A homeless, mushroomy looking man gapes at me, his face emerging from the folds of his clammy hair like the folds of a sea turtle's skin. His bundle of clothes, one unidentifiable item on top of another, reeks of old urine. His breath is cheap beer and other unpleasant odors. His entire physique is shrunken yet agile for his age. What startles me more is the speed with which he reached me and my own slow reaction. I blame my newly acquired self-confidence, well, the smidge of it that I had, the very thing I desired and the thing that just rendered me blunt and oblivious to danger—though I still believe that this little man can't possibly do me any harm. I study him for a second out of pure curiosity, abashed by his boldness. Of course, on his end, I look like a disheveled teenage girl with a dirty face, clad in an oversized orange fisherman's suit, with her dirty bare feet sticking out like two lifeless appendages.

"What are you doing here? Get out, out!" he squeaks. "It's my spot, my spot! It's m—" His vision clears and his cheeks pull up into a toothless smile, no doubt in a moment of recognition, because I recognize him, too. It's the homeless guy who grabbed me by the arm when I escaped from the Pike Place Fish Market and was on my way to dive into the Puget Sound.

"I don't believe my eyes. Here we meet again, little birdie, so we do. And where are you going this time, pray? Not going anywhere? I see. Came here to spare some change for the old man? Did ya? And who do we have here?" he says, sounding like a frog, croaking in his elderly voice.

I listen, fascinated by his ugliness, repulsed by remembering how he lied, how he blamed me for stealing his money when a cop asked him what happened. For a second, I feel sorry for him, for having rolled down to the very bottom of existence, where anything goes.

Hunter moans to my left, deciding to wake up at the wrong moment. This is not how I imagined our reconciliation, certainly not in front of some homeless guy.

The mushroom man reaches out and grabs my arm.

"Don't touch me!" I say angrily, but he only curls his fingers tighter.

"And why not?" he says, inching closer.

"Because!" I yank my arm from his hold, leaving the sleeve in his grip and causing the jacket to open up. The zipper slider glides down with a quiet whizz. I want to yank more, but don't dare, because then the whole jacket might open up and I'm naked underneath. For a moment, I glare back at him, stupefied as to how to get out of this.

"Oh, those pretty blue eyes didn't let me sleep," he says and crawls toward me even more, shuffling forward on his butt and raising a cloud of cement dust. With his other hand, he clamps on my ankle.

"I bet you got those from your mama, did you? What else did you get from your mama, pretty girl? Let the old man see." His face is within a foot of mine, and I can't utter a sound, paralyzed by his stink and brashness. My inability to believe that I'm attractive kicks in at the wrong moment.

He lifts himself up and reaches into the opening of my jacket. I reel with such revulsion and hatred that—my fear of waking Hunter forgotten—I shriek directly into mushroom man's face, rip the jacket out of his grip, and throw him off me in one movement.

The zipper groans and slides all the way to the bottom, exposing my torso. I don't care. I stand up and stare the mushroom man down.

"You sick fuck!" I yell. "Get away from me! I will kill you, you stinking asshole!" My rage, conveniently tucked away for the purpose of carrying Hunter, blooms anew and I let it out. I found a convenient target for it, for my hunger, and I forget everything else. I have to get this maddening compulsion out of me, it's boiling, it's making me sore.

The world around me wraps into one dark tunnel. Nothing exists except me and my target splayed on the sandy ground ten feet in front of me, in the shadow of the troll.

The mushroom man gingerly lifts himself up and staggers back, walking on his hands and feet in the manner of an overturned turtle, falling again, picking himself up again. A look of utter horror crosses his face, his pig-like eyes unblinking under huge, matted brows. He mutters something that vaguely sounds like please-please-please.

I lock my gaze with his and ignite his soul. There is a satisfying click that only I can hear, and a familiar glazed-over look spreads over his shaggy face, causing his toothless mouth to open, as if in wonder.

I begin to sing.

"We live in the meadow,

But you don't know it."

The man shakes his head. His arms and legs give out and he collapses onto the ground. A thin ribbon of smoke oozes through his cracked lips, his pitiful soul punctured with poverty and despair. It forms a torn veil spanning fifteen feet between us, arching and twisting. As a snake lashes out at its prey, the end of the veil jerks toward my face. I suck on it greedily, no matter how revolting the taste. It's earthy and crunchy, like I scooped up dirt and shoved it into my mouth. I don't care. I like it. It's all but sweetness to my senses to extinguish this vile human being and to feed my hunger.

"Give me your pain,

Dip in my song."

I sing, my aches forgotten, outside noises hushed into a beautiful silence. Thick fog rolls off my skin in a cascading flow. The temperature drops a few degrees. A look of a happy child washes over the old man's face, smoothing out his wrinkles. He radiates innocent delight not unlike he probably experienced decades and decades ago from his mother's kisses, from her singing him a lullaby, if she ever did.

