A Siren's Obsession

Lightning cracked across the sky, thunder boomed right after, and the rain slammed into the ground as if the world had been flipped upside down, allowing the sea to pour from the sky. Your overconfidence will become the death of you, she could hear her mother say.

Irys had followed Odysseus through his castle, aroused by the carnage in his wake. His bloodlust called to her own, and with every lifeless body strewn across the floor, her love for him deepened. Stepping over severed limbs, pools of blood, and soulless stares, she could see the life they would have together. One involving inspiring endless fear over those they ruled, using this very moment as proof they were not to be messed with.

The scent of death filled her nose, and her eyes rolled to the back of her head with pleasure. “Overconfidence, fear, anger, and submission.” She could smell the final moments of the suitors who fawned over his wife. Irys’s gaze danced over the walls, splattered and decorated with the blood of his enemies and her pawns. The massacre before her confirmed everything she claimed to know about Odysseus.

They were meant for each other. She had a hand in shaping him into the king he needed to be for her, and he would appreciate the measures she took to help him along the way. She knew she couldn’t take credit for all of it; Scylla’s rage instilling distrust in his crew helped, and Circe’s flash of passionate visions set him up for Irys. Now, all she had to do was find him, rekindle the visions, and use the Locket of Lust she received from Aphrodite.

Tempted to call out for him, she remained quiet as she walked through the bloodbath, the scene twisting her stomach with need for the creator of this beautiful scene. Her heeled boots clopped and squished with every step in the puddles as she continued down the halls, though the rolling thunder and pouring rain silenced the sound of her steps.

She arrived at a two-way split in the palace hallway. To the left, she could see a straight path leading to a dead end, dimly lit by the fading daylight, lightning illuminating the minimal destruction. To the right was a winding staircase. Torches lit the way, reflecting the trail of blood coming from the top of the white marble steps. This had to have been the way he went; she assumed it led the way to his wife, knowing the protective man Odysseus has shown himself to be. The thought of him protecting, defending, and fighting for Irys made her want to find him fast and claim him as ravenously as her body would allow. “I’m coming for you, my Odysseus.”

Taking the steps one at a time, she carried her regal figure with seduction masking her features. She imagined the things they would do, both as intimate partners and as Patriarch and Matriarch of the Ancient Line. Those who stood in their way would end up the same as the men littering the ground around her: bleeding, gouged, slaughtered, regretting their decisions to cross either one of them. Power would be in the palms of their joined hands, the world ripe for the taking. She could give him anything and everything, and he would do the same for her.

She followed the trail of dead men, entertained by the remains of weak men. Along the way, she kept count of the bodies left behind. “86 so far,” she noted to herself, pleased with Odysseus’s work. “Yet, 22 remain.” She remembered sending Helena, her second-in-command, and six other women in her chorus to inspire 108 men to pursue Odysseus’ wife. Nothing more than pawns in her game of chess, though it seems they didn’t complete their task.

Failure wasn’t tolerated in her eyes. Her obsession with Odysseus grew, as it seemed his tolerance for shortcomings and betrayals were as low as hers. Coming to a stop outside the door she assumed was the entrance to their bedroom, judging by the pile of bodies around the door, she stood at attention and readied herself. “Ahh, here’s the last 22 meaningless lumps.”

She willed the blood off of her boots, rhinestone flames glittering from the flashes of lightning, her long, tanned legs shimmering from the dew of the rain blowing in through the open balcony-style hallway. Her short, black, leather jumper hugged her curves in all the right places, peeping enough of her cleavage to kickstart any man’s imagination. The black leather, rhinestone-studded jacket protecting her arms and neck hung perfectly along her delicate frame, providing an air of superiority.

Pulling out her compact mirror, she observed the state of her face. It wasn’t too bad; she definitely had some bags from lack of sleep. Easy fix. She willed the sparkle of her scales to show along her cheekbones, giving her an ethereal glow. As a last touch, she clasped the Locket of Lust around her neck, the lust of Aphrodite surging through her. She felt presentable enough to face Odysseus. Unstoppable and irresistible.

Until she heard the giggle coming from behind the door.

Penelope.

She’d forgotten about the slight hitch in her plan. Penelope still needed to be dealt with, but it sounded like it was too late to handle her without Odysseus knowing about it.

“I think we can work with this new you,” a deep, feminine voice said. “You’ll find your way back to me, I’m not worried.” Bingo. Irys had her opening.

