My Sisters in Death (Siren Suicides, Book 2)

Chapter 3. Arboretum Park

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.