Sirens and Other Daemon Lovers

Adelaide is crying quietly. Why are you crying? I want to ask her. Does she cry for my brother? Does she cry for me? But I have no energy for words. I kiss her goodbye and I lie back on the bed, knowing that I will not be alone for long.

In the Season of Rains Ellen Steiber

…Wild cats will meet hyenas there,
The satyrs will call to each other,
There Lilith shall repose
And find her a place of rest

—ISAIAH 34:14

IT WAS THE GARDEN that drew her. A garden of desert flowers. Hidden among sweet herbs and citrus were those she loved best, the flowers that opened only to the moon: evening primrose and sacred datura and the jagged white petals of night-blooming cereus. The garden was heady with scent. She had only to touch her foot to the earth and the air was sweet with sage and rosemary. She had lived in deserts for many generations now, and for more years than even she could count she had longed for that first garden.

So she appeared in his. He heard the noise out back behind the house, and was sure one of the cats had gotten out or a rabbit in. He opened the screen door and strained to see into the shadows. He listened more carefully. The crickets who’d fallen silent when he stepped onto the porch began singing again.

He did a quick mental inventory of cats. The old tom was asleep in the living room; the tiger stripe in the kitchen, eating. Which meant it was the little black female.

“Seena!” he called. He’d named her for an ex-girlfriend. Like the woman, the cat demanded great affection and endless indulgence, but over time the cat had proven more endearing.

And more responsive. He called her again. It was unusual for her not to answer.

Something moved inside the garden gates. He stepped into the yard, surprised as always by the softness of the summer night. He rarely came out to the garden after sunset. He’d water at dawn before work, and do the occasional weeding and trimming on weekends.

The garden hadn’t been his idea at all but a legacy from another girlfriend, Cassie, who couldn’t stand the sight of his barren yard and had decided to do something about it. It made him uncomfortable, actually, that Cassie had worked so hard on his land. Still, it had made her happy at the time and he’d ignored the premonitions of obligation as long as he could. Eventually, after she put in the star jasmine and the gardenia, but before she could plant the wisteria that was meant to wind round the trellis, he broke it off. She was giving him gifts he could never repay, and it had to stop before he fell too deeply into her debt. So he told her it was over and he sent her from his house and her garden. He still missed her sometimes. Cassie was a sweet one. But it was cleaner this way. He had no regrets. And now he had a garden that bore the imprint of one who loved the earth and knew how to work it, one who knew how to coax life from the desert’s parched ground.

He heard the sound again. It was an animal but not Seena, he decided. Whatever it was, was wearing some sort of bell. He called the cat again and was answered by a woman’s laughter, low and throaty and mocking.

She came toward him and he honestly couldn’t tell if she was walking or dancing or floating above the ground. She moved slowly, her body swaying lightly as though the evening wind moved through her. She had long, glossy black hair that shone in the moonlight and a body that was too full to be fashionable—high, full breasts, a long waist with a round stomach, and stocky, muscled legs. She wore a white gauzy skirt tied just above her pubic bone, and he realized that what he’d thought were bells were tiny golden disks sewn to the skirt. Brighter disks hung from her ears and from the bangles on her wrists. She was barefoot, bare-chested, bare-armed, and she faced him without shame or surprise.

“Who are you?” he asked. When she didn’t answer, he tried his first language, Spanish. “Quién es?”

“I came to enjoy your garden,” she replied. Her English was accented, an accent he didn’t recognize.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said.

She smiled. “I’ve told you what you need to know.” She gestured to the garden. “Did you plant it?”

“No,” he admitted. “Except for the birds of paradise.”

She regarded the delicate plants with scorn. “They’re not doing well.

You bruised them when you planted them, and then you gave them too much water. The poor things are waterlogged.”

He didn’t doubt his senses. He was a scientist, trained to make accurate observations. He rubbed his forehead, knowing full well that this was real and yet unable to make sense of it.

“Who are you?” he asked again.

“How long has it been since you’ve lain with a woman?” she countered. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it. Nearly half a year. And you wake up hard and frustrated and you tell yourself it’s better that way. Easier.”