His soul is strung in a delicate arc, half of it gone, another half to go. I slurp it in and swallow, mesmerized by the transformation. The shape on the ground in front of me is that of a man peacefully asleep, dreaming a rosy fantasy with his eyes open. His smile is a sweet gentle thing, childish and endearing.

"Give me your life,

End in my song.

Because you,

Listen and love."

I finish the song and suck on the last morsel of his essence, licking my lips and hearing him take his last breath. Then it's over. His chest stops heaving, his eyes turn to glass, his smile perma-freezes on his face. He appears to have died in peace, and I smile in return.

"One minute of fantasy is better than nothing," I whisper, reeling from the rush of blood to my brain and the tingling, heated sensation that always kicks my body temperature up after feeding, making me warm for once. It feels good. It feels so good that, at first, I don't register what's happening around me. Sirens are most vulnerable while they feed.

There is an annoying noise, and it's disturbing my glow. Irritated, I come out of my tunnel vision to a police wail blaring in the distance, two short bursts on repeat.

"Cops," I say, confirming the fact, yet not moving—daring myself to stay where I am and overpower them with my voice. To not being afraid anymore; feel the flow of energy perk up my senses. My next thought is about Hunter.

"Hunter! Hey, can you hear me?" I call over the noise and squat down. He is in the exact same position I left him when I propped him up. His eyes are closed and his head rests on one of his shoulders, one hand on his folded knees, another on the ground. The faint sound of his soul reaches my ears and I sigh in relief, cradling his face and giving him a light peck on the lips. It's too late to run, however, because the mechanical whining is upon me now, sending ululating echoes and then promptly dying. Someone finally shuts it off.

"Thank God," I mutter, looking up. The fog began receding, but patches of it hang in the air in low floating pockets, obscuring the ground. The underbelly of the bridge blinks with revolving red and blue lights, magnified by the mist. The pavement crunches under the tires. The brake comes up, the door slams, and two shoes make it out and walk up to peek behind the troll.

I stand, my jacket open.

"Hello?" The cop says upon laying his eyes on me, waves his hand in front of his face to see better, probably thinking it's smoke and not fog. He quickly glances around, either out of shame or trained to behave like this in case of displayed nudity or perhaps truly investigating what is going on here. He composes himself, acting all professional.

"Hey, are you okay? I'm Manuel. What's your name?" His dark eyes dart to me and away, and up and down, sizing up the scene. His black hair glistens with gel, accenting his olive skin and accent.

Still dazed, I grin and do nothing, staring him down. He tries really hard to keep his eyes on my face.

"Miss? It's miss, right?" He waits a beat.

Dude, I know I have short hair, but do you still doubt my gender? I want to say, but I keep quiet, wondering what he'll do.

"Are you hurt?" he says, taking another cautious step.

I stand my ground.

"I'm Officer Manuel Rodriguez. I'm here with Officer Scott Miller, my partner. We received a 911 call. Where you the one who called?" he says and steps closer. I don't move, don't talk.

"Scott?" he calls back and then directs his attention back to me. "Can you tell me your name?"

Another cop comes out of the car, slams the door, and approaches. Before I can compose myself, he emerges into the dark, takes out his flashlight and shines it into my face, so that I can't quite make out his features.

"Whoa, it's smoky. It doesn't smell like smoke, though, does it?" he intones in a low baritone, waving his hand. "What have we here?"

"She's not responding," Miguel says.

"Got you." He nods. "Miss, aren't you supposed to be in bed at this hour, waking up and getting ready for school? Can you tell us your name and what happened?"

"Want me to call for backup?" Miguel says under his breath.

"Yeah, go ahead."

Miguel runs off back to the car.

I lick my lips. They're so polite, Seattle police officers, and promising to taste delicious. I blink, blinded by the light, my hazy mind reeling from my recent feeding and wanting more, deciding on whom I want to strike first. Or, maybe, I could have both at once. I can do that, can't I? I ate dozens at once on Lake Union.

My eyes adjust to the light. About eight feet in front of me I see food. A cop, a middle-aged man with a beer belly clad in his uniform that's a tad too tight, a sea lion type of a mustache gracing his face, an air of assured responsibility around him, a perfect candidate for a straight police record on his way into honored retirement. His soul is composed of twinkling wine glasses and piano music. The sound is so intense and rich that I'm instantly ravenous.

I cast my eyes down to escape the brightness, contemplating playing coy for a little bit, to see what they will do. Then I'll strike and surprise them. Where exactly did this yearning come from? It's so unlike my typical thinking that, for a split-second, I shudder. But then it passes and I'm back to grinning, like a real predator, knowing that the food can't escape. I decide to play around a bit, out of plain prowess.

