Owen heard it—the staccato trills of a stormy petrel, less a song than a sort of snarl.

“There you are...” he sniffed and smiled, “You’re mine.”

The camera clicked just before the bird dove out of sight, vanishing behind some rocks. He lowered his lens, and his face sank.

The picture, he knew, would come out perfect. With a wall full of framed cover shots back home, the mud of seven continents stuck to his boots, and a kind of carnal knowledge of his camera’s aperture, Owen knew how to take a good photo.

But he wasn’t used to photographing living things lately. He wasn’t used to doing much of anything—save languishing half-drunk in the shade of the lemon trees, steeped in equal parts self-pity and self-loathing. Though the scales lately were tilting more and more toward the latter—and he could no longer convince himself that the look the innkeeper’s daughter gave him, uncorking his third bottle before noon, was one of sympathy, and not scorn.

It seemed such a fine idea at the time—to take the trip alone. To get over it. To get away. The airfare was already paid for. But the memory of Nell—of his svelte, little bride in her wedding gown, bent over and sodomized by his own best man—it was an image, violently focused, that no number of exposures to the rustic Campania countryside, nor the blue Bay of Naples could ever cover up.

True, Owen was not without guilt. He’d been a fool to fall for her. Knowing her history. Knowing what she was. All along it was her looks alone that ensnared him. And as an artist whose talent lay in finding and disguising faults, it drove him half-mad that no matter how hard he looked at her, Nell possessed not a single imperfection. At least, not one he could capture on film. And in the end, he fell for her as he did all things of blinding, preternatural beauty—as he had ten years ago with the Sorrentine coast, when he swore he would bring her here—whoever his beautiful, faceless bride might be—for their honeymoon.

It was still the shoulder season, but the sun was beating. Owen wiped the wine-kissed sweat from his brow, tromping down the shrubby hillside. The trail was unmarked. But by the directions jotted out by his widowed innkeeper, the Baths of Queen Giovanna were just ahead.

He reached again for his camera as the gleaming pools fell into view. The mineral blue of the water. The hypnotic dance of light on the limestone. The obscurity. The silence... The scene was striking, and worth every drop of sweat he’d spilled for it. Owen snapped his picture, pleased, and unbuttoned his shirt.

He’d imagined bringing her here. Posing her, nude as a naiad, submerged up to her thighs for a photo. He’d imagined making her listen to him—just like that first time they met, when she was still another nameless model. He’d even picked out the time of day; the perfect light to lift the honey from her skin. And at the end of it all, he’d make love to her—or whatever it was that they used to do.

But now that was done. It was over. Just another pretty picture in his head. And all Owen wanted was to strip—to sink himself, alone, in that glimmering water, washing away all the grime and muck and regret these last three years had smeared upon him. 

He shrugged out of his shirt and pants, but froze—seized by the instinctual fear that someone, something, was watching. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he scanned the shady tree-line behind him. Nothing. He shook his head, and left his clothes and camera by a tree, wading out into the cold, clear water, alone.

“You’re a fool, you know that?” He laid back, floating, “A fool for wanting her back...”

He shut his eyes and held his breath, sinking beneath the surface to run his hands through his hair. But underwater, he heard something. Soft and sibilant, barely a whisper. Still, it was there. It was a voice. A woman’s voice—and it was singing.

Owen shot up, gasping, and spun about, searching high and low for the sound. Again, he was alone. He wiped the water from his eyes, wondering what was wrong with him, and put his feet down to catch his breath. 

“So you’re hearing things now? Is that it? Is that really what you need?”

No one answered. And hearing his own voice did little to steady his nerves. 

“You’re just... you’re drinking too much. Sweating wine. Hearing things. Gonna end up like Dad if you don’t cut it out.”

Steeling himself, Owen stuck his head underwater again. This time all he heard was an aquatic hush. No voice, no singing. Just silence. He came up, satisfied, pushing the wet hair from his eyes as he turned back around toward the trees. 

The hell? 

He blinked, and his breath hitched. There was a woman by the shore—watching him, ankle-deep in the water.  Owen almost stumbled. She, too, was undressed. Nubile and nude, but for a long string of pearls draped between her delicate shoulders. His eyes grazed over the long curve of her waist. Her hips. Her breasts. The beckoning shadow between her white thighs. Stop staring, he scolded himself. 