She burst through the bedroom door and without hesitation, Odysseus drew his bloodied blade and positioned himself in front of Penelope. He was quick, but not quicker than Irys.

“Ody, there you are!” Irys giddily called out from across the room, her voice thick and sweet like honey, speaking as if she’d finally found him after a game of tag. She started off careful with her power of persuasion, giving him room to drop his weapon on his own. “I’ve been searching the Grecian Seas for you, dear. Gotta say, you don’t make it easy to find you. But I suppose it’s part of what makes you perfect, wouldn’t you agree?”

“What do you want?” He barked, the tension in his voice dripping with warning. She breathed an airy laugh and slowly sauntered towards him, the corner of her mouth rising in a cocky grin.

“Haven’t you guessed already?” She teased. “The Great Tactician, known for besting the worst the Grecian Seas have to offer,” she was halfway to him now. “Possibly the smartest king throughout the history of Ithaca. Do you deny any of these allegations?” He glared at Irys, keeping a protective arm around Penelope who was cowering behind him. “You really don’t know why I’m here?”

“If the tales of my adventures are so well known, why do you bother searching for me? Looking at my history, it won’t be easy to defeat me.”

“Defeat you?” Irys drew a hand to her chest, just beneath the hem of her jumper, and shot him a look of offense. The expression melted back into her sultry gaze and she laughed. She closed the short distance and reached him, gently pushing the sword away with the back of her hand. He was looking into her eyes, which was all she needed. “No, defeating you isn’t my goal, Ody.” She allowed her hand to drop along the edge of the sword, finding its way to Odysseus’s hand, grazing his rough and calloused skin. “In fact, I don’t have any intention of proving I’m better than you. I have something better in mind.”

He lowered his sword but remained on guard. Irys carefully drew him away from Penelope, already having separated them by an inch. “What do you mean?” he asked carefully, his voice low and rough. It sent shivers through her spine. Irys began to circle him like an eagle circling its next meal. In a sense, he was.

“You are the king of Ithaca now. But, with my help, you could have more. What if you had control over the entire Grecian Seas and its surrounding islands?” The offer to make while he’s awake. He didn’t provide a response, just sighed in thought. Her hand had traveled up to his shoulder, and she committed every bulge of his arm, every muscle beneath her fingers to memory. She began to ache for the moment he would belong to her in every way possible.

“How is this achieved?” he asked. “What would I have to give up?”

“Who said you had to give anything up?” she returned, eyeing the bedroom window behind Penelope. Irys remembered seeing a drop from the window and knew it would be enough to snap a mortal’s neck. Dividing her power, she willed Penelope to stay silent and move towards the window to jump. Penelope’s eyes glazed over with obedience and, slumping as if she were defeated, she turned around and shuffled towards the window. Irys continued.

“If anything, you would do nothing but gain.”

“Just because I’m gaining, it does not mean I’m losing.”

Irys grinned wickedly. “You’d gain all the islands this world has to offer, men to command, wars you can start and end at will, another wife and warm body in your bed, as many heirs to your throne as you can imagine, not to mention enough power to rival that of a god. Poseidon, for example.”

Odysseus went rigid and his response came out slurred and slightly unfocused. Irys checked his deep, sunken green eyes, seeing they had glazed over. Her spell was working on him. She turned to check, and saw Penelope was grasping the edge of the window, swaying as if debating whether it was a good idea to leap out of the window. Irys began to grow impatient and bore down on Penelope’s willpower with her magic, making the forced feelings of despair and betrayal too heavy to bear.

“Why would I want another wife? Penelope is enough for me” He turned to face Irys behind him and caught a glimpse of Penelope standing on the edge of the window. The glaze slid away from his eyes, and he drew his sword to Irys’s throat. “Penelope, stop!”

Irys didn’t react to the threat, and Penelope didn’t move from her spot on the ledge. “You may want another wife after your dear Penelope throws herself from the window. And who can blame her? After watching her beloved husband make love to another woman in their wedding bed, no one came blame her for jumping. It isn’t something most women can easily come back from, you know?”

“I’ve never touched you, witch!” he spat in her face, making Irys’s need for him only grow stronger. She needed this side of him. Just a little more pushing, and he would be hers.

