Chapter Text
The morning mist over the port of New Orleans burned with the scent of faith. The young cult leader Vox sat with his two business partners under a canopy by the docks, watching his bustling followers prepare the so-called offerings for the ship.
"Voxxy~ You promise this voyage will smoothly demonstrate your so-called 'miracle'?" asked Valentino, operator of an underground club, in a Spanish-accented voice, dressed in a purple silk morning robe. He had contributed an entire ship for this venture; if the results weren't as grand as the leader promised, he'd be at a significant loss.
Hearing this, the young woman playing with a diamond-encrusted perfume bottle giggled. "Relax, Val. This poser already knows there'll be a brief storm in that area. Ship goes into the storm, he prays, ship comes out, he performs his miracle. A cliché script, but it works forever on those fools, right, Vox?"
Vox nodded smugly. The finest Venetian velvet on him shimmered softly, each thread paid for by the devout offerings of his gullible followers. He gazed with satisfaction at the "Faithful" gently bobbing on the water. "Relax, folks. I guarantee this 'miracle' will attract more believers. Indulgences will sell out."
Vincent had his own "adorable" religion, of course not an orthodox one. He gave himself the priestly name—Vox, or Prophet Vox—making these pitiful, spiritually empty people believe he was the world's sole conduit to the divine. A steady stream of money flowed into his coffers through expensive scripture booklets and indulgences.
But clearly, that wasn't enough. He wasn't satisfied. Expanding the religion's reach and deeper extraction of their remaining value were things Vox and his two capitalist partners would do.
This operation was the same. He proclaimed a prophecy that "the god will descend," luring these poor souls onto the ship, then, as Velvette said, staging a performance in collaboration with nature to cement his divine status.
"What lovely weather today, isn't it?" Vox hung a cross adorned with a Colombian emerald around his neck and strode toward the gangplank, his steps measured and theatrical.
Now, it was time for the seafaring performance.
The "Faithful" slowly pulled away from the port, the skyline blurring into a distant haze. On the deck, the leader spread his arms, his voice clear and penetrating across the planks:
"Children of God! Behold the boundless sea! We sail toward the waters ordained by Him, to witness His might and mercy!"
The sea breeze strengthened, billowing his deep blue velvet robes and the hair on his forehead like a holy breath. He skillfully quoted a patchwork of scripture, mixed with psychological rhetoric and motivational speaking techniques, firmly gripping the crowd's emotions.
Everything went according to plan. As the hull entered that stretch of the Atlantic, the sea began to churn uneasily. The brief storm arrived as scheduled. Followers gasped, prayed, casting helpless looks toward Vox at the center of the makeshift altar. He closed his eyes, raising his face to the sky, rain soaking his cheeks and robes as if he were engaged in intense dialogue with a great void.
The storm peaked, then, true to prediction, began to subside. Cracks appeared in the clouds, a shaft of sunlight piercing the gloom, falling on the wet deck. The followers erupted into cheers of relief, their gazes at Vox filled with fervent worship—look! The Prophet calmed the storm!
Vox inwardly scoffed, but his face wore an expression of saintly compassion and weariness. He was about to announce, "Through my connection, the great God descended and saved us," completing the final harvest, when he, along with the other followers, froze in place.
A song rode on the lingering sea breeze, arriving without warning.
At first, no one recognized it as song. It sounded like wind, but the storm had just passed; like water, but far more eerie; like distant church hymns, yet tinged with an indescribable, sinister quality, its melody defying all known musical rules.
It rose from beneath the sea.
No.
Vox raised a hand to cover his ears, remembering tales of sirens. Then he realized the sound wasn't entering through his ears.
It resonated directly inside his skull.
The prayers and cheers on deck ceased. Everyone stood rigid, similar expressions of dazed confusion on their faces. A young woman let go of the railing and took a step forward. Then two men. Then more.
They began to move, slowly but deliberately, toward the ship's railings.
The song changed.
For the old believer on the left, it became the call of his long-deceased wife; for the wealthy widow ahead on the right, the voice of her true love; for the boy trembling by the mast, it promised a cure for his illness.
Vox saw himself standing in the center of a colossal pure white marble temple, a sea of prostrate people at his feet stretching to the horizon. On the tallest buildings of New York, Boston, Philadelphia... his statues stood. On the dome of the Capitol in Washington D.C., his figure replaced the Statue of Freedom. Monarchs from Europe offered their crowns. A voice—his own—descended from the sky: "The only truth, I, Vox..."
Power. So pure, so absolute, within reach.
He stepped forward, toward the graspable power.
Too many followers blocked his way. He urgently pushed toward the railing, shoving aside the other entranced, stumbling people, rushing toward that beautiful vision, so close, just beyond the bow!
