Mist fills my lungs. The moment our feet detach from the concrete, streetlights come to life and glimmer faintly, buzzing with their slow electricity, warming up for yet for another cloudy evening. We look like two lucid ghosts, one framed by a mane of white hair, the other in jeans and nothing else. Arms stretched out and plummeting into the cold evening air, we hit the water head first, then dive deeply under the bridge into a numbing liquid darkness. I can hear the water as it gurgles in my ears; I take a gulp, extracting oxygen and squirting out the rest through my gills. A faint glow from Canosa's body shimmers to my left. We kick our legs in dolphin strokes, propelling us forward, our hands still clasped. The distant drone of living souls echoes in a hushed gibberish from each bank as we swim east, toward Lake Washington. I'm high, high on being a siren. High on adrenalin wrapped in anxiety, encapsulated by some insane giddiness that's supposed to be wrong. But I don't care, this feels divine, this feels like happiness.
I look to my left and think that I have the best sister I could ever dream of. My big sister, the one who understands me, the one I can rely on, the one who can bitch out anyone who dares to hurt me. And I mean, bitch them out big time.
An image of my father's boat flashes in my mind. I'm worried. I want to ask about Ligeia and Teles and Pisinoe, about where they are and when I can see them again; but I'm afraid to break the silence, afraid to disturb this feeling of serenity. So, I keep quiet and decide to ask later. We swim for only a few minutes but it feels like an eternity, and I don't want it to end. Canosa glances at me briefly, then points up and to the right. I follow her gaze and notice darkness increasing around us; the water's becoming cold and murky, green algae hanging in big, uneven clumps. We seem to be passing between islands. We turn right and swim into the thicket of...a marsh? The water tastes acidic and its surface is covered with reeds that look like a torn, uneven blanket from underneath, barely discernible in the diminishing light. I know where we're going.
Once, my father took my mom and me on a long boat ride, rowing all the way from our marina, across Lake Union, by Portage Bay, and finally into the maze of the Arboretum wetlands. Papa's muscles bulged under his lavender polo shirt in rhythm to his steady movement; I was maybe five or six, and I remember feeling very proud of his strength. My hair was pulled into two pigtails and I was wearing a sundress mom made for me from one of Papa's old dress shirts. It was light blue with tiny sailboats printed on it, original pearl buttons running along its full length. I was dipping my hand into the water, watching with fascination as ducks herded their ducklings, oblivious to an argument that erupted on the other side of the boat. I turned only at the sound of a slap, and watched as my father calmly sat back down. I grabbed the boat's side, afraid it would overturn and I'd drown because it bobbed so hard. Mom held her face while Papa docked on the muddy bank, making us get out and walk all the way to the bus station.
I swallow at this memory, trying to chase it away. It's all in the past, and I'm a siren now. All I care about is food. There seems to be a lack of it, probably just a few evening dog walkers or joggers who favor this part of the park for their daily exercise. I can hear a distant echo of their souls coming at me, amplified by all this water. My chest screams at me with hunger, sending shivers up and down my spine.
Canosa pulls on my hand and we swim up, breaching the lake's surface right by one of the wooden boardwalks; its beams are dark with age and covered with moss, nearly black in the dusk. I inhale the sweet smell of water lilies. A startled blackbird shrieks and flies off into a lush thicket of willows, rousing a few more birds that scatter and disappear into the darkness, squawking. Cattails rustle from the breeze. The constant hum of Highway 520 bridge traffic invades my ears like the annoying buzz of bees. Turning my head to look at Canosa, I see her face pulse in rhythm to my urge to eat.
"I know you're hungry. Just hold on a little more, come on," she whispers urgently.
"Right," I say, feeling my lips tremble.
We scale up the boardwalk fence, two bleached women, and jog along the path that runs into the heart of the park, our bare feet skidding on the wet wooden boards.
"Best place to hunt on Monday nights. Not too many people, and those who venture out are not very cautious, still in their weekend daze," Canosa says under her breath.
