Sirens and Other Daemon Lovers

Charles had been a strapping boxer, already elderly at the time of the note. The dog had died five years ago come Christmas week. He had been Veronique’s pet from before the marriage, but Jordan had come to love that odoriferous idiot. Yet he had barely thought of him in ages. The note, too, he had completely forgotten, along with the fact that they had always planted tulips by the south entrance, a custom buried with the animal.

“Stop,” he said.

The woman paused in midsentence.

“Read something more recent.”

She rifled through the stack and pulled out a long missive written at Easter. That letter seemed fresh. Current. Jordan relaxed onto the cushions, only then realizing that he had tightened up.

Veronique’s words should not have seemed distant, five years old or not. For them to have that quality meant that these other words, written so recently, would one day be distant as well.

Early on Sunday evening as they were engaged in the fifth long session of delving into the archives, the elf asked if they could pause.

He looked at her straight on for the first time in many hours. At some point, she had changed. A hint of darkness marred her cheeks beneath the eyes. The sheen of Véronique’s brunette locks had faded.

“You’re suffering, aren’t you?” He phrased it as a question, but it was more a statement.

“I apologize. I am failing to meet the agreement.” Her voice faltered, almost losing Véronique’s pitch and accent. “If we are to be together later tonight, it is necessary that I take a short rest.”

“Then do so,” he said. He gestured out the window, at the woods.

She rose unsteadily and made her way immediately toward the front door. Along the way, she shucked her clothing, as if even the touch of the costume of the role she was playing overwhelmed her.

Jordan’s glance roved over the familiar contours of her back, thighs, and bottom before she fled from his sight. How many times had he stared at the naked features of the body that one was modeled on? It was a sight he could never get enough of. Yet he couldn’t help but note that, in every past instance, a naked Véronique meant a Véronique approaching him. Never one running the other way.

For the next several days, Jordan attempted to follow a precise schedule. He went to the office, actively taking up matters which he had been delegating during his period of mourning. At first he felt as though he were still going through the motions, but the routine mattered. It comforted him.

He did not, however, linger overtime. He returned to the mansion before dinner each night. That was his rule. Everything in balance.

The elf met him there. Demonstrating no further stress now that she only had to maintain her human shape for a fraction of the day, she continued to be the wife he had known and loved, save that she was more cooperative, as an employee would be.

It was everything he had contracted for, and everything he had thought was necessary.

On Friday, at the close of the business day, a couple of his VPs suggested drinks at the North Star Pub. He declined, letting them go on without him. A drink sounded great, but not with the old gang. Not yet. Instead, he went alone to the bar at the Hilton.

He hadn’t gone out solo in years. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself, so he stared at the nearest television set.

His eyes glazed over while the news broadcast dragged on. He emerged from his reverie during a segment on the problems rising from an attempt to settle a clan of Outsiders in the Imperial Valley of California. Project supporters had argued that the agricultural setting would allow the elves to thrive, as well as provide them with a means of economic self-sufficiency, but the plan had failed to take into account the need of the refugees for sylvan venues. The only deep shade in the region came from buildings.

“Damn spooks. Can’t handle working an honest job,” muttered the man at the table nearest to Jordan.

“No one here asked for your opinion,” Jordan said.

The man bristled, but fell short of a confrontation, perhaps because the segment concluded with an image of an Outsider collapsed in a field, suffering convulsions for reasons no human physician could fathom. After a few tense moments, the fellow polished off his drink and left.

Jordan considered leaving as well, but he’d barely touched his Glenlivet. Though he could always find more in his liquor cabinet at home, he made it a practice never to rush a single malt Scotch.

The amber liquid was half gone when a tall, well-dressed young woman ambled by. She stopped.

“That seat free?” she asked.

Jordan shrugged. “Sure.”

She joined him. “My name’s Angie. You?”

He was going to beg off conversation, but she was straightforward, appealing in manner as well as in body. He gave her his first name.

“What do you do?” she asked.

“A little of everything,” he said guardedly. “I work for Welles and Haggard across the street.”

“You’re kidding,” she said brightly. “I’m an attorney. I’ve done some research on tariff regulations for your firm.”