Siren

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  “I should have been there,” he whispered. “I am so sorry, Ronja.”

  She shook her head. “You thought I was with Darius. There was no way you could have known.”

  He pulled her into his chest again. She surrendered, allowing him to rock her gently back and forth.

  “Excuse me.”

  Ronja and Roark pulled apart. Paxton stood in the hallway, waiting to enter. The Anthemites scooted aside, muttering apologies. He crossed to Easton swiftly. They greeted each other with a quick squeeze of the hand, then began to speak in rapid Tovairin. Three sharp knocks. The Siren released Roark and checked the peephole again. Skitz.

  Sucking in a steadying breath, Ronja opened the door on Darius. He had scrubbed his face and hands of grime since their last encounter, but he still wore his leather armor. A weathered bag was slung over his shoulder. He offered her a tentative smile, which she attempted to return. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “It took me awhile to find the right documents.

  “Lock the door,” Easton replied neutrally. Darius stepped over the threshold and shut the door, twisting the lock briskly. Once it engaged, the atmosphere shifted. “Paxton has doubled the guards at every entrance to the temple,” the commander began, making eye contact with each of them in turn. “I have a team interviewing the refugees as we speak.”

  “Do you know how he got in?” Ronja asked.

  Paxton spoke up. “We assume he slipped in with the crowds, but we can’t prove that. We haven’t found a ship or a plane. His clothes were Tovairin, which means he either took someone hostage or killed them.”

  “Offs rarely take prisoners,” Roark said darkly. “If Maxwell is still chasing Ronja, he likely has not left on his conquest yet. If we act fast, we can stop them before they leave port.”

  Easton nodded in agreement, surprising both Anthemites. “I spoke with Darius. He believes a small team will suffice.” Silence gripped the room. Ronja snuck a peek at her father, who was rummaging through the bag at his side.

  “What is our mission, exactly?” Jonah inquired from the sofa.

  “Our number one priority is getting Ronja to the clock tower and plugging her into the radio,” Roark responded at once. “Just like before.”

  “Priority number two is the mainframes,” Darius cut in, whipping out a tightly bound scroll.

  Roark glanced over at him, his eyebrows raised. Ronja bit her lip. She had not had the chance to tell him about the documents.

  “I have the blueprints and addresses here.”

  “How the hell did you get those?” Roark demanded.

  Darius gave a rueful smile, the corners of his eyes creasing. “When one falls for an Anthemite, they tend to get mixed up with the Anthem.”

  Roark glanced down at Ronja, as if to gauge her reaction. She kept her expression passive, pretending to stare at the documents. “The Anthem has been looking for those papers for years,” he said, returning his attention to Darius. “How did you get your hands on them?”

  “Layla gave them to me for safekeeping. Unfortunately, that was the day my Kev Fairlan guards came to collect me.” He offered the scroll to Roark as if he were offering the hilt of a sword. “These belong to you.”

  Roark took them tentatively, his eyes glazed. He popped the seal with his thumb and unrolled them. Ronja raised up on her tiptoes to peer over his shoulder. The pages were yellow, but the ink was still legible. Black and white skeletons of the mainframe were scrawled across the pages. Each page was labeled with a handwritten address in the top left hand corner. The writing was distinctly feminine, clean and curling.

  Clock Tower

  592 1st St.

  91 32nd St.

  835 45th St.

  9 57th St.

  878 67th St.

  “What does it say?” Paxton asked. He and the other Tovairins had been watching the exchange curiously until now, but were apparently growing impatient.

  “It means we have a shot,” Roark said, passing the documents off to Commander Easton. He scanned them quickly, then gave them to his partner.

  “We have to blow all six mainframes at once,” Ronja explained as Paxton pored over the blueprints. “And it has to be done after I sing. If we destroy them before the Revinians are free, the shock could kill all of them.”

  “Understood,” Easton said with a sharp dip of his chin. “We’ll need six teams of six, each armed with enough explosives to take out a tank.”

