back off. Now.”

The box lets out a sharp bweep , like it agrees with me. She freezes, eyes widening.

“Too late,” she whispers.

The ley surge hits like a sucker punch. It doesn’t explode so much as collapse inward , a vacuum of energy that rips through the air. The ocean shudders. The rocks underfoot vibrate like a war drum. Her legs buckle.

I catch her without thinking—one hand around her arm, the other braced against her spine. Her body is hot against mine, thrumming with adrenaline and defiance. She smells like citrus and old spellbooks and sea air.

“You trying to get yourself killed?” I snap.

“I was researching.” She struggles in my grip, eyes blazing. “It’s called science. You should try it sometime.”

“This place is dangerous.”

“Then maybe put up a sign next time, Aquaman.”

There’s a spark of something under her sarcasm. Fear, maybe. Or worse—curiosity. That kind of curiosity gets people buried.

I push her back a step and let go.

Her scanner fizzles out in a puff of smoke, crystal core cracked. Good. Maybe now she’ll take a damn hint.

I turn without another word and head back toward the path, shoulders tight, jaw locked.

The ley line quiets behind me, but the air hasn’t settled. Not really.

Back at the house, the porch lights are off, but Kai’s still lounging out front on a woven hammock she definitely enchanted to repel mosquitoes. She’s sipping a cocktail that glows faintly purple and has a piece of candied ginger floating in it. She doesn’t even look up when I climb the steps.

“Look who washed back up,” she says. “Did the hot scientist fry your cove?”

“She nearly destabilized the ley web. Again.”

Kai shrugs, eyes closed. “Yeah, but she’s cute. Makes up for it.”

I grunt, pushing past her to the front door.

“She called me Aquaman,” I mutter.

Kai snorts into her drink. “Gods, marry her.”

I don’t dignify that with a response.

The house is quiet inside, save for the low hum of magical tech pulsing from the downstairs office. Her scanner’s dead, but I hear her shuffling around down there, probably running diagnostics. Or muttering insults about me into her audio log.

Upstairs, I change into dry clothes and toss my damp jeans in the corner. My muscles ache from the cold, but the water always leaves a buzz in my skin—too much energy, not enough outlets. I crack open the window, let the breeze in. The salt air rolls through, familiar and sharp as old memory.

I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the nightstand.

It’s there. Waiting.

I reach for the drawer and slide it open.

Inside lies the relic—silver, small, etched with runes I can’t forget no matter how many years pass. I pick it up, turning it over in my hand. It’s warm. It always is.

I can still feel the shape of the curse humming in its edges, like a song you can’t get out of your head. This was once a binding talisman. Now it’s just a reminder. Of who I was. Of who I can’t be again.

I stare at it too long, then shove it back in the drawer.

Downstairs, Luna laughs at something. Not a big laugh—just a soft, tired one, like she surprised herself. The sound slides under my skin.

She’s going to unravel this place if I let her.

But gods help me... I’m not sure I want her to stop.