Rain slaps me in the face, perhaps mad that I once called it stupid. I slide down the brick wall, as if in apology, and hit the concrete. I tip my head back and offer my face to the rain. My gills ache. This is the water I needed. Not the chlorinated spray from the public restroom, but the rainwater collected from the tops of mountains and carried here by fierce Northwest winds. It gives me back my strength. I want to talk to it, the way I hummed to the lake, the way I parted it when we rode at top speed on that stolen silver Ducati. Ailen Bright, the rain droplets seems to whisper, Get in the water, quickly. Escape before you get locked up in a trunk of despair, forever. You know he won't let you out of his sight, out of his control, siren or not. Be quick. Move!
"Okay, okay. I will," I say, fully aware of how strange I must appear—a dirty girl in torn clothes, soaking wet, talking to the sky. It must be close to noon by now, because several lunch-goers stop to measure me up and down to decide if I pose any kind of threat. I know what I look like, they don't need to show me. I'm a monster, the everyday, variety kind, the scariest of them all.
Full from the fishmonger's soul, and no longer hungry, I'm ready to go. Ready to escape the crowd's screaming and jeering from two stories above. I feel miserable about leaving Hunter like this, but who am I to deserve his love? What did I just do? I just fed on a man. I'm a monster all right, a siren. And a siren hunter is no friend to us, like Canosa said. Because I think this, that I even dared to listen to this thought in my head, I feel even worse. I want to simply run away from it all, to hide and think it over. Dip myself into the calming water, my only true friend. Water is all that matters, and my gills agree. I trust that it will tell me what to do.
I take a second to look south and study the landscape, deciding where to go. The Puget Sound spreads in a wide smile past the Aurora Highway and layers of buildings, riding a wave of seagull shrieks and salty smells. I want to grow wings and leap over this entire stretch of stone that separates us, and perform the dive of a century to reach the water right this moment. But I can't, and I hear Papa running toward the window three stories above me. Another couple of seconds, and I'm toast.
I dash left and left again, dragging my feet, weak from Papa's blasts. I head into the a dark maze of the Pike Place Fish Market's guts, with its restaurant's barred windows, garbage bin stink, and sewer pipes hissing steam and liquid. My bare feet slip on the wet and worn cobblestones. I pass a lonely janitor emptying a bucket of dirty water right into the street, his soul a mix of a talking parakeet, boiling soup bubbles, and some mixed martial arts cries, all promising to taste pungent. I slow down a notch without realizing it, the predator in me ready to feed. I could push him into that gaping backdoor and snuff him out in no time. I get mad at myself for thinking this and pick up my pace. I continue into Post Alley, that hidden capillary that crosses Seattle's downtown. I think I know where I'm going.
Ahead of me, a flock of tourists poses in front of the Gum Wall, pretending to be stars against a background of chewed up resin. A dozen of them take pictures and chat excitedly. Some are fresh, even minty, and one is a sweet young girl. Quickly, before getting distracted by their souls, I run between them, no doubt spoiling their photo. I push them apart with my arms, wincing as if I'd touched hot pans on a stove. They shriek. I keep running, skidding on damp stones, and tearing past gaping garages, mesh fences made of metal, and by a row of parked motorcycles—all in the shadow of tall apartment buildings on each side. I run toward the light at the end of the alley, into the open.
One thought pounds inside my head on repeat. I don't belong. I don't belong. I'm a killer, and I don't belong.
Water and solitude, it's what I need right now. Water will heal me.
I burst into the opening and shield my eyes from the diffused light streaming down through the clouds. It stopped raining. The Puget Sound glistens with its welcome calm to my right, and I bolt south, crossing the street and reaching a staircase to a lower level. I skip down its forty metal steps, and continue running without looking back, toward grim columns that support the rumbling, elevated section of Highway 99, fifty feet above me. I pass into its looming shadow, ignoring the red light, and jog between beeping cars across Alaskan Way. There, almost made it. I step onto the pedestrian walkway, now just a concrete fence and a plaza away from water. My wellbeing. If there is such a thing as wellbeing for a siren. My legs still tremble from the shock of the sonic blasts, my gills aching with a dull thirst.
