“Roark, you’re with me,” Jonah said, his voice echoing slightly as she heard it through her zetha. “Princess, you’re with Larkin.”
“No!” Roark snapped. “We’re not separating!”
“This is my turf, bevek!” Jonah barked. “You’re not in charge here, you’re—”
“Shut it, both of you!” Ronja broke in, whipping her own weapon out and locking eyes with Larkin. “We’ve got our priorities straight.” Something reminiscent of respect swept across the Tovairin girl’s face. It disappeared as quickly as it had come. Larkin spun on her heel and beckoned Ronja to follow.
The Siren looked up at Roark, mirroring the muted panic shuddering in his gaze. “May your song guide you home,” she said. Giving his hand a final squeeze, she took off after Larkin. Blistering air slammed into her as she burst onto the main road. Chaos. Smoke. Bodies strewn across the cobblestones. Men, women, and children, their eyes open and their bodies mangled.
War.
“Ronja!” Larkin screamed into her zetha, already twenty paces down the road. “Yessan!”
Ronja pumped her legs harder, her borrowed knife flashing in the inferno. She caught up with the Tovairin girl in seconds, wheezing through her cloth mask.
“You take right side, I take left!” Larkin directed, gesturing with her gloved hands.
“On it!”
They separated, hurrying toward their targets. The first home Ronja arrived at looked like a charred, cracked egg. The roof had been blown off completely along with most of the second floor. Glass littered the sidewalk below, splintering under her boots as she ran around the back of the house. Just as Jonah had said, a metal cellar door jutted from the ground just behind the obliterated home. She banged on it with her fist.
“I am with the Kev Fairla!” Ronja called, praying someone inside spoke the common language. There was no response. She glanced at the hellfire sky. She could not see any war planes from this angle, but that did not mean they were gone. “Please!” She pounded on the door again. “Open up! Yist fen Kev Fairla!”
Her pronunciation was horrendous, but she was fairly sure that meant something along the lines of I am with the Kev Fairla.
Still, there was no reply. How many seconds had passed since she and Larkin split? Fifty? Sixty? She stomped on the door with her heel, pain rippling through her muscles. “PLEASE! OPEN UP! I—” A thought struck her with the force of a steamer. Ronja crouched down, bringing her lips close to the crack in the iron door. “Rel’eev Entalia.”
Ronja barely had time to jerk back before the door banged open. A middle-aged man carrying a toddler wrapped in a stained blanket appeared, locking eyes with her as he ascended the short flight of steps. Ronja helped him up, then stuck her hand down to assist the next survivor. He was about Cosmin’s age, with unsettlingly calm eyes and a shock of dark hair.
“Do you speak the common language?” she asked, rounding on the man she assumed was the father. He nodded, but did not reply. “Is anyone else down there?” He shook his head, rocking his youngest soothingly. “Make for the alley directly across from us,” she told him, pointing to illustrate her words. “Our auto is parked in the trees fifty meters out.”
The air shivered. Ronja craned her neck back, her nerves knotting. The black and blue war planes were back, silent as wraiths through her zetha. “Go!” she hollered, shoving the father toward the street. “Now!”
The family did not need to be told twice. Ronja rocketed toward the next house, which was engulfed in hungry flames.
The next fourteen minutes were a blur. Time skipped like a record through the shroud of her absolute focus. Jonah punctuated it with updates on their time.
Once, a bomb detonated one street over, sending Ronja flying into a trash bin. Now her ribs ached with each breath, making it even more difficult to breathe through the smoke. It felt like seconds and hours had passed by the time she reached the house at the end of the block.
Ronja found the cellar at once. It opened as soon as Rel’eev Entalia left her lips, spilling a family of seven—a mother, father, and a gaggle of children ranging from teenagers to infants. “Follow me!” she cried as she launched into a sprint. They were ten paces behind her, struggling to corral their frightened children, but they were going to make it.
Hope and rattled euphoria surged in Ronja. She had done it. She had cleared her last family. Twenty three lives in total, most of them children. They were going to make it. They were—
White light cracked in her vision and she knew no more.
