I Chose to Die (Siren Suicides, Book 1)

Chapter 13. Pike Place Fish Market

I try to ignore the shrill and prop myself up on my right elbow, wiggling from under the broken bike and crawling on all fours till I'm face to face with the pig. I close my eyes to stifle a wave of nausea. When I open them, instead of a bronze pig, I see the bronze face of Canosa, smiling at me with her cold metal smile. She hisses something that sounds like, You left me, Ailen Bright. You owe me big time now, silly girl. A shudder goes through me. I blink rapidly and look again. The pig stares at me with its blank eyes, unperturbed. I shake my head.

The woman's cry rises a pitch and becomes an unbearable annoyance that threatens to pop not only my eardrums, but also my shaky sanity. It's worse than scratching a knife on glass; it's like everything I ever hated about myself gets magnified in her scream, because it's directed at me—at my oddly normal appearance despite the crash, and at my lack of blood or broken bones. I'm the monster here.

"Shut up!" I yell at the woman. She promptly closes her mouth, as if on command, and proceeds to stare at me with eyes nearly falling out of their sockets. She's standing just a few feet away, stocky and tall. Her fish-face has this wounded dignity, perhaps to show me that I disrupted something important and will pay for it dearly. She utters something similar to a sob and leans on the steel column. It's painted minty green and sports a sign that reads, NO PARKING 2AM – 7AM and 3 MINUTE PASSENGER LOAD ONLY 6PM – 2AM. It must be just after nine a.m. right now. No problem, I think. We can make it out of here in three minutes.

Whatever remained from my gleeful high—about being able to move water—disappears in a flash. This parking restriction was what I needed for my anger to fully flourish. Add to that the screaming woman, police on our tail, Hunter doing his stupid turn, the cacophony of a couple dozen human souls, and my growing hunger, and you've got a pretty pissed off siren on your hands. I'm surprised when I involuntarily utter a low hiss, very similar to the one Canosa produced not too long ago.

"Well, fuck me running," Hunter says into silence, shaken but unscathed. The leg of his jeans ripped, but no blood was drawn. "Are you okay? Oh, my god, your leg..."

He's not my enemy, but it's always easy to direct your strongest emotions at the ones we know and feel safe around, right? So he gets the first blow.

"You almost crushed me with this stupid bike and you're asking me if I'm okay?" I say, incredulously.

"Dude, I'm sorry. I didn't see him, all right? I swear we would've made it if that guy didn't just show up in the middle of the road. What was I supposed to do?" He briskly brushes his hands through his hair and reaches out to pull me up. I stand, and a pang of regret stabs me.

"Are you okay?" I ask Hunter, mentally retreating, hoping he will discount it later as me being shaken by the crash.

"Always. I'm one lucky bastard." He grins, his eyes the dark, dilated pupils of an adrenaline junkie. He's trembling all over, yet I know he's fine. "Your leg...wow, awesome. It looks like it barely got a scratch? And your elbow..." He hops off the bike's remnants, squats next to me and pokes at my leg in places where the jeans ripped. I lean to look. A foot-long gash in the skin on my outer thigh reveals bluish tissue that oozes gooey, transparent liquid. I dip my finger into it and quickly lick it off. It tastes like seawater, salty.

This is when I notice the silence. There is only the lapping of the rain and the drone of human souls that only I can hear. The usual market buzz hangs in the air, on pause. Even the police blaring ceased to exist. I glance up.

Early shoppers who dared to come out in this weather stare at us, especially one older lady who stands directly by the fish display, barely ten feet away. Her mouth opens, her index finger swings from pointing at a salmon to pointing at me. Behind her stands a fishmonger, clad in a bright yellow apron, khaki shorts and black resin boots. His mouth is also open, probably mid-shout, the typical "Wild king salmon, ten pounds..." cry; he's gripping a wrapped fish in his raised hands. Two more fishermen behind the counter gape. I see slow comprehension descend on them, clearing their faces from initial shock.