Vox tore off his luxurious velvet robes; everything had become an obstacle. He only wanted to plunge into that all-too-real vortex of power, closer and closer. At the very front of the death-bound procession, he threw himself against the railing, leaning half over, high waves splashing his face. He heard the song stop.
All magnificent illusions dissolved. "Heh..." A derisive chuckle, tinged with amusement, sounded not far away.
The mist seemed to thin slightly. Everyone on deck jolted as if waking from a dream, looking around bewildered, then seeing their leader nearly toppling over the railing, and the clearly non-human presence on a distant reef.
"A sea monster! A siren!" someone shrieked in terror.
But Vox heard nothing. His world had shrunk to that reef and the breathtakingly beautiful being upon it.
It was decidedly not human. The lower half was a slender fishtail covered in dark red scales, shimmering with iridescent light in the water.
The upper half was humanoid, skin a pearl-like greyish-brown, damp reddish-black curly hair plastered to temples and neck. The lips that had just sung held a faint smile. Most captivating were those eyes—Burgundy red, like aged wine, like dried blood, like the abyss itself.
Now, they were fixed intently, solely, on Vox.
Vox had never believed in a real god, but in this moment, just being gazed upon filled him with boundless awe and desire.
"Such a human in a hurry to die? How amusing." It spoke, and Vox was sure the words were for him.
"Prophet! That's a man-eating siren! We must kill it!" A loyal aide rushed over, voice distorted with fear, but Vox clung to the railing, nails digging into the varnish. His eyes never left the reef.
The siren was still there. It tilted its head, antler-like coral structures fully visible amidst its hair, like a twisted crown. Slender fingers ended in sharp nails. It raised a hand in a small wave, and Vox responded with frantic, ecstatic delight.
The overly terrified crowd finally found a harpoon in a corner. Several men threw it with all their might toward the reef.
"Stop! Damn it! You idiots!" Their revered leader finally snapped out of it, roaring at the crowd. When he looked back, the reef was empty, not a single red strand of hair remaining. Only fading ripples spread on the sea's surface.
"Evil devil!" someone yelled, cursing the fearsome creature and its hypnotic song.
"Silence!" Vox snarled. Forcing down his fury and crushing disappointment, he quickly adjusted his demeanor under the followers' astonished gazes, resuming his usual holy facade.
"What I mean is... all of this, including the recent visions and trials, are part of God's grand design. No one was harmed; that itself is proof of divine miracle! Faith has protected us!"
He cast one last look at the silent sea.
"Now, the miracle has descended. It is time to return."
As the ship sailed back, distancing itself from the misty waters, Vincent felt his soul had been forever left beside that reef, captured in those alluring eyes.
The true temptation, like the deepest oceanic trench, had just opened its maw.
Though with a minor interruption, the overall "performance" was largely complete. The tale of calming the storm spread person-to-person, attracting even more followers. However, Vox forbade any mention of the dark red siren, secretly swallowing all accounts of it as if that constituted possession.
He returned to the mansion in New Orleans, built by follower donations, and plunged into the depths of his study. Books he'd once collected as mere curiosities about strange legends were now devoured greedily for chapters on "sirens."
"Human head, fish body, dwells in remote seas, the unattainable obsession of mariners..."
"Its song enters not through ears, but pierces the soul's marrow, reflecting the listener's deepest desires, luring them to their death for consumption..."
"Taste depends on the nature of the desire itself; different desires offer different culinary experiences for the siren..."
"Cunning, curious, devoid of human emotion..."
Each line was like a gorgeous feather, teasing his memory, fitting perfectly with the day's vision. Beautiful, powerful, mysterious...
And then—devoid of human emotion.
That sentence should have been a bucket of ice water dousing his fantasies. But Vincent closed the book, leaning back in the heavy armchair, his mind filled only with those red eyes gazing at him.
Looking at him, smiling at him, that faintly waving hand.
"Devoid of human emotion?" he murmured, fingers unconsciously tracing the book's rough illustration. "But It noticed me. Specifically noticed me."
It could have made them all jump. Vincent was sure, in the last second before the song stopped, at least thirty people had already crossed the railing. But It stopped. Why?
Because It found him interesting.
This conclusion sent a shiver down Vincent's spine. Not fear, but... the thrill of being chosen.
This thought burned in his consciousness like wildfire for days on end.
Whether preaching, exploiting, collaborating, or resting, Vox constantly imagined that dark red tail coiled beneath his altar, that inhuman song becoming the whisper of his dreams and waking hours, those abyssal eyes gazing only at him.
