Siren

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  Ronja blinked. “My city? You’re the king, not me.”

  “I have been struck from history. Not even the Anthem knows my name. You’re the one they will look to when the reckoning comes. The Siren.” He smiled, creasing his stubbled cheeks. “I know I have no right to be, but I am so proud of you.”

  Ronja opened her mouth. Closed it. She was not sure where to look or what to do with her hands. Strange warmth ballooned at her core, heating her from her fingers to her toes. “Th-thank you,” she said hoarsely.

  “I’ll talk to Easton first thing tomorrow morning,” Darius said, getting back to business. When she opened her mouth to protest, he raised a hand to shush her. “I know I said we could start work on your voice tonight, but it is late. We both need sleep.”

  “Fine,” she huffed, but as she spoke a yawn betrayed her. The king chuckled at her. Ronja glared at him pointedly. “Tomorrow morning, early?”

  “Tomorrow,” he promised with a somber dip of his chin. “Goodnight, Ronja.”

  “Wait,” she yelped. The word had leapt from her tongue before she could bite it back. Darius, who had already started toward the exit, peered back at her perplexedly. She swallowed, tucking a wayward curl behind her ear. “Before you go, could we sing?”

  For an endless moment, Darius stood utterly still. Ronja held her breath, mortification clawing at her insides. Then he spun to face her completely. “It would be my honor, Siren.”

  Ronja stood up straighter as relief washed over her, making her feel strangely lightheaded. “Do you know Little Wars?”

  Surprise knocked a grin onto Darius’s weathered face. “By Adna Banks, of course.”

  “Is, or was, it popular?”

  “Not exactly, but your mother loved it.”

  “Oh,” Ronja said weakly.

  There was another pause, which neither of them knew how to fill. Ronja found herself looking at the floor. She had sung for an entire city every day for two weeks without flinching. Why she struggled to find her voice now, in front of one man, she could not say. But it was not just any man, she realized distantly. It was her father.

  “On three?” Darius proposed.

  Ronja nodded, her curls bouncing.

  He righted his spine, taking in a deep breath. He cracked his neck, then held up three fingers. Ronja swallowed again, struggling fruitlessly to coat her dry throat with spit. “One, two . . . ” Darius dropped his last finger, and they began to sing.

  First day you saw me I was

  Way down low with my hands

  In my pockets and nowhere to go

  Their voices blended like acrylics on a pallet, blooming to fill the deserted library. Ronja watched in awe as her Aura billowed from her lips, pure white and luminous. It was difficult to concentrate on the lyrics as it swirled above her, elegant as a dancer. Darius’s swam up to join hers. It was a deep rust cloud with feathered edges. It reminded her of the scar over her heart, if it glowed like a sunrise before a storm.

  You were standing on my neck

  Just to reach so high, sifting for those

  Diamonds in the sky

  Across from her, Darius was beaming through the lyrics. They locked eyes across the living fog. As Ronja watched, he reached up a hand and hooked a finger at his Aura. It glided toward him, curling itself into a tail and wrapping around his body. His skin blushed pink in the reddish glow.

  Blood in my veins and you say it’s cold

  But if you cut my skin it will come out gold

  Ronja lifted her hand toward her gleaming Aura, acting on instinct alone. She knew she was still singing, but she could no longer hear herself. It went deeper than that. She was the song, and it was singing her into existence. The Siren crooked her finger at the warm white ribbons.

  It struck her in the chest with the force of a bullet, sending her flying back into the table. Her back cracked against the wood and she crumpled to the ground with a whoosh of breath. Books and scrolls thumped down around her like debris.

  “Ronja!” Darius shouted, darting over to her and kneeling before her. “Ronja, are you all right?”

  “Y-yes,” she answered. Her entire body pulsed with dull pain, putting the bruises she had received in the bomb blast to shame.

  “Auras are more difficult to control than they appear, and yours is particularly powerful. I should have warned you.”

