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On land, the contortion of tentacles that made up Scylla’s body might as well have been a costume. Taking after a cephalopod suited her stagecraft, but a clever arrangement of ribbons and silk would have produced the same effect. Only by seeing Scylla in her watery element did Melinoë appreciate the power behind Scylla’s anatomy. When viewed from the surface, Scylla resembled a shark as she navigated the pool, her swimming nimble and patently carnivorous.
Not that Melinoë would get to watch for long. Scylla had too many eyes for that. One broached the surface when Scylla arched closer to the waterline, meeting Melinoë’s line of sight. Though the eyeball submerged again quickly, the water parted violently to let Scylla through soon after, and Melinoë instinctively jumped back from where the tile ended and the pool began.
Water spilled down Scylla’s face to drip from her snarling mouth. Melinoë caught a flash of red there, the blood of whatever meal Scylla had been enjoying underwater trickling from her lips, before it washed away.
“You,” Scylla hissed, in what represented a faster jump to hostility than their usual encounters. Perhaps only an audience could bind her to some semblance of good manners. “Crashing my shows is one thing, because I know you can’t bear seeing anyone else in the limelight, but now you’re stalking me?”
“I’m merely inspecting my uncle’s realm as I always do,” answered Melinoë. “Besides, it’s your own fault I knew where to locate you.” As Scylla’s furrowed brow invited an explanation, Melinoë obliged. “I could hear you thrashing about from a mile away. If you don’t want to be found, consider employing a little more grace.”
“What would you know about grace?” demanded Scylla. One of her many appendages slapped the pool. “The water’s fine. You should try joining me in here, see how agile you feel.”
Melinoë angled her head as though considering. “While I appreciate the kind offer, I suspect you’re right. Off dry land, you have me outmatched.”
Scylla’s eyes briefly widened. Her superior smirk was back in its place before long. “This is real growth from you! Only by accepting your limitations can you stop being an obstacle for talented people.”
“Of course,” Melinoë went on, pretending Scylla hadn’t responded at all, “if you want me to leave, you’ll have to come up here. And you’re rather prone to floundering on solid earth, aren’t you?”
A rumble left Scylla’s throat that Melinoë hadn’t heard before. She doubted many fish made such sounds, closer to the growl of land-predators. Melinoë waited for some sort of creative threat to follow, but Scylla always did have a knack for shocking her audience.
“I won’t be baited by the likes of you,” Scylla said. “I can just swim away, and wouldn’t that deflate your sails!”
Melinoë scrutinised the look on Scylla’s face. Scylla’s petulant scowl looked the part at first glance, but it wasn’t her finest performance. Her gaze lacked the dogged gleam of murderous intent that would make it truly convincing.
“You’re afraid,” Melinoë said, before she could stop herself. “You don’t want to take me on without your accomplices.”
Though Scylla scoffed, it rang closer to the delivery of a line than truly heartfelt derision. “You really don’t know me at all. I’ve drowned—”
“—an impossible number of men, yes,” Melinoë cut in, struggling to beat back a grin. “But they weren’t imbued with a chthonic birthright, nor did they enjoy the full backing of Olympus.”
“Whatever.” Scylla sniffed, theatrically turning her head. The water lurched with her. “It’s pretty gauche to boast about all your advantages, lady. Some of us had to work to get where we are.”
“You didn’t work at all,” Melinoë pointed out. “An enchantress made you this way, and it was intended to serve as a punishment.”
Scylla’s gaze snapped to Melinoë’s face with unnatural precision. At this distance, a few steps shy of the water, Melinoë could see that the eyelids Scylla painted were not the ones she used to blink.
Melinoë had been in striking distance of Scylla often, but never for long and definitely not to converse. It was pleasantly surprising that Scylla hadn’t tried using her heavy limbs to knock Melinoë over, or at least make a nuisance of herself by splashing. Up close, the illusion of her costuming all but dissipated: Scylla was most certainly not a siren.
“Adversity breeds art,” Scylla said, finally, with familiar self-assurance. “Besides, I’m perfectly happy the way I am.”
