A mermaid’s instinct...

NISSA OF THE MER CLAN, is driven by her instincts to conceive a child, but her undersea cluster does not include males.  She must transform into a human-like siren long enough to enchant a mate with her song.  Then she can return to the sea.  If she fails, she’ll die. 

A playboy's desire...

PETER McFEY, hunky surf bum turned treasure hunter, has never turned down a sexy woman, but the sapphire-eyed siren wants to make him her pet.

In the sensual battle between a mermaid’s instinct and a playboy’s desire, there is no winner. 

When the siren sings, her mate can hear nothing else.   

 My pal Terri Garey wrote this poem for Siren's Song.

(she is so good...)

The deep hoards its secrets from a jealous moon

Dark water ripples, the waves sing their tune 

Kissing the rocks, the shore, the sea 

Fulfilling their destiny; never lonely like me.

Dark, too, are the secrets within my soul     

To walk on two legs was never my goal

Child of the sea, child of man

My fate to produce you, but never my plan.

Sing to me, waves, the tales of old

Help me forget what has been foretold

To swim forever, a mermaid no more

Or become a human, and live on the shore.

The deep hoards its secrets,

And so do I

A mirrored reflection

Of the tears I cry.

Excerpt from

Siren's Song

CHAPTER TWO

Peter ran to the mast. He could already hear the pole straining against the pull of the filled sails. A safety switch released the wench, and he cranked with all his might. He’d fought against the weather before, but never anything as freakish as this.

“John, get ready to lash the sails down so the wind can’t pull them back up.”

He rotated the handle three more turns, then looked over his shoulder. John stood at the rail staring forward.

“John!”

Peter kept cranking until the device locked. He climbed the mast and pulled the sheets taut and knotted them. By the time he returned to the deck and closed the distance between them, his side burned. “Haven’t you ever seen fog before?”

John didn’t look like a man who stared an icy death in the face.

The wind blew again, carrying a hint of warmth. Over artic fed waters? Peter slowed. Fog out of nowhere, land where there shouldn’t be land, and a balmy breeze off freezing waters. What the hell?

As if a door opened, he heard music. Strange, driving melodies so sweet he wanted to cry at the sound. Like standing on a beach at sunrise knowing the day would deliver everything he’d ever dreamed. Everything.

The next gust cleared a path through the fog from the ship to a white sand beach. In the North Atlantic? Mentally counting the beers he’d consumed, he shook off the buzz dimming his thoughts and stirring his interest. Oh yeah, he’d responded to the song; his jeans fit a tad tighter than they should. “Lower the sails, Petey,” he uttered under his breath.

The music built, the volume increasing, but the song turned sultry. Dark. Enticing.

John moved around him, leaving him alone to watch women emerge from the mist. Not just women, but babes.

The next breeze opened the entire island to his view. The beach led to black rocks. He could see cave openings, smoothed and rounded by the friction of sand and tide waters. As hard as he tried to focus on the land, the babes’ song pulled him back to the swaying forms on the beach. Even at a distance, he could make out distinct feminine figures, some swathed in bright gauzy fabric, others as naked as the day they were born. Unless he hallucinated, they called him with a promise of ecstasy.

Like the sirens of myth, they beckoned him to their rocky home.

The realization cleared his mind like a cup of hot coffee.

Merde! Mierda! Shit! They were sirens. Normal women didn’t dance unclothed in the middle of an ice storm. Music didn’t make him rock hard and ready to screw himself into legend. He turned to ask John if he could possibly be right or if he’d finally stepped over the edge, but his brother had disappeared. “John!”

He ran to the opposite railing and looked over to see John struggling to untie the dinghy. “You can’t go over there. Those aren’t women. They’re dangerous.”

Like a zombie, John continued to tug at the knot as if Peter hadn’t spoken. Peter secured a rope to the railing. Hand over hand, he lowered himself into the raft, wondering how John had managed to jump overboard without swamping the small craft. His feet touched the air-cushioned side at the exact moment John released the dinghy.

He dropped on the seat as John picked up an oar and rowed for shore. As they cleared the bow of the Trident, the volume of the music increased.

Then he saw her.

On the top of a rocky point jutting out into the sea, a single woman stood. She raised her arms and spread wings of gossamer sapphire.  A silky, transparent fabric wrapped around her like an Indian sari, outlining her slender form.  The jewel tones contrasted perfectly against her long dark hair. She beat his best fantasy by a mile.

Ten miles.

He’d never been one to halt his urges, and the coal stokers in his groin shoveled fuel into the fire. His body prepared for the order--full steam ahead.

As she reached for the sky, her ice-clear voice wrapped around him and squeezed.

All images and writings copyright 2006  Sheila-Rae Z. Mohs  Last Updated 12/30/07

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