On silver shores, p.1
On Silver Shores, page 1
On Silver Shores
V.T. Hoang
Copyright © 2024 by V.T. Hoang
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Book Cover by V.T. Hoang
1st edition 2024
For my therapist–
This is what I did instead of seeing you. My bad.
Contents
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
About The Author
Books In This Series
CONTENT WARNINGS
Content warnings available at the end of the book.
CHAPTER ONE
Carver was one hundred sixty-four years old—much too young to die. But then again, that had never stopped him from trying to throw himself into death’s embrace. This time seemed promising enough, as he bled onto damp concrete. A dark sky hung overhead. Thunder rumbled distantly. Raindrops fell on him and diluted the crimson streams flowing from the hole in his chest.
One of his lungs had collapsed. The other was full of blood. He could normally hold his breath for forty-five minutes—maybe fifteen with blood loss—so breathing wasn’t as big an issue as the poison metal in his chest. It burned like someone had lit a fire between his ribs, and it prevented him from healing. Maybe he really would die here.
No, he’d never be that lucky.
He glanced to his side where his attacker lay unmoving. The giant wolf looked out of place, lying dead on a green lawn in the suburbs. Her gray fur was soaked. Blood still seeped from where Carver’s knife was lodged in her neck. Her gun lay in the grass by her hind legs. She’d shot him while still in humanoid form, and then transitioned into a wolf after he’d knocked the weapon from her hands. Her claws had taken a decent chunk out of his leg.
All the houses around them were dark and quiet. The low, distant rumble of thunder sounded overhead, followed by a flash of light and another boom.
“The storm should have concealed the gunshot.”
Thomas’ deep voice floated through the air before he crouched down. The rain didn’t touch him. His white button-down was dry, and the dark trousers held up by black suspenders didn’t have a drop of water on them. Silvery lines cut through his umber skin along his forearms. Soft streaks of gray twisted through his beard and in the short, black curls atop his head. Gentle, brown eyes peered down at Carver.
“I did tell you not to go alone, love,” Thomas said softly. “You get shot far too much.”
Carver pointedly stared up at the sky, away from his husband.
“Oh, are you going to pout now about this entirely predictable and preventable state of affairs?”
Carver’s indignant grunt made blood well from his mouth.
Thomas’ eyes flicked up before he disappeared from view at the next flash of lightning. As thunder boomed and then faded, the click of high heels over wet pavement joined the patter of the rain.
“Oh, dear. What have we here?”
The smoky voice wrapped in an Imperial accent reminded Carver of whiskey and fire and sin—all things the Professor often indulged in. He peered up at her. A black trench coat hung from her shoulders. Red stilettos covered her dainty feet. A matching red dress hugged every curve of her figure. She didn’t look older than twenty-five, like most preternaturals. In truth, she was forty-one times Carver’s age. The rain had soaked her short, black hair, so it fell over her right eye. Her irises were almost gold—a light amber that wasn’t natural. Carver could never stare at them too long. There was something incredibly ancient about her eyes, as if they had witnessed the rise and downfall of empires. They probably had.
His boss always knew how to make an entrance. They’d only been working together for six months now, but she had already made an impression so profound that just looking at her filled him with equal parts exasperation and relief. It was unexpected really. He hadn’t felt much of anything for the better part of a century, yet this enigmatic woman had inspired a sort of aggravated, begrudging fondness in him. Perhaps he should have been more respectful. She was one of the oldest creatures walking the earth. He must have seemed an infant to her, and yet she went through life with an almost childlike delight. She was probably amused by this whole situation.
“Would you like a hand, dear boy?” she asked with her usual cheer.
“Grgh,” Carver gurgled, which roughly meant ‘What the fuck do you think?’
“So sassy,” the Professor muttered and bent over him.
He mentally braced himself when she pressed her hand against the hole in his chest. Two fingers slid into the wound, and an involuntary convulsion compressed his throat. He wanted to scream, but the only thing that escaped him was blood. It dribbled out of his mouth as fresh pain spread through his chest.
“Easy,” the Professor said gently.
She dug deeper and deeper until she grasped the twisted metal lodged in his lung.
The burn of the bullet, paired with the pressure of her fingers, made Carver’s vision blacken. She was careful in easing the metal from him. The moment it left his body, iciness filled his chest, easing the pressure in it. Rain soaked into the wound. His collapsed lung healed in an instant. The shredded flesh of his chest mended together with the water’s aid. Carver found the strength to turn onto his side and cough out the blood from his lungs.
“Feel better?” the Professor asked, even though she knew the answer. “You’re lucky it’s raining. I hate having to break open fire hydrants for you.”
“I appreciate your help,” he grumbled unappreciatively.
“Yes, well, I was having a lovely evening with my partners at a soiree when you called.” She glanced at the dead lycanthrope. “It seems you didn’t really need me anyway.”
Carver arched a brow. “I was shot.”