This was something Scylla had claimed before, when Melinoë last mentioned Circe, the witch who’d transformed Scylla from a nymph. Circe had suggested Scylla deserved it for some unknown infraction; Scylla had not necessarily disagreed. Still, Melinoë felt like she knew those closest to her better, as of late. With hostilities ended, she was learning which parts of those she loved were wartime measures and which were personal habits.
Circe was not one for apologies. Nor did she move on easily from first impressions.
“Are you, really?” asked Melinoë, absently rubbing her jaw. “You insist on fighting me, even though you must know you’ll lose. It seems to me this pattern serves as an outlet for your frustrations.”
Scylla tilted back, looking faintly annoyed. “Are you playing mind games before you start throwing punches, or are you just trying to bore me to death?”
“You’re free to swim away,” Melinoë reminded her.
Scylla did not. The immersed mass of her dipped like a buoy cast to the sea, lowering her chin to the waterline. “You’re in my den.”
Bemused, Melinoë surveyed the space around them. It looked no different from the other dilapidated bathhouses constructed throughout Oceanus by some of the more enterprising spirits. So intrigued had Melinoë been by the sounds of something powerful churning the waters here that she hadn’t noticed, upon entering, how devoid the chamber was of shades at all.
Its décor was ornate, in the same way every pool down here tended to be. Gold pillars and mosaics adorned the walls and flooring. Yet there were no personal items lying around save for Scylla’s discarded shell, and had it not been for Scylla’s own word, Melinoë would not have guessed that any living being called the chamber home. The strangest pang of sadness bathed her, lasting the second it took her to recall that the monster before her was a murderous brute. Besides, Melinoë realised she'd apparently harboured false assumptions about Scylla’s domestic arrangements.
“I thought your lair was behind that stage of yours.”
“I don’t live at the venue,” countered Scylla, without her usual haughtiness. Melinoë’s question was evidently stupid enough that she’d forgotten to be rude. “We’re not the only band using that space. We earned our own dressing room by outshining all of them combined.”
“I see.” Melinoë frowned. “You’re the only ones I ever hear playing in this realm.”
Scylla smiled, slow and wide. Her bright mouth parted over rows of unnaturally pointed teeth. “Most people only hear what they want to.”
Given the source, Melinoë supposed that observation was rather astute. She made a show of huffing anyway, because the idea of conceding Scylla might be right nauseated her more than rotten poms.
“Maybe you are where you should be,” Melinoë muttered, difficult as it was to believe that someone as proud as Scylla felt at home in dismal hollows. “At the very least, I can’t fathom what you gain from brawling with me when you could simply let me pass. I take very little joy from expelling you into the briny deep every other night.”
Scylla scoffed, her grin wider now, uncharitably askew. “Uh-huh.”
“I mean it,” Melinoë insisted. “I’ll concede you once posed a challenge, but now it’s a chore.”
Melinoë hadn’t meant to bruise Scylla’s ego, but Scylla flinched anyway, grin faltering to a sneer. “If you’re not here to pick a fight, why are you still wasting my time?”
It was a fair question. In truth, Melinoë hadn’t deviated from her usual route through Oceanus merely to investigate peculiar noises. A part of her had hoped to find Scylla. To catch her alone. Even without the sirens singing, Scylla’s voice was still in her head, crooning over someone who may or may not be Melinoë and their bewitching eyes.
War had at least honed Melinoë’s ability to think on her feet. “Perhaps I wanted to know what you were eating.”
“Huh?”
“You were eating something when I came in,” Melinoë said. “What was it? I would not have thought mortal flesh could cross into this realm.”
“I don’t just feed on humans, lady. I wouldn’t be half as beautiful if I neglected to keep a balanced diet.”
“So what do you eat?” pressed Melinoë. Food did not sustain her, but she knew that the further a creature was from godhood, the more rudimentary its needs became. “Frogs? Shrimp?”
“Excuse me,” Scylla huffed. Perhaps her appendages operated on instinct; one came down heavily on the water again. “I have a taste for finer things. This place is full of stalkfins.”