"Uh-huh," I say, listening intently to about a dozen trickling melodies within a mile radius. I can distinguish each by its timbre and sound waves and tone, imagining what they would taste like while conjuring up an image of each soul's owner. My mouth goes dry and I can barely move my tongue to talk.
The wooden path ends and turns into a muddy bog trail. Sludge oozes between my toes as I slink and duck behind Canosa, deeper into the overgrown darkness; the only light comes from the faint glow of mine and Canosa's skin, and illuminates the thick high canopy of trees around us. We jog faster, quietly, scaring a pack of raccoons as we close in on a few hikers who don't know what's about to hit them on this fine Monday night.
The trail continues into an open meadow devoid of trees.
About forty feet ahead, a jogger sprints toward us, a man with a flashlight strapped to his head and clothed in a bright neon yellow vest for visibility. Sheer desire to jump at him blinds me with a wash of predatory fever. But before I even have time to react, Canosa lets go of my hand and charges at him with a venomous cry, covering the distance between them in a matter of seconds. Flocks of birds flee from the surrounding trees, and small animals scatter into their holes and hide. I stand, my mouth open, enthralled by her speed.
Arrested by her voice, and without a single peep, the jogger falls to his knees, his arms stretched out in front of him as if he's about to worship some otherworldly deity—which Canosa is, I suppose. She spreads her arms and hovers over him, her eyes emitting a blue light that reflects in his pupils. She ignites his soul. I gulp, shaking. I yearn to be a part of this feast, but I hold back due to some hunting instinct. This is not my kill; I need to wait for my alpha to satisfy her hunger, to allow me to follow suit.
The man's soul melody pierces my ears with its beauty, a combination of a violin and bird calls. Perhaps he's a musician who likes to watch birds. Fresh and minty, that's how he'd taste. Oh, it sounds incredibly delicious. Hunger burns me, scratching at my ribs from the inside. I wheeze and cough, my gut retching from emptiness. Canosa sings a few verses of her song that I don't understand. I watch her disappear into a pocket of fog, with a barely visible line of smoke trailing at the top of it in one long ribbon. A musician's soul. I can't help it, I begin walking. By the time I reach them, it's done. He'd dead, sprawled on the ground. When I lean over his face to see if I know him, Canosa snatches my hand and pulls me away.
"That is how it's done. See? You have to be fast, so that they're yours before they know it," she says.
"Uh-huh," I manage, turning back, still feeling the soul's lingering sound penetrate me; it's like the left-over smell from a freshly baked pie that's been eaten before I got a chance to taste it.
"Come on, there's no time for this. I hear a couple more ahead. They're yours, I insist," she whispers in my ear, her eyes ablaze with ravenous fervor, her hand warm from newly acquired life. I inhale the evening air, fragrant with that smell of early autumn, and nod.
"Can't...wait," my own voice comes out as a hiss.
The trilling melody of a couple souls, several hundred feet away, blocks out the rest of my thinking. A curtain of primitive instinct shrouds my brain and my body takes over. Time seems to stop. My vision sharpens, as if someone focused the lens. I see every single leaf in the oncoming darkness, etched into the receding dimness of the park; I hear every branch creak, every little mouse scurry.
I stalk off behind Canosa in an agitated daze; I'm reeling with hunger, salivating, pulsing with agony. Then I find myself ahead of her, running, abandoning the trail and breaking through azalea bushes, faster, aiming at my two victims—a man and a woman, and what sounds like a large dog—probably out for a late night stroll. I thrash through a cluster of dwarf maples and the dog starts barking a low, rasping sound. I hear the man hush it as I break out into the relative light, recognizing the location at once. Azalea Way, a dog walker's favorite destination.
They stare at me, ignorant of their dog thrashing at the end of its leash, three figures against the rapidly darkening sky.
"Freeze!" I shout, spewing saliva.
It's the first thing that comes to mind, perhaps because I've heard cops use it, and because I used it once before. Hey, maybe this will become my signature siren call! I emit a noise that's half grunt, half chuckle.