It seems as if I don't have to be in the water all the time, like people don't need to be in the sun all the time, yet it's good for them when they do. I wonder if I'd turn into a fish if I stay in the water too long, just like I used to burn in the sun if I tanned for more than a few hours. I smile at the thought, imagining myself as a trout.
There is so much water, and it's somehow very different from lake water. It feels bigger, louder, more magnificent. It hums to me. Enthralled by its slur I miss the danger. A homeless mushroom of a man snatches my arm just above the elbow. His brown bundle of clothes is soaked through and reeks of urine.
"Hang on there, little birdie. Where do ye think ye're going? Eh? Spare some change for this poor man, will ye? Will ye?" His open mouth shows gaps between yellowing teeth. He's short and shrunken and trembling.
"Huh?"
I shake off his arm, ready to pick him up and throw him into the street, annoyed at the interruption of my marveling, yet knowing I might not have enough strength to do it yet. I look into his tiny pig-like eyes and feel his desire. He's heard my voice and he's thirsty for it. He wants to bite a piece of me, to touch me, to see if it's skin or just some weird, milky glass that's poking through my torn jacket and jeans. This makes me livid and I can't stomach the idea of touching this man. I forget all about the water and shout.
"What? What do you want? You like me, do you? What is it about me that you like, huh? My dirty feet? My adorable hair that looks like I've been crawling in shit since this morning? Yes? No? Well, which one is it?" I know I need to go, but I want an answer. I want him to answer me, now. I want all of them to answer, everyone who wouldn't leave me alone, wouldn't let me be. And I feel my energy evaporate after using my voice.
The man doesn't appear to be scared; instead, he takes a step closer in lucid adoration. "Oh, will ye look at those blue eyes. Very pretty. Yer mama gave ye those, little birdie? Was she pretty too? I bet she was, I bet. Give to an old man for a drink. I'll drink to ye, and I'll dream of ye tonight, my beauty." The palm of his hand is inches from my cheek. His voice trembles and so does his soul, surprisingly serene, like hushed leaves whispering in an overgrown garden, promising to taste earthy.
"Don't touch me!" I shout in his face, and instantly regret it. The man jerks his hand away. There is so much hurt in his eyes, his lips quiver. And I want to slap myself hard, to teach myself a lesson, to control my anger. To never turn into my father, ever. Siren or not.
Then the flashes come.
Directly over the concrete fence, on the wooden platform that separates me from the water, a pack of Japanese tourists is taking pictures of themselves, of the waterfront, and of me and the homeless man. I know I'd have to make it through them and across the platform to dive in and disappear. And, suddenly, I can't. My knees grow soft at the idea of killing anyone else by mistake, or while in the rush of anger. I'm flooded with remorse and guilt, remembering the mesmerized and terrified crowd by the market and once again by the restroom entrance, the dead face of the fishmonger, and Raidne being blown up. I can't do this anymore. I can't run around and simply hurt people. I can't be a siren, not with my father's DNA. I need to somehow get rid of myself, for good.
While I try to sort through my emotions, things turn from bad to worse. A cop approaches us with the steady gate of an old man, not old enough to retire, but old enough to have hip pain, limping slightly on his left leg. His hair is curly and gray, contrasting with his dark skin and blue uniform cap. A gospel handclap of a soul, he's a mix of Mardi Gras songs, old jazz, and alabaster ghetto shootings, all together tasting perhaps like gumbo. My chest grumbles with hunger.
"Miss? Is he giving you trouble?" He straightens his cap, his fat fingers hairy yet cleanly manicured. I begin to think that the only way for me to escape this situation—weakened as I am—without hurting anyone in the process, is to run away.
