Jonah smiled. For once it was not sarcastic or vain. There was something else behind his eyes, something soft and still. It suited him more than Ronja cared to admit. “You’ll see.” He spun on his booted heel and marched on. The Anthemites shared a look, then followed.
For a few minutes, there was nothing but the beat of their soles against the hard ground, the hum of the electric lights above. Then, the ripple of distant conversations began to filter through the air. Undeniably human, distinctly foreign. Beyond Jonah, a column of bluish light appeared. “Hurry up, Anthemites,” he called. He was swallowed by the glow.
Ronja glanced back at Roark, apprehension raising goosebumps on her skin. He was fingering the knife strapped to his belt. The Siren passed into the cold light. “Skitz me,” she breathed.
The vaulted ceiling was so high she could barely see its peak. Carved stone pillars were scattered throughout the room, a petrified forest. Gray light tumbled through dozens of natural skylights, cutting through the air that was somehow heavier than that of the catacombs. Every inch of the room was black stone, not a trace of color anywhere. It was not bleak, though. It was solemn.
Hundreds of Kev Fairlans roamed the space. Some talked in small groups, but the majority were busy sparring. Most shared the same basic features as Jonah and Larkin. Smooth black hair, tanned skin, and brown eyes. A handful of people clearly not native to the island were as pale as Ronja. Others were as dark as Henry. All were tattooed with unique white reshkas and armed with swords and knives. There was not a gun in sight. Jonah had not been exaggerating their ammunition drought.
Two men practicing with dull blades near one of the towering pillars caught her eye. They moved the way Roark and Evie did. Faster, even. Roark knit his fingers with hers and squeezed anxiously.
“Welcome to the Temple of Entalia,” Jonah said, putting his hands on his hips as he surveyed the space.
“Entalia?” Ronja asked, leaning around Roark to look at him. He radiated pride and peace. That was what it was like to be home, she supposed. To be at ease.
“The goddess of rebirth, if you believe in that sort of thing.” He gestured out across the room at a massive statue directly opposite them. Ronja squinted. She could not make out its features at this distance. “We moved in a decade back. Best move we ever made. The keepers of the temple weren’t happy, but they got over it when we saved their asses.”
Ronja nodded mutely, feeling the gaps in her cultural understanding. Faith was not a component of Revinian society, nor was it common among Anthemites. The people of the walled city worshipped The Conductor. The revolutionaries had lost touch with their religious roots. Personally, she had never been comfortable with the idea of a supernatural being watching her every move, but here in the temple she could understand the pull of faith.
“Jonah. Hist fen?”
Ronja fell back into her body. Striding toward them was a short man with something of a paunch. He appeared to be in his early forties, with wire-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his round nose. While his stature was not intimidating, Ronja found herself fidgeting beneath his penetrating gaze.
“Cal,” Jonah greeted him with a brief nod. He gestured at their guests. “Ronja et Roark. Carlan den Anthem ev Revinia. Coste yev Easton.”
Cal glanced back and forth between the Revinians calculatingly. They stared back. Finally, he heaved a sigh and wheeled around, cutting back through the crowds. Jonah started after him without a word. The Anthemites followed, eager not to be left behind.
Nineteen years as a mutt had prepared Ronja for waves of unwanted attention. She was accustomed to the whispers, to the stares loaded with distrust. More unnerving was the fact that she could not understand what was being said about her. Members of the Kev Fairla stopped to gape unabashedly as she and Roark trekked across the hall. She picked out a few words here and there that she had learned on the voyage.
Bevek. Foreigner. Vestin. Handsome.
Ronja traced the second word to a group of pretty young women eyeing Roark appreciatively. Petty jealousy surged in her gut. She let go of his hand, taking him by the elbow instead. He peered down at her, amused, but she scarcely noticed. The statue of Entalia had expanded in her view.
She stood twenty feet tall, carved from the heart of the volcano. Every inch of her was wrought with perfection. Ronja half expected her to blink, for her chest to expand with breath. She was garbed in flowing robes that cascaded to her naked feet. Her shoulders were bare, her muscular arms extended to embrace the cavern. She was clearly female, though her head was shaved. Her scalp was decorated with swirling reshkas a shade lighter than the rest of her obsidian body.
