Siren

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  SIREN: Book Three of the Vinyl Trilogy

  ISBN-10: 1-7321376-0-9

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7321376-0-8

  Editor: Katherine Catmull

  Cover Design: Docshot

  Printing: Createspace

  Print and eBook Formatting: Heather Adkins

  Copyright 2018 Calida Lux Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition being imposed on the purchaser.

  For those who find a home in music

  SIREN

  Part One: The Burning Ones

  Prologue: The Gift

  Evie

  There was a certain peace in giving up. Peace was not something Evelyn Wick was familiar with. On her first night in prison, she pounded on the door and rattled the bars of her window, trying to pry one from its niche. She cursed the Offs who delivered tasteless food. They did not appear to hear her. Maybe they didn’t. Singers clung to their ears, pouring The New Music into their minds. Who knew what it did to warp their reality?

  Eventually, her voice grew hoarse. A deep ache filled her lungs. She took to prowling the perimeter of her cell, searching for an exit that did not exist. All the while, her thoughts spun webs in her skull. Iris. Samson. Ronja. Roark. Henry. Terra. Mouse.

  Iris.

  When the Offs came to collect her after what felt like weeks, Evie was ready for them. She fought dirty, going for the eyes and throat. Her knuckles were bruised and her lip split by the time they forced her to the floor. Two of them pinned her while the third regarded her with a detached expression, hemorrhaging from his busted nose.

  She had first noticed it in the warehouse. The Offs with the red emblems on their uniforms did not react to pain. They were either the toughest bunch of bastards she had ever met, or The New Music was numbing them. That meant they would have to die if they were to be stopped.

  That was perfectly fine with Evie.

  They dragged her, writhing and swearing, from her cell and down a long corridor. The hall reminded her of Red Bay, only darker. Older. The stone walls leaked. There was no electricity, only gas lamps. Eventually, they reached a metal door marked XVI. Evie committed the number to memory.

  One of the Offs opened the door with a screech. It was pitch-black inside, cold as the canals in winter. Her captors shoved her in and slammed the door. Evie stumbled, throwing her hands out in front of her. Someone caught her by the shoulders. She would know that touch anywhere.

  “Iris!” Evie gasped, reaching out blindly to draw her to her chest. Iris melted into her, shivering. “Are you all right? Did they hurt you?”

  The surgeon gave a wordless shake of her head. Evie exhaled in relief and allowed her knees to give. They followed each other to the ground.

  “Are you okay?” Iris rasped. Evie could almost taste how parched she was. “Have you seen anyone?”

  “No,” the techi replied hollowly. “No one.”

  “Me either. I’ve been alone this whole time. I thought I was going to go crazy. I thought . . . ” She choked on a sob.

  “Shhh . . .” Evie rocked Iris back and forth, smoothing her stiff curls. They had grown since she last touched them. They had been apart for far too long. “I know, I know.”

  “Why are they keeping us alive?” Iris asked. “What are they playing at?”

  Evie did not reply. They both knew the answer to that question: they were insurance. As long as they were alive, Ronja would do whatever Maxwell said to keep them safe. Even if that meant becoming his weapon of conquest. “If we’re alive, so is Ronja,” Evie assured Iris in a low voice, keenly aware that the room was likely bugged. “As long as she’s alive, we have a chance.”

  “A chance for what?” Iris whispered urgently. “It’s all over. The Anthem, the radio, the revolution. All of it.”

  The door banged open, bathing the Anthemites in searing light. Iris stifled a scream. Evie drew her closer, snarling up at the silhouettes in the frame. Before she could climb to her feet, two figures were shoved inside and the door shut with a clang. “Who’s that?” Evie demanded.

  “Good to see you too, Wick.”

  The techi felt her heart stutter. “Terra?”

  “And me,” came a bored masculine voice.

  “Mouse?” Iris squeaked, disentangling herself from Evie and scrambling to her feet. The techi followed suit, squinting into the void. She couldn’t see an inch, much less across the cell.