All three of them freeze, completely still. The flashlight in the man's right hand slips and rolls softly into the grass. I charge at him, attracted by the lure of his soul; it's the whizzing of a motor, repeated dog barks, and some other soft warble I can't identify. It promises to taste fruity, almost melon-like. I stop a few inches away from his face and ignite his soul with a powerful gaze that's akin to your eyes bulging out of their sockets while glaring, unblinking. Blue light reflects in his pupils as a trail of faint smoke escapes through his lips. I begin singing. The song streams effortlessly from my lips, as if it was meant to be, as if I'd done it a thousand times before and know it by heart.
"We live in the meadow,
But you don't know it.
Our grass is your sorrow,
But you won't show it."
I realize that this is the song the sirens used to convert me. How do I know the words? Canosa comes up from behind me and ignites the woman's soul—a divine concoction of clanking pots and puppy whining. Savory. Canosa joins me and we sing the next verse together.
"Give us your pain,
Dip in our song.
Notes afloat,
Listen and love.
Listen and love.
Listen and love."
The woman whimpers and falls to her knees, her dog whines next to her, the man follows. Steamy plumes of their warmth trail into our mouths. I imagine sucking on the best joint of my life, the strongest weed you could ever find, minty flavored for added pleasure.
Within a minute, we're done. There are only two bodies left, surrounded by the fog; the dog is licking both of its owners' faces, now oblivious to his yelps. I watch everything with a sick fascination, not fully believing what I've done; without thought or feeling, I've unleashed a growing hunger that's driving me to feed even more.
I raise my head to a new tune, belonging to another jogger. I glance at Canosa for approval, then charge again. I emerge from the pocket of fog we created and nearly knock my next victim off her feet. The rest happens in a mad daze—I'm singing and gulping up her soul, while Canosa strips her and says, "Gotta look decent for the party, right?"
She makes me peel off my torn jeans and pull on the girl's leggings with reflective stripes on each side; her silver rain jacket, made of soft waterproof fabric that allows your skin to breathe when running.
"That's Seattle fashion for you," Canosa mutters, zipping it up for me and turning me this way and that. "It's called, hiking emergency. Well, it looks new, so it's okay. It'll do for now. Put on her shoes." So I do. I pull them off the girl's feet and step into them, still warm; they're the latest in running sneakers, the kind with barely any weight to them. And they're silver.
I'm drunk from my feeding frenzy, hot and reeling. I grip Canosa's hand and we dash across the boulevard, empty of traffic on a Monday night. We skirt the Japanese garden and emerge into a parking lot that's mostly empty. We startle a group of people walking back to their cars from soccer practice.
Canosa jeers at them and yells, "BOO!" Then she cackles her mad lunatic laughter, and kills some more. I join her. We're on a spree.
Souls whisk out of each person in rapid succession, turning the parking lot into a pool of fog with grotesquely smiling corpses on its bottom. They all look their happiest, like they've been struck by something utterly divine in the last minute of their lives.
I've lost count now. Still singing, I feel my throat turn hoarse; I move forward in a morbid determination to eat as much as I can. My saliva is acid syrup. My blood is concentrated seawater pumped through my veins by a dead heart. My power is my voice, and I'm using it—using it plenty. Eating my dinner, humans served live, their souls draped over the garnish of a soulless siren. It's supposed to satisfy me, but makes me hungrier still, as if it's the last meal I'll ever eat.
In the meantime, Canosa made herself an outfit of soccer knee socks on top of leggings, bright pink rain boots, a large soccer sweatshirt that's definitely too big for her but makes her look even sexier, and a yellow rain poncho to top it off. I didn't even notice when she did it or whom she stripped. All in all, she looks cute, even adorable. Pink lipstick would complete the picture, passing her off as a twenty-something Seattleite; the only strange thing about her is her really long white hair, which she tucks into the hood of the poncho.