29: Timestamp
Terra
Terra sat cross-legged on the thin mattress, her eyes closed and her senses unfurled. They had transferred her to a new cell hours ago. Compared to her last residence, it was luxurious. It was equipped with a high, barred window, a narrow cot, and a functioning toilet and sink.
The first thing she had done after the Off locked her up was strip and wash herself with frigid tap water. Sweat and grit sloughed off her in layers, splashing to the concrete and trickling down the drain. The soft part of her longed for a bar of soap and a razor, but this was no place for wants beyond the next breath.
Despite her exhaustion, Terra had not been keen to sleep. Meditation, she found, was a close second. Cicada had taught her the art as child. She used to get restless spying for him in tight spaces. Quieting her mind allowed her to spend hours tucked away in air vents and broom cupboards, gathering information more valuable than gemstones.
Her eyes flickered beneath her sealed lids. Her adopted father had scarcely crossed her mind since their capture. Had he fled the city? If not, was Maxwell still allowing him to live without a Singer as he had promised?
Metallic screeching ripped her from her contemplation. Terra got to her feet, ready for anything. But it was just the slot in the cell door sliding open. Her eyebrows lifted when a plate laden with generous helpings of meat, vegetables, and fresh bread was pushed inside. A tin cup of water followed. No utensils, of course.
Terra started forward, but stopped when something else was slipped through the portal. She scrutinized it from afar as the panel shut. It was a large manila envelope marked with Maxwell’s red emblem. The Anthemite padded over cautiously. After a moment of hesitation, she tucked the envelope under her arm and collected her meal, stuffing the roll in her mouth. It was heavenly. Returning to her cot, she set the rest of her food aside, munching on the bread as she tore the package open. She dumped the contents into her lap unceremoniously.
Before her were three photographs, black and white prints labeled with dates and times. Terra examined the first, wiping crumbs from her lips with the back of her hand and reaching for the cup of water. The photograph showed a hospital room with tiled floors and featureless walls. A cot not unlike her own stood beside a dangling IV bag. Hooked to it was a slender girl who appeared to be asleep, her short hair plastered to her brow. Iris.
Terra’s eyes flicked to the time stamp. 15:31- 9:18:40. She took a swig of her water, her pulse thudding in her ears. They had been imprisoned for over a month.
The Anthemite set the first photograph aside, bracing herself for the second. This one depicted a young man with dark hair sitting in the corner of a concrete cell, his head thrown back against the wall. Roark, brooding as ever—but alive and without a Singer. The New Music could be playing over speakers, she reminded herself. But no, he did not have that look about him. Her eyes darted to the timestamp. 15:33 — 9:18:40.
Setting aside the photograph of Roark, she picked up the third. Her jaw tightened. Skitz. At first glance, there appeared to be multiple girls strewn across the floor of a vast room. Then she realized the walls were paneled with mirrors, reflecting a single girl curled into the fetal position. Ronja. There was no mistaking her. Wild curly hair, moon-white skin checkered with bruises. 15:35 — 9:18:40.
Terra’s brow crumpled. She stood, downing the last of her drink and kneeling before her cot. She spread the prints before her. Each was taken exactly two m
inutes apart. Oddly specific. Why had Maxwell given her photographs? Why not just take her to see them in person? He delighted in tormenting them in that way.
Terra clamped down on the thought, but it was too late. She was back on the marble floor of the clock tower, face down with leaden limbs. Her mind was untethered, floating somewhere far above the horrors around her. It was the gunshot that brought her back. Somehow she knew it was him before she opened her eyes. She forced herself to look anyway. No one noticed her stirring in the chaos.
Samson. Dead. His blue eyes glassy and staring straight at her. She had not loved him, but she thought one day she could have. Terra got to her feet again, still scowling down at the snapshots. Maxwell would have reveled in taking her to see her friends as they suffered. So why the photographs? They could be faked; so could timestamps. They were hardly concrete evidence. Dread welled in her chest.
Were they dead?
The thought withered almost as soon as it sprouted. Maxwell wanted them alive, just as he wanted the rest of the Anthem alive. If Iris were dead, they would likely have used her body to torment Evie. If they had killed Roark, there was no way in hell Ronja would cooperate. Most importantly, if the Siren were dead, The Conductor would have already begun his conquest without her.
