Page 75 of The Gargoyle and the Songbird

I force myself to take a breath, to remember why I’m here. For years, I’ve been running from my siren heritage, terrified that fully embracing my powers would mean becoming like Deandra—selfish, flighty, unreliable.

Our heart-to-heart at the Orc’s Anvil shifted something in me. For the first time, I’m starting to see my mother as a whole person, flaws and all.

And if she can find the courage to face her demons, then surely I can do the same.

Squaring my shoulders, I rap my knuckles against the door, the sound echoing in the empty hallway.

There’s a beat of silence, then the click of a lock and the creak of hinges. And suddenly, Deandra is standing before me, her violet eyes—so like my own—wide with surprise.

“Ecco,” she says. “I didn’t expect... Please, come in.”

She steps aside, ushering me into the small apartment. It’s sparsely furnished, modern but impersonal. A vase of fresh flowers on the windowsill, the only splash of color in an otherwise drab space.

I realize with a pang that Deandra never really made herself a home here—even after all these years.

Deandra gestures for me to sit, her movements graceful and fluid even in this cramped space. I perch on the edge of the sofa, my hands twisting nervously in my lap.

“I’m glad to see you,” Deandra says, settling into the armchair across from me. “I wasn’t sure where your head was at after our last conversation, and I’ve been hoping…” She trails off, and looks away, taking a breath. Clearly this is tough for her, too. She looks back at me. “I’ve been hoping you’d want to keep talking.”

I nod. “I want to learn,” I manage, my voice steadier than I feel. “About my powers, about what it means to be a siren. I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”

Deandra’s answering smile is radiant, transforming her face into something stunningly beautiful.

“Oh, my darling girl,” she murmurs, reaching over to clasp my hands in hers. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say those words.”

She squeezes my hands gently before releasing them, leaning back in her chair.

“The first thing you need to understand,” Deandra begins, her tone taking on a more serious note, “is that all sirens have slightly different abilities, just like any other magical species.”

My mind races as I try to absorb every word. This is the knowledge I’ve been craving, the piece of myself I’ve been missing for so long.

Deandra continues, her hands moving in expressive gestures as she speaks. “Everyone sees our main power as seduction, and it’s certainly true that there’s a lot of power in that direction. You’d be surprised how helpful it can be, honestly?—”

She sees my sharp look and switches gears hastily.

“But anyway, that’s not entirely accurate. Our true power lies in influencingemotions—emotions of any kind, and different sirens have different specialties.”

“Influencing emotions?” I ask. “What does that mean, exactly?”

Deandra smiles knowingly. “It means, my dear, that we can make people feel things. Joy, sorrow, desire, fear… all of it is within our grasp.”

It’s a heady thought, the idea of wielding that kind of power.

“But how do we do it?” I ask doubtfully, remembering the escapades of my youth. “Without losing control? How do we make sure we don’t hurt anyone?”

Deandra’s tone is brisk. “That, my darling, is the true challenge of being a siren. It takes practice, discipline, and a whole lot of trial and error to see what works best for you. But there are things you can do to get started.”

She rises from her chair, crossing the room to a small bookshelf tucked into the corner. Her fingers skim over the spines of the books, finally settling on a battered tome with a deep green cover. She pulls it from the shelf, a cloud of dust rising in its wake.

“This,” Deandra says, holding the book out to me, “is where you begin.”

I take the book from her hands, the leather cover cool and smooth beneath my fingertips. The pages are yellowed and brittle with age, the ink faded but still legible. I’m probably being silly, but it’s like I can sense the weight of history in my hands, the secrets of generations of sirens bound within these pages.

I want to dig in immediately, but I know I won’t be able to focus here, in this space that’s full of so many memories.

Instead, I stand, hugging the book to my chest.

“Thank you, Mom.” The word is unfamiliar on my tongue after calling her “Deandra” for so many years, but it seems right to try.

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