Melinoë’s mouth quivered with another suppressed smile. Those were difficult fish to find, but they fetched a pretty penny from the wretched broker. Or they made acceptable dishes for shades occupying the Crossroads. Though she wasn’t sure what she’d do with it just yet, its many uses presented an opportunity.
“Then bring me one,” she said.
Scylla stared, face unreadable. Melinoë could not recall the last time she’d rendered the musician speechless, which was a satisfying concession unto itself, but she suspected she could wring out a little more.
“Bring me a stalkfin,” Melinoë restated, with affected emphasis. She held out an arm, palm up, one finger pointed towards the water. “Or would you prefer to risk my wrath?”
As she spoke, she was thinking of her relatives on their gilded mountain, how they dealt with mortal devotees. Although humans now knew of Melinoë, she had no temples yet, no priestesses taking tithes from the faithful. She could still pull off a passable imitation of her vainglorious kin.
Scylla looked uncertain, watching Melinoë dubiously from below her brow.
“Your wrath,” she said, ostensibly testing the concept.
“I know you understand what I am by now,” Melinoë replied, spreading her hands evenly like the space was hers, and all spaces beyond. “You feel it every time I vanquish you, but you go to such lengths just to fall to me again.”
“Please,” Scylla scoffed, yet she shifted uncomfortably, troubling the water around her. “If you think I’m impressed by gods—”
“Not by all,” Melinoë interrupted. “But you are by me.”
Once she'd uttered the remark, Melinoë suspected she’d taken the game too far. But Scylla only blinked, her weapon of a mouth falling slack. Melinoë had never seen a fish begrudgingly return to water before, but it seemed as though Scylla rolled her eyes as she slipped into the depths, swallowed cleanly up like a stone dropped from somewhere far above.
It was a miracle she’d complied at all. Never before had Melinoë drawn any pleasure from pulling her divine rank, but she felt excitement roil in her belly now. She drew as close as she could to the water without falling in, then dropped to her knees and gripped the edge.
The water was dark, but not so murky that it should be impossible to discern Scylla. For a moment Melinoë could see nothing. She was beginning to wonder if Scylla would return at all when a shadowy mass slithered into view, and instinct told her to shuffle back a bit.
She did not move far enough to escape the splash. Still on her knees, Melinoë flung a hand over her face as brackish spray accompanied Scylla’s rapid re-emergence. It soaked half of Melinoë’s dress and much more of the floor besides. She opened her mouth to curse her insolent adversary, only to abandon that plan when she saw what was caught between Scylla’s sharp teeth.
A stalkfin. The prey dripped diluted blood down Scylla’s chin and throat; the tendrils that framed her face leapt and swung. Her flared nostrils did not resemble those of a mortal, or even a fish, but the petulance in her eyes was familiar. Stubborn and embarrassed. Obedient all the same.
Melinoë was not looking forward to the day her first monument appeared in the human world, and she dreaded the idea of having worshippers at all. Her preference for a life on the sidelines apparently wasn’t one she shared with her family, but for just a flicker, she could comprehend why veneration meant so very much to them.
When Melinoë expectantly held out a hand, Scylla spat out the stalkfin like it was constituted of venom. The fish landed heavily in Melinoë’s palm, where it rested for only an instant before she spirited it away in a pulse of silver light. Scylla’s eyes lingered curiously where the fish had vanished, which gave Melinoë the opening she needed to extend her free arm, touching her fingertips to the tentacle above Scylla’s ear.
Scylla’s focus shifted to Melinoë’s face, but she didn’t withdraw. Emboldened, Melinoë settled the whole of her hand against Scylla’s skin. Scylla felt firm and smooth, like the inside of a shell, like the flesh of sweet pears and melons that grew on the surface.
“See,” Melinoë said, allowing herself the slightest smile in her victory. “There are easier ways to win my attention.”
Whether Scylla had heard her wasn’t immediately clear. Scylla’s gaze had not moved from Melinoë’s eyes, beholding them in captivated wonder, lips parting without words to follow.