I tense and kick, leaping into the air with inhuman speed, shrieking mid-jump to scare and arrest my target. But the second my head pierces the lake's surface, noise, smells, light, all hit me with unexpected intensity and I promptly shut up. The sky is too bright, the air is too warm. Raindrops are too sharp, and the sounds are too many. There is screeching, talking, whirring, honking. Propelling upward like a bullet, I lift my legs, crossing my arms over my face for protection, as if it'll help. Good luck. I'm not human anymore, I'm a newborn siren. With my eyes closed, scared to see who it is I'm about to kill, I hang midair for a split second, and fall. A new sense of direction makes sure I land into the boat and not the water. My feet make a loud plopping noise within inches of someone warm. It's someone emanating such a multitude of scents and sounds that a bout of nausea rolls over me. I want to throw up, yet at the same time, I want to taste this overwhelming sweetness. I want to eat.
There is metallic odor of anxiety, mixed with fresh sweat and a touch of cigarette smoke, trailing from his skin. It's a he, I don't know how I know, I simply do. As if done waiting for an opportune moment, the melody of his soul hits me full force, a beautiful harmony broken up by a hinge of pain. It emits emotional vibrations, I can almost taste them. Surprise. Fear. Awe? Why would he feel awe. Is this how it's supposed to be, some kind of killer admiration? Before I can think anymore, a fight erupts inside of me, the new versus the old. The new demands I open my eyes and feed right this second, the old squints even harder till I feel like my whole face will collapse in on itself. The new opens my mouth, the old clamps my mouth shut with an audible click and makes me shudder all over. The new is the siren, the old is the human, and the siren wins. The syrupy substance of my victim's soul pours over me and I break into a song on instinct.
Perched like a bird, and holding the sides of the rowboat for balance, the first few verses of We Can't Be Apart, by my favorite UK band, Siren Suicides, rings from my lips. I don't know how I decided to sing exactly this, but I always listen to it when I miss Hunter; it makes me ache and feel comfortable at the same time.
"There you are,
Without me you cry.
I surround you,
Love me or I die..."
Deep notes weave out of my mouth, dripping into his-a kiss of death without touch. A surge of goose bumps passes over my skin as I feel his living force resonate to my tempo. It's like that tremble from singing in the school choir, that one rare moment when everyone hits the same note and you become one huge voice-conducting column. Until, of course, some idiot screws it up and the feeling is gone.
I feel human warmth roll over me in waves of breath, it makes me hungry. All logic squandered, my new primitive side drives to push for more, but something is blocked. There is no flow. I don't know what flow there is supposed to be, but the process seems to have gone wrong. Whoever it is I decided to feed on, is trying to say something. I don't want to hear it or I'll lose control. I'm supposed to be mesmerizing and enthralling in a new and powerful way, right? Then why do I feel like dying all over again?
"I adore you.
See me or I fly.
I dream of you.
Dream with me, don't lie..."
His soul reverberates to my rhythm, tunes in and morphs into a submissive harmony. I imagine it happening. I imagine bending it, telling it to shed its host, pulse to my beat, slink inside of me. I imagine the warmth filling my chest, unclenching an agony of hunger, replacing my void with fresh soul. What's really happening is, nothing. Nothing happens. Something is wrong, I'm doing something wrong. Still, perhaps out of sheer stubbornness, the siren in me urges me to keep trying.
"Can you hold my hand,
Can you hold my heart?
Can you hold my soul,
I can't be apart..."
A warm hand touches mine and I choke on the last note, nearly shrieking, hunger piercing me with a jolt. I open my eyes. Light sears my retinas with excruciating clarity. Visions filter through a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes-neon instead of pallid, pencil-sharp instead of blurry. I blink through tears. My song dies at once, because two things happen.
Number one, I can't believe my eyes.
"Hunter?"