Terra stiffened. Her field of vision narrowed to a pinhead.
Why had Maxwell not left on his bloodthirsty mission to conquer untold nations? It couldn’t just be that he was waiting to get his hands on the Anthemites. He had no real need for them. He had a civilian army of millions willing to sacrifice their lives for him. Hopped up on the voice of the Siren, their own desires wiped clean, they would be unstoppable. No matter how much capturing the rebel enclave would bolster his fragile ego, it didn’t make sense for Maxwell to delay his entire operation.
Three weeks until the Vintian ships arrive, Cicada had said. Roughly five weeks had passed since that fateful day, so what was the hold up?
Electric hope surged in Terra, heating the tips of her fingers and toes. Before she could choke it back, a smile burst onto her lips. She reached out and grabbed a slice of what looked like chicken with her fingers, savoring the taste. The photographs, the delay, Maxwell’s fixation on the Anthem, his willingness to trust her. Together, they could mean only one thing.
Somehow, the Siren had escaped.
30: Cry No More
The world was reborn in white. Diffuse pain followed, spreading from her core to her limbs. Sound came next, distant cries, pounding footsteps. Only the howling of the warplanes was muted by her zetha. Ronja sat up with a noise between a groan and a cough. Tiny pieces of rubble tumbled down her body. She blinked slowly, as if her lids were coated in honey. Her vision crept back. Smoke. Debris. Fire.
“No,” she croaked. Her words were muffled by her makeshift mask, which had miraculously remained in place. She yanked it out of the way and ripped off her goggles. They were cracked and dangerously close to shattering. Moving with the grace of a newborn fawn, Ronja struggled to her hands and knees. “No!”
Less than ten steps away were the remains of the house that had been blown to pieces. It was nothing more than a smoldering mound of brick and foundation and wood, five feet high in the middle of the backstreet. And beneath it, the family she had been leading to safety.
Ronja staggered to her feet, limping over to the smoking pile of rubble. She began to push aside the splintered remains of the wooden frame, bits of drywall, pieces of concrete. Hope pierced her chest when a youthful hand appeared, but when she grasped its fingers they were limp as worms. She swayed where she stood. Hot tears swallowed her vision. She blinked them away, looking up. The sky was still painted orange, but there were no bombers in sight.
“Li-liest . . . ”
Ronja stiffened. That voice. The voice of a child, startlingly close. “Where are you?” she called, not caring if her voice echoed, if the Vintians were already stalking the streets in search of slaves.
“Liest . . . ”
Ronja clambered over the debris, ignoring the stone that cut at her exposed fingers. “Hang on!” she called. She coughed and sputtered as a piece of smoldering wood snapped, belching a plume of smoke. “Just hang on!” She scrambled down the rubble and landed on her knees. Shoving her tangled curls out of her face, she looked around desperately. A strangled cry ripped from her throat.
Before her was one of the middle children, a boy with tousled hair and a pink birthmark on his cheek. He was on his back on the road, arms splayed, torso pinned by a jagged slab of concrete. Blood pooled beneath him, flowing through the mortar canals between the bricks.
Ronja crawled to him as fast as her aching body would let her. She leaned over him, holding his face in her hands. “You’re gonna be okay, you’re gonna . . . ” She trailed off as he spit up a wad of dark blood, which sprayed across her face. “Stay still!” she ordered. He did not appear to hear her, sobbing and hacking under the concrete. Ronja stood, hooked her fingers under the slab, and heaved.
Nothing happened. She wiped her hands on her pants, then lifted again. Flakes of stone crumbled from the hunk of rubble. Ronja let out a scream of frustration as her boots slipped on the blood running from his broken body.
“Liest . . . ”
Ronja froze, staring down at the child. His shivering brown eyes were trained on her. Blood ran from his lips to his chin, soaking the fabric of his handmade sweater. Slowly, she released the slab and sank to her knees. He raised a slick red hand, trembling with exertion. Ronja grasped it, scooting closer to him.
What could she say?