After another day's work, unable to bear the constant preoccupation, he finally walked to the window. Rainy New Orleans sprawled below, the religious kingdom he'd built over years. Compared to that fleeting glimpse on the reef, it all suddenly seemed shabby, like a child's sandcastle.
He needed to go back. He was certain he must go back.
Vincent was a man of action.
Preparations were discreet and swift. He needed a small, nimble boat, ample fresh water and food, and... gifts. From the cellar, he retrieved a prized bottle of top-tier French Burgundy wine, its color reminiscent of those eyes; he also packed some Indian golden tea buds.
Like a young man preparing for a first date, he meticulously selected items that might please the other, even if the other was a creature legendary for feeding on souls.
Evading all eyes, Vincent sailed the small boat alone toward the sea area etched in his memory. Charts were studied repeatedly; the reef's location vaguely pinpointed. The closer he got, the faster his heart raced.
He simply anchored the boat near the reef, opened the wine bottle, letting its rich aroma drift on the wind, then sat down to wait, like a young man arriving early for a rendezvous.
Time passed, so long he almost doubted whether it had all been a bizarre collective hallucination, when finally, the sound of churning water came from behind. He turned swiftly to see a shimmering, iridescent fishtail creating white foam as it approached his boat. The figure from his dreams emerged from the water.
"You came back." It rested its hands on the edge of Vincent's boat, resting its scaled cheek lazily on its hands. "And brought gifts for me. A polite human."
Vincent could hardly breathe, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He forced himself to take a deep breath, straighten his back, not to sound like a clumsy stammerer. "Of course! It's my first visit, I brought you gifts! I don't know if you'll like them, they might not be good enough, please don't mind..."
The expensive red liquid was carefully poured into a brought wine glass and offered to the siren.
"Don't be so modest, darling. This is excellent wine~" The other elegantly accepted, holding the glass with a poise as if accustomed to high society soirées.
"My honor! Goodness, I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Vincent. Truly honored to meet you." Vincent watched, delighted, as it took the glass, and extended a hand.
"Alastor." A damp hand chose to shake his. "I remember them calling you Vox. I don't care for humans who lie."
"No, no," Vincent quickly denied. "Vox is a... a professional title. Vincent is the name for you... to use." He looked directly into Alastor's eyes, trying to pour all his fervor and sincerity into the gaze.
Alastor smiled, sipped the crimson wine, fingertips gently stroking the rim. "No need for such alarm, dear. So, what brings you to me?"
Vincent opened his mouth. He didn't want to reveal his hidden intentions so soon, choosing his words carefully with flattery. "Because, Alastor, you're too... too powerful. I couldn't forget you. Since that day, I couldn't help but relive the moment we met over and over."
The elegant merman tilted its head slightly, occasionally sipping the fine wine. It didn't deny enjoying human-made trinkets; it usually collected a piece or two from the wrecks it caused to bring back to its lair.
This human not only possessed uniquely intense desires but his behavior also suited its tastes. This made Alastor willing to converse more, to pass its long, bored existence.
"What's that? May I try it?" Alastor pointed to the exquisitely packaged tea, kindly offering the talkative cult leader a new topic.
"Of course!" Vincent perked up, immediately setting about brewing the tea. He began talking about the tea plant's growth, the intricacies of harvesting, how humans turned this leaf into a ritualistic drink. He spoke more earnestly and invested than in any sermon, no longer using manipulative rhetoric, but simply to present himself, to sell himself.
Alastor listened, dipping a fingertip into the warm tea to taste, red eyes half-lidded, revealing little emotion. Yet the very act of attentive listening was nectar to Vincent.
As the story about tea reached a pause, the sea mist had completely dissipated, the sun growing somewhat scorching. Alastor drained the last of the wine, casually placing the empty glass back in the boat. "Your stories are quite interesting, sweetheart~ But I must return to rest. I live in the northwest corner of these waters; it takes considerable time to swim back."
A flicker of unmistakable disappointment crossed Vincent's face, but he quickly adjusted his expression, asking with hopeful eagerness, "Then... may I come again? I'll bring other things—books, ornaments, better wine. Whatever you want, I can manage." His words carried a hint of showcasing his ability to control resources, but it didn't seem to displease Alastor.
"Perhaps." The siren flipped and dove into the depths, its dark red tail fin giving a gentle flick, disappearing like a red ribbon, leaving only an ambiguous answer hooked into the human's heart on the boat. "Goodbye, Vincent~"
The small boat rocked gently with the ripples of its departure. Vincent sat alone, gazing at the empty sea. His heart still hammered, but the earlier anxiety had been replaced by a burning excitement.
He hadn't received a definite promise, but everything about tonight would fuel his dreams for nights to come.