"Well, what do you think?" she asks, twirling in front of me under a streetlight. I realize I have no memory of how we got here. We're now standing on Madison Street, devoid of pedestrians, glistening with old puddles. I blink. A few cars rush by us in both directions.
"You look great," I say, enthralled by the warmth that spreads through me, making me feel alive and almost human again. "How many..." I trail off, scared to ask.
"How many what?" Canosa asks, and chews on her hair absentmindedly.
"How many did I kill?" I say, not wanting to believe that what just happened was real, hoping maybe it was a bad dream and I didn't really go on a murdering spree.
"It doesn't matter now, does it? What matters is you were great! You kicked some serious ass, girl." I notice that she doesn't say silly girl. "Come on. Let's get out of here before the cops decide to join our party," Canosa says and pulls me by the hand again. I follow, trying to retrace our journey, from the moment we emerged by the boardwalk to the last moment I remember—the parking lot between the Japanese garden and the bottom of a soccer field. Faces flash in my memory like quick snapshots. I bend my fingers, horrified.
"Nine," I say.
"Are you counting?" Canosa is cheery; her lips actually have a lively color and her cheeks are almost pink. She giggles. "Stop it, silly girl, you'll make yourself ill. Come on. I have a surprise for you." I notice that she calls me silly girl again and sigh.
"Nine," I repeat under my breath, unable to believe it. Here I am, a sixteen-year-old murderer, an innocent-looking girl on the outside, and a ruthless predator on the inside. How does this make me any better than my father?
High on our recent feeding, I don't notice when we walk from the right side of the road and into yet another parking lot. I'm swimming in a glare of streetlights, oblivious to the white noise of constant traffic and the increasing number of pedestrians and their mouthwatering souls. I'm full to the point of gagging. I don't want to eat anymore. Where did my promise go, the one that said, I won't kill, no-no-no! Turns out, I'm full of shit.
"Look," Canosa says into my ear.
I raise my head. We stand between two parked cars, shadowed by an oak tree. Across the street, a long line of people snake into a squat brick building the color of a dirty pond; its huge black windows look like eyes that are alarmed. The white noise is not simply white noise. The ground ripples under our feet with loud music, cheering, and buoyant souls. It's night, and our faces diffuse a faint brilliance, the fancy, non-electric kind. Our skin doesn't glow as strongly as it does in dark water but, still, it shimmers, emitting a soft siren halo. Great. On top of everything else, I'm a glow-in-the-dark freak now.
"Wait!" I say, suddenly aware of time and space. "It's Chop Suey!" I look at Canosa. She raises her eyebrows, as if to say, I told you.
"Siren Suicides! The concert! Hunter bought me two tickets for my birthday. He was supposed to..." I trail off. Terror floods me. "Is this another hunting ground for you, this night club? Night clubs in general?"
"Marvelous, Ailen, you got it right again. And looks like we're just in time for the show," Canosa whispers. "Oh, this will be juicy, I can tell." She smacks her lips, and straightens in her stolen poncho. A girl's face flashes in my mind, the one she took it from, and I shudder.
"Hunter was supposed to bring me here tonight. To the Siren Suicides concert; it's my favorite band. For my birthday," I repeat again, unable to believe it's not happening. Hunter needs to be gone from my life, which means that I have to extinguish myself by singing to my father.
Crossing my arms, I hug myself. I hide my chin deeply inside the creases of my brand new silver rain jacket, still smelling of synthetic coating—its unlucky owner now bare-skinned under some Japanese maples. The thought of my first successful hunt is supposed to cheer me up, but it chills me instead. Whatever warmth I acquired from those nine souls I sucked in, it diminishes by the minute. I feel my body cool off and demand more.
"This sucks," I suddenly exclaim. "I lost the tickets Hunter gave me on the beach. I was really looking forward to seeing them, too. They've never toured in the U.S. before, you know."
Canosa presses into the small of my back, nudging me forward. "Who says you can't?"
Her cheek slightly brushes mine and I fail to detect her usual pond odor. I furrow my eyebrows; does this mean I smell rotten too?