The homeless man shrivels and weaves a lie, which seems to come naturally to him. "She took me money, officer. Swear on me life." He crosses himself. "That her right there, took all me change. I'm jus' an honest man, trying to make a living here. An honest man, officer, trying me best. Doing me best, as best I can, in me circumstances." Saliva drips out of his open mouth. I judge the gap between him and the cop, thinking of slinking through without pushing either of them out of my way.
"Shut it, Bonny. I've heard this a thousand times. Get your sorry ass out of my sight if you don't want me to charge you with a misdemeanor." He turns his attention to me. "Miss, can I see your ID? Holy Jesus, what happened to you?" His large brown eyes widen as he notices the big holes in my jacket and jeans.
There is enough space between the slowly moving cars in the lunch traffic on Alaskan Way. As if sensing my resolve, the cop raises his arm. "Let me—"
I lightly brush it aside and sprint, every step rendering me weaker and weaker.
"Miss! Stop!"
I hear the cop shout after me, but I'm off, weaving my way between blaring cars and back under the ugly Alaskan Way Viaduct, its dark expanse hanging parallel to the waterfront like a looming imposter. I turn onto a long stretch of road with metered parking and run further south. I concentrate on the ground to avoid swaying from sudden dizziness. I keep running, between rows of parked cars, the ever-present forest green Subaru's, metallic Volkswagens, unidentifiable maroon-colored vans, an occasional truck, and some bright green hybrids. I think that if I run all the way to the ship terminals, where there are no tourists or gawkers, I'll slip into the water there, without attracting much attention.
I keep looking to my right for a clear side street, a pier devoid of souls. My feet paddle forward, feeling heavy. About twenty feet ahead of me, and behind the next turn, I hear the unmistakable sound of terror from a Maserati Quattroporte Sport GT S engine, the low purring of Papa's car.
"Crap!" I yelp, before realizing that it's a big mistake. Hunter said a siren hunter can track a siren by her voice, so my shouting at the homeless man must have lead him there. Great. Before he whips around the corner and spots me, I have perhaps ten seconds tops to make myself invisible and disappear.
Pain forgotten, I sprint left, scattering a handful of pigeons into a mad, cooing cloud. I run along some side streets toward the harbor's steps that connect this lower area of town with its upper level. I hop over several steps at once in long strides, pulsing with a single idea: I need to hide. I need to hide.
Car tires screech onto the side road I took and drive to the bottom of the steps just below me. I don't need to turn to look, I know who it is. And he's not alone. There hangs a hint of that summery goodness and warmth in the air. The lulling sound of Vivaldi's Summer concerto gone wrong, as if having turned sour. He's got Hunter in the car with him, and Hunter is in pain. I can't help myself, I stop and turn around.
I've made it two-thirds of the way up the steps and there's about a hundred feet between us. Papa gets out of the car right in the middle of the street, ignoring the honking. Horrified that he'll see me, I drop flat on my stomach into one of the shallow pools of the fountains that run along the steps. The water gives me instant relief yet also burns me with its chlorine. I can't stay here for long. Think, Ailen, think. He can't drive up the steps after me, and he hasn't seen me yet. If I keep quiet, he won't know where I am. Can I outrun his car? Not in this injured state. Can I make it out of this maze and into the water unseen? Probably best to wait till night when the streets are deserted.
I decide to find a good hiding spot so I can recover, perhaps yearning for the comfort of confinement I used to experience when Papa would lock me up in the bathroom for hours on end. I wait until I hear the engine start again and move away. Then, I jump out of the water to the shriek of a passing lady and the hysterical barking of her dog, I sprint to my left and into another alley. I'll hide, I'll think. I'll wait it out, get better, and then I'll dive.
I splash across puddles with no sense of direction, simply going somewhere, looking for a quiet place. The alley ends in a series of concrete steps and I find myself in an open plaza directly underneath one of the Aurora Highway exits. No, it's not a plaza, it's a dead-end the size of a concert hall. The street ends into a wall that's about thirty feet high with a supporting, cement column in its middle. Perpendicular to it, and straight ahead of me, stands a squat brick building. A concrete staircase, masquerading as an architectural ornament, runs up the building's side from its first to fourth floor. The space beneath the staircase is walled off by a chain-link fence, all the way to the top. Perfect.