  Ronja looked up at Darius through swimming eyes. He was paler than the light that had bowled her over. He was keeping his distance, too. Minutes ago he had not hesitated to clap her on the shoulder, like a father might. Am I dangerous? Keening filled her brain, like a tea kettle whistling from the stovetop.

  “You’ll learn to control it. It comes with time.”

  Ronja climbed to her feet laboriously, barely hearing him over the noise in her brain. “I have to go,” she said mechanically. “I have to go.”

  “Ronja—”

  “Goodnight, Darius.”

  “Wait—”

  But the Siren had already bolted, racing across the library on the wings of her terror.

  Part Two: The Reckoning

  37: Confessions

  Ronja thought about going back to her room. Sleep sounded like a blessing. But when she arrived at their door, she could not bring herself to open it. Her body still vibrated with power and her skin was hot to the touch. She felt as if she were going to explode, sending shards of bone flying. Despite the absurdity, it felt like a realistic possibility at this point. Rather than put Roark in danger, she turned and roamed the empty halls of the temple, lost in the forest of her thoughts.

  It might have been minutes or hours later that she found herself outside another door. Heat radiated through its cracks. What am I doing here? Ronja opened the door cautiously, peeking inside like a thief. The inferno bloomed before her, shrinking her pupils. The Contrav was deserted in the middle of the night, but the flames burned just as bright as before. She stepped inside and left the door open behind her.

  Ronja approached the altar slowly, carving a path down the center aisle between the rivers of stewing lava. Dark memories stirred within her, some fresh, some old. Equally potent. They raised goosebumps on her skin though she increasingly felt as if she were going to melt. She mounted the steps, her eyes locked to the bowl of flame. Looping around the dais, she ran her fingers across the faultless walls of the basin. It was surprisingly cool to the touch. She took her hand back, keenly aware that the slightest push could send it crashing to the ground.

  Ronja allowed her vision to drift. As her racing mind slowed, the keening that had haunted her since the library faded. She breathed in deeply. Her hand slipped beneath the collar of her grimy sweater, searching for the raised scar over her heart. She would never forget the searing pain of the stinger she had slammed into her own chest. It was nothing compared to the force that had knocked her off her feet when she reached for her Aura.

  It felt was as if life itself had shot through her, unbearably bright and impossible to contain.

  Ronja cleared her throat. She stared at the basin as if waiting for it to speak. “I’ve never done this before.” The flames regarded her uncaringly. “This is probably stupid. I don’t even believe in gods.”

  If Entalia was out there, she was not much of a talker. Ronja wetted her cracked lips. “The thing is, I am afraid, and I don’t know how not to be.” She clasped her hands before her to quell the shaking. The heat festering beneath her skin overpowered that of the flames. “I am afraid we won’t be able to convince Easton to help us. I am afraid my friends and family are dead. I am afraid of not being able to stop The New Music.”

  Sparks popped in the belly of the bowl. For a fraction of a second, Ronja ceased to breathe. Then the flames receded, falling back into their usual dance. “I am afraid of losing Roark,” she went on. “I need him, but I think I am most afraid of—”

  The word snagged on her tongue. It had been easier to write it down, to throw it in the fire and turn it to ash. Ronja closed her
eyes, tucked her fingers into fists. Her nails bit into her palms. “Me. Of what I can do, what I have done. Of my voice and the things that I want. I want to kill Maxwell. I dream about it, and it feels good. I feel powerful. I want him—no, I need him to pay, and I am afraid.”

  Ronja fell silent. Her breaths came quick and heavy. Her chest still ached where her Aura had struck her. Roark had once told her that she was more than a weapon. Maybe that was true, in another life. But not here, not in this reality. She was the Siren, and she was coming for The Conductor with or without an army.

  The ghost of a smile was just unfolding on her face when blunt pain exploded at the back of her skull.