"Are you cold? Would you like a blanket?" he says. "Do you have an ID on you?"

The static crackling of a radio tells me that the other cop has successfully called for backup. Two more souls? That will make it four, to add to the one I just ate, five. Just the breakfast I like.

He shines the light into my face again and I wince, the afterglow burned into my retina. I decide it's time to speak up.

"Do I look like I have an ID, sir?" I say playfully.

I suppose my voice instills instant panic, because the flashlight drops on the ground and the cop's right hand falls to his gun. Visibly embarrassed, he leans over to pick it up. Terror fills me, not for me, but for Hunter. In the gloom of receding fog the cop hasn't seen him yet, and I take a step to the right, to shield his body from sight.

"You can talk, that's good. I'm afraid we'll have to take you in, to establish your identity," he says, and carefully steps around me, into the shadow, to check out the space. Morning arrives and the dimness escapes from under the bridge leaving a general muted grayness.

His eyes never leave me as he walks around me, keeping a safe five-foot distance until he stops in front of Hunter.

"What do have we here..." He whistles and flashes a light at his face. "Hey. Hello?" He waits a few seconds.

"Do you know this person?" This is directed at me. I remain quiet, too much in love with causing someone else to be confused for once. I know it's devilish in nature, but I can't help it, perhaps directing my general hate of authority and control toward this poor man who, I'm sure, only means good and wants to help in any way he can.

"Is he your friend? Has he suffered any kind of injury?" Scott asks me and then moves the light behind himself until it falls over the face of the homeless man fifteen feet away. The cop gasps at his staring, unflinching eyes.

"What the hell...Rodriguez! Did you call backup yet?" He takes out his walkie-talkie, walks up to him and leans over to check the pulse, speaking into the radio. "Calling backup. At Fremont Troll, North 36th. We have a possible dead body. I repeat, backup needed."

He stands. "Miss—"

"Don't touch him. Don't you dare touch him!" I say.

"It's all right. I wasn't going to. But I need to make sure your friend doesn't need medical help. Can I—" He walks up to me and reaches out. To do what, I don't know, but I spread my arms and act as a shield.

"I need you to step aside, please," the cop says.

"Yeah, right. Like you can command me," I bark, changing my plan on the fly, taken aback by how nice the cop is to me and afraid that this might escalate into another uncalled for massacre. I think about grabbing Hunter and making a run for it now that I have more strength. Too late. A few onlookers gather, two dog walkers and a biker, peering at us from the sidelines with interest. Free entertainment to start their day.

I glare, wondering if I want to kill all of them or do I simply stun them and kill only the cops. Whatever devilish nature has been sleeping under the covers of my innocence has been, for sure, brought forward by the siren in me.

"They're on their way," Miguel delivers, emerging from behind the troll.

"Good. One more time, can you please tell me your full and legal name?" Scott says, his flashlight lowered, a tired expression on his face. I give in.

"Ailen Bright," I say automatically.

"I need you to tell me what happened, Ailen. Can you tell me what happened?"

Here, Hunter coughs and speaks up. I wonder if he was awake this whole time and was simply faking, clever bastard.

"Officer, it's all right, we're okay. I can explain."

His voice makes me beam for a second, and then I drop into momentary despair. Now that he's fully awake, how will we get out of this? Would I be able to kill with him looking on? The thought chills me.

"Son, are you in any pain right now?" Scott squats next to Hunter, while Miguel throws a few concise phrases into his radio like "copy" and "over" and "go ahead."

"I'm fine, really," Hunter says.

Two distinct engine chopping noises join a mechanical siren wail in the distance.

"Do you have an ID I can see?" This is directed at Hunter.

"No, sir."

"Name?"

"Hunter. Hunter Crossby. We were just returning home from a party, officer. We pr—"

I'm so sick of pretense, I interrupt.

"You really want to know who I am? I'll tell you. My name is Ailen Bright, and I'm a siren."

The cop looks up at me, badly startled by my voice. It must push their worst fear buttons, because his pupils widen.

By now, the unmistakable rolling grins of motorcycle engines reaches us.

"Officer, please, don't listen to her, she's just high. You know, we took some drugs. We're really sorry we did," Hunter says to him, and then hisses to me, "What the hell are you doing?"

I ignore him.

"Listen," I command both cops. They gape at me, silent. "Listen to me!" This echoes off the walls and roots the onlookers to the spot, winning over the whine of oncoming police motorcycles.

I turn. In several kicks, running on both legs and arms, I scale the back of the troll and stand on top of his head, the back of my head nearly touching the bridge's concrete trusses.

"Good morning, people," I yell over the racket. "My name is Ailen Bright. I'm a siren. I live underwater, because that's where seductive girls belong. I'm a killer. I kill people by singing out their souls. I especially like those whose souls sound exquisite, like a delicacy. Yours, for example, stinks." I point at the guy with the dog. They are both mesmerized, quiet.