Entalia.
“Hurry up!”
The Siren started. Roark was at her side, his elbow still linked with hers. They lagged behind Jonah and Cal. Dozens of onlookers were watching them with a blend of curiosity and suspicion. They moved past the statue. Ronja felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. They passed through another entryway into a dim corridor lined with plain wooden doors.
“You okay?”
Ronja nearly jumped out of her skin. Roark watched her intently, a crease between his brows. “Fine,” she assured him too quickly. He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. Ahead of them, Cal and Jonah rounded a corner. They followed obediently, still arm in arm. Ronja jerked to a halt.
The library was nearly as massive as the entry hall. Dozens of towering stone shelves lined with countless books and scrolls ran across the room. Long polished tables stood between the canyons, littered with documents and electric lamps with evergreen shades. While it appeared as if the library had been used recently, there was not a soul in sight.
Roark hurried forward, tugging Ronja along against her will. She wanted to bathe in the scent of musty pages and cool stone. No time, a nagging voice at the back of her mind reprimanded her.
They crossed the library, moving into another hallway similar to the first. The further they got from the collection of books, the heavier Ronja felt. She tried to remember the last time she had read for pleasure. Maybe in the warehouse, during one of the gaps between broadcasts. Velveteen memories brushed the surface of her mind. Roark playing with her curls as she pored over the collection of poetry Iris had lent her. The taste of the words on her tongue, of his mouth on hers.
“Here,” Jonah said. They had arrived before one of the many wooden doors with a curved iron handle. He knocked three times with a tattooed knuckle, then stepped aside. There was a loaded pause, then it opened.
Ronja screamed.
8: The Wolf
Ronja slammed into the far wall, her eyes flown wide and her hand clapped over her mouth. Before her shout faded, Roark threw himself in front of her, pinning her to the rock.
“Pascal, sal,” a gruff voice ordered.
Swallowing her fear, Ronja peeked out from behind her guard. A tall man in his early thirties filled the frame, his black hair cropped short, his eyes dark and sure. He was handsome, if a bit severe. He was not the reason Ronja had screamed. It was the hulking beast that stood beside him. Bristling fur, piercing yellow eyes, powerful jaws and curved fangs.
A wolf.
“Sal!” the man commanded, snapping his fingers at the animal. It sat begrudgingly, its brooding eyes fixed to Ronja. They seemed to drip with hunger.
Roark relaxed, dropping his arms and moving to stand beside her. She looked up at him through the haze of her terror. “What the hell is wrong?” he asked out of the corner of his mouth. She shook her head violently, choked by her phobia.
“He won’t harm you.”
Ronja flicked her eyes to the owner of the wolf, scrambling to wrest her expression into something resembling poise.
He observed her neutrally. “Pascal only listens to me.” The wolf pricked his ears at the sound of his name. His owner scratched the top of his head affectionately, not taking his eyes off the Anthemites.
“And you are?” Ronja managed to ask. S
he winced internally. Her voice trembled almost as much as her hands.
The owner of the wolf tapped a fist to his brow, then his heart, the customary Tovairin greeting. He appeared utterly indifferent to her panic. “Commander Easton,” he said, introducing himself. He locked eyes with Ronja, clearly expecting her to respond in kind. When she did not, he cut his gaze to Roark.
“Roark Westervelt,” he offered quickly. He returned the gesture, his knuckles thumping against the hollow of his chest. Easton nodded, returning his attention to the Siren. She struggled not to squirm or to let her eyes wander to the wolf salivating at her feet.
“Ronja,” she answered.
The commander raised a thick brow. “Ronja what?”
She shook her head, her curls shivering against her cheekbones. “Just Ronja.”
“Easton,” Jonah spoke up. The commander rounded on the younger man. His tense mouth split into a grin. He roped Jonah into a tight embrace, slapping him on the back. The captain responded enthusiastically. They exchanged a few easy words in their native tongue, then returned to the common language. “We need to debrief,” Jonah said, sobering. He glanced at Ronja, who had managed to wrestle her terror into submission. “Things are . . . complicated.”