  “Unfortunately,” Mouse replied.

  “Are you all right?” Evie asked. She took a cautious step forward. “Are you hurt?”

  Terra grunted. “I’ll be fine. Just a little crispy.”

  Evie smiled tightly. The last time she had seen Terra, she had been unconscious on the floor of the clock tower, brought down by a stinger to the spine. She certainly sounded better, but Evie had learned not to take anything Terra said at face value.

  “I ran out of toilet paper a week ago,” Mouse told them glumly.

  “Just be grateful you’re still in good enough shape to worry about your ass,” Evie replied. “What have you got, Terra?”

  “Not enough,” she answered tersely. “From the architecture I’d guess we’re somewhere in the core, maybe beneath the palace. Dozens of guards, all under The New Music. No exits in sight.”

  “The Offs,” Iris spoke up in a small voice. “They act like machines, like they’re not even human.”

  The space grew colder in the wake of her words. Someone sniffled forlornly, probably Mouse. Evie hugged her arms to her chest. She had never doubted the claims Ronja and Roark made about The New Music, but seeing it in action was more terrifying than she could have imagined.

  Dulling emotions was one thing. Obliterating them was another.

  “Guys,” Mouse asked. “What are we doing here?”

  The earsplitting screech of an intercom coming to life answered before they could. “An excellent question, Mr. Constantine.” A chill lanced through Evie at the sound of the strange, loping voice.

  “Maxwell Bullon,” she growled. “Show yourself, you coward.”

  “Are you really in a position to be demanding things of me?” the disembodied voice of the tyrant inquired silkily. “But I suppose I would like to be able to see your faces. It will make this so much more interesting.”

  Evie felt her pupils contract as bright light flooded the space. She shielded her eyes, blinking rapidly to gather sight. They had been crammed into a claustrophobic cell made entirely of glass. A large speaker was mounted in one corner, a whirring video camera in the other. Beyond the translucent walls was a featureless room with a domed ceiling and curved black walls. There was not a soul in sight.

  Iris pressed closer to Evie, who looked down at her in vague wonderment. A part of her had begun to believe she would never see her again. Even covered in grime, her features shaded with exhaustion and fear, Iris was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

  “What the hell is this?” Terra snarled up at the camera. She had lost a considerable amount of weight. Her long blond hair was stiff with grease and bluish circles had formed under her sharp eyes. “Where are the others?”

  Evie felt her stomach clench. How had she not noticed? Roark was not with them. She had expected Maxwell to keep his precious Siren locked away, but if he wanted all his bait in one place, why had he left out the most important piece?

  “Your comrades are otherwise occupied,” Maxwell finally answered, his voice brushed with static and something else. Something Evie could not place. Before she cou
ld dissect it, Bullon continued. “I have brought you here today to present you with a gift.”

  “A gift?” Iris spoke up bitingly.

  “Yes, Ms. Harte, a gift. Specifically, a piece of information. You will be pleased to know that my soldiers have yet to capture the Belly.”

  Evie felt her heart leap into her throat. Her eyes darted first to Iris, then to Terra and Mouse. The albino boy was acting in accordance to his nickname. Terra was quiet, calculating. Evie returned her gaze to the camera. She could feel Maxwell watching them through the lens.

  “Thanks to Mr. Romancheck, we learned the location of your headquarters months ago,” he said. A wave of nausea rolled over Evie at the mention of Henry. Her friend. Her brother. A slave to The New Music. Was he behind the camera too, watching them with lusterless eyes? “We have them surrounded, but it appears they have sealed themselves below ground.”

  The Anthemites looked at one another with a mixture of hope and dread. Evie kicked her mind into high gear. “If you try to dig them out, you’ll hit gas lines,” she warned him. “You’ll blow everything within a five block radius.”

  “I am aware of this,” Maxwell replied. She could have sworn she heard a twinge of irritation in his voice. “Believe it or not, I would prefer your people survive this ordeal. They will make valuable soldiers.”

  “Well, seems like you have a problem there, mate,” Evie said with a snide laugh. “What will you do?”