But he couldn’t. And despite his gaze, she made no motion to conceal herself. He stirred, feeling himself harden, and wetted his lips. Her body—ice-white, almost pearlescent. Like something polished from marble, more than the flesh of a living thing. But her face—he couldn’t see her face. She was holding his camera up, pointing the lens at him.

“Bongiorno, signora,” He found his voice, “Mi scusi. Mio Italiano is... well it’s atrocious.”

She said nothing, nor did she move.

“You startled me,” he narrowed his eyes, wondering what, if anything, she understood, “Thought I was alone.”

Still, silence. A crease cut across Owen’s brow. Something was off. Why wasn’t she answering?

“... Was that you singing?”

Slowly, softly, she nodded, jostling the camera.

“Careful with that,” he winced, “Per favore.”

Gently, she spun the focus with her pale hand. Owen swallowed, relieved she understood.

“Those old cameras. They’re a bit tricky,” He scratched his head, “...I can show you, if you like.”

He started toward her, but the shutter opened, and the bulb flashed, blinding him for a split second. And in that split second, she was gone. Owen froze, stunned, and rubbed his eyes.

There was no trace of her. He rose from the water, dripping, his head whirling in circles. The camera was right where he left it, untouched, tucked away by the tree.

“That’s... great. Really,” he checked the focus and film, “So now you’re seeing things, too?”

He dressed quickly and left that place, glancing more than once over his shoulder. He didn’t know what was happening. But of one thing, he was absolutely certain—he wouldn’t dare tell a soul.

Mental illness, admittedly, ran in the family. His father lived thirty years in a drunken stupor, punctuated by delirium tremens and paranoia, before drowning himself in a bathtub. Owen always believed the booze was to blame. But he also worried there was more to the story.

Things grew stranger still that evening. Back at the inn, after dinner, Owen went up to the darkroom he’d set up in the water closet, and found his film completely ruined. Light had leaked somehow, leaving every frame with the same jagged trio of shadows. He glared, holding the roll to the moonlight, and again felt his hackles rise. The pattern—he could swear he’d seen it before. But for the life of him, he couldn’t say where.

He rubbed his temples, pouring himself a nightcap before he slipped atop his creaky bed in the corner. It was still too warm to sleep beneath the linens. Up on the ceiling, the shadows played tricks on him, rippling like water each time the wind blew through the window. Waves crashed far below. He listened, wondering if a storm was coming. And as a restless, fitful sleep fell over him, Owen dreamt of the pale woman in pearls. He dreamt it was Nell, holding his camera, waiting for him by the shore. And he dreamt of the song he heard beneath the water. Calling him. Calling him home.

Next morning, down in the garden, his sleepless night must’ve shown, as the innkeeper’s daughter fetched him a second cup of Americano without asking. His morning erection was still throbbing stubbornly—bolstered, maybe, by the residue of his dreams—and he kept his lap carefully concealed, hoping the girl hadn’t noticed.

“Grazie bene,” he took the cup with two hands to keep from spilling.

Her lips smiled, but her eyes didn’t. Owen sipped, watching her hips sway as she sauntered back to the kitchen. Wake up... He rubbed his eyes, and spread out his ruined stills on the table, trying to jog his memory.

“Ah, il faraglioni?” 

The innkeeper sank down, wiping his hands with a rag.

Owen’s brows arched, “... You know what this is?”

“The rocks at Capri,” he nodded, “They are famous, Signor. Legend says it is where Ulysses and his crew crossed paths with the Sirens.”

Owen squinted, “sirens?”

“Si,” he dabbed his forehead, “Sirens. Surrentum—that is how Sorrento got its name, Signor.” The old man plucked up one of the pictures, adjusting the bifocals on the bridge of his nose, “Forgive me,” he chuckled, “It is a piss-poor shot, Signor.”

Owen nodded. 

“Perhaps you would like to try again?”

“Yes,” he sipped, “... Perhaps I would. Today maybe?”

The man crossed his arms, “Are you sure you are well enough? Your face is pale, Signor.”

“Didn’t sleep well...” Owen scratched his neck, “I have a song stuck in my head. That’s all.”