  Ronja felt the blood leave her face. She knew she should be grateful that the Kev Fairla were working with them at all, but the prospect of charging into Revinia with thirty-six soldiers seemed like a suicide mission. But then so did the majority of their missions. “One team will need to come with me to the radio station at the clock tower,” she said, her gaze sweeping over the room.

  “I will accompany you there,” Easton said. He looked to Jonah and Larkin, who were side by side on the couch, their thighs pressed together. “They will also be joining us.”

  “I’ll be there, too,” Paxton added.

  Easton rounded on him, his teeth slamming together. “No.”

  “But—”

  “We’ll discuss this later,” the commander growled.

  Paxton narrowed his eyes to slits, his nostrils flaring. Ronja was surprised that steam wasn’t pouring from his ears.

  “We will make a preemptive strike against this Conductor,” Easton said in a louder voice, speaking to the gathering as a whole. “Those ships will never leave the harbor.”

  Ronja blinked. “Just like that?”

  Easton arched a brow at her. “Would you prefer to spend another few days deliberating?”

  “No!”

  The commander heaved a sigh, reaching up to massage his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. Paxton, despite his simmering anger, slipped a hand onto his shoulder. “I just saw a man walk thirty steps with a wolf on his leg and a bullet in his knee without flinching,” Easton said. “I saw the Singer, I saw the way he reacted when you sang.” He looked up at Ronja, who twitched under the spotlight of his gaze. “I would be a fool to ignore you.”

  “Thank you, sir. Perlo.” Ronja tapped her fist to her brow, then her chest. Roark copied her hastily.

  “Pevra,” Easton answered.

  “When do we leave?”

  “Tomorrow evening.” Ronja started to protest, but the commander spoke over her. “We need time to gather a team, to prepare weapons and food.”

  “The journey is what, two weeks by boat?” she inquired, looking to Jonah for confirmation. He nodded once, his arm around Larkin, who was scowling at the far wall.

  Easton smiled, the first genuine smile she had ever seen him wear. “Who said anything about sailing?”

  41: Ally

  Terra

  Terra stood beneath the scalding stream, her head thrown back and her eyes closed. She had never been one to linger in the shower, but after five weeks in prison, she figured she deserved a break. If the Offs busted down the door while she was bathing, at least she would die clean.

  After washing her hair three times and scrubbing her skin raw, Terra shut off the shower and hopped onto the bath mat. She peered around the pristine bathroom, focusing on the tall mirrors and fluffy towels. It was strange to be back in her childhood home. Though home was perhaps not the right word to describe it. Residence had a better ring to it.

  Terra waded through the lifting steam to the porcelain sink. She used her forearm to wipe the fog from the looking glass. She grimaced. Her cheeks were sunken, her eyes bruised with exhaustion. The side of her head that she usually kept buzzed had grown an inch and stuck out at all angles. Her hand dropped to the drawer automatically, pulling it open to reveal various toiletries, including an electric razor.

  When Terra plugged in the razor and took it to her scalp, she immediately felt better. She took her time, making sure every hair was precisely the same length, following the line of her part like a roadmap. Blond clippings sprinkl
ed down around her, pooling in the sink. Cicada would be livid, but she could not find it in her to care.

  When she was finished, Terra used a damp towel to clean the excess hair from her neck and shoulders. She checked her reflection again. Better. Wrapping herself in one of the thick white towels hanging on the wall and leaving the razor plugged in, Terra padded from the bathroom into the second floor hallway. Her feet carried her to her old bedroom naturally.

  It was dark inside, the drapes tied shut and the lights sleeping in their sockets. She flicked the switch. The room was just as she had left it. Purple walls, the color she had picked when she was a child, militant bed, comfortable chairs for reading. Cicada had always insisted she read thick nonfiction books. She had preferred the fairy tales, not that she would ever admit it.

  Terra spied fresh clothes folded on the bed and crossed to them. Thick black pants with leather patches sewn to the knees. Long-sleeved black shirt and leather jacket with plenty of pockets. Clean underwear. Black, of course. How Cicada had managed to guess her sizes, she had no idea. She was not entirely sure she wanted to know.