“Not yet, you haven’t,” she taunted in a seductive whisper. Quicker than he could blink, Irys disarmed Odysseus and spun them around, landing on the bed with Irys straddling him. “But trust me, my love. It won’t take much for you to want me. And once you do touch me, you won’t be able to get enough. I can make you forget all about Penelope; I can be everything you ever need.” She stretched herself on top of him and watched his eyes flicker to Penelope, then widened with fright as they filled with tears, chest heaving in panic. He had to have watched her jump from the window and threw his head back with resignation. She grasped his wrists and trapped them over his head with one hand; he couldn’t move. She traced his rugged features with the tips of her fingers, memorizing the tingling sensation beneath her skin. “With her out of the way, you can have everything within your grasp. All you need to do is vow to be mine until your dying breath, and I will vow to do the same. Love me the way I know you do. Be the Patriarch of our Flock, make me your Matriarch, and lead this magical world with me.”

Their bodies were flush against one another and she adjusted her hips, drawing a groan from his throat. But he wouldn’t look at her. That’s okay, she thought. He’ll come around with time. She placed kisses along his neck and his muscles tensed, inviting her to nip at him with her teeth. He groaned again and tried to struggle against her wrists, though the fight in him was starting to fade. She used his momentary weakness to give her voice and actions everything she had. “Kiss me, Odysseus.” She commanded.

He fought her influence, turning his head towards her but refusing to open his eyes. “N-n-no,” he ground out.

“Ody,” she said in a sad, sing-song tone, disguising her voice to sound like Penelope. “Please kiss me, my love. I’ve missed you after so many years. Why won’t you look at me?”

His eyes watered as they slowly opened, and she knew she had him. He may have been seeing his, now, dead wife, but she’ll fix him over time.

That’s all she needed. Time. She’ll have an abundance of it. He wrenched a hand free from her grasp and pulled her down, their lips crashing together in the most beautiful song of moans Irys had ever heard. She finally had him. He’d bound himself to her with their kiss; she felt all the love he had for her, and she drank it in.

He pulled away from her and held her face in his hands, watching her as he caught his breath. “You are not my wife.” She didn’t have time to be confused. Before she could ask, a sharp pain sprouted from her throat. She couldn’t swallow and her voice came out raspy.

“What—” He flipped them over and put himself on top of her, a knife at her throat, making the pain worse. In the reflection of the blade, she could see the cause of her pain. She’d been stabbed with a bone.

A rib bone. Right through her vocal cords. “You were smart to catch me without wax in my ears, but not quick enough to notice my son was in the room next door.” She looked over and found another young man, Telemachus, with an older woman, Penelope, underneath his arm. “Telemachus could hear your persuasion working on me, so he stuffed his ears with the last of my wax. But you were so engrossed with defiling me, you didn’t notice he’d taken the rib of a man and came up behind you. You became too confident, and it became the death of you.”

“Ody,” she gargled, feeling her blood fill her lungs. Her mother’s words coming out of his mouth stung worse than the pain she was enduring. “I don’t understand, I thought you loved me.”

Odysseus released a humorless laugh. “What made you think such a hideous thing?”

“Your determination, your raw anger, it sang to me. I could feel it in my soul.” She pleaded with her eyes for him to save her.

“You’re a Siren, and one of the Ancient Line.” He stated flatly. “You don’t have a soul.”

“I did,” she argued weakly, coughing up blood. “You made me feel something other than anger and rage. When a siren feels anything else, their souls begin to form. I fell in love with you when you first sailed by my island.” For the first time, she noticed something on his face she wasn’t used to seeing. Shock. Confusion. “Did Athena never tell you this?”

“Of course not,” he rebutted. “It wouldn’t have mattered; I needed to get home to—”

“Penelope, yes, I know,” she finished, still able to find some irritation to sprinkle into her dying breath. She changed the subject, refusing his goal as the last thing she’d heard. “Can you at least tell me one thing?”

“What?” His voiced echoed in her ears. Everything started fading, her sight, her hearing, her sense of smell, but she swore she could hear a hint of regret in his voice. Regret for what though, she would never know.

“Was there anything about me you found lovable or worthy of you?”

His response was too delayed. By the time he spoke up, she couldn’t hear his words, just the garbling baritone of his voice. The light faded from her eyes, and she drowned in her own blood. The last thought she had was of being in Odysseus’ arms, and finally understanding the difference between love and obsession.

He would never be hers.