Because it's Hunter's hand that's touching mine, Hunter's face that's blinking inches away from mine, Hunter's breath that warms me. On some level, I knew. Only Hunter's soul could sound so deliciously homey and overpowering at the same time, only his soul could bring me endless comfort. My heart rate speeds up to its maximum possible beats per minute and threatens to pop my eardrums. I'm both horrified and ecstatic to see him.
And number two, I realize what's gone wrong. When Canosa turned me into a siren, she made direct eye contact with me, which must be an essential part of the turning process and, probably, the feeding process too. What did I do? I tried killing with my eyes closed. Thank God.
"Fuck! I thought you were some random guy, I almost killed you," I say, and fall down on my ass, unable to hold my balance anymore, and thanking my poor memory instead of cursing it, as usual.
Of all the things Hunter could say or do, he grins his crooked smile, with that familiar dimple in his right cheek. He looks nonchalant, as if we just met up on the Aurora Bridge and decided to go for a boat ride to observe rain from the open lake on a cloudy Monday morning. A fancy new way to skip school.
Hunter brushes hair out of his face, blinks off raindrops, and looks at me with his blue eyes. All I see are his irises, two mini Ferris wheels, spinning. Spinning to the magnificent Summer season concerto by Vivaldi, a clear undertone of his soul. It makes me dizzy, makes my senses twist into a funnel and curl.
"Say something! I hate it when you're quiet like this. How did you know...what the hell are you doing here, in..." I notice the finely polished paddles, the maroon paint of the bench Hunter is sitting on. "...my father's boat?"
"Um...being snuffed out by a siren?" He swallows hard, his pupils enlarged to the size of quarters. "You look awesome, by the way." His chest heaves up and down, he licks his lips.
I realize both my T-shirt and my hoodie are missing, having been torn off on violent contact with the water. The only item of clothing I have on are my favorite skin-tight, faded jeans, wet and clammy against my skin. Which means that I'm naked from the waist up.
"Oh, my God, I forgot. Stop staring!" I hug myself, covering my chest with my arms. Hunter's expression doesn't change, it's as if he's now looking through my hands, his gaze steady, drooling.
"I said, stop it! Don't look!" I cringe at hearing my own voice. My body is a natural sound amplifier for it. Yelling will take some time getting used to.
"I wasn't looking, I swear." He gulps and focuses intently on his rain jacket zipper. In one swift motion, he unzips it, takes it off, and throws it to me, pulling the hood of his cotton sweatshirt over his head. Raindrops quickly stitch dark dots on his shoulders.
"But what about you? You'll get soaked in no time. It's just cotton."
"I'll be fine."
"No, you won't. You'll catch a cold or something."
"Don't worry about me. I'm fine. I can go like this for hours. I was born in Seattle. We don't believe in rain. So please, put on the fucking jacket already? We're running a risk of being spotted."
"Oh," I say. I've been so preoccupied with Hunter and my own new existence, that I completely forgot about the possibility of witnesses staring down at us from the bridge. Not to mention the Seattle Police Department Harbor Patrol and their motor launch, gently bobbing about twenty yards away, or their divers.
I quickly ball up the jacket and press it against my chest. "Turn away or close your eyes. I'll tell you when you can look."
"All right, all right." Hunter raises his hands and theatrically puts them over his eyes. "See, I'm not looking."
"Don't peek!"
"Put the damn jacket on!"
I thrust my arms inside the sleeves, run the zipper all the way to the top, and stick my hands into the pockets.
"I'm done," I announce, and only now look around. We're sitting in the rowboat way south from the Aurora Bridge, having drifted off past the marina and out of earshot of the commotion. Red and blue lights flash on top of the bridge, and a couple officers peer down from the side where I jumped. If they look from the other side, they will undoubtedly see us. Further north, a Harbor Patrol boat floats idle. I seem to be taking in noises better, as well as colors and smells. Out of the depth of my sluggish memory, a question surfaces.
"Wait a second, how did you know I'm a siren?" I turn and look Hunter in the eyes, he quickly glances up as if to check out the rain, then looks at me, steady.
"Who else could you be, to survive a drop like that?"
