Port Haven Sirens Novels & Stories

The Spire had hit the maritime grid hard; massive container ships lay capsized in the harbor like dead whales, their hulls covered in a thick crust of salt-ash and violet barnacles. "The academy is on the southern point," Lucian shouted over the roar of the surf, pointing toward a low, stone fortress that jutted out into the amethyst sea. "The deep-sea cable terminals are in the basement vaults, beneath the old submarine pens." As they approached the fortress gates, the erratic tolling of the bell suddenly stopped. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the mechanical groan of a massive, rusted radar dish on the academy roof that was spinning out of control, its gears scream

**MYRKON** The shout went up first, then the answering chorus of whistles and creaking ropes. “Another ship’s coming in,” someone called outside. From Lena’s shop, Catherine glanced up from the hem she was pinning just as the noise from the harbor swelled. She could only see the top third of the harbor, but it was enough to catch the sight of a sail being lowered, canvas billowing once before collapsing into the waiting arms of the crew. The Eirene? Is Nico back already?

The gated driveway winds like a private road up the hill, the kind meant for people with more money than conscience. My car’s engine cuts through the quiet night, echoing off the marble columns as I roll to a stop beneath the oversized porte-cochère. I kill the engine. Silence drops heavy. I pull the black fabric mask up over my face so it’s snug across my nose, hiding everything except my eyes. It smells faintly of gun oil and leather, familiar enough to steady the blood pounding in my ears.

"Rally the first battalion! We ride for the Western Harbor!" [One Hour Later - The Western Harbor] The smell of salt water and blood hung heavy in the air. Dante rode at the head of a convoy of heavily armored transport trucks, flanked by five hundred of the deadliest Black Summit Elite guards. As they crested the coastal ridge, the full, terrifying scope of the invasion came into view. The Western Harbor was gone. The docks had been completely crushed beneath the hulls of dozens of massive, black-iron dreadnoughts. They blotted out the horizon, flying giant banners bearing the silver wolf skull and black crown.

“These are original signatures. Wet ink.” “Exactly,” Chang said softly. “You burn us, you burn them.” I leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. “And yet here you are. Asking me to dance.” “We’re not asking for a dance,” Lee said. “We’re offering you the party ground.” He tapped the screen beside him. The table lit up—an interactive feed of Westport’s shipping lanes. Warehouses labeled Bright-Gates. Crates with barcodes moving in real time under an unsettled sky. Aerial drones gliding between terminals.

Since this is called Siren's Point I'm sure fishermen have actually seen the likes of them around these parts. The old prison walls are brown, gray, and dead. The walls have been destroyed by battles of the past and there's rust on the metal. The metal bars are rusted too and smell like sea air as the barnacles set themselves on them. There's seagull scat all over the island as well making it smell even worse. A heavy smell of dead fish sets in as I look down and see a colony of thirty harbor seals. I was always afraid of seals jumping onto my grandfather's boat but they never did. I swam by and we were flirting with the motor.

But before he could answer, the air filled with the wail of sirens, and they both turned to see smoke rising from the far end of the harbor—thick, black, and unmistakable. The Tidewater Inn was burning.

"The clause was written before anyone anticipated three thousand wolf-men arriving on a boat made of frozen nothing. There's some interpretive flexibility required." The ship shuddered as they entered the harbor proper. Ahead, Jack could see the organized chaos of the Port Authority—and the distinctly less organized chaos of what appeared to be every emergency service in New York converging on their approach vector. Police boats. Coast Guard cutters. A fire department vessel that seemed to have been drafted purely for the flashing lights. And behind them, lined up along the pier like a very aggressive welcoming committee, enough tactical vehicles to invade a small country.

One clear morning, Marina was swimming in the outskirts of her community when a shoal of fish quickly swam towards her. The siren stopped her swimming and allowed the fish to get closer to her; she was worried that something bad was happening if the fishes were swimming so fast. “What is going on little friends?” Marina asked the fish. Although they could not speak in the same way they did, sirens could communicate with all the animals in the ocean, and thanks to this Marina was capable to understand the fish when they told her somebody was pushing their friends out to the surface.