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The Siren
Kiera Cass
From the New York Times bestselling author of The Selection series comes this sweeping standalone fantasy romance. A girl with a secret. The boy of her dreams. An ocean between them.Throughout the ages, the Ocean has occasionally rescued young women from drowning. To repay their debt, these young women must serve for 100 years as Sirens, remaining young and beautiful and using their deadly voices to lure strangers into watery graves. To keep their true nature secret, Sirens must never speak to humans, and must be careful never to stay in the same place for too long. But once her century of service is over, each Siren gets a chance to start over – a chance to live the mortal life that was almost stolen from her.Kahlen became a Siren after her family died in a terrible shipwreck, decades ago. And though a single word from her can kill, she can’t resist spending her days on land, watching ordinary people and longing for the day when she will be able to speak and laugh and live freely among them again.Kahlen is resigned to finishing her sentence in solitude…until she meets Akinli. Handsome, caring, and kind, Akinli is everything Kahlen ever dreamed of. And though she can’t talk to him, they soon forge a connection neither of them can deny… and Kahlen doesn’t want to.Falling in love with a human breaks all of the Ocean’s rules, and if the Ocean discovers Kahlen’s feelings, she’ll be forced to leave Akinli for good. But for the first time in a lifetime of following the rules, Kahlen is determined to follow her heart.
Copyright (#uf00fb987-a2ff-569a-80e8-8a353270643b)
First published in the USA by HarperTeen,
an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Inc. in 2016
First published in paperback in Great Britain in 2016
by HarperCollins Children’s Books
an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd,
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
The Siren
Copyright © 2016 by Kiera Cass
Jacket art © 2015 by Gustavo Marx/Merge Left Reps, Inc.
Jacket design by Erin Fitzsimmons
Kiera Cass asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008157937
Ebook Edition © December 2015 ISBN: 9780008157944
Version: 2015-12-03
For Liz—
Because she’s the kind of girl who songs should be written about, poems should be composed for, and books should be dedicated to
Contents
Cover (#ud50f8d42-2583-5889-92e4-7da388d04ba0)
Title Page (#u65496ec6-de7c-539f-9a08-5e9280eecf36)
Copyright
Dedication (#uaca00be2-a95f-5dd4-acd6-5e38e3f30126)
Chapter 1
80 Years Later
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by Kiera Cass
About the Publisher
1 (#uf00fb987-a2ff-569a-80e8-8a353270643b)
It’s funny what you hold on to, the things you remember when everything ends. I can still picture the paneling on the walls of our stateroom and recall precisely how plush the carpet was. I remember the saltwater smell, permeating the air and sticking to my skin, and the sound of my brothers’ laughter in the other room, like the storm was an exciting adventure instead of a nightmare.
More than any sense of fear or worry, there was an air of irritation hanging in the room. The storm was throwing off our evening’s plans; there would be no dancing on the upper deck tonight, no chance to parade around in my new dress. These were the woes that plagued my life then, so insignificant they’re almost shameful to own up to. But that was my once upon a time, back when my reality felt like a story because it was so good.
“If this rocking doesn’t stop soon, I won’t have time to fix my hair before dinner,” Mama complained. I peeked up at her from where I was lying on the floor, trying desperately not to throw up. Mama’s reflection looked as glamorous as a movie star, and her finger waves seemed perfect to me. But she was never satisfied. “You ought to get off the floor,” she continued, glancing down at me. “What if the help comes in?”
I hobbled over to one of the chaise lounges, doing—as always—what I was told, though I didn’t think this position was necessarily any more ladylike. I closed my eyes, praying that the water would still. I didn’t want to be sick. Our journey up until that final day had been utterly ordinary, just a family trip from point A to point B. I can’t remember now where we were heading. What I do recall is that we were, as per usual, traveling in style. We were one of the few lucky families who had survived the Crash with our wealth intact—and Mama liked to make sure people knew it. So we were situated in a beautiful suite with decent-size windows and personal stewards at our beck and call. I was entertaining the idea of ringing for one and asking for a bucket.
It was then, in that bleary haze of sickness, that I heard something, almost like a far-off lullaby. It made me curious and, somehow, thirsty. I lifted my dizzy head and saw Mama turn her attention to the window as well, searching for the sound. Our eyes met for a moment, both of us needing assurance that what we were hearing was real. When we knew we weren’t alone, we focused on the window again, listening. The music was intoxicatingly beautiful, like a hymn to the devout.