“They usually are,” Easton replied grimly. He snapped at Pascal again. The wolf turned tail and retreated into the room. Ronja shuddered at the sound of his claws clicking across the stone. “Come in,” the commander said, stepping aside and beckoning them with a tattooed hand.
“Perlo,” Roark said peaceably. He started forward, leaving Ronja no choice but to join him. Jonah and Easton followed. It was only when the commander shut the door with a soft clap that she realized Cal had disappeared without a trace. Swallowing the knot in her throat, she scanned the room.
The cramped study was dominated by a roaring fireplace. The mantle was engraved with looping script and held a dozen or so trinkets. Near the hearth was a large desk and matching chair. The surface was littered with open books, maps, sheathed blades, and a polished automatic with a gilded handle. Two walls were overflowing with books. A cluster of four armchairs embroidered with the letter A crouched in the middle of the room. Pascal had tucked himself into a ball near the hearth.
“Sit,” Easton said, more of an order than an invitation. He took his own seat in the armchair nearest the fire. Jonah shrugged off his pack, then plunked down at his right. He settled back comfortably, crossing his muscular arms and resting his head on the dark red upholstery. Roark let his own backpack fall to the ground, then sat down opposite them. The Siren was the last to take a seat. She perched on the edge of her armchair, ready to bolt.
The fire crackled merrily. Pascal twitched in his sleep. The Anthemites and the Kev Fairlans watched one another calculatingly.
Finally, Jonah broke the hush. “Easton,” he said. The commander tore his eyes from Roark and Ronja, focusing on his subordinate. “The mission to Revinia failed.”
Ronja braced herself, waiting for Easton to react. Wilcox was the only other commander she had come into contact with, and he was a loose cannon. Jonah appeared to be holding his breath, or maybe it was just the firelight turning his features rouge.
Eventually, Easton let out a weary sigh. He crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in his seat, his deep brown eyes on the ceiling. “It was always a long shot,” he said, his voice heavy with the sort of exhaustion sleep could not fix.
“I wrote up a full report on the journey back,” Jonah told him. “I have it here.” He started to reach for his bag, but Easton waved him off.
“I’ll read it later.” He leveled his searing gaze at Roark and Ronja. The Siren lifted her chin, mustering as much dignity as she could. “Tell me, Jonah, who are these people?”
Silence swallowed the room again. The wolf was vividly present by the fireside. Ronja wondered if Easton kept him as a pet, or to intimidate guests. Probably both.
“They’re—” Jonah started, then trailed off. He looked to Ronja, clearly hoping she would step in. She shook her head. She was tired of telling stories.
“We’re members of the Revinian resistance, sir,” Roark said. “We call ourselves the Anthem.”
“I know the Anthem,” Easton replied with a dismissive wave. “How did you meet Jonah?”
“He turned us over to a skitzing psychopath and got our friend killed.”
Ronja only realized she had spoken aloud when all eyes turned to her. Jonah looked as if he had just swallowed a walnut-sized bug. Roark sighed, dragging an exhausted hand down his face. The commander just looked confused. Then, understanding passed over his features. “Ah,” he said quietly, shifting his gaze to Jonah. “They were Bullon’s target.”
The girl narrowed her eyes at Easton. “You didn’t know?”
“No one knew,” Jonah cut in defensively. “Bullon contacted the Kev Fairla months before I met you, asking for an agent to spearhead a mission in Revinia in exchange for half his arsenal. We knew it was a gamble. The fewer people who knew the details, the better.”
“Did the offer of half an arsenal not seem a bit suspicious to you?” Roark asked in a bone-dry voice.
Jonah shrugged. “Desperate times.” He cut his eyes to Easton. “Maxwell told me he was looking for a weapon that would make bullets irrelevant and that it was in the hands of a terrorist organization.” He jerked his head at the Anthemites. “All I had to do was find it.”
Ronja looked away, glowering at the fire. The truth was, she did not blame him for what had happened to Samson and the others, not directly, at least. If she had been in his position, she would have made the same decision. Turning in a group of strangers to save her family? It would stain her soul, but she would do it.