  38: Ghost Town

  Terra

  Passing through the wrought-iron gates of the palace grounds was surreal. Terra had braced herself for anything when they entered the streets of Revinia. When the word war popped into her head, she saw bloodshed, bombed-out houses, bodies stacked on sidewalks. But Revinia was not a war zone. It was a ghost town. The streets were empty, the autos parked in neat lines on the roadsides, their hoods and roofs capped with snow three feet high. The street lamps were lit, but not a single pedestrian walked in their pleasant orange glow. The windows of the mansions crammed into the core were shuttered.

  “Where is everyone?” Terra asked Henry, her forehead pressed to the tinted auto window. Her breath fogged the frigid glass. She wiped away the veil with her sleeve.

  “That is none of your concern,” he answered in a clipped tone. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, a manila file open in his lap.

  “What is that?” she inquired, craning her neck to see.

  Henry snapped the folder shut, tossing her a dirty look. “I may not remember much about our past,” he said. “But I do remember you used to be a lot quieter.”

  Terra gave an offhand shrug. “People change. You did.”

  The ex-Anthemite grunted, then cracked the file again, angling it away from her. Terra smirked down at her manacled hands. She was a prisoner, chained and without a plan in the middle of a soulless city. But she carried with her two threads of intel. If Cicada had taught her anything, it was that knowledge was sharper than any knife.

  They passed through the streets of the opulent core without seeing a single person. A gentle snow began to fall from the awning of gray clouds. It all looked so peaceful. Nature had a sick sense of humor. Terra watched as the mansions turned into the modest row houses characteristic of the middle ring. Unwanted memories came loping back. Her strange childhood. Playing in the streets with the other children on the rare days she was given free time.

  Samson, greeting her the day she arrived at the Belly with Ito. You’re gonna like it here, I promise, he had said with that hundred-watt grin. She remembered glaring at him as if he had just insulted her mother, shouldering past him as Ito took her to her new quarters.

  The auto jolted to a stop, nearly sending Terra flying into the front seat. It was difficult to keep her balance with her hands bound.

  “We’re here,” Thomas informed them from the front. He glanced back at them in the rearview mirror. His flat gray eyes mirrored the sky.

  “Thank you, Thomas,” Henry intoned. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his leather gloves, pulling them on with two precise jerks. “Stay here. Radio if there are any problems.”

  “There are a lot of shady characters around here,” Terra warned him, gesturing out at the dark homes and empty sidewalks.

  Both of them ignored her. Henry opened the auto door and stepped onto the snowy street. “Hurry up,” he snapped.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Terra mumbled as she slid across the leather. It was something of a challenge to get out of the auto with her hands locked together, but somehow she managed to do it without slipping in the muddy snow. The wind whipped her hair, cutting straight through her prison uniform. Her shoes, at least, seemed to be holding up for the moment.

  Henry reached around her and shut the door with an echoing thud. “Why are we here?” he asked suspiciously, glancing around at the uniform white homes through the drifting snow.

  Terra jerked her chin at the house behind him. He followed the motion, scanning for signs of an ambush. The building looked like all the others, colorless and narrow with large windows and plants shrouded in white. The sidewalk was buried, as were the steps leading up to the front door. It appeared to be abandoned, just like the rest of them. “This is one of our safe houses,” she explained. “There is a hatch in the floor that leads to the sewers. It’ll take us straight to the Belly.”

  “Try anything and—”

  “You’ll cut my tongue out. I get it, tough guy.” Ignoring the dread creeping up on her, Terra started toward the house, wading through the drifts. The damp cold bit at her ankles. So much for her shoes working out. “I have to get the key,” she told Henry, veering off what she assumed was the sidewalk and into the brushes. “Should be around here somewhere.”

  Henry did not respond, following her like a specter as she trudged over to the side of the house where a bundle of white capped bushes crouched. Terra brushed two layers of snow off the plants with her forearm. The foundation of the house was revealed, smooth as an eggshell. Terra reached out with raw hands, running the pads of her fingers over the stone. Henry hovered nearby, his shadow encroaching on her view. “Get back,” she said over her shoulder. “I need to see.”