  She let her towel fall and began to dress methodically. With each item of clothing she slipped on, she felt more herself. The pants were tight but moveable, the shirt warm but breathable. The jacket she could not have chosen better herself. It hugged her waist and zipped to her chin to protect her from the cold. Now all she needed was . . .

  “Damn, Cicada,” Terra muttered, begrudgingly impressed to find a pair of laced boots and wool socks waiting near the door. She crossed to them and slipped her feet in. Of course, they fit perfectly. The Anthemite turned to the vanity to greet her reflection. Still exhausted, still underfed, still haunted, but not defeated.

  “Ruthless,” she reminded herself. With one last glance at her reflection, Terra exited into the hallway. She strode to the polished wooden staircase that led to the main floor, pausing at the landing. The faint lilt of tense conversation brushed her ear. She tapped down the steps, her booted feet whispering against the wood. She came to a halt again at the bottom of the stairs, turning her head so she could hear.

  “ . . . only a matter of time before they find us,” an unfamiliar male voice was saying.

  “I told you,” Cicada replied. “Maxwell trusts me, and he has no idea of our connection. He would never expect her to be here.”

  “You’re right.”

  The voices cut off as Terra stepped into the study. It was just as she remembered it. The walls were lined with hundreds of contraband books, all with cracked spines. An elegant desk littered with precious artifacts from around the world crouched before a high window with drawn drapes, and a cluster of four green armchairs sat before a roaring fire. Two of the chairs were occupied.

  One of the occupants was Cicada. He was dressed in a sleek pinstripe suit, a glass of brandy in his hand. He smiled at her, slow and calculating. Terra nodded at him, then flicked her attention to the other man. He was about her age, with messy brown hair and a long nose. His right ear was not burdened with a Singer. He stood up swiftly and advanced on her.

  Terra darted backward, dropping into a fighting stance. He scuffed to a stop, lifting his hands in surrender. “Sorry,” he said. His voice had a genuine ring to it that made her want to trust him. Of course, she did not. He cleared his throat. “I just . . . have you . . . you’re friends with Mouse, right?”

  “Why?” she asked cautiously.

  “Have you seen him?” He took another step forward, chomping at the bit for answers. “Please tell me, is he all right?”

  Understanding clicked in. Terra dropped out of her stance, facing the stranger with her arms at her sides. “You’re Theo,” she said quietly. “You’re with Mouse.”

  Theo nodded eagerly, his hair flopping like the ears of an excitable puppy. “Yeah, I am. Is he all right? Is he—” His voice broke. He pressed a hand to his mouth, his dark blue eyes flooding.

  “Mouse is alive,” Terra assured him. “I saw him yesterday.”

  “Is he—”

  “Still free.”

  Theo exhaled the weight of the world. “Thank the gods,” he murmured, retreating to his stuffed chair and collapsing into it.

  Cicada rolled his eyes discreetly. “Terra,” he said in his usual drawl, gesturing for her to sit at his right. “You must be exhausted.”

  “Thanks for the clothes,” she replied, taking the only other available seat next to Theo.

  If Cicada was bothered by this, he did not show it. He set his glass down on the coffee table between them, then motioned at the bottle.

  “No thanks,” she said. “I need food.”

  “In a moment. First, I would appreciate it if you would tell me exactly why you are here.”

  Terra felt her lip curl. Bastard. “I could ask you the same question,” she said through her teeth. “Why the hell haven’t you run?”

  “Maxwell is indebted to me,” Cicada said, as easily as if they were discussing the weather. “I brought him the ships, he allows me to live in peace, free of The New Music. He keeps me very comfortable.”

  “Last time I was here you almost seemed remorseful,” Terra spat with a disgusted shake of her head. “I should have known you were a bloody traitor until the end.”

  “Traitor?” Cicada raised a trimmed gray brow. “I work for no one but myself. I have betrayed no one.”

  Terra smiled tightly. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

  Her adoptive father sighed, sitting back in his armchair to get a better look at her. “The last time you were here, I told you to run,” he reminded her. “Why didn’t you?”