  “I will do nothing,” Maxwell answered, unruffled. “I am far too busy to deal with the four of you. I will leave you in the capable hands of my colleague.”

  “Who?” Terra snapped.

  Evie knew the answer before the door beyond the glass rolled open, revealing a handsome young man with dark skin dressed in white. Henry.

  1: Black Shores

  The sea was a machine unlike any Ronja had encountered. There were no gears spinning beneath its dark waves, no coal to stoke its engine. It was mad. It was cold. It was relentless. But she was safe, tucked into the Tovairin ship like a message in a bottle. She wanted nothing more than to stay. Unfortunately, the black shores of Tovaire were approaching fast. They would run aground in minutes. Beyond the charcoal beach were craggy cliffs like thunderheads. There was no vegetation in sight, no city on the horizon. The sky was a muted shade of silver.

  Pressure around her fingers.

  Ronja looked down. A soft brown hand was wrapped around her own. She lifted her chin. Her pulse stumbled the way it always did when their gazes locked. His gold-shot eyes were embers against the dreary scene, his mouth pressed into a worried line. “You all right, love?” Roark asked.

  “Fine.”

  “I think you’ve taken my place as the master of deflection.”

  Ronja felt her mouth quirk into a smile. “I’ve learned from the best.” Silence grew between them as the northern wind howled. Ronja tugged the fur cloak Jonah had given her tighter around her shoulders. The shoreline crept closer. They were less than two city blocks from the sand.

  “How’s your jaw?” Roark asked after a while.

  Ronja reached up to touch the fading scars that ran from the corners of her mouth to her jaw, the ghosts of the cruel bit Maxwell had forced her to wear. The healing wounds felt as if they belonged to someone else. Revinia, The Music, the Anthem, Maxwell, the clock tower, the radio station. They all belonged to a girl who no longer existed.

  “Better,” she said.

  “I can barely see the marks anymore,” Roark went on. “They’ll be gone before you know it.” He brushed his thumb across her freckled cheekbone. She mustered a weak smile to appease him. “How are you doing . . . besides that?”

  Ronja passed him a glance, then flicked her gaze back to the imposing cliffs. “What do you mean?”

  “Well.” He cleared his throat, raking his fingers through his dark hair. “You’ve been through a lot.”

  “We all have.”

  “You especially. Not to mention what Jonah told you.”

  The Siren bit the inside of her cheek. This was not the first time Roark had tried to illicit a response from her about the bombshell theory. It was just a theory, she reminded herself for the thousandth time. It could all just be a coincidence. Stranger things had happened.

  “If you ever want to talk,” he started.

  “I’m fine, Roark.”

  A shout from aft drew their attention. Jonah was fifteen feet in the air, clinging to the mast with his legs and grasping a thick length of rope. Despite the bitter air, he wore nothing but a loose tunic and leggings. His first mate Larkin was shouting up at him in Tovairin, her tattooed hands gesturing madly.

  Jonah barked a curse and released the line. The main sail crumpled. The ship slowed. Ronja turned back to the bow. Her stomach plummeted like an anchor. The black cliffs loomed so high they seemed to dive forward to greet them. The soaring clock tower burst into her mind. The city going dark in waves. The shot echoing through a marble room.

  “Allae!”

  Ronja was knocked aside. She glowered at Larkin who hoisted herself up onto the bow. Since the start of their voyage, the Tovairin girl had been nothing but standoffish. She seethed each time Ronja entered a room, purposefully elbowed her when they passed each other in the narrow corridor. The Siren had tried several times to bridge the gap, but it was rather difficult seeing as they did not speak the same language.

  Larkin lifted a thick coil of rope over her shoulder, the lean muscles of her arms rippling, her bare toes clinging to the rail. She brushed her smooth black braids out of her face. They were almost blue in the silvery light. With the grace of a dancer, she rose up on her tiptoes and leapt into the waves.