“Oh, did you not want to die?”
He paused a moment, considering the question, and then shrugged. She had him there.
“Sometimes I don’t know when you’re joking,” she muttered with a sigh.
That made two of them.
She pulled him to his feet when he finished coughing up blood. He shuffled toward the wolf and crouched to inspect her body. In this form, she rivaled him in length at over six feet, and she was probably twice his weight in muscle alone. He pulled his knife from her neck and wiped the blade on his pants before sliding it into the holster at his hip. The blood that welled in the open wound dyed her fur bright red.
“This is the one that escaped the prison transport, isn’t it?” the Professor said as she stepped around the wolf.
Carver nodded. “She was incorrectly tagged as a vampire. Sonic restraints did nothing, and she got out.”
He coughed. Blood welled up his throat and burned through his nose. His hands shook as he wiped at his face and stood on unsteady feet.
“I need to get back to the Court,” he muttered, thinking of all the paperwork he’d have to fill out for this incident. “I didn’t get anything out of the wolf before we fought.”
The Professor looked him over. “My dear, please know I mean this with the utmost respect, but you look like a drowned rat. You’re going to go home and rest. I will go to the Court and complete your paperwork.”
He grimaced, annoyed at being dismissed so readily. “I’m fine now. The rain—”
“Is insufficient. I know how hungry you are, dear. You are not your best, and you will not be until you feed.” She waved a hand dismissively at him. “Go rest. That is an order.”
Once again, Carver coughed up blood, his traitorous body struggling to heal completely.
“Fine,” he bit out.
“And do clean yourself up,” the Professor said and peeled the bloody lapel of his duster from his shirt. “I think this outfit might be done for.”
He glanced down at himself. Dirt and blood covered his rain-soaked clothes. He lifted his hands. The blue and gold webbing between his fingers had extended up to the top knuckles from prolonged contact with water. A waxy sheen coated his umber skin. The lightened line around his ring finger made his stomach drop. His wedding band must have fallen off in the fight, but he couldn’t say when. If it was anywhere nearby, the cleaning crew would find it. And if they didn’t… Well, maybe that was for the best.
When he looked up at the Professor, Thomas stood a few paces behind her, staring at Carver’s hand.
“That’s going to sting,” Thomas commented with a tilt of his head. “Impressive line on that finger, too.”
The Professor followed Carver’s gaze to look back over her shoulder. Her eyes narrowed before she returned her attention to him.
“What are you looking at?” she
Carver shook his head and ran a hand over his eyes. Thomas was gone when he could see again.
“Nothing, just tired,” he mumbled.
He turned without another word and headed down the sidewalk. His chest throbbed a bit, but his skin was still sucking in water. A bath would do some good.
His automobile was where he’d left it in front of a beige ranch-style house. The nondescript black hatchback had a blocky body with a spare tire on the back. It was just two years old and already had 50,000 miles on it from his biannual visits up north. His sister kept telling him to fly out, but she also hated air travel.
He climbed into his automobile and started it up. The headlights flicked on—though he didn’t need them. His eyes were designed to see into the dark depths of the ocean. Unfortunately, human cops would be wary of an auto driving through a rainy night without its headlights on, and looking as he did now, Carver would end the night with another bullet in him if he were pulled over.
“You ever going to tell her about me?” Thomas asked from the passenger seat.
Carver jumped at his husband’s sudden appearance and then let out a breath through his teeth.
“It’s none of her business,” he muttered. “Can I just drive in peace?”
Thomas waved a hand dismissively, but didn’t say anything else. He just stared out the rain-spattered window. Carver pulled away from the curb.
The streets of Vespera Bay were a maze of winding roads through uneven hills. Most of the houses were reminiscent of the colonial era, all smooth columns and boxy shapes. Honestly, they reminded him of his old home in Havitzford back in the 1700s. He’d built it with his own hands for his husband and sister. Maybe it was still standing.
His apartment complex was a rectangular mass of brick and bronze fixings. A rusted walkway led up to the second level apartments. Each door was maroon. An overhang shielded them from the rain, but puddles still amassed on uneven sections of the walkway. The first floor looked much the same. Venetian blinds hid everything beyond them in the little windows beside the doors. Across from the building was an autoport, with numbers over the spaces corresponding to the apartments.
Carver parked in space 103 and got out. His hands were shaking while he pulled his keys from his pants pocket. There was always a slight tremor in his limbs, but it got worse whenever he was starving. How long had it been since he’d last fed? Two months? The recommended frequency of feeding for sirens was at least once a week. But he didn’t feel the drive anymore. The primal lust, that delicious urge to gorge on pleasure, had been absent since 1811. The irony of it wasn’t lost on him. He was a siren, yet had spent more of his years than not disinterested in sex.