"Are you suggesting..."
"Who says we need tickets?" Canosa giggles. "I say, let's go taste those guards by the door. What do you say?"
I turn my head to look. The line of people trickling in is next to nothing now. There are three guys checking everyone's IDs at the door.
Canosa pushes me harder. I stumble forward, my feet numb, stuck in my squeaky new silver sneakers. The September night throws a tint of periwinkle over the passing cars, oblivious to the impending massacre. A police car shrills past, perhaps on its way to the Washington Park Arboretum to retrieve some bodies. My knees lock and then buckle.
"I can't do this." I lick my lips nervously.
"But you just did!" Canosa says impatiently. "Silly girl, will you make up your mind already?" She stomps her foot for added effect.
"I don't...I don't want to anymore."
"Oh, really? Well, I have news for you. A surprise that will make you change your mind." She grins, and I can see a monstrosity showing through her beautiful innocence. "He's waiting for you. He's here, I can feel him," she whispers.
"Who? Hunter?" My heart drops.
"Uh-huh. Hunter Crossby, lover boy."
"Oh, God, then I'm not going in for sure." I dog-shake my head, my breathing shallow and tepid.
"Oh, but you have to! Why, I insist, Ailen Bright. I promise you, you'll enjoy it. Trust me." The glint in her eyes is part streetlights and part curiosity as to how long I will last, when will I break down, and whether I can withstand the pull of Hunter's soul. She called me by my full name again, which means she's getting angry.
"What about the others?" I try to change the subject.
"Don't you worry about the others, they're big girls; they can take care of themselves. We're talking about you right now, yes? So go ahead, eat your boy. Kill him before it's too late, before you begin to suffer." So much anger flashes in her eyes that I recoil and take a step back.
"I'm...I'm not sure I can do it here. Too many people," I say, backtracking, hoping she'll buy my lie.
"Why? A night club is a perfect siren feeding ground. Loud music. People are mostly drunk or high. Some poor schmuck sliding to the ground is no big deal, especially when it happens in the restrooms. But even on the dance floor, general chaos plays to our advantage. This is siren fun! You see what I mean, Ailen?" she giggles. She called me by my first name only again. Good.
I exhale, understanding what she's doing. She's having a ball, and I'm her new entertainment. Yet I'm too reluctant to give up on the whole big sister idea. Sisters fight and use each other too, right? So this is real family stuff.
I smile. "But those people in the park—"
"What about them?" She cocks her head to the side, tapping her foot lightly. From the corner of my eye, I see that the line of people waiting to get into the club has disappeared. The concert is about to start.
"You weren't even hungry. You killed them for clothes, for fun."
"For you." She stops chewing on her hair and peers at me. "I killed them for you, to show you how it's done, remember? I promised to teach you. And I want you to get it." She taps her finger on my forehead several times. "You're a siren, so you'd better get used to it; you'd better learn to enjoy it. Do you understand?"
My chest rumbles, empty again, and I nod.
"Yeah, I do." An irresistible urge to see Hunter takes over me. It will be just this one last time, and then I'll be gone, forever. I'll go find my father, sing to him with the full intent of killing him, and die.
"All right, then. Don't back off now. Come on, let's go!" She tugs at my sleeve.
"What if I'm not able to?" I retort, one last time.
"Ailen, sometimes I think you're crazier than me, girl. I explained this to you already, didn't I?"
I stare blankly at her. I hate when I'm under pressure and seem to forget the simplest things. Turning into a siren sure didn't cure my shitty memory, not one bit.
"I forgot. Sorry." I wince, almost expecting a blow.
Canosa moves closer to my ear, her lips brushing my skin. "Here is what will happen, silly girl. I will watch you squirm, for years, tethering on the brink of dying but not quite dying yet. This is what will happen. Would you like to know how that feels?"
She stares me in the eyes.
"Is this how you felt? How you still feel?" I manage.
