I Chose to Die (Siren Suicides, Book 1)

Chapter 16. Post Alley

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.