Papa leaned into the room, his neck sporting a fresh bandage where he’d cut himself trying to shave during the storm. “Is that the band?” he asked. His tone was calm, but the desperation in his eyes was haunting.
“Maybe. It sounds like it’s coming from outside, doesn’t it?” Mama was suddenly breathless and eager, one hand on her neck as she swallowed excitedly. “Let’s go see.” She hopped up and grabbed her sweater. I was shocked. She hated being in the rain.
“But Mama, your makeup. You just said—”
“Oh, that,” she said, brushing me off and shrugging her arms into an ivory cardigan. “We’ll only be gone a moment. I’ll have time to fix it when we get back.”
“I think I’ll stay.” I was just as drawn to the music as the rest of them, but the clammy feeling on my face reminded me how close I was to being sick. Leaving our room couldn’t be a good idea in my state, and I curled up a little tighter, resisting the urge to stand up and follow.
Mama turned back and met my eyes. “I’d feel better if you were by my side,” she said with a smile.
Those were my mother’s last words to me.
Even as I opened my mouth to protest, I found myself standing up and crossing the cabin to follow her. It wasn’t just about obeying anymore. I had to get up on deck. I had to be closer to the song. If I had stayed in our room, I probably would have been trapped and gone down with the ship. Then I could have joined my family. In heaven or hell, or in nowhere, if it was all a lie. But no.
We went up the stairs, joined along the way by scores of other passengers. It was then I knew something was wrong. Some of the passengers were rushing, fighting their way through the masses, while others looked like they were sleepwalking.
I stepped into the thrashing rain, pausing just outside the threshold to take in the scene. Pressing my hands over my ears to shut out the crashing thunder and hypnotic music, I tried to get my bearings. Two men shot past me and jumped overboard without even pausing. The storm wasn’t so bad we needed to abandon ship, was it?
I looked to my youngest brother and saw him lapping up the rain, like a wildcat clawing at raw meat. When someone near him tried to do the same, they scrapped with each other, fighting over the drops. I backed away, turning to search for my middle brother. I never found him. He was lost in the crowd surging toward the water, gone before I could make sense of what I was witnessing.
Then I saw my parents, hand in hand, their backs against the railing, casually tipping themselves overboard. They smiled. I screamed.
What was happening? Had the world gone mad?
A note caught my ear, and I dropped my hands, my fear and worries fading away as the song took hold. It did seem like it would be better to be in the water, embraced by the waves instead of pelted by rain. It sounded delicious. I needed to drink it. I needed to fill my stomach, my heart, my lungs with it.
With that sole desire pulsing through me, I walked toward the metal rails. It would be a pleasure to drink myself full until every last piece of me was sated. I was barely aware of hoisting myself over the side, barely aware of anything, until the hard smack of water on my face brought me back to my senses.
I was going to die.
No! I thought as I fought to get back to the surface. I’m not ready! I want to live! Nineteen years was not enough. There were still so many foods to taste and places to visit. A husband, I hoped, and a family. All of it, everything, gone in a split second.
Really?
I didn’t have time to doubt the reality of the voice I was hearing. Yes!
What would you give to stay alive?
Anything!
In an instant, I was dragged out of the fray. It was as if an arm was looped around my waist, pulling with precision as I shot past body after body until I was free of them. I soon found myself lying on my back, staring up at three inhumanly lovely girls.
For a moment, all my horror and confusion disappeared. There was no storm, no family, no fear. All that ever had been or ever would be were these beautiful, perfect faces. I squinted, studying them, making the only guess that seemed possible.
“Are you angels?” I asked. “Am I dead?”
The closest girl, who had eyes as green as the emeralds in Mama’s earrings and brilliant red hair that billowed around her face, bent down. “You’re very much alive,” she promised, her voice tinted with a British accent.
I gaped at her. If I was still alive, wouldn’t I be feeling the scratch of salt down my throat? Wouldn’t my eyes be burning from the water? Wouldn’t I still be feeling the sting on my face from where I fell? Yet I felt perfect, complete. I was either dreaming or dead. I had to be.
In the distance, I could hear screams. I lifted my head, and just over the waves I spotted the tail of our ship as it bobbed surreally out of the water.
I took several ragged breaths, too confused to grasp how I was still breathing, all the while listening to others drown around me.
“What do you remember?” she asked.
I shook my head. “The carpet.” I searched my memories, already feeling them becoming distant and blurry. “And my mother’s hair,” I said, my voice cracking. “Then I was in the water.”
