“You’re nuts,” Mouse sputtered. “Clinically insane.” He dropped his foot, wincing when it made contact with the concrete.
“So they tell me.” Terra shot Evie a meaningful look, frustrated that the boy had missed her rather overt signal. That’s what you got when you mingled with civilians.
Violent banging on the cell door shot chills down Terra’s spine. Gathering her composure, she sank to her knees and locked her fingers behind her head. She heard Evie and Mouse do the same. The door opened with the screech of rusted hinges. “You,” a gruff male voice intoned. “On your feet.”
Terra opened her eyes, sliding into a deep, meditative focus. She rose slowly. Booted footsteps tapped toward her, then gloved hands grabbed her arms, forcing them behind her. She held perfectly still as the Off slapped a pair of thick metal cuffs to her wrists. He dragged her around to face him. He was young, about her age with tanned skin and wild reddish-brown hair. His youthful dishevelment clashed with his pristine black uniform. “Walk,” he intoned, gesturing at the door.
“You got it,” she replied, starting toward the exit. She felt Evie and Mouse watching her from their knees as she passed, but did not spare them a look. The Off was right on her heels, his breath tickling the back of her neck.
“Wait,” he ordered her as they stepped into the corridor. Terra did as she was told. He slammed the cell door with a shuddering clang. She watched as he picked through the collection of keys at his belt loop, eventually settling on a large iron one. He jammed it into the lock and twisted. Terra swallowed on a dry mouth. She had felt less alone in her isolation cell.
She had never needed anyone before, she reminded herself. It was no different now.
“Follow me,” the Off said, beckoning with a leather-clad hand. She gave him a quick scan in their fresh surroundings. He was something of a looker, were it not for his hooked nose and utter lack of empathy. It was impossible to determine his rank—all the Offs wore the same badges with three vertical bars. His Singer shone bright in the gaslight. It looked almost new.
Interesting.
“Move, scum,” he snapped, pushing her forward. She stumbled, off balance without her hands to steady her.
“Keep your pants on,” she muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.” They walked down the deserted corridor in silence. The gas lamps bathed everything in an eerie orange glow. They passed thirteen sets of doors before they reached an intersection and turned right down another empty hall. It was as quiet as a tomb. “Where is everyone?” Terra asked.
The Off ignored her, staring dead ahead. Terra rolled her eyes and forged on. Thirteen doors later, they hit another cross and turned left. She tucked the pattern away in the back of her mind. They took two more lefts, a right, and another left before arriving at a door labelled XVI. “Get back,” the guard commanded. Rather than waiting for her to cooperate, he grabbed her by the arm and yanked her behind him.
“Easy,” she grumbled. Her bicep throbbed where his vice-like fingers gripped it. Using his free hand, the Off rapped on the face of the door three times. Silence. Then it sprang open, quick as a shot. Terra gritted her teeth, forcing down the bile rising in her throat.
“Terra, darling,” Maxwell purred. He grinned, his mouth stretching too wide across his pale face. “How lovely to see you again.”
21: Revolver
Charlotte
Charlotte ran, her bare feet slapping against the stone floor. Ito was ten steps ahead, a symphony of power and grace. Her dyed orange hair rippled behind her like a banner. Anthemites darted in and out of their path, shouting and calling for loved ones. They were not running in any particular direction, but had scattered like ants from a boot. Another sharp scream punctured the babel.
Georgie. She was sure of it.
Her stomach clenched. Ronja had left Cosmin and Georgie in her care. If anything happened to either of them, she would never forgive herself. Charlotte gritted her teeth and poured on more speed. She had already lost her mother, father, and brother. She was not going to lose anyone else.
Ito rounded a canvas tent, cutting into the Vein. Charlotte was hot on her heels. When the lieutenant slammed to a halt in the middle of the wide pathway, Charlotte choked on a gasp, pinwheeling to avoid smashing into her. She looked around desperately. The Vein was nearly deserted. Most of the Anthemites had fled to the far reaches of the compound. Only a handful of stationary guard members and three council members hovered near the edge of the path, eyes wide and jaws loose. She did not blame them.
