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First published in the USA by HarperTeen,
an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Inc. in 2016
First published in paperback in Great Britain in 2016
by HarperCollins Children’s Books
an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd,
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
The Siren
Copyright © 2016 by Kiera Cass
Jacket art © 2015 by Gustavo Marx/Merge Left Reps, Inc.
Jacket design by Erin Fitzsimmons
Kiera Cass asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008157937
Ebook Edition © December 2015 ISBN: 9780008157944
Version: 2015-12-03
For Liz—
Because she’s the kind of girl who songs should be written about, poems should be composed for, and books should be dedicated to
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
80 Years Later
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by Kiera Cass
About the Publisher
It’s funny what you hold on to, the things you remember when everything ends. I can still picture the paneling on the walls of our stateroom and recall precisely how plush the carpet was. I remember the saltwater smell, permeating the air and sticking to my skin, and the sound of my brothers’ laughter in the other room, like the storm was an exciting adventure instead of a nightmare.
More than any sense of fear or worry, there was an air of irritation hanging in the room. The storm was throwing off our evening’s plans; there would be no dancing on the upper deck tonight, no chance to parade around in my new dress. These were the woes that plagued my life then, so insignificant they’re almost shameful to own up to. But that was my once upon a time, back when my reality felt like a story because it was so good.
“If this rocking doesn’t stop soon, I won’t have time to fix my hair before dinner,” Mama complained. I peeked up at her from where I was lying on the floor, trying desperately not to throw up. Mama’s reflection looked as glamorous as a movie star, and her finger waves seemed perfect to me. But she was never satisfied. “You ought to get off the floor,” she continued, glancing down at me. “What if the help comes in?”
I hobbled over to one of the chaise lounges, doing—as always—what I was told, though I didn’t think this position was necessarily any more ladylike. I closed my eyes, praying that the water would still. I didn’t want to be sick. Our journey up until that final day had been utterly ordinary, just a family trip from point A to point B. I can’t remember now where we were heading. What I do recall is that we were,
