In the dim cabin, Lothar had finished the story. Across from him, Fringilla was still bright-eyed and hungry for more. He told the stories in Chinese, so both Retainers could follow. The game's dialogue had been written in Chinese to begin with. His budget had never stretched to foreign voice actors.

"Go on! What happened next?"

Prajna pressed her lips together and said nothing, but Lothar could feel it: in those usually cold, clear eyes, a faint glimmer of expectation.

The words "To find out what happens next, tune in next time" died on his tongue. "All right. One more chapter. But I mean it—after this one, we rest. Adequate rest is essential for a warrior."

"Yes, yes, we know—get on with it!" Fringilla was practically vibrating.

The corner of Prajna's mouth tightened. That last line: she'd said it herself, their very first night together. Lothar shot Fringilla a look, cleared his throat, and took up the thread once more. "And so the Handsome Monkey King returned in triumph to the Mountain of Flowers and Fruit, and smote the Demon King of Confusion who had seized his cave—"

The Affinity notification chimed from time to time, but none marked a breakthrough. Fringilla still had not reached "Friendly," though her manner had clearly changed from the early days of "Cold." Like Prajna before her, she seemed to need a catalyst.

Lothar had long since stopped thinking in such calculated terms. He enjoyed spending time with them. That was enough. Let Affinity and shared skills come in their own season. In any case, impatience was useless.

He could hardly seize Fringilla by her pale throat and shake her: "Turn Friendly—now!"

He finished the chapter and yawned. Stamina wasn't the same as alertness. He couldn't go a full day and night without sleep. Maybe, someday, he'd draw a potion or an item from the System that would alter his constitution or boost his attributes. Then he might keep up with his high-quality Retainers.

"To learn what rank and office awaited the monkey in the courts of Heaven—tune in next time. That's it. I'm sleeping."

"Mm." Prajna inclined her head.

Even Fringilla didn't press for more. She only sighed wistfully. "It's such a shame I haven't recovered my power yet. If I could give you the Embrace, my lord, you'd never need to sleep again."

Lothar shut his eyes without responding. Maybe, years from now, if he was old and still hadn't drawn a lifespan-extending elixir or artifact, he might consider turning vampire. But not now.

Vampires were a separate species. Crossing that line would overturn everything: his values, his view of the world. Who knew if he'd become one of those creatures who kept human "blood-cattle" and lurked in damp old castles, a monstrous predator in the dark.

With Lothar's eyes closed, Fringilla's face settled into boredom. Vampires, like Prajna's oni race, needed sleep, but measured in months, not hours. The brief mortal sleep, once every day, was possible. But completely unnecessary.

She opened her mouth, glanced at Lothar's chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, and swallowed her words. She tried to catch Prajna's eye. The big stiff ignored her.

Hmph. She rolled over and slept.

Lothar was deep in slumber when a voice crept into his dreams: soft, melodic, achingly beautiful. So gentle it stirred not the faintest irritation at being woken. It was like resting your head on the lap of the woman you loved, breathing in the faint perfume of her skin.

Milestone unlocked: Encountering Sirens. You have had intimate fluid exchange with a siren, and successfully survived their lethal mating process.

The System notification was like an alarm clock. Lothar jolted awake, and instantly realized something was wrong. The singing hadn't stopped. It wasn't a dream. A woman was really singing.

In the pitch-dark cabin, Prajna was already on guard, the demon-faced shield ready in her grip. The carved face on its surface had come alive with excitement. Fringilla's eyes burned with a low crimson glow.

"They actually came." Her voice was electric, a jolt of color in a monochrome world. "My lord. If I can't drink from humans, can I drink from sirens? That sultry voice of theirs, I can tell their blood will be sweet." Fangs pricked unbidden at her lip.

"Wake up," she said sharply.

The red light in Fringilla's eyes dimmed at once. She stared, incredulous. "How? That's not right: my Spirit is far higher than yours. How was I the one caught?"

Prajna's answer was brief. "Your desires burn too hot."

"Let's move. We need to wake the others: we can't let them keep drowning in that song."

Lothar threw on his outer clothes and was first out the door. The cabins he passed were a gallery of grotesques. He grimaced.

"Thank God the followers were separated into men's and women's quarters. Otherwise, this ship would be a moral disaster."

He woke Hans, Laine, and Modell first. All three came up snarling, then saw who stood over them, and the murder in their eyes guttered into cold-sweat clarity.

"Block your ears. Wake everyone. Our followers first." He rattled off the orders and then, with Prajna and Fringilla, climbed to the deck.

On the deck, the obese merchant stood staring into the distance with a face of rapturous longing. "Selena… I've come back. This time, I've brought you a whole ship of offerings. I know a fat, ugly man like me doesn't deserve your favor. But please—please, just accept these humble gifts."

Selena? Siren, more like. Lothar's expression went cold. So the damned Jewish merchant was not just greedy and miserly: he had planned all along to offer his passengers as tribute to the sirens. Damn him.

Three figures hung in the night sky. Their red lips moved, singing that impossible, honey-sweet song. From the waist up, they were shaped like human women, though bat-like membranes stretched from their backs. At their hips, iridescent fins fanned out. Below, as in every sailor's legend, their bodies tapered into long, sinuous fish-tails.

Golden hair cascaded past their shoulders. They held hands in the air, singing, their faces soft and lovely. Lothar had to admit: even after long exposure to Prajna and Fringilla, the sight of these three stirred something in him.

Beautiful. Noble. Where was the hideous monster of the old tales?

One of the sirens drifted down. She reached out and stroked the fat merchant's cheek with impossible tenderness. "Selena… I knew it. I knew you wouldn't hurt me. You let me go last time: I knew you felt something for me too."

Selena's lips curved into a lovely smile. Something? If you hadn't been so damn strong, if I hadn't lost my grip, I'd never have let a slab of meat like you get away. But now the stupid prey had come back, and brought such generous offerings. Perhaps she should let him live after all?

She licked her lips. Her mouth was watering. All that succulent fat.

The merchant misread her completely. He leaned in, eager.

The next sound was a scream. The siren's face was painted in gore, her jaws working as she wolfed down his lips and the flesh of his cheeks. The merchant thrashed across the deck, howling, smearing bright red streaks across the planks.

The two sirens still hovering above could no longer contain themselves. They folded their wings and dove toward the bleeding man.

Fringilla's voice was contemptuous. "Low-intellect beasts. Nothing like us vampires. She was clearly giving him a taste so he'd come back with more."

"Enough talk," Lothar snapped. "Kill them."