His answer comes too fast, without any doubt or surprise on his face, as if he expected me to ask.
"You say it like you knew it ahead of time."
"No, no, not at all. Are you kidding, how could I know? I mean, there I was, strolling along the bridge this fine morning..."
"Yeah, what exactly were you doing on the bridge? It's not like it's a new way to walk to school, is it?"
"I tell you what, let's get out of here and talk on the way, I'll explain everything. Cool?" He grabs the paddles and plunges them rhythmically on either side of the boat, heading east and deeper into Lake Union.
I open my mouth, swarmed with a sudden urge to ask a million questions, but not knowing where to begin. I'm shaking from the sinking understanding that I am, indeed, alive-and a siren at that. I'm tempted to jump into the water and test how fast I can swim. At the same time, hunger raises its ugly head again and I try to push it down, because Hunter's soul sounds too tempting. I take a deep breath. So my lungs work on land, and the gills work underwater. Nice.
"First, where exactly are we going?"
"I don't know, we'll figure it out. Let's dock the boat somewhere and catch a bus to my place. The brakes on my truck have gone bye-bye, so-"
"Fine, that works."
"Do you have any shoes?"
"No, I'll be okay barefoot. Don't you change the subject! Did my father give you his boat, to look for me? Is that how you got it? Did he tell you where to find me?" As I talk, I think back to what Canosa said about my father. He is a siren hunter. He must have known that if my body wasn't found, I've probably turned.
"No, I sorta...borrowed it."
"Borrowed it?" I repeat.
"Yeah, but I'll return it, I swear."
"Where is he, anyway?"
"At the police department, I'd guess."
We pass a few morning commuter yachts. A woman my mother's age leans over the side of one and waves hello to us, her practiced, polite smile makes me want to punch her in the face. Maybe because I will never have a mother like that, the proper type, one who makes lunches for you to eat at school and ferries you around to your activities. Disgust with myself for thinking this poisons my mood and turns it to anger.
"Why the fuck didn't you tell me it was you? Why didn't you stop me? You could've at least said something. I could've killed you, you idiot, don't you get it?" Though I try to say it as quietly as I can, it comes out close to yelling, and I wince. I need to be tuned, like a brand new piano.
"Who says I didn't try? I swear, I tried calling you by your name a couple of times. Honest. You were gone though, you should've seen yourself. It was like, hello, can you hear me? I liked your song choice, by the way. Kudos. It's your favorite by Siren Suicides, isn't it? What was it, We Can't Be Apart, right?" That grin again. "And your voice, man...it was like you sang into a microphone off the stage, like at a rave party or something. It was wicked."
"Nice try, Hunter. Flattery will get you places, I'm sure you know that and are using it to your advantage." As much as I try, I'm not mad anymore. Hunter has this tricky way of dissolving my anger with his words. I don't know how he does it. "Regardless, you're still full of shit."
"Oh, yeah? How so?" He pushes on the paddles, leaning forward, then lifts them out of the lake and leans back, all in one fluid motion like an Olympic competitor. We're making good time, floating past Gas Works Park's monstrous pipes, dark and twisted in the rain, shimmering in my new field of vision.
"You were checking out my boobs, and now you're hoping that a compliment will make me forget it."
He makes an innocent face and I can almost see his mind trying to work out an answer.
"You don't need to make up an excuse, I get it. 'Oh, we're only friends.' Bullshit. And," I say, before he has a chance to come up with a lie, "somehow, you knew exactly where to find me, as if you knew I was being turned into a siren. And yesterday you were telling me all those stories about sirens-girls next door and other shit like that. I thought you were stoned out of your mind! Yet, here we are. I'm a real siren now, and you're helping me run away. How do you explain this?"
"Well, let's see here." He lets go of the paddles for a minute and scratches his head. With my new senses I can almost see steam rising from his worked up muscles, warm under his cotton hoodie, now an unidentifiable shade of wet rug. "For one, you don't strike me as the Fremont Troll's wife..."