“This weapon, the one that would make bullets irrelevant,” Easton said, calling her back to the conversation. “What is it, exactly?”
“Not what,” Roark answered. Ronja passed him a warning look, which he chose to ignore. His skin was almost golden in firelight, his eyes like embers. “Who.”
9: Ruthless
Terra
Terra sat with her back to the glass, her eyes sealed against the harsh lights. Her head throbbed dully. The pain had been with her since she first awoke in her cell weeks ago. She was unsure if it was a product of her electrocution at the clock tower or pure exhaustion.
“Terra,” Mouse spoke up timidly.
“What?”
“I think Evie is . . . ”
Terra was on her feet before he finished. Mouse knelt next to Evie on the opposite end of the translucent cell. She had not stirred since the Offs who took Iris stung her. Relief washed over Terra as the techi shifted against the concrete. Mouse smoothed a lock of hair out of her face in an unexpected show of tenderness.
That was a mistake.
Evie snatched his wrist like a viper. Mouse yelped, scrambling backward and fighting to free his arm.
“Good to see your reflexes are still intact,” Terra said.
Evie relaxed at the sound of her voice. Her clawed grip loosened. Mouse yanked his hand back, cradling it to his chest and muttering irritably.
Ignoring him, Terra crossed the cell and crouched next to the techi. Her hooded eyes were wide and alert, but she made no move to get up.
“How do you feel?” Terra asked. It was a stupid question, but she was not really looking for an answer.
“Where is she?” Evie croaked. Terra did not reply. The techi swallowed, her throat glistening with cold sweat. Her pupils shone like black marble as tears welled in her eyes. Her lower lip quivered, straining against dread. “I can’t do this without her.”
“They need us alive, ” Terra reminded her darkly.
“They’ll put a Singer on her or . . . or expose her to The Air Song . . . ”
“Listen.” Terra grabbed Evie by her broad shoulders, pulling her into an upright position. Her entire body shook as fat tears rolled down her cheeks. “If they were going to put us under
The New Music, they would have done it already.”
Evie brought her knees to her chest and hunched forward, shuddering violently. Terra looked away. She could not afford to feel sorry for her. If they were going to make it out of this hellhole, she needed to be cold. Sharp. Ruthless.
“Pull yourself together,” Terra snapped. Rather than waiting for the techi to reply, she forced her to sit up straight again. Mouse watched the scene unfold in forlorn silence, his chin on his knees and his skinny arms around his legs. “Iris is going to be fine,” Terra insisted. “She’s stronger than we give her credit for.”
“But The New Music—”
“What did I just say? If they were going to put us under, they would have done it by now.” Terra had her theories about why they were holding back, but they were just that—theories. In the end, it did not matter. As long as their minds were free, they had a chance. “They can hurt her, but they can’t take her mind.”
That seemed to send Evie over the edge. She began to cry recklessly, snot dripping from her nose, her breaths coming in jagged gasps.
“Evie—”
“Leave me alone, Terra,” the techi begged, looking up at her. The whites of her eyes were shot with red, the skin around them puffy and raw. “We’re finished, do you get that? The Belly’s been found, Samson is dead, Henry is worse than dead, Ronja is a weapon, Trip is gone, and Iris is—”
Terra slapped her across the face. Hard. Mouse let out an indignant squawk, leaping to his feet. Both girls ignored him. Evie raised her fingers to her face slowly. The blow seemed to have knocked the panic from her. “Do not leave me alone here, Wick,” Terra hissed. “You need Iris? Well, I need you. I need your brain. I need your skills. I need you to get mad. You get me?”
For a long moment, Evie left her in suspension. Mouse watched with his mouth agape. Terra waited on the edge of a razor.
Then the techi nodded. “Okay. What do we do?” she asked, using the heels of her hands to wipe away the remnants of her breakdown.
Terra leaned in, her stiff hair slipping over her shoulder. Mouse scrambled forward to put his head in the huddle. “Do you remember the Parker Street operation? What Trip did when everything went to hell?” Terra asked, her voice scarcely more than a whisper.
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