The man sank his teeth into a sfogliatella, “There is a ferry from Marina Piccola,” he chewed, bits of pastry flaking off from his lips, “My daughter. She can drive you into town.”

A crash rattled the garden. Owen jumped, sloshing his coffee.

“Que diavolo?” The man spun.

His daughter was kneeling in the doorway, picking up shards of cup and saucer.

“Mannagia! What is wrong with you, my girl?” He rose, scolding her, “Go. Go, clean it up.”

Having missed the first ferry, it was mid-afternoon before she drove Owen down the winding road to the water. He fiddled the whole way with his camera, trying to figure out what went wrong. At the pier, he thanked her absently, still in a haze, but she grabbed his arm before he could go.

“Per favore. Please...” Eyes wide, she spoke in English, rolling each word over with utmost care. “For you,” she furrowed her brow, “...For luck.”

She set a white rosary in his hand. He gazed at her, and clasped the beads, realizing it was the first time he’d heard her speak. It was a lovely voice. Almost musical—like a silver flute, muffled in silk.

“Grazie,” he tried to smile, “I’ll bring it back,” he kissed the cross, “Prometto.”

The horn blew. He left the car, stuffing the rosary into his pocket. She waited there even after he boarded, watching him the whole way out of the harbor. Owen waved, his arm still warm. He wondered if he was still dreaming.

The wind picked up. The water was choppy. The ferry listed side-to-side. Owen held the railing, staving off nausea as they steamed toward the dot of white in the distance, seated right on the horizon, like a pearl in an oyster’s mouth.

Closer on to Capri, he craned his neck at the sheer white cliffs rising out of the water. They looked far taller, far more severe than the ones that lined Sorrento. 

He scanned the coastline with his camera, and, high up, spied some Roman ruins—a few faded columns, fallen walls, a broken arch or two. He spun the dial, fixing the focus. 

He froze.

She was there again. Right on the cliff’s edge—a woman in a white dress—her ash-black hair whipping over her face. Oh God... He felt his heart quiver. Is she going to jump? But the figure didn’t move. And even from far below on the ferry, he couldn’t shake the feeling she was watching him.

A sea-swell crashed over the bow. Owen lost his balance, nearly tumbling over the side, and by the time he looked up again, she was gone.

It’s not real. None of it’s real...

“Mi scusi, Signor,” he grabbed the deckhand, “Those ruins up there. What are they?”

“Up there?” The boy shaded his eyes, “Villa Jovis... Save your time, Signor,” he smiled, “Nothing there but a pile of old rocks.”

Disembarking, he hailed a cab in the square. He was sweating now, though the air had cooled, and his legs felt like he was still on the water. He dabbed his brow, setting his camera on the seat beside him, and asked for a ride to the ruins. Owen touched the rosary in his pocket, humming to himself as they sped the serpentine curves along the cliffs. The cab halted in an empty gravel lot. 

“Those steps, Signor. They take you there.”

He nodded, feeling more and more like his head was filled with cotton. He paid the driver more than he owed.

“Would you like me to wait?” He took the money, “It’s a long walk down. And it will be dark in an hour.”

Owen shook his head and stepped out. The cab drove off, the motor’s growl vanishing behind the rocks, until only the wind, and the crying sea birds remained. He climbed the old stone steps up to the ruin, and glanced around. 

Not a soul in sight. The view, though—it was immaculate. He raised his camera, panning along the Isle’s edge, over the sparkling Tyrrhenian Sea. He hummed. The wind hummed with him. The sun was low in the sky. It blinded him as he turned around. And as his eyes adjusted, blossoming back into focus, he found her. 

The woman, waiting for him—with her long string of pearls, and her wind-whipped hair—standing barefoot, not twenty yards behind him.

“You!” He staggered, catching himself before he slipped off the edge, “Who—who are you?”

She said nothing at first, but stepped closer. 

“What do you want from me?”

The girl smiled and shrugged, tucking her hair behind her ears.

“What do you have to offer, Owen?”

His lips fell open. Her face—for one horrifying flash, he could swear it was Nell. The same venomous beauty. The same libidinous look in her eyes. He stammered, more and more sure he was losing his mind.

“H-how do you know my name?”

She ignored him, dragging her palm along the stone wall.