It's devoid of pedestrians. I quickly jog across, passing a few parked cars, and break open the metal mesh door. I remember to lean it back so it looks like it's shut. I crawl into the rubble in the shallow end, pushing aside pieces of industrial junk reeking of machine oil and rust. As I scoop away rustling chip bags, damp cardboard, and plain dirt, I discover a treasure. Deep under the lowest rung of the staircase, stuffed with discarded appliances and hidden from view, stands an old, iron, claw foot bathtub. I can't believe my luck and start digging trash out of it, to make enough room.
I slide inside and pull some of the cardboard boxes over my head to cover myself up. There, I'm hidden. I let out a sigh of relief, trembling all over from the effort of running. I notice a shaft of light in the dimness around me. Several shafts. I turn onto my stomach. There are three circular holes in the tub where the faucet used to be. I position myself so that my nose barely peeks through the largest hole, and my eyes level with the two other holes, like I'm a hermit crab observing its surroundings through a broken shell.
I breathe in rapid gasps, calming myself down.
You're safe, you're safe here. I'll stay here until it turns dark, and then quietly find my way out and disappear into the water. I don't know exactly what I will do after that, but it doesn't matter. I'm safe now. My head buzzes with dizziness, and I feel like I'll puke.
Ailen, stop freaking out. You're good. I begin to relax. It's over with. It's all over. I can gather my strength and think about what I'm going to do with myself and how. Maybe I can use this place again in the future, if need be. Maybe I can even stay here for days, alone, in peace. If not for the constant shaking of the ground and the wheezing from traffic above, this would be perfect.
Involuntarily, I utter a moan, perhaps because too many things have happened, perhaps to release the pain. The amount of stuff that has happened to me over the last twenty-four hours beats all the other things that had transpired throughout my entire sixteen years of life. But as soon as the sound escapes my lips, I gasp and cover my mouth. A noise. I made a noise.
I freeze and wait, hoping against all odds that my moan wasn't loud enough for Papa to detect. The constant drone of cars exiting from Aurora to downtown Seattle should've dampened it. How exactly would he detect me, what kind of device does he use?
Wondering didn't last long, because there's a low purr of a Maserati engine, its eight cylinders pumping pistons and producing a fume that contrasts with any other exhaust by virtue of its ego. Look at me, I'm Italian made. Papa's car rolls in, his tires gripping the asphalt in tight revolutions, crunching along the parking area until they stop directly across from my hiding spot. The metallic gray Quattroporte glistens at me through the holes, as if saying, You thought you could hide from me, sweetie? I'm afraid to move further into the dark, afraid to make any movement at all. Hunter's profile is barely visible from behind the passenger door window. His head is hung as if he's sleeping.
I watch all of this unfold with a mortified fascination, where my senses have turned themselves off in favor of a single flood of terror. My bones turn brittle, my muscles spasm, and my skin feels like ice. Above all, the pounding of my heart is so loud, I wish I could push a button and turn the damn thing off before it gives me away.
Move! Go, go now, before he gets out of the car! My mind screams at my body, but my body won't listen, my hand still pressed over my mouth. He doesn't know I'm here, not yet. Surely, it's some acoustic radar that he uses, and as soon as I'm quiet, it'll be quiet too. I hope. Get out and run, you stupid coward! You can outrun him and make it into the water. Go! But the more my mind reels with agony, the more my body wills itself to be completely still, barely breathing. This is what they must call deer in the headlights, because I have a complete lack of motor reaction. Atrophied.