"Stop it. It's not funny, okay? I'm being serious. I could've killed you." Talking is easier now, I'm adjusting. My ears stopped hurting and objects stopped looking as if they were traced with a neon marker.
"That would've been a pity. I'd feel so sorry for myself. Poor Hunter Crossby, snuffed out by a siren."
"You're impossible!" I lean toward him and lightly punch him in the stomach. A momentary surge of hunger pangs me. Surprised, he doubles over, slides off the bench and smacks his forehead on the edge of it; he plops in the puddle at the bottom of the boat. I quickly pull back and study my hands. The boat swings on the waves, left and right, so I grab its sides in a naïve attempt to steady it.
"Owwww!" he yelps.
"Oh, shit. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! I keep forgetting I have this new strength. Are you okay?"
He gasps for air and rubs his forehead, then, miraculously, he breaks into a grin. "Dude, that was awesome. Totally worth wetting my pants."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"The punch."
"Oh, God." I cradle my head. It's no use. I inhale and exhale loudly, pondering the deep meaning of the difference between the female and male thought process, when Hunter tugs on my sleeve.
"Hey, I got something for you."
"What do you mean?" I look up to see him fishing in his jeans' pocket and pulling out a crumpled envelope made of blue recycled paper. He places it on his right knee and attempts to flatten the creases with the palm of his hand, which proves to be a futile effort because the paper gets wet in the rain. I think I know what it is and study my toes, wigging them, trying to conceal my excitement.
Hunter pushes the envelope at me with one hand, and with his other, he wipes the snot from under his nose, now pink from being outside in the wet and cold for so long. I watch raindrops paint dots on the paper. At first they appear dark blue, then they turn to indigo, and finally, they settle on a deep royal purple.
"Happy Birthday, Ailen." He peeks up at my face. "Is that a smile I see?"
"Go away." I press my lips together, still trying to be mad, but unable to. My heart's racing, and one thought pounds in my head: He didn't forget. He didn't forget like he did last year. He got me a birthday present! Does it mean that we're more than friends now? Is he trying to tell me something? What could it be though, some gift card or maybe cash? If it's cash, I hope it's fifty bucks. I could buy some weed and a new Siren Suicides hoodie, because mine is gone now, torn off by the stupid water.
I hear my fingers touch the envelope, hear the slightest movement of skin against paper fiber. Over this gentle rustle, I hear Hunter's soul, the impossible sound of happiness wrapped in that homey, comfortable feeling. And in the background, I hear the rolling waves, the drizzle of rain, boat and car traffic, and, above it all, the buzz of human souls, each amplified by the open sky over the lake. I realize I've gotten used to the constant noise and have managed to tune it out while focusing on my conversation with Hunter.
"Are you gonna keep guessing or will you rip it open already?" Hunter says, tapping his foot.
"Stop, it's annoying."
"Translation: I act like I hate you but I want you to stay." He shakes his head like a dog, water flying everywhere from his wet hair.
"Stop it! It's not that." I swallow and cradle the envelope close to my belly to keep the paper dry. "It's just hard. I'm hungry. And you're..." I fall silent, unsure how he would take it if I said delicious, if I tried to explain to him that the waves of his warm breath make me ache and touching him makes me want to gobble him up whole.
"...so sweet and delicious?"
"How the hell did you know?" I shout out of surprise. My voice carries across the open water and I shrink in fear, having a bad premonition about how quiet and easy it was for us over the last half hour or so. Just then, as if to confirm my suspicions, the quiet bubble bursts. The racket of the patrol boat's motor echoes off the lake's surface, moving toward us. Another noise joins it, a mechanical purr that I know all too well, even though my father never took me on any of his trips. His boat. I strain to see where the noise is coming from, and it seems as though they're speeding along the shore just behind the Gas Works Park's half-island. That means, in another couple of minutes, they will pass it, turn the corner, and see us.
We look at each other.
"That's my father's motor boat, hear it?"
"Yeah, and the Harbor Patrol." Hunter grabs the paddles. "We are so toast."