  “What the hell is her problem?” Ronja muttered, wiping droplets of frigid water from her face. Before Roark could answer, a shudder ripped through the ship, its belly grinding against the sand. She peered over the edge anxiously. Larkin was waist deep in the surf, working with the tide to guide their vessel onto the beach.

  “Happy to be back on land, princess?”

  Ronja rounded on Jonah, bristling. He had dressed again in his fur-lined jacket and waterproof boots. His dual swords were strapped to his back, his black hair knotted near the top of his head. “I told you to stop calling me that,” she replied sullenly.

  The captain cracked a lopsided grin. “Whatever you say, princess.”

  “Oi,” Roark warned him, slinging an arm over her shoulders. “Watch it.”

  Ronja shrugged him off gently. The last thing she wanted was to be caught in the middle of a testosterone fest. She lifted herself onto the bow and swung her legs over the edge. Below her was an infinity of midnight sand. With a deep breath she let herself drop. She hit the ground harder than expected, tripping forward. Her fingers sank into the cool, malleable sediment. It felt different than she expected, softer. She shivered as the surf rushed in like a great exhalation, pouring over her knuckles. She had never seen a beach before, but was fairly certain the sand was supposed to be white.

  “Ro?”

  Ronja clambered to her feet, wiping her palms on her thighs. Jonah and Roark stood before her. She had not heard them hit the ground. Roark was watching her tenderly. Jonah looked amused. He had shouldered a heavy pack in addition to his broadswords.

  “Yessan!”

  They followed the voice to Larkin, who was already some fifty paces inland. She beckoned them, her agitation radiating. Ronja had only picked up a few Tovairin words during her stay on the ship, but she was pretty sure yessan meant hurry the hell up. “Best not to keep her waiting,” Jonah said. He hitched up his pack and started after Larkin.

  Ronja and Roark were left alone at the shore. The wind tugged at their clothes and hair. The surf lapped at their feet hungrily. “Ronja,” the boy began as soon as Jonah was out of earshot. “I—”

  “We don’t have time for this,” she cut him off. “Maxwell’s carriers will arrive in Revinia any day now, if they’re not there a
lready.” She tucked deeper into her furs as the wind swelled again. “We have a week at best to convince the Kev Fairla to invade a city they barely know exists. Every second counts.”

  Before Roark could reply, Ronja walked off toward the cliffs, her heavy cloak flapping in her wake.

  2: Buried

  Ito

  Ito drummed her fingers on the oak surface of the conference table, her chin cradled in her hand. The vent above her hummed noisily, pumping recycled oxygen into the Belly. The techis told her they would run for a few months at best. But if she could not get the man sitting opposite her to see reason, they would remain sealed beneath the city for much longer than that.

  “Tristen,” the lieutenant tried again, leaning toward Wilcox. “Walk me through your logic.”

  The commander scowled at her like a petulant child. The expression clashed with his aging face and silver buzz cut. “I don’t owe you an explanation, Lin,” he growled.

  “No, but you owe them one,” she hissed, jabbing her finger at the door separating them from the rest of the Belly. “When Roark radioed he told us to evacuate, not bury ourselves alive.”

  She had been dozing in her quarters when her portable radio had crackled to life. At first there was only static. It was so faint she thought she had imagined it. Then, a voice. This is Drakon. Does anyone read me? The Siren has fallen. I repeat, the Siren has fallen.

  The Siren.

  That name had been slithering through the streets of Revinia since Roark and the others disappeared. Wherever it went, unrest followed. For the first time Ito could remember, civilians were resisting their Singers. Food was stolen from government stockpiles. Monuments immortalizing The Conductor were defaced. There had even been rumors of citizens murdering corrupt Offs in the middle ring.

  Only two weeks before Roark’s distress call, dozens of topside Anthemites radioed to report a phenomenon the likes of which they had never seen. Every window was blazing. Torches held aloft to scatter the night. A citywide march toward the core. A rallying cry loud enough to drown The Music in their ears. Passion is paramount. Disobedience is due. It was the start of the uprising the Anthem had tried and failed to spark for decades.