The Afterlife (Siren Suicides, Book 3)

Chapter 14. Mount Rainier

It's a beautiful sight and it takes my breath away. Over the jagged line of uniform rooftops, a valley of trees, and a strip of houses miles away, a magnificent expanse of sky towers its heavy brow. The morning sun breaks through the clouds and, in that pocket of pink, an enormous mountain glistens with snow, pristinely white in its splendor. Multiple ridges give it a rough yet peaceful appearance, its sheer vastness making me feel small and unimportant. I wonder how many people made it to the top and decided they rule the very nature, when their hands slipped off the rock and they fell into the abyss, collapsing back into organic matter, the mountain unperturbed, looking down from its height, sending a blizzard as a way of goodbye.

"Mount Rainier," we say at the same time.

"You know how to get there?" I say into his ear, standing up on the pegs.

"Yep. Ought to go out in style, right? Ever flew off a stratovolcano?" He falls into his comical speak, shouting over the racket of the motor.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our performance, the one and only show. Against a backdrop of glacial ice, with Rainier Valley for the stage! Today! Don't miss it! There will be no reruns! We will make sure to donate all proceeds to future suicide victims, of which, let me assure you, there will be many!"

"That's not funny!" I interrupt him.

"Says who?"

I pinch him lightly.

"Oww!" he cries.

The topic dies and we continue speeding along mostly empty streets. A minute or two later I pick up the distant wail of the police siren again.

"Cops!" I yell. "A few miles behind!"

"Can you shroud us in fog or something?" Hunter yells back, gunning the bike and running a red light to the honk of a lonely car standing at the intersection.

"Ahead of you, punk, already planned!" I lie. Well, just a little bit, to appear superior, because I still feel wounded by his stupid joke.

A blue shimmer of atmosphere rushes part us as rolling blankets of fog creep up the sides of the road. Hunter turns and we fly onto a narrow back road hidden in the woods, full of twists and turns to enjoy one last time.

Yellowing trees frame our flight with their canopies of burnt foliage on top of tufts of green as if their gigantic, hairy heads have been dipped in fire. The damp smell of fallen leaves mixes with the crispness of fall, fresh and chilly on the touch. An obnoxious mechanical blaring is on our tail, together with helicopter blades whooping above us. Another minute and they'll see us.

I tilt my head up and open into a song, the one I sang to Hunter, one of my Siren Suicides favorites.

"There you are,

Without me you cry.

I surround you,

Love me or I die."

Thick mist rolls off my skin and licks us under a cotton candy blanket of fog. Its edges touch the ground on all sides except in front, leaving a wide enough gap between the sky and the road for Hunter to see where we're going. I find it easy to manipulate the moisture to my design while keeping it warm at the same time, wondering if one day I can master a cloud castle—then realizing that there won't be a one day. Today is all I have.

"I adore you,

See me or I fly."

All other noises hush. I listen for the police. Their annoying ululating has diminished. Hunter gives me a thumbs up with his left hand before gripping the clutch handle again.