What did one say to a child bleeding out in the middle of a war zone?
He coughed again, spewing more blood. His eyes flickered shut, but she could still see them roving beneath his lids. He had minutes, maybe seconds. Before she knew what she was doing, Ronja wet her lips and began to sing.
Be still, my friend
Tomorrow is so far,
Far around, the bend
Cast your troubles off the shore . . .
Her voice was raw with smoke and heat, but it did not matter. Before her, the physical manifestation of her voice bloomed. It had changed since the first time she saw it at Red Bay. It used to be black, studded with distant pockets of color. Now, it was nearly translucent, luminous and ever shifting. It wrapped around the boy like ribbons and bows.
Unlace your boots and cry no more
Because today, my friend
I promise you are on the mend
As the verse came to a close, his frantic breaths slowed to easy sighs, then dissipated altogether. His grip loosened on her hand. His arm became heavy. Ronja laid it down gently. Her tears splashed onto his face, diluting the blood and grime there.
“Alezandri.”
Ronja spun, still crouching low, and whipped out her knife. She let it fall at once. “Larkin,” she said hoarsely. “I tried to save him.”
The Kev Fairlan girl stood at the mouth of an aisle between two broken homes. Her tawny face was black with soot, her braids frayed and dusted with debris. A trail of dried blood was crusted on her temple. “I know,” she said. “Get up.”
Ronja did as she was told, using the slab as a crutch. Her knees and hands were drenched with red, which was quickly turning brown. “Jonah and Roark—” she started to ask.
“Headed for the auto.”
Ronja cut her eyes to the boy at her feet. Despite the carnage, a faint smile clung to his stained lips.
“Alezandri, yessan.”
Moving mechanically, she started after Larkin, who was already running toward their exit point. Across the deserted street, past the demolished houses. Nothing moved but their sprinting bodies and the smoke curling from the homes turned graves. Through the alley, past the edge of town. Up ahead, Ronja could see their auto waiting among the pines.
“Yessan!” Larkin shouted again. Ronja pumped her legs harder, her injured ribs screaming at her to stop. By the time they reached the auto, her vision wa
s black and blue. She stumbled to a graceless stop as the cabin door popped open. Distantly, she heard Larkin yelling in Tovairin. Then strong arms hoisted her into the compartment like a sack of flour.
“Go!”
A door slamming. An engine rumbling. Tires screeching. A soft touch against her cheek. Ronja sucked down a lungful of oxygen. Her vision snapped into sharp focus. She was back in the truck, heading toward the jagged heights of Entalia. Jonah was behind the wheel, shrouded in soot and sporting a fresh gash on his exposed forearm. Larkin was on the opposite side of the cabin, staring out the windshield with a vacant expression. Ronja and Roark were sandwiched in the middle.
Roark. He was speaking to her in hushed tones. He was pale beneath the filth on his face, but appeared to be unharmed.
“Roark . . . are you okay?” Ronja rasped.
“Fine, love, fine,” he murmured. He curled her toward him, holding her tight against his chest. She could feel his heart thundering through his heavy jacket. The cloth did not smell like him. It smelled like smoke and death. “What happened?”
“I lost them, I lost the last family,” she breathed.
“You saved dozens, Ronja,” Roark reminded her, smoothing her stiff curls with his gloved hand. “They’re in the back, they’re going to live because of you.”
“I ran ahead,” she whispered. “I left them behind. I—”
“Kel resi infini, kel pien levest.”
Ronja jerked away from her partner, twisting to stare at Larkin. She was still gazing out the windshield. Exhaustion clung to her as thick as the grit caked on her skin and armor.
“What does that mean?” Roark inquired, his tone guarded.
Larkin cast her eyes to him, then to Ronja. There was no malice there, only resolve. “Let the dead sleep, let the living dream.” Silence fell, broken only by the guttural hum of the engine. They were not pursued as they raced back to the base. Ronja let her lids drift shut when they passed into the tunnel, her head on Roark’s shoulder. As sleep claimed her, she imagined she was back in Revinia, comfortably numb beneath her Singer, still driving a subtrain headed nowhere.
Siren Page 14