Commander Wilcox stood in the middle of the Vein. He was almost unrecognizable. Days of scruff shaded his jaw. His gray hair was stiff with grease. His feet were bare, his shirt stained with suspicious brown splotches—the sap. In one hand, he held a glinting revolver. With his free arm, he crushed a small child with mousy brown hair to his chest.
Georgie.
Charlotte started forward, her mouth twisted into a snarl worthy of a wolf. Before she could take another step, Ito grabbed her by the arm and dragged her back. “Tristen,” the lieutenant called, her voice soaring to fill the cavernous station. “Put the gun down.”
The commander jerked, his eyes snapping to Ito as if he had just noticed her. He gripped Georgie tighter, pressing the mouth of the gun to her temple. She whimpered, squirming helplessly. Her dress was torn, her upper lip split. She had tried to fight him off. A thousand horrific scenarios ripped through Charlotte’s mind, each worse than the last.
“Commander,” Ito barked. “Let her go.”
“Or what?” Wilcox spat, his eyes flashing like honed steel. “You’ll kill me? Take my command?”
Ito stiffened. The cluster of guards and councilors stared at her, shock and confusion etched into their faces. Charlotte cut back to Georgie. She had squeezed her eyes shut. Tears spilled down her round cheeks. Charlotte could not remember the last time she had seen her cry. Even as a toddler, Georgie was unusually stoic. Only Ronja could get her to laugh. On the rare occasion that their schedules aligned, the Zipse children, Henry, and Charlotte gathered at the Romancheck house. Henry and Ronja would toss Georgie between them like a sack of flour. That really got her laughing. It was a sound as sweet as honey, rare in the bleak world of Revinia.
Ronja. She should be here. But she left them. Just like Henry.
“Georgie!”
Charlotte spun. Cosmin was speeding toward them down the Vein, spinning the wheels of his chair as fast as he could. His round glasses were askew, his dark hair dripping. He screeched to a halt next to Charlotte and Ito. He was panting, the arteries in his neck throbbing. “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” he shouted. “LET MY SISTER GO!”
“Cos!” Georgie shrieked, her eyes flying open. She began to struggle again, wriggling against the thick arm that restrained her. “Cos, help me!”
Helplessness engulfed Cosmin, Charlotte saw it wash over him. His gloved hands trembled at the crests of his wheels. She laid her hand on his shoulder.
“Tristen,” Ito implored in a gentler tone, raising her hands soothingly. Her gun had disappeared, Charlotte noticed with a lurch. “Tell me what is going on.”
“No one understands!” Wilcox shouted, fear warping his voice into something monstrous. “You think you can take my command? You think you can kill me?”
Ito took another tiny step forward. “Tristen . . . ”
Georgie let out a strangled cry as the commander jammed the revolver under her chin, forcing her head back. Cosmin began to shake beneath Charlotte’s hand. She held on tighter, her fingernails digging into his skin to anchor him. “Take another step, and I’ll blow her brains out.”
“Your grievance is with me, my friend,” Ito said levelly. “Let the girl go, and we’ll talk about this.”
Wilcox laughed, a sound like an out of tune violin. “The time for talking has passed. I know what you’re up to. I know you had those two brats spying for you. This one told me.” He glared d
own at Georgie, who dissolved into hysterical sobs.
“He made me tell!” she wailed. “He made me!”
Charlotte sucked in a deep breath through her nose and blew it out through her mouth. Of course, Cosmin had told Georgie they were spying for Ito. “It’s okay, Georgie, it’s okay,” her brother said, his voice cracking like ice. “You’re gonna be okay.”
Ito dropped to her knees, locking her willowy fingers behind her head. Charlotte gasped. Cosmin went silent, watching her like a hawk. “Tristen,” the lieutenant said quietly. “Let Georgie go, and I’ll surrender.”
“I doubt that very much, lieutenant,” Wilcox snarled, spittle flying from his lips. “But you will do as I say. You would never risk the family of your precious Siren.”
A shadow passed over Ito’s neutral expression. “I would never risk the life of a child, no matter who they were.”
“Yet you would open up the Belly, expose us all to The New Music?”
