BrittleNeck island falls quiet. Its crowds have retreated back into their homes for the night—only the brave ones, and the foolish sailors that drink copious amounts of ale on their ship’s decks, can be found outside. For once, these men will be spared. By Angela and Zoey, at least.

The two sirens swim past creaking ships and burly laughter. Their gills flutter in unison, causing bubbles to rise to the surface of the sea. “Urgh,” Zoey cringes. “Old wood reeks. I hate these ships.” 

“Okay, but it’ll never be as terrible as the scent of sailors who have not bathed in months,” Angela adds.

Her friend laughs as they continue to make their rounds and circle the island. “Definitely the worst part of this job,” Zoey mutters.

As they arrive closer to the place where Angela had last seen the young man, they both fall silent, and speak no more. It may be a tad difficult for them to spot their target immediately, for although Angela remembers quite clearly what he had looked like from behind—wavy, deep-clementine hair; freckles atop his forearms, where a light chemise sat, rolled up across his elbows; brown boots that were rather worn, just like his outfit, which resembled that of a nomad’s—the siren was unable to get a glimpse of his face.

“Wouldn’t it be easier if you sang to draw him out?” Zoey hisses.

But Angela shakes her head. “He will not come,” she tells her friend. “It would be of no use to us.”

After much talk of their next move, Zoey decides to take the left side of this deserted part of BrittleNeck’s coast, whilst Angela agrees she will explore the right.

For now, they split up.

Overgrown flora feast on the full moon’s light that casts white shimmers into the dawdling waves. For the instance of a second, something wriggles in the bushes risen before Angela’s gaze. She retreats, a little further away, then dives slightly into the water that hugs her body close like a warm blanket of small, salt crystals.

A hand appears atop one of the leaves. Its pale, freckled form pushes the greenery out of the way. 

And, there he is—as if summoned—the young man from before, who had refused to hear her calls. His eyes are quite the peculiar kind. Beneath his mid-long hair, one of them has been filled with milky whites, while the other is as green as the forest itself. The colors inside them are not equal. They resemble the shape of a wave. Specks of them are intertwined, like the man’s fingers that are now threaded through his apricot locks.

He gasps as Angela glares at him. However, he does not run away. She figures it is now or never. She will sing, softly, and he will step out, onto thin air, then fall to his grave that will be the ocean, his place of resting, forevermore.

Angela parts her lips. She wonders if he has noticed the bleak blackness in her eyes devoid of light, the teal that tints her fingertips, the way her lips have a tendency to turn crimson when the sky is dark—a strange contrast, when she considers that her skin is of a pale, sickly blue. Ocean Spirit, the first human that had laid eyes on her called her. Soon though, that name was changed to Sea Witch, and it stuck to her like a common limpet would; Angela still does not know how she feels about this, or if it is worth feeling anything at all. It is truly odd, she finds, that she is the only one of her kind to have gotten such treatment. A reputation.

Crystal-clear notes slither past her throat, then sink into the deep cries of impatient crickets, who lay in wait next to vines which climb up ancient, elderly trees. The young man continues to observe Angela with great fascination. He rests his hand against old bark. 

He does, in fact, come forth. But this victory is not anything Angela can rejoice in. The young man’s steps are enough for his brown boots to knock over gravel, though, too little for the man to actually take a dip into these deadly waters.

Yet, not even the best of warlocks can resist her song—Angela is sure of this, for she ate these men for breakfast right when she was just learning the trade of hunting, in order to survive. In order to not become the hunted. So, she believes this is a fickle trick. Perhaps the man is merely pretending, or he has something stuck in his ear. Yes, that would explain his odd behavior better.

She sings, louder. And hears ships creak and depart from BrittleNeck’s port. Yet, the man still does not move. So, Angela continues. Pours her soul out into what may very well become her best performance. 

And it is exhilarating, because usually, the Sea Witch must cease this noise once her victim has been impaled on her claws; it is never good manners, to speak when one’s mouth is full. But here, she is free to make her call as wild, and as lengthy, as she yearns for it to be. 

It is the most amazing of feelings—that is, until Angela’s breath is lost to the night. Her gills beg for air. Her heart, for answers. Who is he? 

“Who are you?” she asks the man.

Finally, this time—somehow—she gets a reaction out of him. Though, it is not the one the Siren would have hoped for. 

The young man squints as if to stare at her a tad better. He raises his arms into the air. Angela tenses then, recoils, under the impression that he may attack.

He does not.

The man draws strange signs into the air between them with his fingers. His hands move swiftly—every now and then, he will repeat certain motions, whilst others, never return.

The gestures remind Angela of the ocean. She, too, finds herself oddly fascinated by what she sees. And if she did not know any better, he is now the one, hypnotizing her.

Once the man has finished with his odd business, he pauses, glares at Angela, then shows her a cheeky grin.

Behind them, the sailors that had been enthralled by Angela’s song come to their senses and quickly lead their ships back to the shore once more. 

Angela’s fingers tap impatient rhythms into the sea. She clicks her tongue—a habit she should break, really. She clears her throat. “Aren’t you afraid?” the way she asks this is a miserable attempt at understanding the situation currently unfolding before her eyes. Angela definitely isn’t proud at the fact that she has run so low on potential options to take with this young man.

Again, the man’s hands start dancing. Angela should be salivating at the mere thought of ripping off his fingers right now. Yet, she isn’t. She cannot possibly be—not when this fool is mocking her, for goodness sake!

Something is wrong. With her. With him.

At the fear that this may be a trap, Angela decides to hold back for now on the idea of making this man her next snack. Zoey is still nearby; there is no need to endanger her, when this is not her good friend’s fight.

Angela dives back deep into the ocean, and swims across to where she had left Zoey.

Tomorrow, she will return alone for him. And she will sing. And it will be right.