“Do you know what this place was, dear boy?” She turned away, still smiling, “A pleasure palace... Tiberius had it built. Two thousand years ago,” she stepped nearer, the slit in her dress exposing a honey-smooth thigh, “He kept it filled with his loveliest slaves—captured from every corner of the Empire... The things they did here,” she wetted her lips, playing with one of her pearls, “Things that made young Caligula blush.”

She stood close to him now. Close enough to whisper in his ear. Owen locked his jaw, and clenched his fists. It wasn’t real. But perhaps, it didn’t need to be—desire, either way, had seized him. Poisoned him. It made him drunk. And far more than knowing what was real, and what wasn’t, he wanted, badly, to touch her. To kiss her. To grasp her thigh, and tear that slit higher. To lay her down amid the ruins, writhing and moaning beneath him.

“Do you want to know, Owen?” She breathed, and he felt a fiery rush in his blood, “Do you want to know what he did with them,” she shrugged, letting the shoulder of her dress fall free, “when he was finished?”

Owen swallowed, unable to speak.

“Over the edge...” she smiled, letting her lips hover close to his, “Right here. ‘Food for the Sirens,’ he used to say.”

Sirens... He shook his head, trying to clear the steam as she broke away, and brushed past him, waiting at the edge of the cliff.

“Do you want to come?” She spun, tempting him, her slender fingers twirling.

“Come where?” He backed away, half-begging himself to wake up, and half to keep dreaming.

“The white rocks, Owen,” She let her other shoulder slip, “If that’s what you want...”

He tried hard to steady his breath.

“We’re sailing for sunset,” she nodded, “Come with us.”

“Us?”

She smiled again, lifting her lithe, ice-white leg, and stepped off. Owen sprang, horrified, to catch her. But she hadn’t fallen. She stood just over the precipice, at the top of a dizzying, ancient staircase, cut right into the side of the cliff.

“Oh,” she flashed him a smirk, “... My hero.”

The girl held out her hand. But looking down the narrow, twisting steps to the sea, Owen felt his stomach lurch.

“Is it safe?”

“No, dear boy,” she took his wrist, pulling him down, pulling him close, “It is not.”

Her touch sent a fresh wave of craving through him, drowning out any lingering doubt. Her pale hand in his. The supple swell of her chest. The soft and sinful husk in her voice. It ruined him—enslaved him to her. He was over the edge now. There was no turning back. And all the madness, the unreality of it, faded out into the aether.

He followed her, his heart stopping more than once as he stumbled on a cracked, uneven step. The waves frothed far below, like fangs. But the sway of her hips, of her bare, beckoning shoulders lured him on.

Halfway down the stairs disappeared, swallowed into a low tunnel—a warm, wet cavern hollowed out in the limestone—so dark, it almost helped to keep his eyes closed. He couldn’t see the girl anymore. But he could hear her. She hummed for him at first, then started to sing—the same haunting, wordless song he’d heard underwater—leading him down, deeper and deeper, her sultry voice echoing off the damp stone walls in the darkness.

There was light at the end. Owen felt as if he were floating, entranced, entrapped, as they emerged under an outcropping, where a small wooden sloop awaited them, bobbing on the blue waves. There were two more women aboard—both young, both violently beautiful. One turned, sunning herself on the deck, in a white bathing suit that scarcely concealed a sliver of her. The other raised the sail, hand over hand, in a loose, gossamer tunic, too thin to disguise that she wore nothing else beneath. Like his guide, each one of them had a long string of pearls on her neck.

“Come,” she left off singing, and the other two took up in her stead, “We’re casting off.”

Still floating, still dreaming, she led him aboard, and poured him some wine from a clay decanter. He sipped and swallowed, listening, letting the warm stupor spread through him, and sat back to leer at his three songstresses, as the wind caught the sails, and the ship cut out over the water.

The waves rocked. Salt sprayed. The girls took turns refilling his wine, until Owen felt his head start to darken, and swirl. The sun’s lips kissed the sea. The ship rounded the edge of the island, and as the faraglioni fell into view—three sharp, sinister rocks, rising up from the water, with a delicate cleft cut between them—the girls turned, and began to dance.

It was hard to tell where the music came from—if they were still singing, or if the song was all in his head. Either way, he watched, mesmerized, as they moved their writhing bodies closer; undulating, encircling, and beckoned him to join.

