SirensCall Read Free

hair coiled down
his back in a braid and his ears were long and pointed, his teeth sharp. The
guitarist was a satyr, the guitar cradled in the crook of his misshapen legs.
His horns gleamed under the spotlight and his eyes danced with wicked promises
of what he’d do if he got you in bed. A normal-looking guy stood behind the
drums, albeit straight out of GQ. His appearance was a bit off, though—maybe
it was the predatory gaze he swept over the crowd, or how his teeth appeared
too perfect. And there was not a strand of his gelled hair out of place.
    In the back, their bassist—who was at least six feet
tall—hunched over his bright-blue bass. I squinted, trying to discern what he
was.
    The sleeves ripped off his t-shirt displayed muscled arms,
the lean kind a swimmer would have. His dark hair fell in waves to his
shoulders, curling around his ears. The greenish hue to his skin could’ve been
from the blue lights, but I didn’t think so. He had color that the others didn’t
and along his throat, I caught slits opening and closing. Gills? His light-blue
eyes roamed over the audience with a hungry curiosity that made me shiver.
    Mr. Sexy Voice stepped up to the mic and the music began.
    From the start, the blend of guitar with heavy bass and the
slow crescendo of the drums created a unique sound. These guys were talented,
I’d give them that. A little more aggressive rock than punk, but it didn’t
matter. Not after watching the crowd’s reaction.
    It was as if Underwater Machine had leveled a pheromone bomb
through the place.
    The spell was cast from the fae’s compelling voice, the
satyr thrusting against the guitar, the succubus’ stare pinning guys down right
and left. And the bassist—he had to be a siren with the way the plucked notes
of his bass held the audience captive.
    These folks bred off sexual energy and they had a whole
basement of humans ripe for the picking. And hell, every human in the place
made themselves as ripe as possible.
    With the sole exception of me.
    The strains were slow, pumping faster and faster as the
crowd began responding. At most concerts, fans will get into the music. Guys
and girls backing their thangs up, or chicks throwing themselves at their
dreamboat on stage. Not like this. Forget the players on stage—everyone
responded to the music as if a climax hit them at the end of every guitar
chord.
    Beads of sweat slid down my neck from the rise of heat in
the room.
    A chick near the bar grabbed the man next to her and began
making out, her tongue down his throat and barely stopping for air.
    Two guys, burlier ones, started tonguing too, aggressive to
the point of banging against the wall. Mere feet from me, two neon-haired
punkers began toying with a girl on the floor. She’d kiss one of them and then
slide her hand down the other’s pants, beginning to pump. A guy had ditched his
pants, his erection stark in the room. A couple of seconds later a woman
wrapped her lips around it and started sucking.
    Despite my ability to brave the lust waves and not fall on
my knees, my chaste stint combined with the free porn show in front of me
wasn’t helping temper my libido at all. The weirdos on stage were drinking in
all this sexual chi too.
    Their energy increased the longer they kept this up,
swinging with their instruments, shoulders straightening and the air around
them pulsing with an off-hue glow like the flyer. Their music followed the
waves of energy and the human audience lapped it up. Well, and each other.
    I turned to Viola to see how my girl was faring, but she’d
lost herself in one of those gorgeous lanky bastards I’d checked out earlier.
The guy had lifted her off the ground and was holding her up by her ass. Her
legs twined around his thin torso and she leaned up, lips exploring his mouth,
his neck, his chest.
    This level of voyeurism was uncomfortable. Being the only
one not falling prey to mind-numbing lust and too moral to dive right in
knowing these humans were