  “I have this thing called a soul.”

  “I gave you an out,” Cicada went on, his voice prickling with irritation. “You should have taken it. Now here you are at my door again, with two Offs in tow. Sooner or later, they’re going to come looking for you.”

  “What happened to the Offs?” Terra asked. “What did you do with them?”

  “They’re passed out tied up in the basement,” he replied.

  “How did you get Thomas inside without anyone noticing?” Terra asked, impressed despite herself.

  Cicada smirked. “Easy enough when most citizens aren’t permitted outside.”

  Terra nodded, vowing to ask why the hell everyone was housebound later. “What about the auto and the radio?”

  “I smashed the radio, drove the auto thirteen blocks west,” Theo answered.

  Terra grunted, impressed. If she ever saw Mouse again, she would have to tell him she approved of his boyfriend.

  “Why are you here, Terra?” Cicada demanded again, snapping her out of her thoughts.

  “Believe me, I wouldn’t be here if I’d had another choice,” she answered icily. “Maxwell took me and several other Anthemites hostage, friends of mine.”

  “I know,” Cicada said with a curt nod.

  Of course, you do. “I convinced him to let me lead him to a secret entrance to the Belly. He sent me with Henry, the one you stung, and Thomas, the one from the auto, as guards.”

  “So you decided to pretend this mysterious entrance was in my basement,” the trader finished, resting his elbows on the cushioned arms of his chair and regarding her coldly. “I am terribly grateful.”

  “Piss off,” Terra muttered.

  Cicada blew out a tense breath through his nose, reaching up to massage his temple. He used to say that she was a headache. She sincerely hoped he meant literally. “Well, you’re here now,” he finally said. “I can get you out of the city, but it’ll take a few days. What happened to your boyfriend?”

  Terra swallowed. “His name was Samson, he was not my boyfriend, and he was murdered.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” Cicada said flatly, retrieving his glass from the table. He swished the amber liquid around, observing it through the crystal facets of the cup. “If you two had just listened to me . . . ” He clucked his tongue admonishingly.


  Terra lunged and knocked the glass from his hand. It flew in a lazy arc and shattered on the hardwood. Theo barked a curse. Alcohol sprayed at their feet, hissing when it hit the flames on the hearth. “Say that again,” she said quietly. “And I will cut your ear off like you did mine.”

  Cicada, whose hand was still curled around a nonexistent glass, smiled luxuriantly. “You have learned well, child.” Terra spun on her heel and marched to the door. “Where are you going?”

  “To find a bloody ally,” she shouted over her shoulder.

  42: Winter and Earth

  Roark

  Roark lay on his side on the mattress, curled around Ronja as she slept deeply. Her thick curls tickled his face, her heartbeat strong and resolute against his skin. It was half past four in the morning. Their meeting with Easton and the others had wrapped up around two. They had finalized their plans, selected the members of each strike team, pored over the schematics of the mainframes like holy texts.

  It was all so simple. Anticlimactic, even. For as long as Roark could remember, the Anthem had searched for the locations of the mainframes that controlled The Music, and now The New Music. Of all the places they could have been, the documents were stashed on an island across the ocean, preserved by the unsuspecting exiled king of Revinia.

  Ronja twitched in her sleep. Her lips parted, then closed without a sound. Roark brushed a lock from her brow. Her skin seemed to glow in the lamplight. With each passing day the cuts that stretched across her jaw grew fainter. Soon they would disappear altogether. Roark would never forget the sight of the raw, infected gashes left behind by the bit Maxwell had forced her to wear. He fought the urge to trace one of the white lines with his thumb, as if he could wipe her pain away.

  Nothing is simple, his sister Sigrun had once said while they were staying at one of their spacious apartments in the core. It was a golden afternoon in late autumn, only a month before she would smuggle Roark out of the city to meet Parker, the Anthemite she had fallen in love with. Only a month before their father would murder her. She had been so vibrant, overflowing with life and wisdom. Luminous. Simple just means you don’t have all the facts.