My Sisters in Death (Siren Suicides, Book 2)

Chapter 6. Seattle

I part the murky water, gliding fast, propelling myself by a desire to share what I've seen and felt; my hunger now put to rest in the deepest corner of my ribcage. I want to hold on to this overflowing emotion, pour its exuberance into a song, and wake my father's soul, making it rise from its ashes. Can I do it? Or is it burned to the ground with nothing left but hate? And what about Hunter? Though my heart twists from ache, the pain no longer stops me. I'm not running anymore. I'm moving forward. Hunter, hold on, I'm coming. Hours fly by like minutes. I make it through the Salish Sea curve, passing the interconnected basins of the Puget Sound. The water warms up the closer I get to the city and, finally, I reach the ship canal. I turn into it, moving cautiously so as not to attract attention. Commuter souls make a racket on their way into work. The hustle intensifies as I close in on the city's main artery, the Aurora Bridge. It's the same bridge I gazed down from while thinking about my mother—about what she felt and why she jumped—never imagining the truth.

I surface by our marina. It's the day after my birthday, and it's close to lunchtime judging by the sun and the amount of foot traffic on the Fremont Bridge. The sun's rays break through the milky haze of a typical September afternoon. By midday, they'll probably completely disappear behind the clouds. I gaze up and find myself unconsciously drifting to where my father moors his boat; but its slender nose is not poking out. He must be on the prowl, cruising, looking for me or Canosa.

I breathe faster, licking water off my lips, passing a hand through my wet hair. It's been hours and hours since she left me in the ocean. What could she be doing? Where should I go first? I'm trying to decide if I should swing by my house or go to Hunter's house, or if I should check out the siren meadow in Seward Park. Then, I hear a song. And hysterical barking that sounds faintly familiar. A siren is feeding on someone right by the Burke-Gilman Trail. What? In the middle of the day? Across the marina from where a siren hunter moors his boat?

Curious, I follow the sound, quickly diving to cross the canal. There, where the asphalt road hugs the shore, curving into an S shape, a pocket of mist hangs in the air, obviously out of place.

I raise my head barely a few inches above the water, to avoid being seen by some eager tourist gazing from either bridge. "Shit!" I proclaim, and cover my mouth. "Who could it be? Certainly Canosa is not that stupid."

The mist grows thicker, in billowing plumes of steam, partly reaching over the ground, partly sitting in the water. As far as I understand, it's designed to hide the feeding siren and her victim, rolling off a siren's skin amidst the song. But not in plain sight, and at the busiest time for foot traffic! Maybe it's a trap; maybe my father set up a fog machine to lure me? I cautiously swim toward it, diving to avoid a pair of kayakers and resurfacing about fifty feet away.

A couple of bikers point at it now, pedaling as they pass by; they're mesmerized by the echo seeping from the cloud, mixed with the dog's yelps. A man with a cane walks by, never lifts his head, and continues on his trek, wherever it is he's going. A couple of women chat as they jog by, too busy with their daily exercise routine to break and investigate. My fears fall to rest.

I drift closer, plunge, and dare to resurface right on the inside edge of the fog pocket, careful not to let the siren notice me.

She glows a bright white against the dimness of the haze. Her petite body shivers in tune to the song. She's submerged up to her waist in the lake; her arms stick out like two colorless limbs as her hair cascades down her back in long waves, strands of it flowing in the water. A faint odor of decay wafts from her, but not too strong; it's mixed with a hint of lily.

"Pisinoe," I mutter under my breath, recognizing her tilt of the head and her slender, teenage-like figure. She's short, so it's definitely not Ligeia; she's not chubby, so it's not Teles either. And she doesn't have enough curves to be Canosa.