"But I'll eat it, anyway." I clack my tongue on the roof of my mouth for an added effect and take a step, intending to jump down and feed.

Two cops veer in from the side street, on two white Harley-Davidsons. They kill their engines. The braying of the noise dies, but the lights in front of each keep flashing red and blue. This must be the Seattle motorcycle drill team, the typical backup squad to be called to a crime scene. They respond first because of their mobility.

I fight the urge to give in to my power, to kill these new cops and everyone else who gathered here, driven by their insatiable curiosity, ready to run off and gossip the latest neighborhood news where the robbing of an unlocked car makes it into a newspaper.

"Oh, God. It's the same girl, that suicide jumper, remember?" Escapes from the mouth of a newly arrived officer, young. He looks at me through his sunglasses, framed by an open-face helmet. A mock of reddish hair is plastered against his forehead, underneath the visor. I recognize him. It's the same officer who ran up to me on the Aurora Bridge and saw me jump down three days ago. Or was it four? I lost track. I don't even remember what day of the week it is anymore. Thursday? Friday? My father argued with him and called him a moron.

"What girl? That kid over there?" the other officer says into his mouthpiece, getting off the bike. I watch them both move as if in slow motion.

There must be something good in me left, because instead of lunging into a feeding frenzy, I shout, "Move!"

My voice pierces the air. I feel like a conductor, helping an orchestra find its tune. Faces look at me, expectantly, paralyzed and captivated at the same time, as if witnessing an animal talking.

"I said, move, now!" They don't need to be told twice. They turn and walk, both civilians and police, then run, overtaken by instinct. Even the older cop and his partner, Rodriguez, make it out from behind the troll and join in.

Another minute, and they're all gone. The sudden silence is overpowering. I wait some more and zip up my jacket, suddenly not wanting Hunter to see me like this, and scale the back of the troll all the way down. I find Hunter sitting in the same place, only fully awake now.

"Hey, you okay? Are you feeling all right?" I reach out for his face. He lets me feel it, but there is a certain apprehension, and I suppress the urge to hug him and kiss him, wondering what's wrong. I'm glad his soul is burning again. My commanding voice has no effect on him, at least that's good news.

"Well, aside from failing your dad's job and being nearly killed by your siren friends, I'm fine. Thanks for asking," he says, but his eyes don't radiate the life they used to. He pulls himself up and stands.

"I'm sorry about that. Do you think you can walk? What's wrong?" I mean to ask what is wrong with his body, but immediately it sounds stupid, because everything is wrong, and we both know it. I bite my tongue.

"Nothing is wrong. I'm awesome. Just freaking awesome," he says, as closed off as I knew he would be. "I see you had breakfast already," he throws in, nodding to the mushroom man. I have completely forgotten about him and shrink at the mention.

"Oh, that homeless guy? He just appeared out of nowhere and was claiming this is his spot. Anyway, I was hungry and..." I decide to try and save face. "You didn't hear me yelling at him? How long ago did you come to? I mean, you heard me talking to the cops, didn't you?"

"Um. Yeah. Yeah, about that time I did," he says, looking through me.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask, hoping to steer the conversation away from the topic of dead bodies.

"Would you? I didn't want to screw up your plan."

"Oh," I say, taken aback. "Thank you."

"No problem." A trickle of familiar theatrical undertone creeps into his voice, and it makes me happy.

"Let's get the heck out of here," I say, and before I can add the fact that his house is only ten minutes away, he gives me this piercing look.

"Isn't that what we planned all along?" His eyes reach deep inside of me, his face full of sadness; I sense a hidden idea behind his words. "He'll never leave us alone, your dad, you know that, right?"

I nod, crestfallen. "Yeah, I know."

We leave the rest unspoken, perhaps afraid to say it and realizing the futility of escaping. I choke on my helplessness, that perpendicular stubborn bone of a feeling stuck in my throat by stupid accident. We don't have a chance to choose our parents, we are given them the way they are, whether we can bear them or not.

I can't take a single breath, can't close my mouth. My eyes fill with tears, heart pounding. I gag, wanting to take in some air, but I can't. I try to rip myself open, to let this feeling out. I want to turn back the time, to reverse everything that's been done.

"Come on, Ailen. Let's do it, before somebody else helps us. I'd rather die on my own terms," Hunter says, with a terrible finality.

"What do you mean, your own terms?" I ask quietly, pretending I didn't understand him and making an innocent face, hoping against all hope that I'm wrong.

"You know what I mean," he says.

"No, I don't." I wouldn't let go.

"Yes, you do, you're just afraid to say it. Want me to say it?" He takes my hands into his. "Double suicide."