With a drunken smile, he tried to stand—but dizziness caught him, and he crashed onto the deck. They laughed, and helped him up, leaning him back against the mast.

“Dear boy,” the singing stopped, “I think you’ve drunk enough to drown.”

His head sank, and he felt his blood rush as six smooth hands snaked over him, slipping beneath his salt-sprattered shirt, and unbuckling his belt. Owen made no effort to resist. It was what he wanted. It was all he wanted. It was all just a strange, delirious dream.

“I wonder,” she stroked her hand along his thigh, “Have you heard the story of Ulysses?”

He tried to speak. His words were slurred.

“His sailors. He had them stuff their ears with cotton when they passed this way—sparing them from the Sirens’ song.”

Her hand moved higher, teasing, titillating, as the other two slipped behind, wrapping a mooring rope around his wrists and chest.

“But Ulysses. Brave Ulysses. He couldn’t help himself... He bade them tie him to the mast. That he might listen, and not throw himself into the waves.”

The knot cinched. Owen shuddered, finding himself lashed to the mast, just as the girl’s lips skimmed against his, and her fingers reached down to graze the crimped, velvet skin of his sack. He sighed hard, surrendering, and felt himself swell, growing stiff.

“It drove him mad, Owen,” her breath was sweet; her lips glistening like honey, “It always does...”

Her soft hand clasped his cock. Owen groaned, straining against the ropes to rock himself in her grip. 

“Shh...” she pressed her finger to his lips, “Patience. You’re going to want this to last.”

Eyes alight, she shrugged out of her dress, letting it fall about her ankles. Her nudity was devastating. He shuddered and ached, barely breathing as her fingertips caressed his chest, and her bare, supple breasts brushed against him.

“... You’re going to wish it wouldn’t end,” she kissed him deeply, tantalizing him with the lascivious dance of her tongue.

Owen gasped when she broke away, and looked on, growing harder, as she lowered herself to her knees. The two behind her didn’t waste time. They kissed, devouring each other, and peeled away their paltry layers, eyes aglow with violence, and desire.

“You like to watch. Don’t you, Owen?” She let her tongue flit along the seamed underside of him. He groaned again, straining harder. “You and your photographs. You steal beauty. Keep a slice of it for yourself,” She smiled, her pearly teeth pressed to the tip of him, “Greedy boy...” Her slender fingers fondled his testicles, and twirled the dark, downy hairs below his navel, “We should punish you,” she licked, still teasing, and Owen’s knees buckled beneath him, “You should suffer for us... Isn’t that what you want?”

His rigidity swelling just a little bit stiffer, a little bit longer, was the only answer he could muster. She laughed, humming to herself, and dragged her tongue all the way to the root of him, as the other two edged in, consuming him in their steaming, endless kiss. They lashed their lips along his throat. Clawed their fingers across his chest. He heard them moan as they moved their quivering hips against him. And he heard himself moan as the girl on her knees, at last, let the tip of him slip through her lips.

His thighs quaked. She took him deeper. Deeper, deeper, and deeper still—until the whole length of him disappeared down her throat. He groaned hard and cast his head back, feeling her tongue slither against him; feeling her companions nibble his neck, and graze their fingers over the tight, mauve skin of his sack. He was close. Too close. They could tell. 

The girl withdrew, grinning cruelly, and laid a chaste kiss on the tip of him.

“You want it so badly, Owen. It’s pitiful,” she pumped him up-and-down in her hand, his shaft still slick with the wet of her lips. The two at his sides knelt down to join her. His groan dissolved into an agonized sigh as they licked along his testicles, and the dark, musky skin beneath. “So rude. So greedy...” She pumped him again. “Do you want it to end, already?”

They sucked and licked, as if he was cast of spun sugar. He nodded, desperate, thrashing against the ropes as they slathered their lips up and down the length of him. His muscles tightened like coiled steel. His feet and toes clenched. His fingers dug into the mast at this back. The pulsations were starting. He couldn’t stop them.

“Let him down,” the girl smacked her lips, and all three rose up around him, “... He’s ready.”

The ropes slipped loose. Owen sank to his hands and knees, unable to stand. His body was shaking. He was weak. Sweating. His spittle dribbled onto the deck. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even seem to close his mouth. The girl’s cackled at him, amused, and kicked him over onto his back.

