I Chose to Die (Siren Suicides, Book 1)

Chapter 12. Highway 99

Three sounds join in one resounding crescendo. Hunter's victorious Woo-hoo!, my Yeah, baby!, and the bike's roaring engine sputtering and growling as if upset that we separated it from its rightful owner. Faint cries reach us from behind, My bike! Help! Help! then turn into echoes and disappear entirely. We lunge forward, one solid being, a precocious hooligan on two wheels, going from zero to thirty miles per hour in a few seconds. I ignore my pain from the loud noise and hot exhaust. I let myself be mesmerized by our movement, by the smells of cedars and maples and firs. I inhale, watching all this greenery fly through my field of vision as we speed down Seward Park Avenue, weave along its S-curve, ignore stop signs and the honks of rare cars, and finally emerge from the park onto an open road. It makes me feel like there is no way back, only forward; like it's been three years and not three hours since I became a siren. I don't know why, but suddenly, my eyes brim with tears.

I clasp my arms tighter around Hunter's waist and bury my face in the damp cotton of his hoodie, hoping he won't notice my crying. He turns onto Lake Washington Boulevard. For a second, the back wheel skids sideways, and I think we'll crash, but then it rights itself back up.

"Just a puddle!" Hunter yells over the wind.

I nod into his back, afraid my voice will sound too shaky if I answer. I'm feeling overwhelmed with everything that has happened this morning, still trying to find the end of my sanity so I can pull it up to where I can see it and make sure I'm okay. Make sure everything will be okay, no matter what it will be.

We speed by the sunken eyes of the houses to our left and the quiet lake to our right, waking up the sleeping neighborhood with our loud rumble. The bike splashes across puddles, and dowses early risers in mist, making their dogs bark like mad for a few seconds before going back to their business. I can tell Hunter is having the time of his life. His heart beats at an alarming rate, his muscles shake from adrenaline, and his entire body buzzes with excitement, adding a general overtone to the melody of his soul. I want to sit like this, clutching him in my arms, racing into who knows what future, and never let go. Slowly, I begin calming down and dare to peek out from behind his back.

The wind hits me in the face, mussing my hair. I squint to see better. The view is beautiful, almost too serene for our purpose. Tall oaks spread a canopy over the boulevard, forming a shadowed tunnel. A few yellow leaves wave as they fall, giving us permission to gun past them in a series of great, motorized coughs. The lake lulls in rhythm to the jingling masts in the nearby marina. I smell water lilies and pond algae, sweet and rank at the same time. Hunter shifts gears and the bike jerks, its back wheel brushing the curb. And it hits me that we both have no helmets or gear on. In my case, if we crash, I'm not sure what will happen, but I'll probably survive. In Hunter's case, however...

"Slow down!" I yell.

He doesn't hear me, because of the noise and because the wind carries my voice backward not forward. Reality, and all the facts connected with it-my attempted drowning in the bathtub this morning, jumping from the bridge, my rebirth as a siren, our escape, the image of Raidne being blown up, my father and Canosa pursuing me-everything rushes into my mind at once. The bike lurches again and it wakes me up completely. My throat goes dry. I turn my head and glance over at the lake, to the beach where we docked and left my father's rowboat sitting smack in the middle of the road. His Pershing 64 should be moored not too far from the shore.

I peer and peer and see nothing. His yacht is gone, and so are the sirens. From our distance of about half a mile away, and while riding on the back of a bike, I can't make out any white shapes on the beach nor can I hear any of them for miles. There's the immediate, dry clicking sound of the Ducati's engine, and, underneath it, a low drone from the traffic's white noise, punctured by the souls of a few morning joggers and car commuters and dipped in human chatter from their blasting music, news on the radio, or talking on the phone. I wonder if the poor chap whose bike we stole has called the police already and when they'll be on our tail, because I remember Hunter mentioning that it's illegal to ride a bike without a helmet. Great. My gut tells me we're about to pay for our madness.