Fearful muttering swelled around them. Charlotte glanced around, her heart in her throat. The small gathering of Anthemites members had tripled in size. Curiosity had overwhelmed fear, as it often did. She recognized Elliot and Kala in the expanding throng. They focused on Ito intently. She still wasn’t sure what the lieutenant had asked of them in the meeting, but she could guess. Kala had drawn a serrated blade; Elliot palmed a throwing knife.
“They deserve to know the truth,” Ito said, raising her voice to reach the onlookers. “They deserve the chance to fight for their lives instead of waiting here to die.” Murmurs of agreement rippled through the Belly. Charlotte found herself nodding along with them.
“ENOUGH!” Wilcox roared. It was a wonder his voice did not shake dust from the ceiling. Georgie had gone still in his grasp, her face sapped of color. “Enough! Swear your loyalty to me. All of you!” He aimed his revolver out over the throng, triggering screams of terror. “Anthemites, swear your loyalty to me, or the girl dies. Swear—”
The commander never finished. Someone shot out of the crowd, slamming into his side and bowling him over like a stack of books. The revolver flew from his grasp, sailing through the air in a lazy arc and clattering against the floor. Charlotte lunged after it, but Cosmin was closer. He threw himself from his wheelchair, scrambling after the weapon, his weak leg dragging behind him. He snatched the gun up with his good hand, clicking on the safety and curling it to his chest.
“Cos!” Georgie bawled. Charlotte rounded on the call just in time to see the girl fly at her brother and crash to her knees before him, sobbing. The boy discarded the gun and pulled her into a tight embrace, rocking her back and forth.
“Enough, Sawyer!” Ito shouted.
Charlotte tore her eyes from the reunion. Commander Wilcox was flat on his back, his arms raised to shield himself from the skinny girl mauling him with clawed fingers. Sawyer. The girl Ronja and the others had hauled back from Red Bay. Clearly, no one had ever taught her to fight, but her lack of form did not deter her. Wilcox’s forearms were crosshatched with hemorrhaging cuts. He could not seem to get the ninety pound demon off him.
“Sawyer!” Ito cried again. “Stop!”
The girl froze, one hand drawn back to rake across Wilcox’s exposed arms. “Really?” she complained, climbing off the stunned commander and padding over to Ito on bare soles. “I could have done him in.”
Ito did not respond. Wilcox was climbing to his feet slowly, arduously. He spit out a wad of blood, then raised his eyes to them. “Guards,” the lieutenant called out. “Arrest the commander. He is not in a fit state to lead.”
For a moment, all was still. The station itself seemed to hold its breath. Then two of the guards on the outskirts of the scene started toward Wilcox. One of them drew a pair of handcuffs from the pocket of his jacket. “Guards!” the commander yelled. “I order you to stop!” They faltered, looking first at each other, then at Ito.
That was the last mistake they ever made.
In a flash Wilcox reached behind him and pulled another gun from the waistband of his pants and fired. The shot was nearly drowned out by screams of terror. The bullet went straight through the first guard’s eye, spraying blood everywhere. Charlotte blinked, frozen as the warm fluid splattered across her face. He dropped the second guard without hesitation.
“TRISTEN!” Ito screamed over the uproar. Her hands were raised high above her head, her pistol nowhere in sight. Wilcox trained his weapon on her brow, trembling visibly. “TRISTEN, PLEASE!”
Distant ringing flooded Charlotte’s ears. Her eyes dropped to the floor. There, only a half-step away, was the gun Cosmin had discarded.
“YOU’RE GOING TO KILL US ALL, YOU BITCH!” Wilcox bawled, still aiming at Ito. “YOU’RE GOING TO—”
Charlotte did not hear the rest. Her body worked of its own accord, leaving her consciousness in the dust. She bent down, wrapping her fingers around the revolver. It was heavier than she remembered, its belly full of bullets. Her thumb laid the safety to rest. Her gaze and arm lifted, aiming at Wilcox. She drank in his bloodshot eyes, his shivering arm, the unhinged rage soaking his mind and body.
And she pulled the trigger.