The car idles for a few seconds, as if my father is deciding something, then it pulls into one of the empty parking spots, its tail lights flashing red before going dark. The driver's door opens and Papa steps out, glancing at his watch. I study his face, about twenty feet away from me. It's cleanly shaven as always, and concentrated on something. The time? I notice he changed into a new set of clothes that he always carries in the trunk of his car in case he gets wet. Right now it's a dull lavender shirt and a pewter wool jacket, no tie. I notice something else. An echo of blue light reflects in tiny halos on his cheeks. Pulsing. Blue light flashing at him from his watch. My guts turn to lead. The radar. It must be an acoustic radar and it's picking up my breathing right now, because I'm not making noise anymore.
Another thought pricks at me with pins and needles. That's what it meant, all those times. He would glance at his watch during a mealtime, excuse himself, and practically run out of the house under the pretext of being late. Then, he'd take off on his boat and vanish for days. My father was never late, and his escapades always puzzled me. I was never allowed to touch, or even look at, his exorbitantly expensive Italian piece of watch-making excellence. Papa always reminded me that it was made of titanium by a company called Officine Panerai and was originally produced for the Royal Italian Navy, telling me how he would make me pay it off if I ever broke it. Nor did he allow my mother to handle it. Every time after he left in a hurry, mom would always go pale and start chatting gibberish to cover up the silence.
Maybe I stare at my father too hard, because as soon as I think about mom, he raises his head and looks directly at me. I know he can't see me, but the sensation is overwhelming. I almost cry out, understanding where my paralysis comes from. It's not so much the fear of him catching me, it's the impossibility of escape, like in a bad dream where you run and run through tangled woods, away from a predator whose breath you feel on your back, but every time you think you made it out, you find yourself back to where you started. You wheel around, and there it is, the monster of your nightmares, staring you in the face.
Papa puts his hand in his pant pocket and marches to the broken door, a sonic gun in his other hand. I get a whiff of his determination and shrink even further into the tub, mentally burrowing myself in it like a mole blind from fear.
You need to run! Now!
Yet, I do not listen, lost inside myself. My head seems to have swapped places with my feet, my heart somersaults down to my stomach, my lungs dry out, and my gills ache with a burning irritation the way a fresh cut stings. My apprehension sears my vocal cords. Great, Ailen, you're a mute siren now. Congratulations. Fresh catch of the day. You don't stand a chance.
"Ailen."
I don't see my father through the holes anymore, but I hear him make his way through the trash and rubble.
"Come on, sweetie, we both know you're here. Let's be civil and do it quietly this time around, okay? We don't want to scare people. People do strange things when they're scared, they might imagine things that are not really happening. We don't want that."
More steps and shuffling, then his voice is almost above me. "One minute. I'll give you one minute to come out. You know I don't like to wait."
He starts the timer. I never heard the actual sound, but I hear it now with my extra sensitive ears. It's mechanical and delicate at the same time.
Tick-tick-tick.
I imagine the watch's second hand passing the numbers.
Eight. Nine. Ten.
This feels too much like déjà vu, like me counting seconds when stepping into the bathtub full of water this morning. Panic sets in my chest, my paralysis morphing into dread. He jingles his car keys, takes another step.
"Forty seconds, sweetie."
How he loves to set the timer on me, using his super-precise watch; he has for as long as I can remember. That dreaded one minute, sixty seconds exactly; not a second less, not a second more. I picture the broken bathroom door on the floor and his pristine shoes, suddenly hating all the beautiful things he surrounds himself with. He even treated my mother, who was strikingly beautiful and never even knew it, like this. Like nothing more than a thing of beauty. Canosa turned me into a siren to avenge my mother, that was my choice. So, why am I hiding here, all stiff and afraid?
Pure loathing fills me to a bursting point and pulls my internal trigger. My weakness is gone, replaced by an urge to tear apart, destroy, and kill.
With a terrible shriek, I contract my muscles and burst through a shower of debris, head first. I hit the fence and break it, then turn 180 degrees in the air, and jump into a fighter's stance with my feet apart and my hands curled into fists. My eyeballs swivel in their sockets until they find him.
"I hate your guts, Papa," I say, facing my father.