His apartment was on the first floor. He struggled to get his key into the lock from the shaking in his hands. The hunger was reaching a point where it wouldn’t be ignored. If he didn’t feed soon, his instincts would take over, and he’d ravage the nearest man in sight. That was unacceptable, even if the person likely wouldn’t have protested. A siren’s allure was near impossible to resist. Even so, rape wasn’t on Carver’s list of sins. He preferred to keep it that way.
Hardwood floors and sepia walls formed his apartment’s interior. It was wide and open, with a kitchen in one corner and a dining area beside it. A chocolate leather couch sat on the opposite side of the room. The door near the dining area led to the bedroom. It wasn’t much, but it was home.
“Mrao.”
He looked down at a black cat. She wound between his ankles while he stepped in and closed the door after himself.
“Hi, Mouna,” he murmured. “Sorry for being late. Are you hungry?”
Mouna was a tiny thing, barely eight pounds, with bright green eyes. She mewled at him and rubbed her head into his ankle. He smiled and headed to the fridge. A half-empty can of cat food sat on the top shelf. Mouna paced at his feet while he took out a plate and emptied the can onto it. She sniffed it for a while when he set it on the floor, but eventually took a bite.
He headed for the bathroom next to the living area. It was impeccably clean, as he liked to keep it. There wasn’t even a toothpaste glob in the sink. The floor tiles were a pristine white. Unblemished, olive green paint colored the walls. A phone hung above the toilet.
The mirror hanging over the sink showed the mess of tight curls atop his head. Just a century ago, he’d had to hide his natural blue hair, highlighted with bright splashes of blond. The world had changed significantly in that time, for the better in some ways. It wasn’t so long ago that his dark skin would have been regarded with outright hostility, rather than the insidious hostility of the modern age. The Republic’s racial notions were so odd—had been for several centuries. At least no one called him a mulatto anymore.
Pain abruptly shot from his ring finger to his shoulder. He rubbed the pale line around the digit with a curse. The pulses would be worse tomorrow. With any luck, they wouldn’t distract him from work, but eventually, in a few weeks maybe, he’d have to cut off the finger. If he didn’t, his nervous system would keep increasing the pain until he wouldn’t be able to function.
Thomas appeared in the bathroom entryway. He leaned on the doorframe with his arms crossed.
“The ring got pulled off in the fight with the wolf,” he said. “You could go back to look for it, unless you’re set on cutting off that finger.”
Carver ignored the comment and peeled his clothes off, leaving them in a heap on the floor. The waxy film on his skin shimmered. It was an automatic reaction to water, meant to decrease drag in the ocean. The film withered in the air, but never fully went away.
He stepped into the tub before turning on the showerhead. The spray was cold, as he preferred. Hot water for his kind was usually dangerous. Sirens preferred temperatures sub 70 degrees, which was why Vespera Bay was a convenient place to live. It rarely got above 80.
His shower was brief, intended only to scrub the dirt and blood off him, and then he switched over to the bath faucet and clicked the drain stopper in. A mason jar with sea salt sat on a corner of the tub. He poured a fair amount in the water before sitting down. Saltwater baths never felt like enough compared to the ocean’s embrace, but they were better than nothing.
Thunder shook through the floor and walls. The rainy season was starting up again. There were always a handful of thunderstorms every year, none quite so powerful or long as the ones on the southern coast, but the west in general had fairer weather. Earthquakes were far more dangerous here.
Carver ran his webbed hands through the water. The edges of his long fingers had taken a soft blue color that matched the thin membranes between them. Gold flecks spotted the webbing. His toes, long by human standards, also had webbing between them. Submerged long enough, they’d elongate into proper fins.
His banding pattern was the same blue and gold as his mother. The colors streaked across his limbs and the sides of his torso where scales lay just beneath the skin. Spines a deep blue, almost black, decorated the backs of his arms and lined the center of his back. They had barbs at the ends of them with paralytic venom, meant to stall prey long enough to consume it. The fangs retracted into his gums were designed for tearing flesh from bone. He kept his nails trimmed, but left alone, they grew into claws.
A siren’s strength didn’t lie solely in their predatorial attributes, however. No, they were feared for their allure. Everything about them, from their lean physiques to their perfectly symmetrical faces to the music of their voices, was designed to attract. Pleasure of the flesh was their real sustenance, not the meat itself.
Thomas sat beside the tub with a heavy sigh. The gold band around his left ring finger shimmered in the dim overhead lights. The muscle of many years of labor corded along his forearms and strained against the fabric of his shirt. Calluses from swinging hammers to hot metal covered his palms.
“You need to feed soon,” he remarked. “I’m sorry it can’t be me.”
Carver took a deep breath. The Court provided consorts for their siren employees. He had been resisting going, but with the gunshot wound, he would probably have to soon, lest he risk losing his control. The first couple times he’d fed after his mate died had felt like a betrayal. He’d vomited afterward. Time had lessened the revulsion, but had done little in returning Carver’s appetite. It would have been easier if he’d died with his mate like most sirens.