22: Skewered
“This is ridiculous,” Ronja scoffed glaring at the bathroom mirror. “I have nothing to say to that man. We should be tracking down Easton and getting him to make up his damn mind. ”
“We will, first thing tomorrow.” Roark soothed her. He was perched on the edge of their bed, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees. “The Commander is still considering, and we have no idea where Jonah is. Besides, you just picked a fight with a Kev Fairlan solider. Might not be the best time to have a heart-to-heart with Easton.”
“He deserved it,” Ronja grumbled, scowling at the fresh memory.
“Undoubtedly,” he agreed with a solemn nod. “And I love you all the more for it. But it was risky and not likely to help us win our case.”
Ronja sighed and turned back to her reflection, considering. She dragged her fingers through her curls. It was a relief to have a full head of hair again. She had always liked her hair, even if it was difficult to care for. Her green-grey eyes seemed brighter against her deep blue sweater, and she had never minded her freckles. Her nose was a bit long and she could do without the fading wounds around her jaw . . .
She cut the thought short, disgusted. They were in the middle of a war, and here she was primping for dinner. Dinner with a man who claimed to be her father.
The conversation in the trié had taken less than five minutes. The stranger had swooped in to break up the mounting tension between her and Kai. Then, as if commenting on the weather, he had revealed himself to be her father.
Was it even possible?
Growing up, Ronja had thought little of her absent father. She was told he had died in an accident at a factory. The only other shred of information she had about him was the photograph her mother had squirreled away in their attic. In it, a man in a long coat held Layla in his arms. In the deepest parts of the night, when Ronja would sneak a peek at it, she generally focused on her mother. It was the only proof she had that Layla had once been human. Young. Vibrant. Pretty, even
Her father—or the man she assumed to be her father—rarely drew her gaze. His face was a smudge of gray. He must have moved the second the shutter clicked. Ronja’s focus had always been on survival. Surviving The Music. Surviving her mother. Surviving her mutt brand and the cruel streets of the outer ring. She had never had the time or ability to dwell on the hole her father had left in her life.
“Maybe you can convince him to tell Easton to speed things up,” Roark mused, tugging her back to the present. He didn’t seem to have noticed her trip to the past. He flopped back onto the bed, his arms stretched out at his sides, his eyes fixed to the ceiling. “Jonah said he helps fund their operation, so he must have some influence.”
“Are you trying to bribe me?” Ronja asked dryly.
Roark smiled, but di
d not reply. She returned to the looking glass again. He’s right, she thought reluctantly. Darius likely had an in-road with Easton. They needed to take advantage of every possible asset if they were going to gain his support in time.
Soft knocking at the door made the Siren go stiff. Roark got up at once, striding over and prying it open without hesitation.
“Elise,” Ronja said, her eyes popping. She hurried across the room, coming to a halt next to her partner. “Are you all right?”
Elise lifted her gaze. Ronja felt her throat constrict. An angry bluish bruise crept across her cheekbone. “Come,” the girl said in a hoarse voice. “Dinner.” She turned her back on them and started down the hall.
Neither of them moved. “I thought it would be better,” Ronja said in a small voice, not looking at Roark. “Without The Music.”
“My father never needed a Singer to abuse me.” He slipped his strong arm around her shoulders. She reached up to hold his forearm, running her thumb over one of his many white burns as if she could smooth it away. “The Music never told him to torture you, or kill Sigrun.”
“Then what are we fighting for?” Ronja asked quietly, looking up at him through foggy eyes. “If this is as good as it gets, what are we fighting for?”
Roark gave a ghost of a smile. “The right to choose.”
“Dinner.”
The Anthemites looked up. Elise lingered in the middle of the hallway three doors down, fingering her worn sleeve anxiously.
“Go,” Roark said, giving Ronja a gentle push. “Good luck.”
She leaned in and gave him a brief kiss on the cheek. “I’ll need it.” His gaze heavy on her back, she took off after Elise.
It took fifteen minutes to cross the temple to the apartment Darius called home. Elise maintained her silence the whole way, keeping her eyes locked ahead to avoid engaging Ronja. The halls of the compound were less crowded than they had been earlier, but the whispers that followed Ronja were twice as thick. Curiosity had been replaced with animosity, which she understood in theory.
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