My Sisters in Death (Siren Suicides, Book 2)

Chapter 6. Seattle

"Yep, that's her," I whisper.

Her song trills in the high, lovely tones of a choir singer, a soloist, one of those super-gifted girls you see on TV in talent competitions. I realize I've never heard her sing.

"...want me a lamb,

A white little lamb.

I'd feed it, I'd pet it, I'd kiss it, I'd hug it.

I'd make it a pillow, I'd walk it, I'd tug it."

On each it she sways to her left or her right, twirling her hands in the air and then clasping them together like a little girl as she rolls her head, almost dancing.

I carefully step forward, feeling the cold sand under my feet; I wince at the barking and can barely make out the shapes of the victims in the shifting fog. A white poodle thrashes on a taut leash, his breath puffing into the cloud. Its owner appears to be an elderly lady who is slumped over on the rocks. Her comfortable walking shoes are dipped in the water, their pinkish beige skin soaked. Her eyes are transfixed, her hair a crown of dandelion fuzz about to be blown away into oblivion.

I stifle a gasp. Missis Elliott! Oh, my God, It's missis Elliott and her doggy Lamb-chop!

No matter the weather, my neighbor always went out on her early morning and early evening walks with her poodle, huffing and puffing up the steps back to Raye Street. Any time she saw me, she claimed it was her solution to a long life and would shake her finger at me and demand I do the same. Whenever the Seattle sky decided to play peek-a-boo with the sun, she was out in a flash, pulling her poor poodle with her; she was always telling me I need to soak in the vitamin D goodness. This sun-walk is killing her now, as if life said, You thought you could predict me, old lady? Eat this!

I'm on the fence. Do I want to save her? The last time I checked, I hated her guts. The last time she saw Papa slap me on the porch, she conveniently averted her eyes. Then she gossiped about it to Mr. Thompson, our immediate neighbor, her convenient ear for stories of any kind. I know because I saw them give me weird glances when I went to school that day, shaking their heads and bowing next to each other so closely their noses nearly touched, as if they were discussing some secret conspiracy. On top of this, the last time she said anything nice to me was...never. She was always scolding, bitter and disappointed.

"Old hag," I mutter.

Of course her soul sounds like whispering lips; that, and the sound of breaking plates and the rushing of frilly cotton, underscored by some other disgusting sounding scrubbing...powdery. Pisinoe must really want her dog, to be able to stand the taste. Missis Elliott's soul strings across the mist, leaves her body, and oozes into Pisinoe's mouth with an audible pop.

"I got me a lamb,

A white little lamb."

The last verse of the song dies and the old lady looks straight at me, with such pleading in her eyes that I should've known better. I'm probably the last person she sees who could help her. How am I different from Papa? What did I just do with my pitiful hate? I instinctively raise my right arm to reach out. It's too late. Her life is gone. She folds down into a heap of pastel cotton, her head falling on the rocks with a dull thud. A smile of utter happiness spreads across her wrinkly face, making it appear younger, as if it belongs to a sweet old woman who loved everyone in her life and baked cookies for her neighbors every single day.

I unfreeze. "Pisinoe!" I yell.

"Huh?" She turns and smiles broadly. "Ailen!" Without missing a beat, she turns back, sways to the shore and seizes the dog by the scruff of its neck, jerking the leash out of Missis Elliott's cooling hands. The dog is hysterical, and so is Pisinoe.