A man walks up to us and complains that we're blocking his car and need to move. He's obviously drunk. Canosa's expression changes before I can read it, and the moment is lost. Will I ever dare ask her straight out if she still loves my father? I glance at the man, furious, ready to snuff him out; but I catch my impulse and suppress it, horrified at how fast I got blinded. He opens the door to his Jeep, and then slams it as he starts the car. Exhaust floods my nostrils and makes me cough.
Canosa grabs my chin and turns my face to hers. "Would you like me to kill your dear Hunter? I can do that for you. You're family now, and that's what family does for each other." I can see in her eyes that she's serious and she fully means it.
"No, no, it's okay. I'll do it."
"Good! Do you think he'll look good in an open-lid coffin, or should we have his face eaten off first, by deep-water fish?" She pokes me with her finger, topping off her hideous laugh. I stand, dumbstruck. This must be siren humor.
Canosa continues, oblivious to my raised eyebrows. "You know what he did? He got drunk and then he got high, all because of you. He loves you that much," she sneers.
I hear the Jeep screech and veer into the road, but pay no attention.
"No, he didn't."
"Oh, yes, he did. Maybe he even picked up a new girl. Want to go see?" She tugs at me again, like an impatient little girl.
"No, he didn't, he couldn't...He'd never." I wring my hands.
"Well, you know him, don't you? I know him a little bit, too, from all those nights he spent smoking in your bathroom. He'd hate for a perfectly good ticket go to waste, wouldn't he? I saw him pick them up after you dropped them on the beach."
My eyes widen.
"You don't believe me? Go on then. Run along and see for yourself," she says, pouting her lips. "Or would you rather me send him to the bottom of the lake? My offer still stands. He'll make the girls happy...a delectable surprise at the end of the day."
I become aware of the security guards staring at us from across the street; they're sucking on their smokes by the club's entrance, a disjointed duo of cheap guitars. Bitter. They drop their cigarette butts and saunter inside, shutting the double doors behind them.
I tremble from indecision, hating this paralysis that overcomes me when I have to decide on something important.
Canosa looks at me strangely, cocking her head to the side. "So attached to him, aren't you? Want to know something about siren hunters?"
"What?" I hug myself tighter, to hold on to something. Cars come and go, and another one pulls into the spot next to us that the Jeep abandoned.
"Their job is to hunt sirens. Hunt. Sirens. You know what that means, right? They kill them. They explode them into nothing. Do you understand?" She pauses and reaches out for my hand. "I didn't want to tell you, but..." She drops her gaze. "I trust you'll do what I asked you to do, so I'll go ahead and tell you. Maybe it'll help you decide."
I hold my breath, feeling that, somehow, I don't want to hear what's coming next.
"Your mother didn't jump. She had a fight on the bridge, with your father. He ran after her, you know that, right?" Canosa traces circles on the asphalt with the tip of her pink rain boot.
I nod, afraid to say a thing.
"Well, he pushed her. I saw it."
I forget how to breathe. Reality turns me inside out and I die some more. I'm double-dead. Yet, somehow, I'm still standing.
"What?" I exhale, feeling my legs give out from under me.
Canosa looks up. "I'm sorry."
"No, no, no, no!" Each no drips with regret. I study her face for a hint of a lie, or something. But she just looks at me, sad.
Like millions have before me, I learn what happens when you cross that line, when you take that step, when you still breathe, but you know it won't last for much longer. When you want to die so badly you can't wait. When every single minute of your existence is beyond pure pain; it's thorny agony. I want to go on a trip with no ticket back. I want to shed my skin, to cease to exist. Like those three seconds I experienced before I hit the water under the Aurora Bridge—this is my moment of no return.
"Well? Which one will it be?" Canosa says.
I don't answer.
I grab her hand and pull her across the street, notbothering to look as we cross. I ignore the curses and honks, the screeching oftires and the slamming of breaks. The smell of burnt rubber fills the air. Imarch to the club's entrance, stop a couple of feet in front of its doubleglass doors, raise my right leg, and kick squarely in the center of one ofthem.