  Surprisingly, he did as she requested. Terra refocused on her task. Her pulse climbed with each second that ticked by. Would it still be here, after all these years? The callused pad of her finger scraped against an imperfection in the wall. There. She pressed down hard with her palm, which was difficult with her handcuffs. The hidden compartment popped open with a hiss.

  Skitz yes. Terra reached into the little drawer and pinched the key between her fingers triumphantly. She rounded on Henry, dangling his prize before him. He snatched it up and marched back to the hidden sidewalk, then up the shrouded steps. Terra tailed him, brushing snow from her front.

  When they reached the porch, he stood aside and handed the key back to her. “Open it, slowly.”

  “Of course.” Terra stretched her neck, relishing the crack of her stiff vertebrae. Here goes. She stepped forward and inserted the key into the lock fluidly. She turned it left, then right. Then left again.

  “Hurry up,” Henry growled at her shoulder.

  “Sorry, it always gets jammed.”

  Left. Right. Then, a single full twist. The tumblers clicked like her spine snapping into alignment. Terra shoved the door open. The wind caught it, smashing it against the wall. She squinted down the familiar hallway. Nothing had changed since she last saw it. She was not sure if she found that comforting or unsettling. Before she could decide, Henry shoved her aside.

  “Watch it,” she complained as he drew his gun and switched off the safety, holding it up before him with military precision. He had been a good agent before he left the Belly. Apparently, those instincts remained.

  “You first,” Henry commanded, motioning into the dim hall with his automatic.

  Terra did as she was told, stepping across the threshold cautiously. Warm air engulfed her. Her lips twisted into a secret smile.

  He’s here.

  “Go,” Henry ordered, nudging her between the shoulder blades with the muzzle of his gun. Terra hurried inside, the floorboards creaking beneath her drenched soles. Her warden tailed her cautiously, his dull brown eyes darting around as he took in the wall hangings, the books stacked on the decorative table against the wall. “These should be burned,” he said.

  “This way,” Terra replied, crooking a finger at him. She started off confidently and heard him follow. The doors lining the narrow corridor were shut, hiding the rooms brimming with illegal artifacts and manuscripts. “Just down here,” she called when they reached the split staircases at the end of the hallway. One led to the second floor, the other to the basement.

  Henry jerked his chin
at the descending stairs, his automatic still up. Terra obliged, starting down at a steady clip. He went after her in his heavy boots. Cool underground air crept up toward them. Sweat beaded on her brow despite the chill. There was every chance this would end with a bullet in her brain. If Maxwell found out she had deceived him, she doubted her status as bait would protect her for much longer.

  The shadow of the staircase above them swallowed Terra. Her throat constricted as they approached the door at the basin of the stairwell. A million frantic thoughts, a million ways her hastily stitched plan could go wrong, flew up in her face. Her feet graced the last step. Her hand stretched out, closed around the doorknob. She shut her eyes. The knob was ripped from her hand as the door was yanked open from the other side.

  “DOWN!”

  Terra dropped like a stone, tucking her chin to her chest. Violent electricity crackled above her. Henry roared, dropping his gun. It bounced off the last step and landed with a crack on the concrete. Silence, then a sickening thump as the boy crumpled to the stairs.

  Terra raised her head. She grinned, her first real smile in over a month. “Father,” she greeted the man holding the extendable stinger.

  Cicada mirrored her smile. “Terra, glad you could join us.”

  39: Howl

  Ronja crashed to the floor, rolling to avoid the bowl of flames. Skull throbbing, she shot to her feet and threw her guard up. Before she could defend herself, a hand closed around her throat, lifting her off the ground. She struggled to see her attacker through her failing vision. All she caught was the proud gleam of silver from the right side of his head.

  Pitch.

  Ronja cranked her leg back and slammed her shin into his groin with an animalistic scream. Nothing, not even a flinch or a grunt. Shadows swelled in her eyes. She kicked again, harder this time. The sounds of their struggle, the heat of the Contrav receded. The pain began to bleed away. Then he released her.