“You’re going to give us what we want. Aren’t you, Owen?” She licked him up and down again, tracing out even the dusky rim of his asshole, “You’re going to suffer for us...”

His eyes rolled back as she straddled him, letting the slick, rosy lips of her cunt glide against his cock. Up and down. Again and again. He tried to thrust his hips higher, tried to pierce her glistening folds. But she kept satisfaction just out of reach. He moaned, agonized—though his voice was muffled as one of the others moved above him, pressing her honeyed cunt against his lips.

She silenced him, rocking her hips, grazing her clitoris against the tip of his nose, as the last leaned in over Owen’s head to kiss her, and slipped his fingers deep between her thighs. They fondled, squeezed, caressed each other. They rolled their smooth hips against him; their rosy folds warmer and wetter with each thrust. He could barely breathe. He gazed up, helpless, at the moaning women above him, like a drowning man beneath the water. And just as he thought he was about to expire, at last—the woman below sank herself upon him.

He groaned hard into the girl’s vulva, licking and kissing the glistening lips that smothered him. She writhed, riding hard, impaling herself upon him. The frenzy reached its fever pitch. Their moans, almost musical, almost harmonized, as they came each after the other, like bolts of lightning striking the mast. 

And as the world dissolved around him, Owen felt himself floating. Rising up right out of his body, into the pin-prick starlight, and the black night air above.

“Are you ready now, Owen?” Her haunting voice burned his ears.

Floating still, about to burst, he nodded furiously, and felt all three rise off of him. He felt the chill breeze chasten his sizzling skin. He felt the girl’s warm lips close once more over his cock, taking him deep into her mouth. 

And then, erupting, he felt not the crashing waves of pleasure he’d imagined, nor even a snapping rope to relieve the tension. Rather, a searing, impossible pain ripped through him. He wretched, and howled, clawing his hands into the deck. But it didn’t stop.

Looking down, eyes bleary, he saw the girl smiling up at him—with a string of pearls clenched between her teeth. He watched her, horrified, wracked with peristaltic waves of pain, as she drew them out, bead by bead, from the ruined, rigid tip of him.

“Ah, they’re lovely, aren’t they, Owen?” She slipped the last free and sat back, breaking the strand into three, and winding one around her neck. 

“Does he have any more?” The other two took their pearls greedily, admiring them in the moonlight. 

“He’s no Ulysses, sisters,” she shook her head, “Just a cock with a camera,” she turned around, lifting it from the deck, “Get rid of him.”

Owen curled himself into a ball, still convulsing. It took every ounce of strength he had to move—as if the climax had torn the very life from his limbs. The girls grasped hold of him, dragging him over to the edge. A photo flashed, and they shoved him overboard.

He felt the water swallow him. Felt himself sinking into the dark, too drained, too tormented to swim. Too far gone to even try. He sank down, into darkness, with the song of the Sirens echoing in his ears.

When Owen awoke, his clothes were plastered with sweat. The innkeeper’s daughter knelt at his bedside, sponging his brow with a rag.

“I’m... Am I alive?” His voice was hoarse.

“You are...” she nodded, speaking carefully, wringing out her rag, “Very sick, Signor.”

Owen shuddered, and swung his legs off the bed. His head rattled, and a few empty wine bottles clinked on the floor. 

“But I... I was just—“

The girl backed away, her brow furrowed, “Rest, per favore. Water. For you...”

She left. Owen staggered to his feet, and grabbed his camera from the corner, kicking more bottles away as he made for the water closet. For a moment, he thought he might vomit. The smell of silver nitrate was noxious, and he clutched the porcelain sink to keep conscious. The film developed, in the hellish red glow of the safelight.

He saw a still of a stormy petrel. Another of the Baths of Queen Giovanna. But nothing of the rocks. Nothing of the ruins. Nothing of the Sirens who seduced him. He sighed and fell against the wall, sinking onto the cool tile floor. 

“It was a dream...” his lips flickered into a smile, “All just a fever. All just a dream.”

He wiped his face, dropping his hands into his lap, and felt something deep in his pocket. His brow creased, and his palms dampened as he reached in, pulling out not the white rosary the girl had given him, but a pale and lustrous string of pearls.